“What are those clothes made of?”
“Asbestos,” answered the man. “They last hundreds of years. We have one
suit each, and there are billions of them piled up, if anybody wants a
new one.”
“Thank you,” I answered. “Now tell me where I am?”
“You are in a museum. The figures in the cases are specimens like
yourself. But here,” he said, “if you want really to find out about
what is evidently a new epoch to you, get off your platform and come
out on Broadway and sit on a bench.”