"I know it sounds impossible," I say, "but here is the simple fact--we _appear_ in your world. We appeared suddenly upon the neck of Lucendro--the Passo Lucendro--yesterday afternoon, and I defy you to discover the faintest trace of us before that time. Down we marched into the San Gotthard road and here we are! That's our fact. And as for papers----! Where in your world have you seen papers like this?" I produce my pocket-book, extract my passport, and present it to him. His expression has changed. He takes the document and examines it, turns it over, looks at me, and smiles that faint smile of his again. "Have some more," I say, and proffer the card of the T.C.F. I follow up that blow with my green British Museum ticket, as tattered as a flag in a knight's chapel. "You'll get found out," he says, with my documents in his hand. "You've got your thumbs. You'll be measured. They'll refer to the central registers, and there you'll be!" "That's just it," I say, "we sha'n't be." He reflects. "It's a queer sort of joke for you two men to play," he decides, handing me back my documents. "It's no joke at all," I say, replacing them in my pocket-book. The post-mistress intervenes. "What would you advise me to do?" "No money?" he asks. "No." He makes some suggestions. "Frankly," he says, "I think you have escaped from some island. How you got so far as here I can't imagine, or what you think you'll do.... But anyhow, there's the stuff for your thumbs." He points to the thumb-marking apparatus and turns to attend to his own business. Presently we emerge from the office in a state between discomfiture and amusement, each with a tramway ticket for Lucerne in his hand and with sufficient money to pay our expenses until the morrow. We are to go to Lucerne because there there is a demand for comparatively unskilled labour in carving wood, which seems to us a sort of work within our range and a sort that will not compel our separation. Section 6 The old Utopias are sessile organisations; the new must square itself to the needs of a migratory population, to an endless coming and going, to a people as fluid and tidal as the sea. It does not enter into the scheme of earthly statesmanship, but indeed all local establishments, all definitions of place, are even now melting under our eyes. Presently all the world will be awash with anonymous stranger men. Now the simple laws of custom, the homely methods of identification that served in the little communities of the past when everyone knew everyone, fail in the face of this liquefaction. If the modern Utopia is indeed to be a world of responsible citizens, it must have devised some scheme by which every person in the world can be promptly and certainly recognised, and by which anyone missing can be traced and found.