Peace on Earth it-5 Page 18

  “It would probably be a lie, since you said before that the verdict has already been delivered…”

  “That’s how it looks. But I am not omniscient. In any case they can’t use force on you.”

  “But Shapiro said…”

  “The attempted abductions? But they were arranged, Tichy, in such a way that you would not lose your life. Because if you did, no one would have anything.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Different parties and for different purposes. First, to have you. Later, when such efforts were foiled, to frighten you a little, push you, soften you up, so you would run into the welcoming arms of Shapiro.”

  “Wait, are you saying that the Agency itself… that the later attacks were staged?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Suppose that nevertheless I let them examine me. What would happen?”

  “Bridge or poker.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The game, the bidding. One can foresee the beginning but not what follows. It’s clear that on the moon things didn’t happen as they were supposed to. We’re left with the question: Is or is not Earth in danger? So far everything suggests there is no danger and will be none for the next few hundred years, being very conservative. Perhaps for the next few thousand years or even million. But politics cannot think in such distant terms. We can sleep peacefully till the year three thousand. But many do not want to sleep peacefully. Many need a harmless moon.”

  “To do what?”

  “To make sure no nation has an arsenal left there, or anything else. That the whole lunar project is defunct, the Geneva Agreement meaningless, and we all have to go back to Clausewitz.”

  “So either way it ends badly? If there’s a true threat of invasion, we have to arm ourselves against the moon, and if there’s not, we return to the old way, the Earth way, is that it?”

  “That’s it. You grasp the situation.”

  “A nice situation. And the secret hidden in my head isn’t worth a plugged nickel…”

  “You’re wrong there. Depending on what result they announce from the examination of your person, different scenarios can be set up.”

  “Scenarios?”

  “According to our computer simulation there are at least twenty. Not from the real result, of course, but from what they announce as the result.”

  “You don’t know what that is?”

  “No, because they themselves don’t know yet. Even Shapiro’s group is divided. You have to understand, Tichy, the lie they announce will not be a hundred-percent. They could do that only if they were an absolutely solid, sure conspiracy of professional crooks. Which they’re not. They can’t even rule out the possibility that you, although not learning anything from the examination about the contents of your right brain, will nevertheless join the poker game.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t be naive. What’s to stop you from writing afterward to the New York Times or the Züricher, or wherever you like, and saying that they added, doctored, falsified things? Think of the uproar! Experts would come forward to defend you, to ask for new and better controlled tests. It would be a royal mess.”

  “If you see this all so clearly, why don’t Shapiro’s men?”

  “But what else can they do other than persuade you to submit to an examination? We are all, despite our different roles, prisoners of the situation.”

  “They could kill me.”

  “No good. Even if you killed yourself, the suspicion that you were murdered would travel around the world.”

  “I can’t believe it’s impossible to repeat what I did on the moon. Shapiro said that they tried and nothing came of it, but surely new scouts could be sent.”

  “True, but that too is a labyrinth. You are surprised? Tichy, there is not much time left. We have a stalemate on the global board, with no moves to ensure peace, only different kinds of risk.”

  “And what do you advise me as my guardian angel?”

  “To take no one’s advice, mine included. I too represent certain interests, I’m not hiding it, it was neither God nor Providence that sent me to you, only a group that doesn’t want the arms race started again.”

  “And what does this group wish me to do?”

  “Nothing at the moment. Nothing at all. Stay here. Don’t telephone Shapiro. Keep in touch with crazy old Kramer during the next two weeks, or it might be only days, and we’ll see what develops.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “You shouldn’t, as I said. I’ve given you the general picture, that is all. The main transformer was disconnected for about an hour, and now I’ll take my electronic toys and go to bed, because I’m a millionaire suffering from depression, aren’t I? See you later, Jonathan.”

  “Good night, Adelaide,” I said.

  Kramer crawled to the door, pushed it open, and I thought I saw someone standing in the hall who gave him a sign. Kramer got to his feet, went out, and shut the door quietly behind him. I sat there, my legs pins and needles, until the lights went back on.

  Turning them off, I got into bed. Where Kramer had been sitting lay an object like a flattened ring. I picked it up. There was a rolled piece of paper stuck inside. I unrolled it. “Just in case,” said the hasty scrawl. I tried putting the ring on my finger. It was gray, a dull metal, strangely heavy, maybe lead? On one side it had a hump like a lima bean with a pinhole through it. The ring fit only on my little finger. For some reason it troubled me more than both my visitors. What was it for? I tried scratching a windowpane with it. It left no mark on the glass. I licked it. Salty. To keep the ring on or not? I decided to keep it on. I looked at my watch. It was after midnight but I wasn’t sleepy. I didn’t even know what to worry about first. Perhaps the fact that my left arm and leg had been so well behaved, because their passivity, it seemed to me as I grew drowsy, might be a trap, a trap this time from within. I lay half-awake, or else half-asleep, I didn’t know which, and puzzled over this for a long time, until it grew light. Dawn, I thought, therefore I must have managed to sleep a few hours after all, except that the light wasn’t coming from the curtained window, it was coming from under the door.

  The light was curiously strong, as if someone were directing a spotlight at the threshold of my room. I sat up. Something was flowing in across the floor, not water, more like mercury. It rolled in tiny balls, came together in a wide puddle that gathered around the small rug before my bed, and in the light from under the door came other rivulets of that strange metallic liquid. Now almost the whole floor gleamed like a mercury mirror. I switched on the table lamp. The stuff wasn’t mercury, it had more the color of tarnished silver. There was so much of it now that the rug floated, then the light behind the door went out. I sat and watched wide-eyed. The syrupy liquid separated into drops and the drops clumped together to form a mushroom shape that swelled like leavened dough and stiffened and lifted. This had to be a dream, I told myself, and yet I didn’t dare let my bare feet touch the “quicksilver,” which was indeed a metaphor come true, for quick meant living and this moved like a thing alive, though not animal or vegetable. The monster changed into a cocoon, a shell, armor that was more and more humanoid, though full of holes, especially the gaping slit in front. When I tried recreating that metamorphosis in my memory, which was much later, the best comparison I could think of was watching a film run in reverse: as if someone had built a weird weapon and then subjected it to high temperature so it would melt, except that what took place before my eyes was all backward, first the liquid, then the hollowed-out body rising from it. The figure lost its sheen now and resembled a large store-window mannequin with a hairless head and face without mouth or nose though two round holes could serve as eyes. Then it turned into a woman, or not a woman but the statue of a woman, empty inside and open like a cupboard, and this statue began to extrude its own clothes, first white underwear then over that a light-green dress.

  Convinced now I was asleep and dreaming, I got out of be
d and approached the apparition. The green dress turned white like a hospital gown and the face grew more defined. On the head a white nurse’s cap with a red silk ribbon appeared over blond hair. Enough, I thought, time to wake up, this dream is too stupid — but I hadn’t the courage to touch the thing. Looking around, I saw my whole room in the light of the lamp, the desk, the curtain, the chairs. I stood undecided, then turned again to the phantom. She looked a lot like Didi, a nurse I had seen often in the garden or Dr. House’s office, though was much larger and taller. She said: “Get in me, you’ll leave here, take the doctor’s Toyota, you can drive out because the gate is open. Get dressed and take money, you’ll buy a ticket and fly straight to Tarantoga. Don’t stand there like a moron, no one will stop you as a nurse…”

  “But Didi is smaller than you…” I stammered, surprised not only by her words but also by the fact that she was speaking although not with her mouth. The voice came from the body which together with the white coat opened so wide, I could actually step inside. But should I, that was the question. Suddenly I was thinking very clearly: it didn’t have to be a dream because of the technology of molecular teleferics which I had used myself. But if it was real, might it not be a trap?

  “Size doesn’t matter at night. Come on, get moving! Dress, and take your checkbook,” she said.

  “But why should I leave and who are you anyway?” I asked, but started dressing at the same time, not because I really intended to participate in this unexpected escapade, it’s just that one feels more confident when clothed.

  “I am not a person — you can see that,” she replied. The voice was a woman’s, however, low, warm, a little husky, I knew it from somewhere. I was sitting on the edge of the bed tying my shoes.

  “So who sent you, Mrs. Nonperson?” I asked, looking up, and the next thing I knew, she had fallen upon me, that is, engulfed me, wrapped me not in her arms but in her whole body, and this happened so quickly that one moment I was sitting in my sweater and no tie, thinking I’d tied the left shoe too tight, and the next moment I was pulled inside and surrounded as if I’d been swallowed by a python. I can’t describe it better because nothing like that had ever happened to me before. It was soft inside, and I saw the room through the eye openings, but I couldn’t move, that is I could but only as she wanted to, she or it, though of course somebody was operating this remote for the purpose of taking me to where they were waiting impatiently for Ijon Tichy. I fought the monster with all my strength but to no avail. My limbs moved not as I wanted them to but against my will, my hand opening the door, turning the knob, even though I resisted every inch of the way. The hall was dim, lit with green night-lights, and there was not a soul about. I hadn’t time to wonder who was behind this, because the who-less thing that had swallowed me, a veritable Frankenstein suit, was walking steadily, unhurriedly, then I remembered the ring from Kramer, but how could it help me? Even if I knew I was supposed to bite it or turn it on my finger as in a fairy tale to make the genie appear, I couldn’t have done anything.

  The front door of the pavilion loomed ahead, swinging doors, and my captive hand pushed them open. In the shadow of an old palm tree was the black shape of a car, rivers of distant light on its body. One of its rear doors opened but there was no one inside, at least I couldn’t see anyone.

  I got in or rather was got in, still pulling back for all I was worth, until I realized my mistake. I shouldn’t pull back — that was what the operator of the remote expected. I should go instead in the direction imposed on me, but in such a way as to achieve my own ends. Bent over in the doorway of the car, I hurled myself forward, hit my head against something, passed out, and opened my eyes.

  I was lying on the floor beside my bed. The curtains were gray with dawn. I raised my hand to my eyes and saw no ring. Was it a dream after all? But at what point did it begin? Kramer had definitely been here. I went to the closet where he had stood and yes, my clothes were all pushed to one side. Something white lay on the floor of the closet, a letter. I picked it up — no address — and tore open the envelope. Inside was a sheet of paper that had typewritten words, no date, no letterhead. I checked to see if the door was locked, turned on the lamp, not wanting to open the curtains, and read:

  If you’ve had a dream about being abducted or tortured and it was vivid and in color, that means you’ve been subjected to a test, given a drug. They may be examining your reaction to certain substances. We aren’t sure about this. The only one you can turn to besides me is your doctor.

  — Slug Eater

  Slug Eater. So the letter was from Kramer. He could be telling the truth or lying. I tried to remember as precisely as possible what Shapiro had said and what Kramer had said. According to both, the lunar mission had failed. But on other things they parted company. The professor wanted me to be examined, Kramer wanted me to wait. The professor represented the Lunar Agency, or at least that’s what he claimed, while Kramer didn’t say anything about who stood behind him. But why hadn’t he warned me about the possibility of drugs, leaving only this letter? Could there be another player in this game? Both spoke at length, yet I still hadn’t been told why what my right brain held was so important. And why hadn’t that poor, practically mute half of my head shown any sign of life since — when was it? — yesterday? Did I swallow something which put it to sleep? Let’s suppose. But for what reason? It seemed to me that all these hunters of Tichy didn’t really know what to do and were playing for time. In which game I was a wild card, maybe a high trump, maybe nothing, and each was preventing the others from finding out. Had they put my right hemisphere to sleep so I couldn’t communicate with myself? This at least I could verify immediately. I took my left hand in my right and addressed it in the way I had developed.

  “What’s new?” I asked with my fingers.

  The little finger and the thumb of the left hand twitched, but weakly.

  “Hello, are you there?” I signaled.

  My ring finger and my thumb made a circle that meant “Hello.”

  “So how are you doing?”

  “Get lost.”

  “Tell me how you feel. Look, we have a common interest.”

  “My head hurts.”

  And at that moment I felt that my head hurt too. I had read enough in the neurological literature by now to know that emotionally I was not halved but whole, because the seat of the emotions is in the midbrain, which was not touched by the callotomy.

  “The same head hurts both of us. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Don’t.”

  I was in a sweat from this silent exchange but decided, come what may, not to let go. I would learn something if it killed me. Then I had an inspiration. The sign language of the deaf required a lot of work and dexterity. But I knew Morse code, had known it since childhood. So I made my left hand flat and with the forefinger of my right began to draw dots and dashes. The left hand submitted to this for a while, but suddenly it clenched into a fist and punched me hard. “Isn’t working,” I thought, but then the hand extended a finger and began marking dots and dashes on my right cheek. Yes, son of a gun, it was answering in Morse code.

  “Don’t tickle or you’ll get it.”

  This was the first English sentence I had received, albeit only by touch, from It. I sat perfectly still on the edge of my bed, because the hand was continuing.

  “Jackass.”

  “Me?”

  “You. You should have done that to begin with.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “A hundred times, jerk. You didn’t notice.”

  It dawned on me now, yes, that the left hand had been tapping at me quite a bit, but it never entered my head (my side of my head) that this was in Morse.

  “Amazing,” I tapped back, on the hand. “Then you can speak?”

  “Better than you.”

  “Then speak. You will save me, that is, save us.”

  I don’t know whethe
r it was I or It who got better at this, but our silent conversation went faster and faster.

  “What happened on the moon?”

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  This sudden turning of the tables floored me.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I know that you wrote it down. Then buried it in a jar. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you write the truth?”

  “Yes. What I could remember.”

  “And they dug it up. That first one.”

  “Shapiro?”

  “I don’t remember names. The one who looked at the moon.”

  “Do you understand spoken speech?”

  “Not well. It’s better in French.”

  Whatever that meant.

  “Only in Morse?”

  “Morse is best.”

  “So talk.”

  “You’ll write it down and they’ll steal it.”

  “I won’t, word of honor.”

  “Okay. You know some of it and I know some of it You go first.”

  “You didn’t read what I wrote?”

  “I can’t read.”

  “All right… The last thing I remember… I was trying to make contact with Wivitch after getting out of that underground ruin in the Japanese sector, but I couldn’t. Or if I did, I don’t remember. All I know is that later I landed myself. Sometimes I think maybe I wanted to retrieve something from the remote, which had got into something… or else it had discovered something… but I don’t know what, or even which remote it was. Probably not the molecular remote. I don’t know what happened to that.”

  “The powdered one?”

  “Yes. But… you must know,” I suggested carefully.

  “First tell yours to the end,” It answered. “Sometimes you think. And other times?”