cent proved dangerous, for each drift of snow might hide underneath it a deep chasm. By the time they reached the open valley it was nightfall, and the city was a bare three or four miles away.
They saw the lights of the factories go out and the lights of each individual home brighten. The smoke died from the giant chimneys but each individual house had its own tiny waft of smoke pouring out of its own individual chimney.
As they made their way to the city they saw darkness settle upon it. The lights in the homes died down and when they came to its gates, the city was asleep.
The streets were empty of people. The three exhausted men broke into one of the homes and collapsed before an electrically glowing fireplace.
For a time Weaver was dully surprised that the owner of the house did not bother to come downstairs and ask what they wanted, but he was much too tired to question that as sleep settled upon him and Millet and Johnson.
Refreshed, the three woke up with the morning sun and found, much to their surprise, that the house was empty.
Whoever was in during the night had already left. There were unmistakable signs of chairs having been moved and curtains lifted. It was a wooden house, wooden furniture, and all in simple style.
"They probably let us sleep, not wanting to disturb us," Johnson said.
"Any food in the house?" Weaver asked. Millet got up, stretched and yawned, and went to a small room which appeared to be a kitchen. He came back with two loaves of bread and a jar of water.
"This is all I could find," he said, cutting the bread and sharing it with Johnson and Millet.
"H'm," murmured Johnson as he bit into the first slice, "Tough bread, but pretty good."
"Any idea what city this is?" Weaver asked, crunching the bread hungrily.
"No," Millet said between thirsty gulps, "Haven't the faintest idea. Factory town, that's evident."
When they had finished eating, they got up to investigate the house but could find nothing that would help them. There was no printed matter of any sort but for one sign which hung, almost reverently, over the mantlepiece. It read: "The Day Will Come—Be Ready!"
The other rooms were bare but for necessary furniture and clothes. The three searched the closets until they found warm coats that would fit them.
"This might seem like stealing," Millet said, "but we'll return them when we find out just what position we're in."
With stomachs full
and warm clothes, Millet,
Weaver and Johnson
stepped out of the house into
the street. It was bitterly cold,
but there was no wind. The
high mountains that surrounded
the valley seemed to protect it
from too much snow. Not knowing
where to go, they walked
aimlessly about the streets. Nowhere
could they find a single
soul.
"They must all be at the factory," Johnson said.
"And the children?"
"In schools and nurseries." "But they can't all be in factories and schools," protested Weaver. "There's nobody home or in the streets. Nobody!"
"Let's look into a factory," Millet suggested.
In the center of the city they found two factories. Both were of tremendous size, stretching for many times the size of a city block. From their mighty stacks stretched black fingers of smoke. A strange feeling of age hung about the factory. The windows were unwashed. Here and there great cracks were in the walls and through them one could see the working men within. The dull roar of the two factories was almost deafening.
"How old it seems!" Weaver gasped.
"Centuries!" Millet whispered.
"Come! Come!" Johnson said briskly, "We won't get anywhere gaping like that. Let's go in this one here."
They walked through the aged gate, into the courtyard, and up the wide steps to the door. They opened it, walked in and almost at once were drowned by the clanging and banging of machines in operation. But above the roar of the machines there was yet another sound—the sound of a man's voice, amplified so that it was a booming monotone, overcoming even the shrill screeches of drills and presses.
". . . be careful. Always be careful," the booming voice in the factory rang out. "Do not make mistakes. Efficiency counts above all else. Efficiency! Work carefully. Work carefully. Work carefully. Work carefully and enjoy your work. Enjoy your work. Enjoy your work because it is your work. You are working for yourselves. You are working for yourselves. You are working for yourselves. . ."
And on it went, repeating over and over again inane advice to workmen, urging them to greater efforts and constantly giving them an added impetus for faster and faster work.
"Speed-up deluxe!" Millet, said, "What a system!"
Inside the factory they saw the working men and women and children. There were thousands of them. Like automatons each leaned forward at his task. Dynamos and power engines, placed in floors beneath the level, pulsed into life and the conveyor belts moved on. The place was a roaring factory in full blast. Giant cranes screeched along, carrying in their iron hands heavy machines which were placed in position by the waiting workmen. Long lines of coarsely clad men and women stood by the conveyors, each with his or her task. Some of the men handled the delicate tools. Others, the women and the children, did nothing but
