The Futurological Congress: From the Memoirs of Ijon Tichy Read online

  "What are they?"

  "The dehallucinides? A new series. They create the illusion that there is no illusion. At the present they're given only to the mentally ill, but the number of people who suspect the authenticity of their surroundings is growing in leaps and bounds. The amnestives can do nothing against sursurmises or doubledoubts. For these are secondary fantasies, in other words twice removed. You don't understand? Well, say someone imagines that he is only imagining that he doesn't imagine—or the other way around. A typical problem for modern psychiatry, what they call multistage paranoia. But the most ominous are the new mascons. You see, all these drugs, they take their toll on the organism. People's hair starts falling out, ears grow horny, chitinous, and tails begin to disappear again…"

  "Appear again, you meant to say."

  "No, disappear. Everyone has a tail, for thirty years now. That was the result of orthographine. The price we had to pay for learning so quickly how to write."

  "Nonsense—I was at the beach, Professor, and nobody has a tail!"

  "Don't be a child. The tails are masked, of course, with anticaudalis, which in turn causes discoloration of the nails and teeth."

  "Which is also masked?"

  "Naturally. Mascons operate in milligram amounts, but all told an average person absorbs about one hundred and ninety kilograms in the course of a year, which is easy to understand, when you consider that it's necessary to simulate furniture, furnishings, food, drink, obedience from one's children, courtesy from officials, scientific discoveries, ownership of Rembrandts and scissors, ocean voyages, space flights, and a million other things. Were it not for the confidentiality practiced by the medical profession, it would be known that every second inhabitant of New York is spotted, has greenish bristles growing down his back, thorns on his ears, flat feet, and emphysema with an enlarged heart from constantly galloping about. All this must be concealed, and that is precisely the function of the supermascons."

  "Nightmarish! Is there no hope?"

  "Our congress will entertain alternative hencities. The experts are all saying that a radical change is imperative. At this moment we have before us eighteen proposals."

  "To save the world?"

  "You might put it that way. But why don't you take a seat and give these materials a lick? And also, well, I have a favor to ask of you. It's a delicate matter."

  "I'll do what I can."

  "I was counting on that. You see, I've received from a colleague of mine, a chemist, samples of two newly synthesized vigilax derivatives—up'n'at'mizers. They arrived in the morning mail, with this letter." Trottelreiner showed me the letter on his desk. "He says that my restorative, the one you've just been using, is not the genuine article. He writes, and I quote, 'The Federal Bureau of Suggestion, Division of Psychemeering (that's Psychemengineering), in order to divert the attention of the soothseers from many critical phenomena, is deliberately and maliciously supplying them with false counterhallucinatory agents containing neomascons.'"

  "It doesn't make sense. The drug you gave me works, I experienced its effects myself. And anyway, what is a soothseer?"

  "A position of high social standing, which a few—including myself—have the honor and privilege to hold. Soothseeing is the right to take vigilanimides—for the purpose of determining how things are in reality. For someone has to know. That's obvious, I think?"

  "Yes."

  "And as for the drug, my friend's guess is that it does indeed cancel out the influence of mascons of earlier vintage, mascons introduced some time ago, but doesn't stop them all—particularly not the most recent. In which case this"—the Professor held up the flask—"would be no restorative at all, but a most treacherously devised mascon, a counterfeit countermeasure, a double reagent, or in other words a wolf in sheep's clothing!"

  "But why? If it's necessary for someone to know…"

  "Necessary for the general welfare, for society, for all mankind, but not from the point of view of the special interests of certain politicians, corporations, even departments of the government. If things are worse than we, the sooth-seers, suspect, then they don't want us sounding the alarm, and thus this drug is made available. Much like the old trick where one would set up easily discovered hiding places for a thief—in the hopes that he'd be satisfied with his first find and not seek out the real, far more cleverly concealed treasure!

  "Yes, I think I understand. But just what do you want of me?"

  "While you're acquainting yourself with these materials, take a sniff from the first vial, here, then a sniff from the second. Frankly, I haven't the courage."

  "Is that all? Hand them over, then."

  I took both glass tubes from the Professor, pulled up a chair and began to familiarize myself, one by one, with the abstracts of the papers submitted to the futurological congress. The first proposal envisaged a complete restructuring of attitudes, to be brought about by the introduction into the atmosphere of a thousand tons of reversol, which would effect a full 180-degree change in everyone's feelings. In the first phase, after the dispersion of the drug, comfort, abundance, delicious food, esthetic objects, elegance—all such things would overnight become despised, while crowding, poverty, ugliness and deprivation would be valued above all else. In the second phase the mascons and superneomascons would be totally removed or neutralized. Only now would the people, confronted with reality for the first time in their lives, find happiness, for they would have before them everything their hearts desired. One might even activate the exacerbands to worsen living conditions a little. But since reversol makes no exceptions in its inverting effect, erotic pleasures too would be rendered loathsome, and that would threaten mankind with extinction. Therefore once a year for 24 hours the drug's influence would be temporarily suspended by an appropriate antidote. On that day we would undoubtedly have a sharp rise in the number of suicides, yet this would be more than compensated for by the simultaneously initiated increase in the birth rate.

  I can't say the plan aroused my enthusiasm. The only commendable point in it was the one which said that the originator of this proposal, as a member of the soothseer class, should himself take the antidote on a permanent basis, so that neither the ubiquitous misery nor the ugliness, neither the mire nor the tedium of life could afford him any particular delight. The second proposal provided for the dissolving of 10,000 tons of retrotemporox in the waters of the rivers and oceans. This drug reverses the flow of subjective time. Life would thus unfold in the following fashion: people would come into the world as doddering old men and take their leave of it as newborn infants. In this way, the author argued, we would be removing the main drawback in the human condition, which is for every man the prospect of inevitable aging and death. With the passage of time, then, each senior citizen grows younger and younger, gaining in strength and vigor. Upon retirement—being underage for work—he enters the blessed realm of childhood. The humaneness of the proposal derived from that natural ignorance of the mortality of all living things which is characteristic of the very young. Of course in actual fact—since this turning back of time was purely subjective—we would not be leading babies to the kindergartens, nurseries and delivery rooms, but old men. The author wasn't too clear on what ought to be done with them after that, but only observed in a general way that they might be given suitable therapy at the national euthanasium. Reading this raised the first proposal considerably in my estimation.

  The third proposal was long-range and far more drastic. It advocated ectogenesis, prostheticism and universal transception. Of man only the brain would remain, beautifully encased in duraplast: a globe equipped with sockets, plugs and clasps. And powered by atomic battery—so the ingestion of nutriments, now physically superfluous, would take place only through illusion, programmed accordingly. The brain case could be connected to any number of appendages, apparatuses, machines, vehicles, etc. This prostheticization process would be spread out over two decades, with partial replacements mandatory for the first ten years, l
eaving all unnecessary organs at home; for example, when going to the theater one would detach one's fornication and defecation modules and hang them in the closet. Then, in the next ten years, transcepting would do away with crowds and congestion, the consequence of overpopulation. Channels of inter-brain communication, whether by cable or radio, would make pointless all gatherings and get-togethers, excursions and journeys to attend conferences, and therefore all personal locomotion to whatever location, for every living being could avail itself of sensors and scanners situated over the whole expanse of human habitation, even to the farthermost planets. Mass production would keep the market supplied with custom-made internal components and accessories, including braintracks for home railways, that would enable the heads themselves to roll from room to room, an innocent diversion. At this point I stopped and remarked that the authors of these papers were surely deranged. Trottelreiner replied coldly that I was a bit hasty in my judgments. We made our bed and now we must lie in it. Anyhow, the criterion of common sense was never applicable to the history of the human race. Averroës, Kant, Socrates, Newton, Voltaire, could any of them have believed it possible that in the twentieth century the scourge of cities, the poisoner of lungs, the mass murderer and idol of millions would be a metal receptacle on wheels, and that people would actually prefer being crushed to death inside it during frantic weekend exoduses instead of staying, safe and sound, at home? I asked him which of the proposals he intended to support.

  "I haven't yet decided," he said. "The gravest problem, in my opinion, is the increase in underground natalities—you know, unlicensed births. And besides that, I'm afraid there may be some psychem tampering in the course of the deliberations."

  "How do you mean?"

  "A proposal could be passed with the help of a gullibloon or two."

  "You think they'd actually try such a thing?"

  "Why not? What could be easier than pumping gas into our conference hall through the air conditioning?"

  "But whatever the congress endorses doesn't have to be accepted by the public. The people won't take everything lying down."

  "Come now, Tichy. For half a century civilization hasn't been left to its own devices. A hundred years ago a certain Dior was dictating fashions in clothing. Today this sort of regulating has embraced all walks of life. If prostheticism is voted in, I assure you, in a couple of years everyone will consider the possession of a soft, hairy, sweating body to be shameful and indecent. A body needs washing, deodorizing, caring for, and even then it breaks down, while in a prostheticized society you can snap on the loveliest creations of modern engineering. What woman doesn't want to have silver iodide instead of eyes, telescopic breasts, angel's wings, iridescent legs, and feet that sing with every step?"

  "Listen," I said, "let's run away. We can get a supply of oxygen, provisions, and hole up somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Remember the sewers of the Hilton? It wasn't all that bad there, was it?"

  "You're not serious?" began the Professor, as if hesitating.

  By sheer accident I happened to raise the vial to my nose—I had completely forgotten that I was still holding it. Tears welled up from the acrid smell. I sneezed, and sneezed again, and when I opened my eyes the room had changed. The Professor was still speaking, I could hear his voice but, fascinated by the transformation, no longer listened to the words. The walls were now all covered with grime; the blue sky had taken on a brownish tinge; some of the windowpanes were missing, and the rest had a coat of greasy soot, streaked with gray from previous rains.

  I don't know why, but it was particularly upsetting to see that the Professor's handsome briefcase, the one in which he'd brought the conference materials, had turned into a moldy old satchel. I grew numb. I was afraid to look at him. I peeked under the desk. Instead of his appliquéd trousers and professorial spats there were two casually crossed artificial legs. Between the wire tendons of the feet bits of gravel were lodged, and mud from the street. The steel pin of the heel gleamed, worn smooth with use. I groaned.

  "What is it, a headache? Want an aspirin?" came the sympathetic voice. I gritted my teeth and looked up.

  Not much was left of the face. Stuck to his sunken cheeks were the rotting shreds of a bandage that hadn't been changed in ages. And evidently he still wore glasses, though one of the lenses was cracked. In his neck, in the opening of a tracheotomy, a vocoder had been inserted—carelessly enough—and it bobbed up and down as he talked. A jacket hung in mildewed tatters on the rack that was his chest, and beneath the left lapel there was a gaping hole lidded with a cloudy plastic window. Inside, a heart, held together with clamps and staples, beat in blue-black spasms. I didn't see a left hand; the right, clutching a pencil, was fashioned out of brass and green with verdigris. Sewn to his collar—a crooked label, on which someone had scribbled in red ink: "Barbr 119-859-21 transpl. /5 rejec." I stared, eyes popping, while the Professor, taking on my horror like a mirror, suddenly froze behind his desk.

  "I… I've changed, haven't I?" he croaked.

  The next thing I knew, I was struggling with the doorknob.

  "Tichy! What are you doing? Come back! Tichy!!" he cried in despair, struggling to stand up. The door swung open, but just then I heard an awful clatter. Professor Trottelreiner, losing his balance from an overly violent movement, had toppled over and fallen apart on the floor, hooks and hinges snapping like bones. I carried away with me the image of his helpless kicking, the flailing iron stumps that sent chips of wood flying, the dark sack of the heart pounding desperately behind the scratched plastic. Down the corridor I ran, as if driven by a hundred Furies.

  The building swarmed with people, I had hit on the lunch hour. Out of the offices came clerks and secretaries, chatting as they headed for the elevators. I elbowed my way through the crowd towards one of the open doors, but apparently the elevator car hadn't yet arrived; looking into the empty shaft, I immediately understood why panting was so common a phenomenon. The end of the cable, long since disconnected, was hanging loose, and the people were clambering, agile as monkeys, up the vertical cage that enclosed the shaft—they must have had a lot of practice. Crawling up to the snack bar on the roof, they conversed cheerfully despite the sweat dripping from their brows. I backed off slowly, then ran down the stairway that spiraled around the shaft with the climbers patiently scaling its sides. A few flights lower I slowed down. They were still pouring out of all the doors. Nothing but offices here, evidently. At the end of the hall shone an open window, looking out on the street. I stopped by it, pretending to straighten my tie, and peered down. At first it seemed to me that there wasn't a living soul in that crowd on the sidewalk, but I simply hadn't recognized the pedestrians. The general splendor had disappeared without a trace. They walked separately, in pairs, clothed in rags—patches, holes—many with bandages and plasters, some in only their underwear, which enabled me to verify that they were indeed spotted and had bristles, mainly on their backs. A few had evidently been released from the hospital to attend to some urgent business; amputees and paraplegics rolled along on boards with little wheels, talking and laughing loudly. I saw women with drooping elephant flaps for ears, men with horns on their heads, old newspapers, clumps of straw or burlap bags carried with the utmost elegance and aplomb. Those who were healthier and in better condition raced on the road, cantering, prancing, kicking up their feet as if changing gears. Robots predominated in the crowd, wielding atomizers, dosimeters, spray guns, sprinklers. Their job was to see that everyone got his share of aerosol. Nor did they limit themselves to that: behind one young couple, arms around each other—hers were covered with scales, his with boils—there plodded an old clonker, methodically beating the lovers over the head with a watering can. Their teeth rattled, but they were perfectly oblivious. Was it doing this on purpose? I could no longer think. Gripping the window sill, I stared at the scene in the street, its bustle, its rush, its industry, as if I were the only witness, the only pair of eyes. The only? No, the cruelty of this spectacle deman
ded at least another observer, its creator, the one who, without intervening in that grim panorama, would give it meaning; a patron, an impresario of decay, therefore a ghoul—but someone. A tiny juggermugger, cavorting around the legs of a spry old lady, repeatedly undercut her knees, and she fell flat on her face, got up, walked on, was tripped again, and so they went, it mechanically persistent, she energetic and determined, until they were out of sight. Many of the robots hovered over the people, peering into their mouths, possibly to check the effect of the sprays, though it didn't exactly look that way. On the corner stood a bunch of robots, loiterants, dejects; out of some side alley came shifts of drudgers, kludgers, meniacs and manikoids; an enormous trashmaster rumbled along the curb, lifting up on the claws of its shovel whatever lay in the way, tossing—together with junkets and selfaborts—an old woman into its disposal bin. I bit my knuckles, forgetting that that hand held the other vial, the second vial, and my throat was seared with fire. Everything wavered, a bright fog descended across my eyes like a blindfold, which an unseen hand then slowly began to lift. I looked, petrified, at the transformation taking place, realizing in a sudden shudder of premonition that now reality was sloughing off yet another layer—clearly, its falsification had begun so very long ago, that even the most powerful antidote could do no more than tear away successive veils, reaching the veils beneath but not the truth. It grew brighter—white. Snow lay on the pavement, frozen solid, trampled down by hundreds of feet; the street presented a bleak and colorless scene; the shops, the signs had vanished, and instead of glass in the windows—rotting boards, crossed and nailed together. Winter reigned between the dingy, discolored buildings, long icicles hung from the lintels, lamps; in the sharp air there was a sour smell, and a bluish gray haze, like the sky above. Mounds of dirty snow along the walls, garbage heaped in the gutters; here and there a shapeless bundle, a dark clump of rags kicked to the side by the constant stream of pedestrian traffic, or shoved between rusty trashcans, tins, boxes, frozen sawdust. Snow wasn't falling at the moment, but one could see that it had fallen recently, and would again. Then all at once I knew what was missing: the robots. There wasn't a single robot on the street—not one! Their snow-covered bodies lay sprawled in doorways, lifeless iron hulks in the company of human refuse, scraps of clothing, with an occasional bone showing underneath, yellow, sheathed with ice. One ragamuffin sat atop a pile of snow, settling down for the night as if in a feather bed; I saw the contentment on his face; he felt right at home, apparently, made himself comfortable, stretched his legs, wriggled his naked toes into the snow. So that was that chill, that strange invigoration which came over one from time to time, even in the middle of the street, at noon, with the sun shining—he was already snoring peacefully—so that was the reason. The throngs of people passing by ignored him, they were occupied with themselves—some were spraying others. It was easy to tell from their manner who thought himself a human, and who a robot. So the robots too were only a fiction? And what was winter doing here in the middle of summer? Unless the whole calendar was a hoax. But why? Sleeping in snow to lower the birth rate? Whichever, someone had carefully planned it all and I wasn't about to give up the ghost before I tracked him down. I lifted my eyes to the skyscrapers, their pock-marked sides and rows of broken windows. It was quiet behind me: lunch was over. The street—the street was all that was left to me now, my new-found sight would be to no advantage there, I would be swallowed up in that crowd, and I needed someone; alone, I'd hide for a time like a rat—that was the most I could do—no longer safely inside the illusion, but shipwrecked in reality. Horrified, despairing, I backed away from the window, chilled to the bone, unprotected now by the lie of a temperate climate. I didn't know myself where I was going, trying to make as little noise as possible; yes, I was already concealing my presence—crouching, skulking, furtively glancing over my shoulder, halting, listening—a creature of reflex, making no decisions, though I was certain that the fact that I could see was plainly written on my face and I would have to pay for it. I went down the corridor, it was either the sixth or fifth floor, I couldn't go back to Trottelreiner—he needed help, but I had none to give him—I was thinking feverishly about several things at once, but mainly about whether or not the drug would wear off and I would find myself back in Paradise. Strange, but the prospect filled me with nothing but fear and loathing, as if I would have rather shivered in some garbage dump—with the knowledge that that was what it was—than owed my deliverance to apparitions. My way down a side passage was blocked by an old man; too feeble to walk, he gave an imitation of it with his trembling legs, and managed a smile of greeting even as he breathed his last, the death rattle already in his throat. So I went another way—till I reached the frosted glass of some office. Complete silence inside. I entered through the swinging door and saw a hall with rows of typewriters—empty. At the other end, another door, half-open. I could see into the large, bright room, and began to retreat, for someone was there, but a familiar voice rang out: