prompt:
Chapter: "It is after you have mustered your industrial army into service," I
said, "that I should expect the chief difficulty to arise, for there
its analogy with a military army must cease. Soldiers have all the
same thing, and a very simple thing, to do, namely, to practice the
manual of arms, to march and stand guard. But the industrial army must
learn and follow two or three hundred diverse trades and avocations.
What administrative talent can be equal to determining wisely what
trade or business every individual in a great nation shall pursue?"

"The administration has nothing to do with determining that point."

"Who does determine it, then?" I asked.

"Every man for himself in accordance with his natural aptitude, the
utmost pains being taken to enable him to find out what his natural
aptitude really is. The principle on which our industrial army is
organized is that a man's natural endowments, mental and physical,
determine what he can work at most profitably to the nation and most
satisfactorily to himself. While the obligation of service in some
form is not to be evaded, voluntary election, subject only to
necessary regulation, is depended on to determine the particular sort
of service every man is to render. As an individual's satisfaction
during his term of service depends on his having an occupation to his
taste, parents and teachers watch from early years for indications of
special aptitudes in children. A thorough study of the National
industrial system, with the history and rudiments of all the great
trades, is an essential part of our educational system. While manual
training is not allowed to encroach on the general intellectual
culture to which our schools are devoted, it is carried far enough to
give our youth, in addition to their theoretical knowledge of the
national industries, mechanical and agricultural, a certain
familiarity with their tools and methods. Our schools are constantly
visiting our workshops, and often are taken on long excursions to
inspect particular industrial enterprises. In your day a man was not
ashamed to be grossly ignorant of all trades except his own, but such
ignorance would not be consistent with our idea of placing every one
in a position to select intelligently the occupation for which he has
most taste. Usually long before he is mustered into service a young
man has found out the pursuit he wants to follow, has acquired a great
deal of knowledge about it, and is waiting impatiently the time when
he can enlist in its ranks."

"Surely," I said, "it can hardly be that the number of volunteers for
any trade is exactly the number needed in that trade. It must be
generally either under or over the demand."

"The supply of volunteers is always expected to fully equal the
demand," replied Dr. Leete. "It is the business of the administration
to see that this is the case. The rate of volunteering for each trade
is closely watched. If there be a noticeably greater excess of
volunteers over men needed in any trade, it is inferred that the trade
offers greater attractions than others. On the other hand, if the
number of volunteers for a trade tends to drop below the demand, it is
inferred that it is thought more arduous. It is the business of the
administration to seek constantly to equalize the attractions of the
trades, so far as the conditions of labor in them are concerned, so
that all trades shall be equally attractive to persons having natural
tastes for them. This is done by making the hours of labor in
different trades to differ according to their arduousness. The lighter
trades, prosecuted under the most agreeable circumstances, have in
this way the longest hours, while an arduous trade, such as mining,
has very short hours. There is no theory, no _a priori_ rule, by which
the respective attractiveness of industries is determined. The
administration, in taking burdens off one class of workers and adding
them to other classes, simply follows the fluctuations of opinion
among the workers themselves as indicated by the rate of
volunteering. The principle is that no man's work ought to be, on the
whole, harder for him than any other man's for him, the workers
themselves to be the judges. There are no limits to the application of
this rule. If any particular occupation is in itself so arduous or so
oppressive that, in order to induce volunteers, the day's work in it
had to be reduced to ten minutes, it would be done. If, even then, no
man was willing to do it, it would remain undone. But of course, in
point of fact, a moderate reduction in the hours of labor, or addition
of other privileges, suffices to secure all needed volunteers for any
occupation necessary to men. If, indeed, the unavoidable difficulties
and dangers of such a necessary pursuit were so great that no
inducement of compensating advantages would overcome men's repugnance
to it, the administration would only need to take it out of the common
order of occupations by declaring it 'extra hazardous,' and those who
pursued it especially worthy of the national gratitude, to be overrun
with volunteers. Our young men are very greedy of honor, and do not
let slip such opportunities. Of course you will see that dependence on
the purely voluntary choice of avocations involves the abolition in
all of anything like unhygienic conditions or special peril to life
and limb. Health and safety are conditions common to all industries.
The nation does not maim and slaughter its workmen by thousands, as
did the private capitalists and corporations of your day."

"When there are more who want to enter a particular trade than there
is room for, how do you decide between the applicants?" I inquired.

"Preference is given to those who have acquired the most knowledge of
the trade they wish to follow. No man, however, who through successive
years remains persistent in his desire to show what he can do at any
particular trade, is in the end denied an opportunity. Meanwhile, if a
man cannot at first win entrance into the business he prefers, he has
usually one or more alternative preferences, pursuits for which he has
some degree of aptitude, although not the highest. Every one, indeed,
is expected to study his aptitudes so as to have not only a first
choice as to occupation, but a second or third, so that if, either at
the outset of his career or subsequently, owing to the progress of
invention or changes in demand, he is unable to follow his first
vocation, he can still find reasonably congenial employment. This
principle of secondary choices as to occupation is quite important in
our system. I should add, in reference to the counter-possibility of
some sudden failure of volunteers in a particular trade, or some
sudden necessity of an increased force, that the administration, while
depending on the voluntary system for filling up the trades as a rule,
holds always in reserve the power to call for special volunteers, or
draft any force needed from any quarter. Generally, however, all needs
of this sort can be met by details from the class of unskilled or
common laborers."

"How is this class of common laborers recruited?" I asked. "Surely
nobody voluntarily enters that."

"It is the grade to which all new recruits belong for the first three
years of their service. It is not till after this period, during which
he is assignable to any work at the discretion of his superiors, that
the young man is allowed to elect a special avocation. These three
years of stringent discipline none are exempt from, and very glad our
young men are to pass from this severe school into the comparative
liberty of the trades. If a man were so stupid as to have no choice as
to occupation, he would simply remain a common laborer; but such
cases, as you may suppose, are not common."

"Having once elected and entered on a trade or occupation," I
remarked, "I suppose he has to stick to it the rest of his life."

"Not necessarily," replied Dr. Leete; "while frequent and merely
capricious changes of occupation are not encouraged or even permitted,
every worker is allowed, of course, under certain regulations and in
accordance with the exigencies of the service, to volunteer for
another industry which he thinks would suit him better than his first
choice. In this case his application is received just as if he were
volunteering for the first time, and on the same terms. Not only
this, but a worker may likewise, under suitable regulations and not
too frequently, obtain a transfer to an establishment of the same
industry in another part of the country which for any reason he may
prefer. Under your system a discontented man could indeed leave his
work at will, but he left his means of support at the same time, and
took his chances as to future livelihood. We find that the number of
men who wish to abandon an accustomed occupation for a new one, and
old friends and associations for strange ones, is small. It is only
the poorer sort of workmen who desire to change even as frequently as
our regulations permit. Of course transfers or discharges, when health
demands them, are always given."

"As an industrial system, I should think this might be extremely
efficient," I said, "but I don't see that it makes any provision for
the professional classes, the men who serve the nation with brains
instead of hands. Of course you can't get along without the
brain-workers. How, then, are they selected from those who are to
serve as farmers and mechanics? That must require a very delicate sort
of sifting process, I should say."

"So it does," replied Dr. Leete; "the most delicate possible test is
needed here, and so we leave the question whether a man shall be a
brain or hand worker entirely to him to settle. At the end of the term
of three years as a common laborer, which every man must serve, it is
for him to choose, in accordance to his natural tastes, whether he
will fit himself for an art or profession, or be a farmer or mechanic.
If he feels that he can do better work with his brains than his
muscles, he finds every facility provided for testing the reality of
his supposed bent, of cultivating it, and if fit of pursuing it as his
avocation. The schools of technology, of medicine, of art, of music,
of histrionics, and of higher liberal learning are always open to
aspirants without condition."

"Are not the schools flooded with young men whose only motive is to
avoid work?"

Dr. Leete smiled a little grimly.

"No one is at all likely to enter the professional schools for the
purpose of avoiding work, I assure you," he said. "They are intended
for those with special aptitude for the branches they teach, and any
one without it would find it easier to do double hours at his trade
than try to keep up with the classes. Of course many honestly mistake
their vocation, and, finding themselves unequal to the requirements of
the schools, drop out and return to the industrial service; no
discredit attaches to such persons, for the public policy is to
encourage all to develop suspected talents which only actual tests can
prove the reality of. The professional and scientific schools of your
day depended on the patronage of their pupils for support, and the
practice appears to have been common of giving diplomas to unfit
persons, who afterwards found their way into the professions. Our
schools are national institutions, and to have passed their tests is a
proof of special abilities not to be questioned.

"This opportunity for a professional training," the doctor continued,
"remains open to every man till the age of thirty is reached, after
which students are not received, as there would remain too brief a
period before the age of discharge in which to serve the nation in
their professions. In your day young men had to choose their
professions very young, and therefore, in a large proportion of
instances, wholly mistook their vocations. It is recognized nowadays
that the natural aptitudes of some are later than those of others in
developing, and therefore, while the choice of profession may be made
as early as twenty-four, it remains open for six years longer."

A question which had a dozen times before been on my lips now found
utterance, a question which touched upon what, in my time, had been
regarded the most vital difficulty in the way of any final settlement
of the industrial problem. "It is an extraordinary thing," I said,
"that you should not yet have said a word about the method of
adjusting wages. Since the nation is the sole employer, the government
must fix the rate of wages and determine just how much everybody shall
earn, from the doctors to the diggers. All I can say is, that this
plan would never have worked with us, and I don't see how it can now
unless human nature has changed. In my day, nobody was satisfied with
his wages or salary. Even if he felt he received enough, he was sure
his neighbor had too much, which was as bad. If the universal
discontent on this subject, instead of being dissipated in curses and
strikes directed against innumerable employers, could have been
concentrated upon one, and that the government, the strongest ever
devised would not have seen two pay days."

Dr. Leete laughed heartily.

"Very true, very true," he said, "a general strike would most probably
have followed the first pay day, and a strike directed against a
government is a revolution."

"How, then, do you avoid a revolution every pay day?" I demanded. "Has
some prodigious philosopher devised a new system of calculus
satisfactory to all for determining the exact and comparative value of
all sorts of service, whether by brawn or brain, by hand or voice, by
ear or eye? Or has human nature itself changed, so that no man looks
upon his own things but 'every man on the things of his neighbor?' One
or the other of these events must be the explanation."

"Neither one nor the other, however, is," was my host's laughing
response. "And now, Mr. West," he continued, "you must remember that
you are my patient as well as my guest, and permit me to prescribe
sleep for you before we have any more conversation. It is after three
o'clock."

"The prescription is, no doubt, a wise one," I said; "I only hope it
can be filled."

"I will see to that," the doctor replied, and he did, for he gave me a
wineglass of something or other which sent me to sleep as soon as my
head touched the pillow.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Julian West wonders how the system can function fairly in determining where people can best serve. Doctor Leete assures him that this function is performed by the people themselves, which he names as men only. It is as yet unclear if women are involved in this industrial state. He adds that every man determines for himself what his natural aptitude is and that he is helped in every way to assess this aptitude. All during the school years, children are observed and encouraged to learn about the various trades, so that they can choose intelligently when the time comes. The supply of workers always fits exactly with the demand for the trades. This is the task of the administration: it must always work to equalize the attractions of the trades. It does this by adjusting the hours of labor to fit the difficulty of the work. The harder the work, the less the hours, and vice versa. The principle followed is that the relative difficulty of work should be evenly distributed. The administration will go to any extent to make this rule apply, even to the point of reducing the work day to ten minutes. If still no one were to volunteer for a job, they would declare it extra hazardous. Then people would volunteer for the honor of serving the country. But there are no jobs that are physically dangerous. Doctor Leete adds, The nation does not maim and slaughter its workmen by thousands, as did the private capitalists and corporations of your day. Doctor Leete further notes that if a job is so popular that there are too many potential workers, the administration will choose the workers with the greatest aptitude. However, if a worker persists to desire to work in one trade, he will be given the opportunity. Most often, however, people have secondary preferences and can go to those trades instead. He says that there is a class of unskilled or common laborers. These are people who are in their first three years of service. When the man does enter his trade, he does not necessarily have to remain in it for the rest of his service. However, most people do not want to move. If they do, they enter a new trade at the beginners level. They can also move to a new part of the country without any change in income. Julian West wonders how this system deals with professional occupations. Doctor Leete says that after the compulsory term of three years as common laborers, every one chooses for himself whether he wants to be a laborer, a professional or an artist. His aptitude is tested, and he is able to enter the appropriate university. The schools are so difficult that no one would go to them just to avoid work. Every man can go to college until the age of thirty since people decide their vocation at different ages. Julian Wests next question concerns wages. He wants to know how they have adjusted wages so that every one is satisfied. Doctor Leete put off answering the question until the next day because it is now three oclock in the morning. He gives Julian West something to drink, which immediately puts him to sleep.


prompt:
Chapter: When I awoke I felt greatly refreshed, and lay a considerable time in
a dozing state, enjoying the sensation of bodily comfort. The
experiences of the day previous, my waking to find myself in the year
2000, the sight of the new Boston, my host and his family, and the
wonderful things I had heard, were a blank in my memory. I thought I
was in my bed-chamber at home, and the half-dreaming, half-waking
fancies which passed before my mind related to the incidents and
experiences of my former life. Dreamily I reviewed the incidents of
Decoration Day, my trip in company with Edith and her parents to Mount
Auburn, and my dining with them on our return to the city. I recalled
how extremely well Edith had looked, and from that fell to thinking of
our marriage; but scarcely had my imagination begun to develop this
delightful theme than my waking dream was cut short by the
recollection of the letter I had received the night before from the
builder announcing that the new strikes might postpone indefinitely
the completion of the new house. The chagrin which this recollection
brought with it effectually roused me. I remembered that I had an
appointment with the builder at eleven o'clock, to discuss the strike,
and opening my eyes, looked up at the clock at the foot of my bed to
see what time it was. But no clock met my glance, and what was more, I
instantly perceived that I was not in my room. Starting up on my
couch, I stared wildly round the strange apartment.

I think it must have been many seconds that I sat up thus in bed
staring about, without being able to regain the clew to my personal
identity. I was no more able to distinguish myself from pure being
during those moments than we may suppose a soul in the rough to be
before it has received the ear-marks, the individualizing touches
which make it a person. Strange that the sense of this inability
should be such anguish! but so we are constituted. There are no words
for the mental torture I endured during this helpless, eyeless groping
for myself in a boundless void. No other experience of the mind gives
probably anything like the sense of absolute intellectual arrest from
the loss of a mental fulcrum, a starting point of thought, which comes
during such a momentary obscuration of the sense of one's identity. I
trust I may never know what it is again.

I do not know how long this condition had lasted,--it seemed an
interminable time,--when, like a flash, the recollection of everything
came back to me. I remembered who and where I was, and how I had come
here, and that these scenes as of the life of yesterday which had
been passing before my mind concerned a generation long, long ago
mouldered to dust. Leaping from bed, I stood in the middle of the room
clasping my temples with all my might between my hands to keep them
from bursting. Then I fell prone on the couch, and, burying my face in
the pillow, lay with out motion. The reaction which was inevitable,
from the mental elation, the fever of the intellect that had been the
first effect of my tremendous experience, had arrived. The emotional
crisis which had awaited the full realization of my actual position,
and all that it implied, was upon me, and with set teeth and laboring
chest, gripping the bedstead with frenzied strength, I lay there and
fought for my sanity. In my mind, all had broken loose, habits of
feeling, associations of thought, ideas of persons and things, all had
dissolved and lost coherence and were seething together in apparently
irretrievable chaos. There were no rallying points, nothing was left
stable. There only remained the will, and was any human will strong
enough to say to such a weltering sea "Peace, be still"? I dared not
think. Every effort to reason upon what had befallen me, and realize
what it implied, set up an intolerable swimming of the brain. The idea
that I was two persons, that my identity was double, began to
fascinate me with its simple solution of my experience.

I knew that I was on the verge of losing my mental balance. If I lay
there thinking, I was doomed. Diversion of some sort I must have, at
least the diversion of physical exertion. I sprang up, and, hastily
dressing, opened the door of my room and went down-stairs. The hour
was very early, it being not yet fairly light, and I found no one in
the lower part of the house. There was a hat in the hall, and, opening
the front door, which was fastened with a slightness indicating that
burglary was not among the perils of the modern Boston, I found myself
on the street. For two hours I walked or ran through the streets of
the city, visiting most quarters of the peninsular part of the town.
None but an antiquarian who knows something of the contrast which the
Boston of to-day offers to the Boston of the nineteenth century can
begin to appreciate what a series of bewildering surprises I underwent
during that time. Viewed from the house-top the day before, the city
had indeed appeared strange to me, but that was only in its general
aspect. How complete the change had been I first realized now that I
walked the streets. The few old landmarks which still remained only
intensified this effect, for without them I might have imagined myself
in a foreign town. A man may leave his native city in childhood, and
return fifty years later, perhaps, to find it transformed in many
features. He is astonished, but he is not bewildered. He is aware of a
great lapse of time, and of changes likewise occurring in himself
meanwhile. He but dimly recalls the city as he knew it when a child.
But remember that there was no sense of any lapse of time with me. So
far as my consciousness was concerned, it was but yesterday, but a few
hours, since I had walked these streets in which scarcely a feature
had escaped a complete metamorphosis. The mental image of the old city
was so fresh and strong that it did not yield to the impression of the
actual city, but contended with it, so that it was first one and then
the other which seemed the more unreal. There was nothing I saw which
was not blurred in this way, like the faces of a composite photograph.

Finally, I stood again at the door of the house from which I had come
out. My feet must have instinctively brought me back to the site of my
old home, for I had no clear idea of returning thither. It was no more
homelike to me than any other spot in this city of a strange
generation, nor were its inmates less utterly and necessarily
strangers than all the other men and women now on the earth. Had the
door of the house been locked, I should have been reminded by its
resistance that I had no object in entering, and turned away, but it
yielded to my hand, and advancing with uncertain steps through the
hall, I entered one of the apartments opening from it. Throwing myself
into a chair, I covered my burning eyeballs with my hands to shut out
the horror of strangeness. My mental confusion was so intense as to
produce actual nausea. The anguish of those moments, during which my
brain seemed melting, or the abjectness of my sense of helplessness,
how can I describe? In my despair I groaned aloud. I began to feel
that unless some help should come I was about to lose my mind. And
just then it did come. I heard the rustle of drapery, and looked up.
Edith Leete was standing before me. Her beautiful face was full of the
most poignant sympathy.

"Oh, what is the matter, Mr. West?" she said. "I was here when you
came in. I saw how dreadfully distressed you looked, and when I heard
you groan, I could not keep silent. What has happened to you? Where
have you been? Can't I do something for you?"

Perhaps she involuntarily held out her hands in a gesture of
compassion as she spoke. At any rate I had caught them in my own and
was clinging to them with an impulse as instinctive as that which
prompts the drowning man to seize upon and cling to the rope which is
thrown him as he sinks for the last time. As I looked up into her
compassionate face and her eyes moist with pity, my brain ceased to
whirl. The tender human sympathy which thrilled in the soft pressure
of her fingers had brought me the support I needed. Its effect to calm
and soothe was like that of some wonder-working elixir.

"God bless you," I said, after a few moments. "He must have sent you
to me just now. I think I was in danger of going crazy if you had not
come." At this the tears came into her eyes.

"Oh, Mr. West!" she cried. "How heartless you must have thought us!
How could we leave you to yourself so long! But it is over now, is it
not? You are better, surely."

"Yes," I said, "thanks to you. If you will not go away quite yet, I
shall be myself soon."

"Indeed I will not go away," she said, with a little quiver of her
face, more expressive of her sympathy than a volume of words. "You
must not think us so heartless as we seemed in leaving you so by
yourself. I scarcely slept last night, for thinking how strange your
waking would be this morning; but father said you would sleep till
late. He said that it would be better not to show too much sympathy
with you at first, but to try to divert your thoughts and make you
feel that you were among friends."

"You have indeed made me feel that," I answered. "But you see it is a
good deal of a jolt to drop a hundred years, and although I did not
seem to feel it so much last night, I have had very odd sensations
this morning." While I held her hands and kept my eyes on her face, I
could already even jest a little at my plight.

"No one thought of such a thing as your going out in the city alone so
early in the morning," she went on. "Oh, Mr. West, where have you
been?"

Then I told her of my morning's experience, from my first waking till
the moment I had looked up to see her before me, just as I have told
it here. She was overcome by distressful pity during the recital, and,
though I had released one of her hands, did not try to take from me
the other, seeing, no doubt, how much good it did me to hold it. "I
can think a little what this feeling must been like," she said. "It
must have been terrible. And to think you were left alone to struggle
with it! Can you ever forgive us?"

"But it is gone now. You have driven it quite away for the present," I
said.

"You will not let it return again," she queried anxiously.

"I can't quite say that," I replied. "It might be too early to say
that, considering how strange everything will still be to me."

"But you will not try to contend with it alone again, at least," she
persisted. "Promise that you will come to us, and let us sympathize
with you, and try to help you. Perhaps we can't do much, but it will
surely be better than to try to bear such feelings alone."

"I will come to you if you will let me," I said.

"Oh yes, yes, I beg you will," she said eagerly. "I would do anything
to help you that I could."

"All you need do is to be sorry for me, as you seem to be now," I
replied.

"It is understood, then," she said, smiling with wet eyes, "that you
are to come and tell me next time, and not run all over Boston among
strangers."

This assumption that we were not strangers seemed scarcely strange, so
near within these few minutes had my trouble and her sympathetic tears
brought us.

"I will promise, when you come to me," she added, with an expression
of charming archness, passing, as she continued, into one of
enthusiasm, "to seem as sorry for you as you wish, but you must not
for a moment suppose that I am really sorry for you at all, or that I
think you will long be sorry for yourself. I know, as well as I know
that the world now is heaven compared with what it was in your day,
that the only feeling you will have after a little while will be one
of thankfulness to God that your life in that age was so strangely cut
off, to be returned to you in this."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Julian West wakes up the next morning feeling perfectly rested and tranquil. He lies in bed dozing and thinking of Decoration Day, which he spent with Edith and her family. He begins to think about their wedding when his pleasant reverie is interrupted with worries about the builder's letter he had read the previous day. He realizes he has an appointment with the builder at eleven and when he looks for the clock he does not see one. Suddenly he is thrown into a terrible crisis, and for a few minutes he does not know where he is or even who he is. Then suddenly he remembers where he is. He runs from the room. He finds no one downstairs, and so he goes outside. He wanders around the modern city of Boston for two hours. He is astonished at the changes in the city. From his perspective, Boston seems to have been transformed over night. When he returns home, he throws himself on the couch and groans in agony. Edith Leete calls out to him and asks him what is the matter and where he has been. He tells her of his anguished morning and she sympathizes so much that she begins to cry. Her sympathy calms his nerves and makes him feel less a stranger in this new time. She makes him promise to confide in her the next time he feels such anxiety. Finally, she tells him that he does not really deserve pity and that he himself will soon be grateful to be in this new world, instead of the one that he once knew.


prompt:
Chapter: Dr. and Mrs. Leete were evidently not a little startled to learn, when
they presently appeared, that I had been all over the city alone that
morning, and it was apparent that they were agreeably surprised to see
that I seemed so little agitated after the experience.

"Your stroll could scarcely have failed to be a very interesting one,"
said Mrs. Leete, as we sat down to table soon after. "You must have
seen a good many new things."

"I saw very little that was not new," I replied. "But I think what
surprised me as much as anything was not to find any stores on
Washington Street, or any banks on State. What have you done with the
merchants and bankers? Hung them all, perhaps, as the anarchists
wanted to do in my day?"

"Not so bad as that," replied Dr. Leete. "We have simply dispensed
with them. Their functions are obsolete in the modern world."

"Who sells you things when you want to buy them?" I inquired.

"There is neither selling nor buying nowadays; the distribution of
goods is effected in another way. As to the bankers, having no money
we have no use for those gentry."

"Miss Leete," said I, turning to Edith, "I am afraid that your father
is making sport of me. I don't blame him, for the temptation my
innocence offers must be extraordinary. But, really, there are limits
to my credulity as to possible alterations in the social system."

"Father has no idea of jesting, I am sure," she replied, with a
reassuring smile.

The conversation took another turn then, the point of ladies' fashions
in the nineteenth century being raised, if I remember rightly, by Mrs.
Leete, and it was not till after breakfast, when the doctor had
invited me up to the house-top, which appeared to be a favorite resort
of his, that he recurred to the subject.

"You were surprised," he said, "at my saying that we got along without
money or trade, but a moment's reflection will show that trade existed
and money was needed in your day simply because the business of
production was left in private hands, and that, consequently, they are
superfluous now."

"I do not at once see how that follows," I replied.

"It is very simple," said Dr. Leete. "When innumerable different and
independent persons produced the various things needful to life and
comfort, endless exchanges between individuals were requisite in
order that they might supply themselves with what they desired. These
exchanges constituted trade, and money was essential as their medium.
But as soon as the nation became the sole producer of all sorts of
commodities, there was no need of exchanges between individuals that
they might get what they required. Everything was procurable from one
source, and nothing could be procured anywhere else. A system of
direct distribution from the national storehouses took the place of
trade, and for this money was unnecessary."

"How is this distribution managed?" I asked.

"On the simplest possible plan," replied Dr. Leete. "A credit
corresponding to his share of the annual product of the nation is
given to every citizen on the public books at the beginning of each
year, and a credit card issued him with which he procures at the
public storehouses, found in every community, whatever he desires
whenever he desires it. This arrangement, you will see, totally
obviates the necessity for business transactions of any sort between
individuals and consumers. Perhaps you would like to see what our
credit-cards are like.

"You observe," he pursued as I was curiously examining the piece of
pasteboard he gave me, "that this card is issued for a certain number
of dollars. We have kept the old word, but not the substance. The
term, as we use it, answers to no real thing, but merely serves as an
algebraical symbol for comparing the values of products with one
another. For this purpose they are all priced in dollars and cents,
just as in your day. The value of what I procure on this card is
checked off by the clerk, who pricks out of these tiers of squares the
price of what I order."

"If you wanted to buy something of your neighbor, could you transfer
part of your credit to him as consideration?" I inquired.

"In the first place," replied Dr. Leete, "our neighbors have nothing
to sell us, but in any event our credit would not be transferable,
being strictly personal. Before the nation could even think of
honoring any such transfer as you speak of, it would be bound to
inquire into all the circumstances of the transaction, so as to be
able to guarantee its absolute equity. It would have been reason
enough, had there been no other, for abolishing money, that its
possession was no indication of rightful title to it. In the hands of
the man who had stolen it or murdered for it, it was as good as in
those which had earned it by industry. People nowadays interchange
gifts and favors out of friendship, but buying and selling is
considered absolutely inconsistent with the mutual benevolence and
disinterestedness which should prevail between citizens and the sense
of community of interest which supports our social system. According
to our ideas, buying and selling is essentially anti-social in all
its tendencies. It is an education in self-seeking at the expense of
others, and no society whose citizens are trained in such a school can
possibly rise above a very low grade of civilization."

"What if you have to spend more than your card in any one year?" I
asked.

"The provision is so ample that we are more likely not to spend it
all," replied Dr. Leete. "But if extraordinary expenses should exhaust
it, we can obtain a limited advance on the next year's credit, though
this practice is not encouraged, and a heavy discount is charged to
check it. Of course if a man showed himself a reckless spendthrift he
would receive his allowance monthly or weekly instead of yearly, or if
necessary not be permitted to handle it all."

"If you don't spend your allowance, I suppose it accumulates?"

"That is also permitted to a certain extent when a special outlay is
anticipated. But unless notice to the contrary is given, it is
presumed that the citizen who does not fully expend his credit did not
have occasion to do so, and the balance is turned into the general
surplus."

"Such a system does not encourage saving habits on the part of
citizens," I said.

"It is not intended to," was the reply. "The nation is rich, and does
not wish the people to deprive themselves of any good thing. In your
day, men were bound to lay up goods and money against coming failure
of the means of support and for their children. This necessity made
parsimony a virtue. But now it would have no such laudable object,
and, having lost its utility, it has ceased to be regarded as a
virtue. No man any more has any care for the morrow, either for
himself or his children, for the nation guarantees the nurture,
education, and comfortable maintenance of every citizen from the
cradle to the grave."

"That is a sweeping guarantee!" I said. "What certainty can there be
that the value of a man's labor will recompense the nation for its
outlay on him? On the whole, society may be able to support all its
members, but some must earn less than enough for their support, and
others more; and that brings us back once more to the wages question,
on which you have hitherto said nothing. It was at just this point, if
you remember, that our talk ended last evening; and I say again, as I
did then, that here I should suppose a national industrial system like
yours would find its main difficulty. How, I ask once more, can you
adjust satisfactorily the comparative wages or remuneration of the
multitude of avocations, so unlike and so incommensurable, which are
necessary for the service of society? In our day the market rate
determined the price of labor of all sorts, as well as of goods. The
employer paid as little as he could, and the worker got as much. It
was not a pretty system ethically, I admit; but it did, at least,
furnish us a rough and ready formula for settling a question which
must be settled ten thousand times a day if the world was ever going
to get forward. There seemed to us no other practicable way of doing
it."

"Yes," replied Dr. Leete, "it was the only practicable way under a
system which made the interests of every individual antagonistic to
those of every other; but it would have been a pity if humanity could
never have devised a better plan, for yours was simply the application
to the mutual relations of men of the devil's maxim, 'Your necessity
is my opportunity.' The reward of any service depended not upon its
difficulty, danger, or hardship, for throughout the world it seems
that the most perilous, severe, and repulsive labor was done by the
worst paid classes; but solely upon the strait of those who needed the
service."

"All that is conceded," I said. "But, with all its defects, the plan
of settling prices by the market rate was a practical plan; and I
cannot conceive what satisfactory substitute you can have devised for
it. The government being the only possible employer, there is of
course no labor market or market rate. Wages of all sorts must be
arbitrarily fixed by the government. I cannot imagine a more complex
and delicate function than that must be, or one, however performed,
more certain to breed universal dissatisfaction."

"I beg your pardon," replied Dr. Leete, "but I think you exaggerate
the difficulty. Suppose a board of fairly sensible men were charged
with settling the wages for all sorts of trades under a system which,
like ours, guaranteed employment to all, while permitting the choice
of avocations. Don't you see that, however unsatisfactory the first
adjustment might be, the mistakes would soon correct themselves? The
favored trades would have too many volunteers, and those discriminated
against would lack them till the errors were set right. But this is
aside from the purpose, for, though this plan would, I fancy, be
practicable enough, it is no part of our system."

"How, then, do you regulate wages?" I once more asked.

Dr. Leete did not reply till after several moments of meditative
silence. "I know, of course," he finally said, "enough of the old
order of things to understand just what you mean by that question; and
yet the present order is so utterly different at this point that I am
a little at loss how to answer you best. You ask me how we regulate
wages; I can only reply that there is no idea in the modern social
economy which at all corresponds with what was meant by wages in your
day."

"I suppose you mean that you have no money to pay wages in," said I.
"But the credit given the worker at the government storehouse answers
to his wages with us. How is the amount of the credit given
respectively to the workers in different lines determined? By what
title does the individual claim his particular share? What is the
basis of allotment?"

"His title," replied Dr. Leete, "is his humanity. The basis of his
claim is the fact that he is a man."

"The fact that he is a man!" I repeated, incredulously. "Do you
possibly mean that all have the same share?"

"Most assuredly."

The readers of this book never having practically known any other
arrangement, or perhaps very carefully considered the historical
accounts of former epochs in which a very different system prevailed,
cannot be expected to appreciate the stupor of amazement into which
Dr. Leete's simple statement plunged me.

"You see," he said, smiling, "that it is not merely that we have no
money to pay wages in, but, as I said, we have nothing at all
answering to your idea of wages."

By this time I had pulled myself together sufficiently to voice some
of the criticisms which, man of the nineteenth century as I was, came
uppermost in my mind, upon this to me astounding arrangement. "Some
men do twice the work of others!" I exclaimed. "Are the clever workmen
content with a plan that ranks them with the indifferent?"

"We leave no possible ground for any complaint of injustice," replied
Dr. Leete, "by requiring precisely the same measure of service from
all."

"How can you do that, I should like to know, when no two men's powers
are the same?"

"Nothing could be simpler," was Dr. Leete's reply. "We require of each
that he shall make the same effort; that is, we demand of him the best
service it is in his power to give."

"And supposing all do the best they can," I answered, "the amount of
the product resulting is twice greater from one man than from
another."

"Very true," replied Dr. Leete; "but the amount of the resulting
product has nothing whatever to do with the question, which is one of
desert. Desert is a moral question, and the amount of the product a
material quantity. It would be an extraordinary sort of logic which
should try to determine a moral question by a material standard. The
amount of the effort alone is pertinent to the question of desert. All
men who do their best, do the same. A man's endowments, however
godlike, merely fix the measure of his duty. The man of great
endowments who does not do all he might, though he may do more than a
man of small endowments who does his best, is deemed a less deserving
worker than the latter, and dies a debtor to his fellows. The Creator
sets men's tasks for them by the faculties he gives them; we simply
exact their fulfillment."

"No doubt that is very fine philosophy," I said; "nevertheless it
seems hard that the man who produces twice as much as another, even if
both do their best, should have only the same share."

"Does it, indeed, seem so to you?" responded Dr. Leete. "Now, do you
know, that seems very curious to me? The way it strikes people
nowadays is, that a man who can produce twice as much as another with
the same effort, instead of being rewarded for doing so, ought to be
punished if he does not do so. In the nineteenth century, when a horse
pulled a heavier load than a goat, I suppose you rewarded him. Now, we
should have whipped him soundly if he had not, on the ground that,
being much stronger, he ought to. It is singular how ethical standards
change." The doctor said this with such a twinkle in his eye that I
was obliged to laugh.

"I suppose," I said, "that the real reason that we rewarded men for
their endowments, while we considered those of horses and goats merely
as fixing the service to be severally required of them, was that the
animals, not being reasoning beings, naturally did the best they
could, whereas men could only be induced to do so by rewarding them
according to the amount of their product. That brings me to ask why,
unless human nature has mightily changed in a hundred years, you are
not under the same necessity."

"We are," replied Dr. Leete. "I don't think there has been any change
in human nature in that respect since your day. It is still so
constituted that special incentives in the form of prizes, and
advantages to be gained, are requisite to call out the best endeavors
of the average man in any direction."

"But what inducement," I asked, "can a man have to put forth his best
endeavors when, however much or little he accomplishes, his income
remains the same? High characters may be moved by devotion to the
common welfare under such a system, but does not the average man tend
to rest back on his oar, reasoning that it is of no use to make a
special effort, since the effort will not increase his income, nor its
withholding diminish it?"

"Does it then really seem to you," answered my companion, "that human
nature is insensible to any motives save fear of want and love of
luxury, that you should expect security and equality of livelihood to
leave them without possible incentives to effort? Your contemporaries
did not really think so, though they might fancy they did. When it was
a question of the grandest class of efforts, the most absolute
self-devotion, they depended on quite other incentives. Not higher
wages, but honor and the hope of men's gratitude, patriotism and the
inspiration of duty, were the motives which they set before their
soldiers when it was a question of dying for the nation, and never
was there an age of the world when those motives did not call out what
is best and noblest in men. And not only this, but when you come to
analyze the love of money which was the general impulse to effort in
your day, you find that the dread of want and desire of luxury was but
one of several motives which the pursuit of money represented; the
others, and with many the more influential, being desire of power, of
social position, and reputation for ability and success. So you see
that though we have abolished poverty and the fear of it, and
inordinate luxury with the hope of it, we have not touched the greater
part of the motives which underlay the love of money in former times,
or any of those which prompted the supremer sorts of effort. The
coarser motives, which no longer move us, have been replaced by higher
motives wholly unknown to the mere wage earners of your age. Now that
industry of whatever sort is no longer self-service, but service of
the nation, patriotism, passion for humanity, impel the worker as in
your day they did the soldier. The army of industry is an army, not
alone by virtue of its perfect organization, but by reason also of the
ardor of self-devotion which animates its members.

"But as you used to supplement the motives of patriotism with the love
of glory, in order to stimulate the valor of your soldiers, so do we.
Based as our industrial system is on the principle of requiring the
same unit of effort from every man, that is, the best he can do, you
will see that the means by which we spur the workers to do their best
must be a very essential part of our scheme. With us, diligence in the
national service is the sole and certain way to public repute, social
distinction, and official power. The value of a man's services to
society fixes his rank in it. Compared with the effect of our social
arrangements in impelling men to be zealous in business, we deem the
object-lessons of biting poverty and wanton luxury on which you
depended a device as weak and uncertain as it was barbaric. The lust
of honor even in your sordid day notoriously impelled men to more
desperate effort than the love of money could."

"I should be extremely interested," I said, "to learn something of
what these social arrangements are."

"The scheme in its details," replied the doctor, "is of course very
elaborate, for it underlies the entire organization of our industrial
army; but a few words will give you a general idea of it."

At this moment our talk was charmingly interrupted by the emergence
upon the aerial platform where we sat of Edith Leete. She was dressed
for the street, and had come to speak to her father about some
commission she was to do for him.

"By the way, Edith," he exclaimed, as she was about to leave us to
ourselves, "I wonder if Mr. West would not be interested in visiting
the store with you? I have been telling him something about our system
of distribution, and perhaps he might like to see it in practical
operation."

"My daughter," he added, turning to me, "is an indefatigable shopper,
and can tell you more about the stores than I can."

The proposition was naturally very agreeable to me, and Edith being
good enough to say that she should be glad to have my company, we left
the house together.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At breakfast, Julian West asks Doctor and Mrs. Leete about the absence of banks and stores. They tell him there is no money, so there is no need for banks, and that the distribution of goods is carried out in a different way. Doctor Leete takes Julian West back up to the roof of the house after breakfast, and they resume the conversation. Doctor Leete tells him that when the government took over the means of production, there was no longer any need for exchanges among individuals, or trade. Now a system of direct distribution takes the place of trade and money is not necessary. At the beginning of every year, every citizen is given a credit that corresponds to his or her share of the annual product of the nation. The citizen gets a credit card and uses it to obtain what s/he needs. This credit, however, is not transferable, but is strictly personal. People exchange gifts, but, "buying and selling is considered absolutely inconsistent with the mutual benevolence and disinterestedness which should prevail between citizens." If a person spends more on her or his card in a given year, s/he is given an advance on the next year's card, with a heavy discount charged to discourage the practice. If s/he is a spendthrift, s/he is then given a monthly or weekly allowance, or perhaps not permitted to handle all of her or his credit. The accumulation of credit is only allowed if it is for a special outlay. Otherwise, that which is not spent in a given year goes back to the common fund. Julian West objects that such a system discourages saving. Doctor Leete assures him that the government does not want people to save money. It is a wealthy state and does not want people to deny themselves anything that is good. The nation guarantees that everyone will be taken care of from the cradle to the grave. Julian West returns to his question of the distribution of wages. He adds that in his time, the employer paid as little as possible and the worker took what he or she got. Doctor Leete agrees that this was the only way to work out pay in a "system which made the interests of every individual antagonistic to those of every other." In other words, "your necessity is my opportunity." Doctor Leete adds that it would have been very sad if no one had ever thought of a better plan. Julian West agrees that such a system had its faults, but he cannot think of a better one than setting prices by the market. Doctor Leete finally tells him that there is no idea in the present time that corresponds to the nineteenth-century idea of wages. Julian West pushes the point, asking "By what title does the individual claim his particular share?" Doctor Leete replies simply, "His title is his humanity. The basis of his claim is the fact that he is a man." Julian West cannot believe his ears when he hears that everyone gets the same share. Doctor Leete adds that there is no room for people to say that the distribution of wages is unfair because this society requires "the same measure of service from all." Ideally, everyone makes the same effort, and each person gives "the best service it is in his power to give." Julian West cannot accept the idea that some people produce more than others without being able to claim a greater reward. Doctor Leete corrects him, saying that what people deserve is a moral question, whereas the amount of the product is a material quantity. If someone is naturally more productive than most people, that person should produce more out of duty, and not out of a wish to be rewarded. Doctor Leete gives the whimsical illustration of a horse and a goat. He wonders if the nineteenth century gave the horse more than the goat because it was stronger. Julian West answers that they acknowledged the difference between people and animals: animals would naturally do their best while people had to be given an incentive. Doctor Leete agrees that incentives are important for motivating people. Julian West wonders what kind of incentive could make a person fulfill his potential when he knows that his income will be the same no matter what. Doctor Leete is amazed that Julian West considers the fear of poverty and the love of luxury as the only possible human motivations. He gives examples of other motives that were used to inspire people of the nineteenth century. The military always used honor and patriotism to inspire men to strive as soldiers. The pursuit of money in the nineteenth century also had to do with a desire for power, social position and reputation. In the twentieth century, working hard in the national service is the only way to gain a good reputation, social distinction and official power. Now, the threat of poverty as an incentive for making people work is considered barbaric. Their conversation is "charmingly interrupted" by Edith Leete, who is about to go on an errand for her father. Doctor Leete asks her to take Julian West with her to the stores, telling him that since she is an "indefatigable shopper," she will be able to show him around better than the doctor can.


prompt:
Chapter: "If I am going to explain our way of shopping to you," said my
companion, as we walked along the street, "you must explain your way
to me. I have never been able to understand it from all I have read on
the subject. For example, when you had such a vast number of shops,
each with its different assortment, how could a lady ever settle upon
any purchase till she had visited all the shops? for, until she had,
she could not know what there was to choose from."

"It was as you suppose; that was the only way she could know," I
replied.

"Father calls me an indefatigable shopper, but I should soon be a very
fatigued one if I had to do as they did," was Edith's laughing
comment.

"The loss of time in going from shop to shop was indeed a waste which
the busy bitterly complained of," I said; "but as for the ladies of
the idle class, though they complained also, I think the system was
really a godsend by furnishing a device to kill time."

"But say there were a thousand shops in a city, hundreds, perhaps, of
the same sort, how could even the idlest find time to make their
rounds?"

"They really could not visit all, of course," I replied. "Those who
did a great deal of buying, learned in time where they might expect to
find what they wanted. This class had made a science of the
specialties of the shops, and bought at advantage, always getting the
most and best for the least money. It required, however, long
experience to acquire this knowledge. Those who were too busy, or
bought too little to gain it, took their chances and were generally
unfortunate, getting the least and worst for the most money. It was
the merest chance if persons not experienced in shopping received the
value of their money."

"But why did you put up with such a shockingly inconvenient
arrangement when you saw its faults so plainly?" Edith asked me.

"It was like all our social arrangements," I replied. "You can see
their faults scarcely more plainly than we did, but we saw no remedy
for them."

"Here we are at the store of our ward," said Edith, as we turned in at
the great portal of one of the magnificent public buildings I had
observed in my morning walk. There was nothing in the exterior aspect
of the edifice to suggest a store to a representative of the
nineteenth century. There was no display of goods in the great
windows, or any device to advertise wares, or attract custom. Nor was
there any sort of sign or legend on the front of the building to
indicate the character of the business carried on there; but instead,
above the portal, standing out from the front of the building, a
majestic life-size group of statuary, the central figure of which was
a female ideal of Plenty, with her cornucopia. Judging from the
composition of the throng passing in and out, about the same
proportion of the sexes among shoppers obtained as in the nineteenth
century. As we entered, Edith said that there was one of these great
distributing establishments in each ward of the city, so that no
residence was more than five or ten minutes' walk from one of them. It
was the first interior of a twentieth-century public building that I
had ever beheld, and the spectacle naturally impressed me deeply. I
was in a vast hall full of light, received not alone from the windows
on all sides, but from the dome, the point of which was a hundred feet
above. Beneath it, in the centre of the hall, a magnificent fountain
played, cooling the atmosphere to a delicious freshness with its
spray. The walls and ceiling were frescoed in mellow tints, calculated
to soften without absorbing the light which flooded the interior.
Around the fountain was a space occupied with chairs and sofas, on
which many persons were seated conversing. Legends on the walls all
about the hall indicated to what classes of commodities the counters
below were devoted. Edith directed her steps towards one of these,
where samples of muslin of a bewildering variety were displayed, and
proceeded to inspect them.

"Where is the clerk?" I asked, for there was no one behind the
counter, and no one seemed coming to attend to the customer.

"I have no need of the clerk yet," said Edith; "I have not made my
selection."

"It was the principal business of clerks to help people to make their
selections in my day," I replied.

"What! To tell people what they wanted?"

"Yes; and oftener to induce them to buy what they didn't want."

"But did not ladies find that very impertinent?" Edith asked,
wonderingly. "What concern could it possibly be to the clerks whether
people bought or not?"

"It was their sole concern," I answered. "They were hired for the
purpose of getting rid of the goods, and were expected to do their
utmost, short of the use of force, to compass that end."

"Ah, yes! How stupid I am to forget!" said Edith. "The storekeeper and
his clerks depended for their livelihood on selling the goods in your
day. Of course that is all different now. The goods are the nation's.
They are here for those who want them, and it is the business of the
clerks to wait on people and take their orders; but it is not the
interest of the clerk or the nation to dispose of a yard or a pound of
anything to anybody who does not want it." She smiled as she added,
"How exceedingly odd it must have seemed to have clerks trying to
induce one to take what one did not want, or was doubtful about!"

"But even a twentieth-century clerk might make himself useful in
giving you information about the goods, though he did not tease you to
buy them," I suggested.

"No," said Edith, "that is not the business of the clerk. These
printed cards, for which the government authorities are responsible,
give us all the information we can possibly need."

I saw then that there was fastened to each sample a card containing in
succinct form a complete statement of the make and materials of the
goods and all its qualities, as well as price, leaving absolutely no
point to hang a question on.

"The clerk has, then, nothing to say about the goods he sells?" I
said.

"Nothing at all. It is not necessary that he should know or profess to
know anything about them. Courtesy and accuracy in taking orders are
all that are required of him."

"What a prodigious amount of lying that simple arrangement saves!" I
ejaculated.

"Do you mean that all the clerks misrepresented their goods in your
day?" Edith asked.

"God forbid that I should say so!" I replied, "for there were many who
did not, and they were entitled to especial credit, for when one's
livelihood and that of his wife and babies depended on the amount of
goods he could dispose of, the temptation to deceive the customer--or
let him deceive himself--was wellnigh overwhelming. But, Miss Leete, I
am distracting you from your task with my talk."

"Not at all. I have made my selections." With that she touched a
button, and in a moment a clerk appeared. He took down her order on a
tablet with a pencil which made two copies, of which he gave one to
her, and enclosing the counterpart in a small receptacle, dropped it
into a transmitting tube.

"The duplicate of the order," said Edith as she turned away from the
counter, after the clerk had punched the value of her purchase out of
the credit card she gave him, "is given to the purchaser, so that any
mistakes in filling it can be easily traced and rectified."

"You were very quick about your selections," I said. "May I ask how
you knew that you might not have found something to suit you better in
some of the other stores? But probably you are required to buy in your
own district."

"Oh, no," she replied. "We buy where we please, though naturally most
often near home. But I should have gained nothing by visiting other
stores. The assortment in all is exactly the same, representing as it
does in each case samples of all the varieties produced or imported by
the United States. That is why one can decide quickly, and never need
visit two stores."

"And is this merely a sample store? I see no clerks cutting off goods
or marking bundles."

"All our stores are sample stores, except as to a few classes of
articles. The goods, with these exceptions, are all at the great
central warehouse of the city, to which they are shipped directly from
the producers. We order from the sample and the printed statement of
texture, make, and qualities. The orders are sent to the warehouse,
and the goods distributed from there."

"That must be a tremendous saving of handling," I said. "By our
system, the manufacturer sold to the wholesaler, the wholesaler to the
retailer, and the retailer to the consumer, and the goods had to be
handled each time. You avoid one handling of the goods, and eliminate
the retailer altogether, with his big profit and the army of clerks it
goes to support. Why, Miss Leete, this store is merely the order
department of a wholesale house, with no more than a wholesaler's
complement of clerks. Under our system of handling the goods,
persuading the customer to buy them, cutting them off, and packing
them, ten clerks would not do what one does here. The saving must be
enormous."

"I suppose so," said Edith, "but of course we have never known any
other way. But, Mr. West, you must not fail to ask father to take you
to the central warehouse some day, where they receive the orders from
the different sample houses all over the city and parcel out and send
the goods to their destinations. He took me there not long ago, and
it was a wonderful sight. The system is certainly perfect; for
example, over yonder in that sort of cage is the dispatching clerk.
The orders, as they are taken by the different departments in the
store, are sent by transmitters to him. His assistants sort them and
enclose each class in a carrier-box by itself. The dispatching clerk
has a dozen pneumatic transmitters before him answering to the general
classes of goods, each communicating with the corresponding department
at the warehouse. He drops the box of orders into the tube it calls
for, and in a few moments later it drops on the proper desk in the
warehouse, together with all the orders of the same sort from the
other sample stores. The orders are read off, recorded, and sent to be
filled, like lightning. The filling I thought the most interesting
part. Bales of cloth are placed on spindles and turned by machinery,
and the cutter, who also has a machine, works right through one bale
after another till exhausted, when another man takes his place; and it
is the same with those who fill the orders in any other staple. The
packages are then delivered by larger tubes to the city districts, and
thence distributed to the houses. You may understand how quickly it is
all done when I tell you that my order will probably be at home sooner
than I could have carried it from here."

"How do you manage in the thinly settled rural districts?" I asked.

"The system is the same," Edith explained; "the village sample shops
are connected by transmitters with the central county warehouse, which
may be twenty miles away. The transmission is so swift, though, that
the time lost on the way is trifling. But, to save expense, in many
counties one set of tubes connect several villages with the warehouse,
and then there is time lost waiting for one another. Sometimes it is
two or three hours before goods ordered are received. It was so where
I was staying last summer, and I found it quite inconvenient".[2]

"There must be many other respects also, no doubt, in which the
country stores are inferior to the city stores," I suggested.

"No," Edith answered, "they are otherwise precisely as good. The
sample shop of the smallest village, just like this one, gives you
your choice of all the varieties of goods the nation has, for the
county warehouse draws on the same source as the city warehouse."

As we walked home I commented on the great variety in the size and
cost of the houses. "How is it," I asked, "that this difference is
consistent with the fact that all citizens have the same income?"

"Because," Edith explained, "although the income is the same, personal
taste determines how the individual shall spend it. Some like fine
horses; others, like myself, prefer pretty clothes; and still others
want an elaborate table. The rents which the nation receives for these
houses vary, according to size, elegance, and location, so that
everybody can find something to suit. The larger houses are usually
occupied by large families, in which there are several to contribute
to the rent; while small families, like ours, find smaller houses more
convenient and economical. It is a matter of taste and convenience
wholly. I have read that in old times people often kept up
establishments and did other things which they could not afford for
ostentation, to make people think them richer than they were. Was it
really so, Mr. West?"

"I shall have to admit that it was," I replied.

"Well, you see, it could not be so nowadays; for everybody's income is
known, and it is known that what is spent one way must be saved
another."

[Footnote 2: I am informed since the above is in type that this lack
of perfection in the distributing service of some of the country
districts is to be remedied, and that soon every village will have its
own set of tubes.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On their way to the store, the characters discuss the method of shopping in the nineteenth century. Edith Leete cannot understand how people used to put up with the waste of time resulting from too many shops specializing in the same thing. If a shopper had a great deal of time, she (the shopper here is gendered feminine by Bellamy) could have gone from shop to shop comparing merchandise before making an intelligent decision about the best product and the best price. Julian West says women of the leisure class liked to waste time in this way because they did not have anything better to do. However, he agrees that the competition of so many small stores led to a waste of energy. When they arrive at the store of the district in which the Leetes live, Julian West notices that the store appears very different from the stores of his time. There are no window displays and the only indication of the function of the building is a statue of a woman holding a horn of plenty. Inside, he notices the elegant design and the human-friendly setting. Edith Leete looks at some cloth. He notices that no clerk comes to help her with it or to urge her to buy something. She tells him how shopping is done. A card on the merchandise describes all that the customer needs to know about it. The clerk only fills out the order. The store is actually just a sample store. The order is sent through a pneumonic tube to a central warehouse. It is then delivered to the customer's house. Each store carries exactly the same products. Country shoppers are somewhat disadvantaged because they have to wait slightly longer to receive their orders at home. Julian West exclaims over the savings in energy this system presents. In his own time, he tells her, the manufacturer sold to the wholesaler, who then sold to the retailer, who in turn sold to the customer. In addition, since the clerks at each store had to service the customers and handle the goods, it would take ten clerks to perform what one does in Edith's store. Edith Leete tells him of the operation of the central warehouse, where everything is mechanized, and as she says, "perfect." As they walk home, he comments on the variety of houses, which indicates to him different levels of income. Edith Leete explains that people spend their share of income according to their needs and desires. Some like bigger houses and some like nicer clothes. He tells her of the practice during his time of keeping up houses that were beyond one's means in order to impress the neighbors. She notes that since everyone's income is known, this could never happen in her time. Everyone here knows that "what is spent one way must be saved another." When they arrive back at the Leete house, Edith Leete shows Julian West the music room. She explains that four orchestras are playing in the city continuously, and their music is piped into the homes of all the citizens who pay for the service. The quality of the music astonishes Julian West. He learns that he can listen to music in his bedroom as well. They agree that the obstacles to listening to good music in the nineteenth century were atrocious. If they were not wealthy, people had to put up with all kinds of problems to hear a piece of music they liked. They resorted to learning to play music themselves, but since they were amateurs, they rarely got to enjoy very good music. That evening they discuss their day with Doctor Leete. The subject of the inheritance of property comes up. Julian West assumes that inheritance is outlawed by the government, but Doctor Leete assures him that there is far less interference in the lives of citizens by the government of the twentieth century than there was by the nineteenth-century government. The only fundamental law is that everyone should serve the nation for a fixed period. Doctor Leete adds that this law is really only a codification of the law of nature or of Eden. He says that the system requires little legislation, since it is "the logical outcome of the operation f human nature under rational conditions." Doctor Leete illustrates this point with the question of inheritance. While it is not outlawed, it is also not desirable, since acquired possessions can become a burden. The heir cannot sell them. They are useful only if they can be enjoyed. If there are too many or they are too cumbersome, the heir has to hire someone to take care of them or buy an extra house for storing them. Therefore, most people waive their claim to the possessions of deceased loved ones. The government takes them and puts them back into the common stock. Julian West asks about the idea of servants in the utopia of the twentieth century. Doctor Leete says there is not much use for servants in the household since cooking, sewing, and laundry is done outside the home. Doctor Leete says that since people of the nineteenth century used the poor to do all their tasks, they did not spend time finding ways to lighten the load. Now, it is in the interest of everyone to find labor-saving devices in the home. As a result, it is very easy to maintain a house. If a family needs extraordinary cleaning done, they obtain the services of the industrial force with the use of their card. Julian West exclaims over the paradise this society seems to be for women. Doctor Leete adds that the misery of women arose out of the "incapacity for cooperation which followed from the individualism on which your social system was founded, from your inability to perceive that you could make ten times more profit out of your fellow men by uniting with them than by contending with them." Julian West's next question has to do with doctors. He wonders if a person has to accept any doctor who is sent. Doctor Leete acknowledges that medicine is most effective when doctors know their patients well, and says that a patient can call on a specific doctor. Julian West assumes that since medical fees are always the same, most people would choose the superior doctors, and the bad doctors would have very little work. Doctor Leete assures him there are no bad doctors because the examinations in the medical schools are so rigorous. In this time, doctors do not compete with each other for clients. They also have to report regularly to a medical bureau, and if a doctor does not have enough patients, work will be found for him.


prompt:
Chapter: When we arrived home, Dr. Leete had not yet returned, and Mrs. Leete
was not visible. "Are you fond of music, Mr. West?" Edith asked.

I assured her that it was half of life, according to my notion.

"I ought to apologize for inquiring," she said. "It is not a question
that we ask one another nowadays; but I have read that in your day,
even among the cultured class, there were some who did not care for
music."

"You must remember, in excuse," I said, "that we had some rather
absurd kinds of music."

"Yes," she said, "I know that; I am afraid I should not have fancied
it all myself. Would you like to hear some of ours now, Mr. West?"

"Nothing would delight me so much as to listen to you," I said.

"To me!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Did you think I was going to play
or sing to you?"

"I hoped so, certainly," I replied.

Seeing that I was a little abashed, she subdued her merriment and
explained. "Of course, we all sing nowadays as a matter of course in
the training of the voice, and some learn to play instruments for
their private amusement; but the professional music is so much grander
and more perfect than any performance of ours, and so easily commanded
when we wish to hear it, that we don't think of calling our singing or
playing music at all. All the really fine singers and players are in
the musical service, and the rest of us hold our peace for the main
part. But would you really like to hear some music?"

I assured her once more that I would.

"Come, then, into the music room," she said, and I followed her into
an apartment finished, without hangings, in wood, with a floor of
polished wood. I was prepared for new devices in musical instruments,
but I saw nothing in the room which by any stretch of imagination
could be conceived as such. It was evident that my puzzled appearance
was affording intense amusement to Edith.

"Please look at to-day's music," she said, handing me a card, "and
tell me what you would prefer. It is now five o'clock, you will
remember."

The card bore the date "September 12, 2000," and contained the longest
programme of music I had ever seen. It was as various as it was long,
including a most extraordinary range of vocal and instrumental solos,
duets, quartettes, and various orchestral combinations. I remained
bewildered by the prodigious list until Edith's pink finger-tip
indicated a particular section of it, where several selections were
bracketed, with the words "5 P.M." against them; then I observed
that this prodigious programme was an all-day one, divided into
twenty-four sections answering to the hours. There were but a few
pieces of music in the "5 P.M." section, and I indicated an organ
piece as my preference.

"I am so glad you like the organ," said she. "I think there is
scarcely any music that suits my mood oftener."

She made me sit down comfortably, and, crossing the room, so far as I
could see, merely touched one or two screws, and at once the room was
filled with the music of a grand organ anthem; filled, not flooded,
for, by some means, the volume of melody had been perfectly graduated
to the size of the apartment. I listened, scarcely breathing, to the
close. Such music, so perfectly rendered, I had never expected to
hear.

"Grand!" I cried, as the last great wave of sound broke and ebbed away
into silence. "Bach must be at the keys of that organ; but where is
the organ?"

"Wait a moment, please," said Edith; "I want to have you listen to
this waltz before you ask any questions. I think it is perfectly
charming;" and as she spoke the sound of violins filled the room with
the witchery of a summer night. When this had also ceased, she said:
"There is nothing in the least mysterious about the music, as you seem
to imagine. It is not made by fairies or genii, but by good, honest,
and exceedingly clever human hands. We have simply carried the idea of
labor saving by cooperation into our musical service as into
everything else. There are a number of music rooms in the city,
perfectly adapted acoustically to the different sorts of music. These
halls are connected by telephone with all the houses of the city whose
people care to pay the small fee, and there are none, you may be sure,
who do not. The corps of musicians attached to each hall is so large
that, although no individual performer, or group of performers, has
more than a brief part, each day's programme lasts through the
twenty-four hours. There are on that card for to-day, as you will see
if you observe closely, distinct programmes of four of these concerts,
each of a different order of music from the others, being now
simultaneously performed, and any one of the four pieces now going on
that you prefer, you can hear by merely pressing the button which will
connect your house-wire with the hall where it is being rendered. The
programmes are so coordinated that the pieces at any one time
simultaneously proceeding in the different halls usually offer a
choice, not only between instrumental and vocal, and between different
sorts of instruments; but also between different motives from grave to
gay, so that all tastes and moods can be suited."

"It appears to me, Miss Leete," I said, "that if we could have devised
an arrangement for providing everybody with music in their homes,
perfect in quality, unlimited in quantity, suited to every mood, and
beginning and ceasing at will, we should have considered the limit of
human felicity already attained, and ceased to strive for further
improvements."

"I am sure I never could imagine how those among you who depended at
all on music managed to endure the old-fashioned system for providing
it," replied Edith. "Music really worth hearing must have been, I
suppose, wholly out of the reach of the masses, and attainable by the
most favored only occasionally, at great trouble, prodigious expense,
and then for brief periods, arbitrarily fixed by somebody else, and in
connection with all sorts of undesirable circumstances. Your concerts,
for instance, and operas! How perfectly exasperating it must have
been, for the sake of a piece or two of music that suited you, to have
to sit for hours listening to what you did not care for! Now, at a
dinner one can skip the courses one does not care for. Who would ever
dine, however hungry, if required to eat everything brought on the
table? and I am sure one's hearing is quite as sensitive as one's
taste. I suppose it was these difficulties in the way of commanding
really good music which made you endure so much playing and singing in
your homes by people who had only the rudiments of the art."

"Yes," I replied, "it was that sort of music or none for most of us."

"Ah, well," Edith sighed, "when one really considers, it is not so
strange that people in those days so often did not care for music. I
dare say I should have detested it, too."

"Did I understand you rightly," I inquired, "that this musical
programme covers the entire twenty-four hours? It seems to on this
card, certainly; but who is there to listen to music between say
midnight and morning?"

"Oh, many," Edith replied. "Our people keep all hours; but if the
music were provided from midnight to morning for no others, it still
would be for the sleepless, the sick, and the dying. All our
bedchambers have a telephone attachment at the head of the bed by
which any person who may be sleepless can command music at pleasure,
of the sort suited to the mood."

"Is there such an arrangement in the room assigned to me?"

"Why, certainly; and how stupid, how very stupid, of me not to think
to tell you of that last night! Father will show you about the
adjustment before you go to bed to-night, however; and with the
receiver at your ear, I am quite sure you will be able to snap your
fingers at all sorts of uncanny feelings if they trouble you again."

That evening Dr. Leete asked us about our visit to the store, and in
the course of the desultory comparison of the ways of the nineteenth
century and the twentieth, which followed, something raised the
question of inheritance. "I suppose," I said, "the inheritance of
property is not now allowed."

"On the contrary," replied Dr. Leete, "there is no interference with
it. In fact, you will find, Mr. West, as you come to know us, that
there is far less interference of any sort with personal liberty
nowadays than you were accustomed to. We require, indeed, by law that
every man shall serve the nation for a fixed period, instead of
leaving him his choice, as you did, between working, stealing, or
starving. With the exception of this fundamental law, which is,
indeed, merely a codification of the law of nature--the edict of
Eden--by which it is made equal in its pressure on men, our system
depends in no particular upon legislation, but is entirely voluntary,
the logical outcome of the operation of human nature under rational
conditions. This question of inheritance illustrates just that point.
The fact that the nation is the sole capitalist and land-owner of
course restricts the individual's possessions to his annual credit,
and what personal and household belongings he may have procured with
it. His credit, like an annuity in your day, ceases on his death, with
the allowance of a fixed sum for funeral expenses. His other
possessions he leaves as he pleases."

"What is to prevent, in course of time, such accumulations of valuable
goods and chattels in the hands of individuals as might seriously
interfere with equality in the circumstances of citizens?" I asked.

"That matter arranges itself very simply," was the reply. "Under the
present organization of society, accumulations of personal property
are merely burdensome the moment they exceed what adds to the real
comfort. In your day, if a man had a house crammed full with gold and
silver plate, rare china, expensive furniture, and such things, he was
considered rich, for these things represented money, and could at any
time be turned into it. Nowadays a man whom the legacies of a hundred
relatives, simultaneously dying, should place in a similar position,
would be considered very unlucky. The articles, not being salable,
would be of no value to him except for their actual use or the
enjoyment of their beauty. On the other hand, his income remaining the
same, he would have to deplete his credit to hire houses to store the
goods in, and still further to pay for the service of those who took
care of them. You may be very sure that such a man would lose no time
in scattering among his friends possessions which only made him the
poorer, and that none of those friends would accept more of them than
they could easily spare room for and time to attend to. You see, then,
that to prohibit the inheritance of personal property with a view to
prevent great accumulations would be a superfluous precaution for the
nation. The individual citizen can be trusted to see that he is not
overburdened. So careful is he in this respect, that the relatives
usually waive claim to most of the effects of deceased friends,
reserving only particular objects. The nation takes charge of the
resigned chattels, and turns such as are of value into the common
stock once more."

"You spoke of paying for service to take care of your houses," said I;
"that suggests a question I have several times been on the point of
asking. How have you disposed of the problem of domestic service? Who
are willing to be domestic servants in a community where all are
social equals? Our ladies found it hard enough to find such even when
there was little pretense of social equality."

"It is precisely because we are all social equals whose equality
nothing can compromise, and because service is honorable, in a society
whose fundamental principle is that all in turn shall serve the rest,
that we could easily provide a corps of domestic servants such as you
never dreamed of, if we needed them," replied Dr. Leete. "But we do
not need them."

"Who does your housework, then?" I asked.

"There is none to do," said Mrs. Leete, to whom I had addressed this
question. "Our washing is all done at public laundries at excessively
cheap rates, and our cooking at public kitchens The making and
repairing of all we wear are done outside in public shops.
Electricity, of course, takes the place of all fires and lighting. We
choose houses no larger than we need, and furnish them so as to
involve the minimum of trouble to keep them in order. We have no use
for domestic servants."

"The fact," said Dr. Leete, "that you had in the poorer classes a
boundless supply of serfs on whom you could impose all sorts of
painful and disagreeable tasks, made you indifferent to devices to
avoid the necessity for them. But now that we all have to do in turn
whatever work is done for society, every individual in the nation has
the same interest, and a personal one, in devices for lightening the
burden. This fact has given a prodigious impulse to labor-saving
inventions in all sorts of industry, of which the combination of the
maximum of comfort and minimum of trouble in household arrangements
was one of the earliest results.

"In case of special emergencies in the household," pursued Dr. Leete,
"such as extensive cleaning or renovation, or sickness in the family,
we can always secure assistance from the industrial force."

"But how do you recompense these assistants, since you have no money?"

"We do not pay them, of course, but the nation for them. Their
services can be obtained by application at the proper bureau, and
their value is pricked off the credit card of the applicant."

"What a paradise for womankind the world must be now!" I exclaimed.
"In my day, even wealth and unlimited servants did not enfranchise
their possessors from household cares, while the women of the merely
well-to-do and poorer classes lived and died martyrs to them."

"Yes," said Mrs. Leete, "I have read something of that; enough to
convince me that, badly off as the men, too, were in your day, they
were more fortunate than their mothers and wives."

"The broad shoulders of the nation," said Dr. Leete, "bear now like a
feather the burden that broke the backs of the women of your day.
Their misery came, with all your other miseries, from that incapacity
for cooperation which followed from the individualism on which your
social system was founded, from your inability to perceive that you
could make ten times more profit out of your fellow men by uniting
with them than by contending with them. The wonder is, not that you
did not live more comfortably, but that you were able to live together
at all, who were all confessedly bent on making one another your
servants, and securing possession of one another's goods."

"There, there, father, if you are so vehement, Mr. West will think you
are scolding him," laughingly interposed Edith.

"When you want a doctor," I asked, "do you simply apply to the proper
bureau and take any one that may be sent?"

"That rule would not work well in the case of physicians," replied Dr.
Leete. "The good a physician can do a patient depends largely on his
acquaintance with his constitutional tendencies and condition. The
patient must be able, therefore, to call in a particular doctor, and
he does so just as patients did in your day. The only difference is
that, instead of collecting his fee for himself, the doctor collects
it for the nation by pricking off the amount, according to a regular
scale for medical attendance, from the patient's credit card."

"I can imagine," I said, "that if the fee is always the same, and a
doctor may not turn away patients, as I suppose he may not, the good
doctors are called constantly and the poor doctors left in idleness."

"In the first place, if you will overlook the apparent conceit of the
remark from a retired physician," replied Dr. Leete, with a smile, "we
have no poor doctors. Anybody who pleases to get a little smattering
of medical terms is not now at liberty to practice on the bodies of
citizens, as in your day. None but students who have passed the severe
tests of the schools, and clearly proved their vocation, are permitted
to practice. Then, too, you will observe that there is nowadays no
attempt of doctors to build up their practice at the expense of other
doctors. There would be no motive for that. For the rest, the doctor
has to render regular reports of his work to the medical bureau, and
if he is not reasonably well employed, work is found for him."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When they arrive back at the Leete house, Edith Leete shows Julian West the music room. She explains that four orchestras are playing in the city continuously, and their music is piped into the homes of all the citizens who pay for the service. The quality of the music astonishes Julian West. He learns that he can listen to music in his bedroom as well. They agree that the obstacles to listening to good music in the nineteenth century were atrocious. If they were not wealthy, people had to put up with all kinds of problems to hear a piece of music they liked. They resorted to learning to play music themselves, but since they were amateurs, they rarely got to enjoy very good music. That evening they discuss their day with Doctor Leete. The subject of the inheritance of property comes up. Julian West assumes that inheritance is outlawed by the government, but Doctor Leete assures him that there is far less interference in the lives of citizens by the government of the twentieth century than there was by the nineteenth-century government. The only fundamental law is that everyone should serve the nation for a fixed period. Doctor Leete adds that this law is really only a codification of the law of nature or of Eden. He says that the system requires little legislation, since it is "the logical outcome of the operation f human nature under rational conditions." Doctor Leete illustrates this point with the question of inheritance. While it is not outlawed, it is also not desirable, since acquired possessions can become a burden. The heir cannot sell them. They are useful only if they can be enjoyed. If there are too many or they are too cumbersome, the heir has to hire someone to take care of them or buy an extra house for storing them. Therefore, most people waive their claim to the possessions of deceased loved ones. The government takes them and puts them back into the common stock. Julian West asks about the idea of servants in the utopia of the twentieth century. Doctor Leete says there is not much use for servants in the household since cooking, sewing, and laundry is done outside the home. Doctor Leete says that since people of the nineteenth century used the poor to do all their tasks, they did not spend time finding ways to lighten the load. Now, it is in the interest of everyone to find labor-saving devices in the home. As a result, it is very easy to maintain a house. If a family needs extraordinary cleaning done, they obtain the services of the industrial force with the use of their card. Julian West exclaims over the paradise this society seems to be for women. Doctor Leete adds that the misery of women arose out of the "incapacity for cooperation which followed from the individualism on which your social system was founded, from your inability to perceive that you could make ten times more profit out of your fellow men by uniting with them than by contending with them." Julian West's next question has to do with doctors. He wonders if a person has to accept any doctor who is sent. Doctor Leete acknowledges that medicine is most effective when doctors know their patients well, and says that a patient can call on a specific doctor. Julian West assumes that since medical fees are always the same, most people would choose the superior doctors, and the bad doctors would have very little work. Doctor Leete assures him there are no bad doctors because the examinations in the medical schools are so rigorous. In this time, doctors do not compete with each other for clients. They also have to report regularly to a medical bureau, and if a doctor does not have enough patients, work will be found for him.