ional police needed no treaties
of extradition. The New York embezzler who fled to Nairobi was sent back
as a matter of course without delay.

Any man was free to go and live where he chose, to manufacture, buy, and
sell as he saw fit. And, because the fear and shadow of war were
removed, the nations grew rich beyond the imagination of men; great
hospitals and research laboratories, universities, schools, and
kindergartens, opera houses, theatres, and gardens of every sort sprang
up everywhere, paid for no one quite knew how. The nations ceased to
build dreadnoughts, and instead used the money to send great troops of
children with the teachers travelling over the world. It was against the
law to own or manufacture any weapon that could be used to take human
life. And because the nations had nothing to fear from one another, and
because there were no scheming diplomatists and bureaucrats to make a
living out of imaginary antagonisms, people forgot that they were French
or German or Russian or English, just as the people of the United States
of America had long before practically disregarded the fact that they
came from Ohio or Oregon or Connecticut or Nevada. Russians with weak
throats went to live in Italy as a matter of course, and Spaniards who
liked German cooking settled in Muenich.

All this, of course, did not happen at once, but came about quite
naturally after the abolition of war. And after it had been done,
everybody wondered why it had not been done ten centuries before; and
people became so interested in destroying all the relics of that
despicable employment, warfare, that they almost forgot that the Man Who
Rocked the Earth had threatened that he would shift the axis of the
globe. So that when the day fixed by him came and everything remained
just as it always had been--and everybody still wore linen-mesh
underwear in Strassburg and flannels in Archangel--nobody thought very
much about it, or commented on the fact that the Flying Ring was no
longer to be seen. And the only real difference was that you could take
a P. & O. steamer at Marseilles and buy a through ticket to Tasili
Ahaggar--if you wanted to go there--and that the shores of the Sahara
became the Riviera of the world, crowded with health resorts and
watering-places--so that Pax had not lived in vain, nor Thornton, nor
Bill Hood, nor Bennie Hooker, nor any of them.

The whole thing is a matter of record, as it should be. The
deliberations of C