As Easy as A.B.C

(1912)

_The A.B.C., that semi-elected, semi-nominated body of a few score
persons, controls the Planet. Transportation is Civilisation, our motto
runs. Theoretically we do what we please, so long as we do not interfere
with the traffic_ and all it implies. _Practically, the A.B.C. confirms
or annuls all international arrangements, and, to judge from its last
report, finds our tolerant, humorous, lazy little Planet only too ready
to shift the whole burden of public administration on its shoulders_.

'With the Night Mail[1].'

[Footnote 1: _Actions and Reactions_.]

Isn't it almost time that our Planet took some interest in the
proceedings of the Aërial Board of Control? One knows that easy
communications nowadays, and lack of privacy in the past, have killed
all curiosity among mankind, but as the Board's Official Reporter I am
bound to tell my tale.

At 9.30 A.M., August 26, A.D. 2065, the Board, sitting in London, was
informed by De Forest that the District of Northern Illinois had
riotously cut itself out of all systems and would remain disconnected
till the Board should take over and administer it direct.

Every Northern Illinois freight and passenger tower was, he reported,
out of action; all District main, local, and guiding lights had been
extinguished; all General Communications were dumb, and through traffic
had been diverted. No reason had been given, but he gathered
unofficially from the Mayor of Chicago that the District complained of
'crowd-making and invasion of privacy.'

As a matter of fact, it is of no importance whether Northern Illinois
stay in or out of planetary circuit; as a matter of policy, any
complaint of invasion of privacy needs immediate investigation, lest
worse follow.

By 9-45 A.M. De Forest, Dragomiroff (Russia), Takahira (Japan), and
Pirolo (Italy) were empowered to visit Illinois and 'to take such steps
as might be necessary for the resumption of traffic and _all that that
implies.'_ By 10 A.M. the Hall was empty, and the four Members and I
were aboard what Pirolo insisted on calling 'my leetle godchild'--that
is to say, the new _Victor Pirolo_. Our Planet prefers to know Victor
Pirolo as a gentle, grey-haired enthusiast who spends his time near
Foggia, inventing or creating new breeds of Spanish-Italian olive-trees;
but there is another side to his nature--the manufacture of quaint
inventions, of which the _Victor Pirolo_ is, perhaps, not the least
surprising. She and a few score sister-craft of the same type embody his
latest ideas. But she is not comfortable. An A.B.C. boat does not take
the air with the level-keeled lift of a liner, but shoots up
rocket-fashion like the 'aeroplane' of our ancestors, and makes her