I expand. "We have come so far that this country of yours seems very strange indeed to us." "The mountains?" "Not only the mountains." "You came up out of the Ticino valley?" "No--not that way." "By the Oberalp?" "No." "The Furka?" "No." "Not up from the lake?" "No." He looks puzzled. "We came," I say, "from another world." He seems trying to understand. Then a thought strikes him, and he sends away his little girl with a needless message to her mother. "Ah!" he says. "Another world--eh? Meaning----?" "Another world--far in the deeps of space." Then at the expression of his face one realises that a Modern Utopia will probably keep its more intelligent citizens for better work than inn-tending. He is evidently inaccessible to the idea we think of putting before him. He stares at us a moment, and then remarks, "There's the book to sign." We find ourselves confronted with a book, a little after the fashion of the familiar hotel visitors' book of earth. He places this before us, and beside it puts pen and ink and a slab, upon which ink has been freshly smeared. "Thumbmarks," says my scientific friend hastily in English. "You show me how to do it," I say as quickly. He signs first, and I look over his shoulder. He is displaying more readiness than I should have expected. The book is ruled in broad transverse lines, and has a space for a name, for a number, and a thumbmark. He puts his thumb upon the slab and makes the thumbmark first with the utmost deliberation. Meanwhile he studies the other two entries. The "numbers" of the previous guests above are complex muddles of letters and figures. He writes his name, then with a calm assurance writes down his number, A.M.a.1607.2.ab+. I am wrung with momentary admiration. I follow his example, and fabricate an equally imposing signature. We think ourselves very clever. The landlord proffers finger bowls for our thumbs, and his eye goes, just a little curiously, to our entries. I decide it is advisable to pay and go before any conversation about our formulae arises. As we emerge into the corridor, and the morning sunlight of the Utopian world, I see the landlord bending over the book. "Come on," I say. "The most tiresome thing in the world is explanations, and I perceive that if we do not get along, they will fall upon us now." I glance back to discover the landlord and a gracefully robed woman standing outside the pretty simplicity of the Utopian inn, watching us doubtfully as we recede. "Come on," I insist. Section 8