FAILURE IN A MODERN UTOPIA
"I told you you wouldn't find out about us," I say, triumphantly.
"But we have," he says; "but that makes your freak none the less remarkable."
"You've heard! You know who we are! Well—tell us! We had an idea, but we're beginning to doubt."
"You," says the official, addressing the botanist, "are———!"
And he breathes his name. Then he turns to me and gives me mine.
For a moment I am dumbfounded. Then I think of the entries we made at the inn in the Urserenthal, and then in a flash I have the truth. I rap the desk smartly with my finger-tips and shake my index finger in my friend's face.
"By Jove!" I say in English. "They've got our doubles!"
The botanist snaps his fingers. "Of course! I didn't think of that."
"Do you mind," I say to this official, "telling us some more about ourselves?"
"I can't think why you keep it up," he remarks, and then almost wearily tells me the facts about my Utopian self. They are a little difficult to understand. He says I am one of the samurai, which sounds Japanese, "but you will be degraded," he says, with a gesture almost of despair. He describes my position in this world in phrases that convey very little.
"The queer thing," he remarks, "is that you were in Norway only three days ago."
"I am there still. At least—I'm sorry to be so
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