Memoirs of a Space Traveler it-2 Read online

  “The constructor bowed and left in silence. Working arduously and aided by a troop of nimble assistants, he erected the Governing Machine — the very one you see on the horizon as a small dark spot, alien traveler. It is a conglomeration of iron cylinders in which something constantly shakes and burns. The day it was switched on was a great state holiday; the eldest Archspiritor blessed it solemnly, and the Plenum Moronicum gave it complete power over the country. Then the Voluntary Universalizer of Absolute Order emitted a long whistle and set to work.

  “For six days the Machine labored, around the clock; in the daytime clouds of smoke hung over it, and at night it was surrounded by a bright glow. The ground shook for a radius of one hundred and sixty miles. Then the double doors of its cylinders opened, and out spilled hosts of small black robots, which, waddling like ducks, scattered over the whole planet, even to its remotest corners. Wherever they went, they assembled by the factory warehouses and, speaking in a charming and lucid manner, requested various items, for which they paid at once. Within a week the warehouses were empty, and the Eminent factory owners sighed with relief: ‘Truly the constructor has built us a splendid machine!’ Indeed, it was marvelous to see the robots use the objects they had purchased: they dressed in brocades and satins, oiled their axles with cosmetics, smoked tobacco, read books — shedding synthetic tears over the sad ones; they even managed to consume the most varied delicacies (with no benefit to themselves, of course, since they ran on electricity, but to the great benefit of the manufacturers). It was only the masses who were not satisfied; on the contrary, they murmured more and more among themselves. The Eminents, however, hopefully awaited the Machine’s next move, which was not long in coming.

  “It assembled large quantities of marble, alabaster, granite, rock crystal, and copper; sacks of gold and silver, and slabs of jasper; after which, making a terrible din, it raised an edifice no Phoolian eye had ever beheld — this Rainbow Palace, traveler, which stands before you!”

  I looked. The sun had just emerged from behind a cloud and its beams played on the polished walls, splitting into flames of sapphire and ruby red; rainbow stripes shimmered around the angle towers and bastions; the roof, adorned with slender turrets and covered with gold leaf, was all aglow. I feasted my eye on this magnificence while the Phool went on:

  “News of the wondrous building spread over the whole planet. Veritable pilgrimages began arriving here from the most distant lands. When crowds had filled the commons, the Machine parted its metal lips and spoke thus:

  “‘On the first day of the month of Huskings I shall throw open the jasper portal of the Rainbow Palace, and then any Phool, be he famous or obscure, will be able to go inside and enjoy what awaits him there. Until then, restrain your curiosity, for you will satisfy it amply later on.’

  “And, verily, on the morning of the first day of Huskings there was a sounding of silver trumpets, and the palace portal opened with a dull groan. The crowds began to pour inside in a torrent three times wider than the highway that connects our two capitals, Debilia and Cretinia. All day long, masses of Phools streamed in, but their numbers on the commons did not diminish, for new ones arrived continually from the interior of the country. The Machine extended hospitality to all: the black robots distributed refreshing beverages and hearty food. This went on for a fortnight. Thousands, tens of thousands, finally millions of Phools had thronged into the Rainbow Palace, but of those who entered, not one returned.

  “Some wondered about this and asked where such great numbers of people were disappearing, but these solitary voices were drowned out by the blaring rhythm of marching bands. Robots scurried here and there feeding the hungry and thirsty; the silver clocks on the palace towers chimed; and when night fell, the crystal windows shone with many lights. Finally, as several hundred persons were patiently waiting their turn on the marble staircase, a shrill cry rang out over the lively beat of the drums; ‘Treachery! Listen! The palace is a diabolical trap! Run for your lives! All is lost!’

  “‘All is lost!” the crowd on the staircase cried back, then turned and scattered. No one tried to stop them.

  “The following night, several bold Drudgelings stole up to the palace. When they returned, they said that the back wall of the palace had opened slowly and innumerable piles of shiny disks had tumbled out. Black robots had carried the disks into the fields and arranged them in various designs.

  “Upon hearing this, the Spiritors and Eminents, who had been meeting in the Plenum (they had not gone to the palace, it being awkward for them to mingle with the crowd), convened immediately, and, wishing to solve the enigma, summoned the learned constructor. Instead his son appeared, downcast, and rolling a large, transparent disk.

  “The Eminents, beside themselves with impatience and indignation, reviled the absent scientist and called down curses on his head. They questioned the youth, ordered him to explain the mystery of the Rainbow Palace and tell them what the Machine had done with the Phools who entered it.

  “‘Besmirch not my father’s memory!’ the youth exclaimed. ‘In building the Machine he faithfully abided by your requirements; once he put it into operation, however, he knew no more than any of us how it would act — the best proof of which is the fact that he himself was among the first to enter the Rainbow Palace.’

  “‘And where is he now?’ the Plenum cried with one voice.

  “‘Here,’ the youth replied sorrowfully, pointing to the shiny disk. He glared at the elders and thus, stopped by no one, went his way, rolling his metamorphosed father before him.

  “The members of the Plenum trembled with both rage and fear; later, however, they came to the conclusion that the Machine would surely not harm them, so they sang the Phoolian anthem and, thus fortified in spirit, set out together from the city. Presently they found themselves before the iron monster.

  “‘Scoundrel!’ cried the eldest of the Eminents. ‘You have deceived us and violated our laws! Cease operating at once! What have you done with the Phoolian people entrusted to you? Speak!’

  “No sooner had he finished than the Machine stopped its gears. The smoke cleared in the sky and complete silence followed. Then the metal lips parted and a thunderous voice boomed out:

  “‘O Eminents and Spiritors! You who brought me into being to rule the Phools! I am distressed by the mental confusion and senselessness of your reproaches! First you demand that I establish order; then, when I set to work, you hinder my efforts! The palace has been empty for three days now; everything is at a standstill, and none of you have yet approached the jasper portal, thereby preventing the completion of my task. I assure you, however, that I shall not rest until it is completed!’

  “At these words the entire Plenum shuddered and cried:

  “‘What order do you speak of, villain? What have you done with our kith and kin in violation of national laws?!’

  “‘What an unintelligent question!’ answered the Machine. ‘What order do I speak of? Look at yourselves, how ill-constructed your bodies are; various limbs protrude from them; some of you are tall, others short, some fat, others thin… You move chaotically, you stop and gape at flowers, at clouds, you wander aimlessly in the woods — there is not the least harmony in that! I, the Voluntary Universalizer of Absolute Order, am transforming your frail, weak bodies into solid, beautiful, durable forms, from which I then arrange pleasing, symmetrical designs, and patterns of incomparable regularity, thereby bringing perfect order to the planet…’

  “‘Monster!!’ cried the Spiritors and Eminents. ‘How dare you destroy us?! You trample on our laws, you murder us!’

  “In reply the Machine rasped scornfully and said:

  “‘Did I not tell you that you cannot reason logically? Of course I respect your laws and freedoms. I am establishing order without coercion, without resorting to violence or constraint. No one entered the Rainbow Palace who did not wish to; but everyone who did enter I transformed (acting on my own initiative, let me repeat), reshaping the m
aterial of his body so that in its new form it will endure for ages. I guarantee it.’

  “For some time there was silence. Then, whispering among themselves, the Plenum concluded that the law really had not been broken and that things were not as bad as they had first seemed. ‘We,’ the Eminents said, ‘would never have committed such a crime. The Machine is to blame; it swallowed up multitudes of desperate Drudgelings. But now the surviving Eminents will be able to enjoy temporal peace together with the Spiritors, praising the inscrutable decrees of the Great Phoo. We shall keep far away from the Rainbow Palace,’ they told themselves, ‘and no harm will befall us.’

  “They were about to disperse when the Machine addressed them again:

  “‘Pay careful attention now to what I say. I must finish what I have begun. I will not compel, persuade, or urge you to do anything; I still leave you complete freedom of initiative. But if anyone wishes to see his neighbor, brother, friend, or other close associate achieve the level of Circular Harmony, let him summon the black robots; they will appear immediately and at his behest escort the designated individual to the Rainbow Palace. That is all.’

  “In the silence that followed, the Eminents looked at one another with sudden suspicion and fear. Archspiritor Nolab, in a wavering voice, explained to the Machine that it was gravely in error to wish to remake them all into shiny disks; this would come to pass if it were the Great Phoo’s will, but in order to know His will much time was needed. He proposed to the Machine, therefore, that it put off its decision for seventy years.

  “‘I cannot,’ replied the Machine, ‘for I have already worked out a precise plan of action for the period that follows the transformation of the last Phool; I assure you that I am preparing for the planet the most glorious fate — existence in harmony. This, I believe, would also befit the Phoo whom you mentioned but with whom I am otherwise unacquainted; could you not bring him also to the Rainbow Palace?’

  “It stopped, for the square was now deserted. The Eminents and Spiritors had run off to their homes, where each gave himself up to solitary reflection on his future. The more they reflected, the more apprehensive they grew, for each feared that some neighbor or acquaintance who nursed a grudge against him might summon the black robots. There was no recourse but to act first. Soon the quiet of the night was shattered by cries. Sticking their fear-contorted faces out of windows, the Eminents shouted desperately into the darkness, and the streets resounded with the many-footed tread of iron robots. Sons betrayed fathers; grandfathers, grandsons; brother sent brother to the palace; thus, in a single night, thousands of Eminents and Spiritors melted away to the handful you see before you, alien traveler. The dawn revealed fields strewn with myriads of shiny disks arranged in harmoniously geometric designs. The last trace, this, of our friends and relatives. At midday the Machine announced in a thunderous voice:

  “‘Enough. Be so good as to curb your eagerness, O Eminents and remaining Spiritors. I am closing the portal of the Rainbow Palace — but not, I promise you, for long. I have exhausted the designs prepared for the Universalization of Absolute Order, and must think awhile, so that I may create new ones. Then you will be able to continue acting of your own volition.’ “

  With these words the Phool looked at me wide-eyed and finished more quietly:

  “That was two days ago… Gathered here, we wait…”

  “O worthy Phool!” I cried, smoothing down my hair, which had stood on end. “Yours is a terrible and incredible story. But, pray, tell me, why you did not rise up against the mechanical monster that annihilated you, why did you let yourselves be forced…”

  The Phool jumped up. His whole figure expressed great rage.

  “Insult us not, traveler!” he exclaimed. “You speak hastily, so I forgive you… Ponder what I have told you, and you must reach the conclusion that the Machine is abiding by the principle of Civic Initiative, and, though this may seem a little strange, it has done the Phoolian people a valuable service, for there can be no injustice where the law upholds liberty. And what man would prefer the diminution of his freedom to…”

  He did not finish, for there was an ear-piercing screech and the jasper portal opened majestically. At this sight all the Phools sprang to their feet and ran up the stairs.

  “O Phool, Phool!” I cried, but my companion merely waved his hand at me, said, “I have no time,” and bounded up behind the others to disappear inside the palace.

  I stood for a long while, and then I saw a column of black robots; they marched to the palace wall, opened a hatch, and rolled out a long row of disks that gleamed beautifully in the sun. They rolled the disks to an open field and there completed an unfinished design in some pattern. The palace portal was still wide open; I took a few steps to look inside, but a shiver went down my spine.

  The Machine parted its metal lips and invited me in.

  “What do you take me for, a Phool?” I replied.

  I turned sharply and headed for the rocket, and in a minute was behind the controls, taking off at top speed.

  FURTHER REMINISCENCES OF IJON TICHY

  I

  You want me to tell you another story? Yes, I see that Tarantoga has already taken out his note pad… Professor, wait. I really haven’t anything to tell. What? No, truthfully. And besides, can’t I remain silent for once at our evening get-together? Why? My friends, I’ve never mentioned it, but the Universe is inhabited principally by beings like us. I don’t mean humanoids, I mean beings as like us as two peas in a pod. Half the inhabited planets resemble Earth; some are a little larger, some a little smaller, some have a cooler or a warmer climate, but what kind of differences are those? And their inhabitants… the people — they are people, after all — resemble us so much that the differences only emphasize the similarities. I haven’t told you about them? Does that seem strange? Think about it. When I gaze at the stars, I recall various events; various scenes pass before me. But mainly I think back on those that are out of the ordinary. They might be terrifying, or weird, or macabre, or even funny, by virtue of being harmless. But to gaze at the stars, my friends, and to know that those small, bluish-white sparks are — when you set foot on them — kingdoms of squalor, ignorance, and all manner of ruin; that the dark-blue sky up there is also full of old shacks, dirty yards, gutters, garbage dumps, overgrown cemeteries… Should the stories of one who has toured the Galaxy sound like the complaint of a peddler who knocks about provincial towns? Who would want to listen? And who would believe it? Such thoughts come to you when you’re depressed or feel an unhealthy urge to tell the truth. So, then — in order not to sadden or mortify you — nothing about the stars today. I’ll tell you a story — otherwise you’d feel cheated — but it won’t be a journey. After all, I’ve had a few experiences on Earth as well. Professor, if you must, you can start taking notes.

  As you know, I have guests — sometimes very strange guests. In particular, a certain category: the Unappreciated Inventor and Scientist. I don’t know why, but I’ve always attracted that type like a magnet. Tarantoga’s smiling, but I don’t mean him; he’s hardly an unappreciated inventor. Today I shall talk about those who were unsuccessful — or, rather, about those who succeeded too well, who reached their goal and saw its futility. Of course, they didn’t admit this. Unknown and isolated, they persisted in their folly, which only fame and success may — however rarely — change into a work of progress. The great majority of those who came to see me belonged to the gray brotherhood of obsession, people imprisoned within a single idea, an idea not even their own but appropriated from previous generations; people like the inventors of the perpetuum mobile; weak in imagination, and trivial and absurd in their solutions. Yet even they burn with that consuming fire of objectivity that forces a man to renew efforts that are doomed to failure. How pitiful are these flawed geniuses, these titans of stunted spirit, crippled at birth by nature, who, as one of her grim jokes, bestowed upon their talentlessness a creative frenzy worthy of a Leonardo. Their lot in life is in
difference or mockery, and all that you can do for them is listen patiently for an hour or two and nod at their monomania.

  In this group, who are protected from despair only by their stupidity, one occasionally runs across a different breed — I don’t want to label it, you’ll do that yourselves. The first who comes to mind is Professor Corcoran.

  I met him nine years ago, maybe ten. It was at a scientific conference. We had been talking for only a few minutes when, out of the blue (it had nothing to do with the topic at hand), he asked me:

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  At first I thought this was a joke, but I recalled hearing rumors about his singularity — only I couldn’t remember whether that singularity was supposed to be a positive or a negative thing. To be on the safe side, I answered:

  “I have no opinion on that subject.”

  He returned to our conversation as if nothing had happened. But when the bell announcing the next session of the conference rang, he suddenly leaned over — he was much taller than I — and said:

  “Tichy, you’re my man. You have an open mind. I may be wrong, but I’m willing to take a chance. Come see me.” And he handed me his card. “Call first: I don’t open the door to anyone. But it’s up to you…”

  That same evening, while I was dining with Savinelli, the well-known specialist in cosmic law, I asked him whether he knew a Professor Corcoran.

  “Corcoran!” he shouted with his characteristic enthusiasm, an enthusiasm fueled by a second bottle of Sicilian wine. “The screwball cyberneticist? What’s he up to? I haven’t heard from him in ages.”

  I replied that I knew nothing myself, but had merely heard the name in passing. My evasion, I believe, would have suited Corcoran. Savinelli told me some of the current gossip as we drank wine. Corcoran, presumably, had been a very promising young scientist, though even then he showed utter disrespect for his elders, if not arrogance. Later he became insufferably outspoken, the sort of person who derives satisfaction not only from telling others what he thinks of them, but also from the fact that in so doing he damages himself. Having mortally offended his professors and colleagues, and when all doors had closed before him, he unexpectedly came into a large inheritance. He bought a run-down place outside of town and remade it into a laboratory. He lived there with his robots — they were the only assistants he could tolerate. He may have accomplished something there, but the pages of the scientific journals were barred to him. That didn’t bother Corcoran. If he still had any dealings with people at that time, it was only to rebuff them, in the most insulting manner and for no apparent reason, after they had reached a certain intimacy with him. When he grew old and tired of that disgusting game, he became a recluse. I asked Savinelli whether he knew anything about Corcoran’s belief in ghosts,. The lawyer, drinking wine just then, nearly choked with laughter.