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

  12 VIII 2039. I finally got up the courage to ask some pedestrians where I might find a bookstore. They shrugged. As a pair I had accosted walked off, I heard one say to the other, "That's a grandfather stiff for you." Could it be that there is prejudice here against defrostees? Some other unfamiliar expressions I've come across: threever, pingle, he-male, to widge off, palacize, cobnoddling, synthy. The newspapers advertise such products as tishets, vanilliums, nurches, autofrotts (manual). The title of a column in the city edition of the Herald: "I Was a Demimother." Something about an eggman who was yoked on the way to the eggplant. The big Webster isn't too helpful: "Demimother—like demigran, demijohn. One of two women jointly bringing a child into the world. See Polyanna, Polyandrew." "Eggman—from mailman (Archaic). A euplanner who delivers licensed human gametes (female) to the home." I don't pretend to understand that. This crazy dictionary also gives synonyms that are equally incomprehensible. "Threever—trimorph." "Palacize, bepalacize, empalacize—to castellate, as on a quiz show." "Paladyne—a chivalric assuagement." "Vanillium—extract emphorium, portable." The worst are words which look the same but have acquired entirely different meanings. "Expectorant—a conception aid." "Pederast—artificial foot faddist." "Compensation—mind fusion." "Simulant—something that doesn't exist but pretends to. Not to be confused with simulator, a robot simulacrum." "Revivalist—a corpse, such as a murder victim, brought back to life. See also exhumant, disintermagent, jack-in-the-grave." Apparently it's nothing nowadays to raise the dead. And the people—just about everyone—panting. Panting in the elevator, in the street, everywhere. They appear to be in the best of health, rosy-cheeked, cheerful, sun-tanned, and yet they puff. I don't. So evidently one doesn't have to. A custom, or what? I asked Aileen. She laughed at me—nothing of the kind. Could I be imagining it?

  13 VIII 2039. I wanted to take a look at yesterday's newspaper. Turned the compartment upside down, but couldn't find it anywhere. Again Aileen laughs at me (she has a beautiful laugh): newspapers last only twenty-four hours, the substance they're printed on dissolves in the air. Less trash to dispose of that way. Ginger, Aileen's girlfriend, asked me today—we were dancing the squim in a small neighborhood spot—if we had swapped gulps yet at the Saturday mash. Not knowing what that meant, I didn't answer, and something told me it would be better not to ask for an explanation. At Aileen's urging I bought myself a PV set, PV for physivision. (Television hasn't been used for the last fifty years.) It takes some getting used to, to have strange people, not to mention dogs, lions, landscapes and planets, pop into the corner of your room, fully materialized and indistinguishable from the real thing. Though the artistic level is quite low. New dresses are called spray-ons: you spray them on your body, right out of the can. But the language has changed the most. Rebe, rebeing, rebeen, since if you're not satisfied with yourself, you can start over. Or unbe, if you get completely discouraged. But then there's prebe, postbe, disbe, misbe, overbe and quasibe. I haven't the foggiest what these are supposed to mean, but on the other hand I can't very well turn my dates with Aileen into English lessons. Fictifacts are dreams programmed to order. You get them from the local dreamery, one of the somnicenter's computerized dream distributers. Early evening delivery, in pills they call synthies. And yes, there's no longer any doubt, though I keep it to myself now: everyone has difficulty breathing. No exceptions. Though they don't pay the least attention to it. Elderly persons wheeze the loudest. It must be some kind of custom because the air is perfectly fresh and the circulation excellent. Today I saw a neighbor of mine step out of the elevator—blue in the face, gasping for air. But when I took a closer look, I saw that he was in the pink of condition. It may be nothing, but this business bothers me. What does it mean? A few pant only through their noses.

  Today I chose to synth (or fictify?) old Professor Tarantoga, since I miss him. But why was he sitting in a cage the whole time? Was it my subconscious, or an error in the program? The announcer doesn't say traffic fatality, but carrion. From car? Curious. Another word for physivision: reviewer, the re from the Latin res. But in that case, why not revision? Aileen was on duty today, so I spent the evening alone in my apartment—compartment—watching a round-table discussion on the new penal code. Murder is punishable by fine only, since the deceased can easily be brought back. Reinceased. Though prerecidivation—recidivism with premeditation—carries with it a jail sentence (for example if you are found guilty of killing the same person several times in succession). A capital offense, on the other hand, is the willful deprivation of an individual's private psychem supply or the influencing of third persons by such means without their knowledge or consent. In psychem-related crimes one can accomplish almost any end. You can have people include you in their wills, return your affections, cooperate in whatever enterprise you like, including conspiracy, and so on. It was very hard for me to follow the physivised discussion. Only towards the end did I grasp the fact that imprisonment means something different now than it used to. A convict is not locked up anymore; instead, a kind of light corset is fastened around the body, a jacket made of thin but powerful stays. This exoskeleton is under the constant control of a juridicator (a microminiaturized law enforcement computer) sewn right into the clothing. Which provides continual surveillance, frustrating any attempt to engage in activities of an illicit and/or pleasurable nature. For the duration the exoskeleton firmly resists the tasting of forbidden fruits. If the felony is serious enough, the authorities resort to full incarcerization. All the discussants have their names and academic degrees written on their foreheads. For identification, I suppose, but it does look a bit odd.

  1 IX 2039. An unpleasant incident. When I turned on the reviewer this afternoon to prepare myself for a meeting with Aileen, a seven-foot character, who immediately seemed out of place in the show (it was La Scarlatina del Mutango), looking half like an oak and half like an athlete with a gnarled, gray-green mouth, instead of disappearing with the rest of the image, walked up to my chair, took from the endtable the flowers I'd bought for Aileen, and crushed them on my head. I was too flabbergasted to think of defending myself. Then he broke the vase, poured out the water, ate half a box of my crunchies, shook out the rest on the sofa, stamped his feet, swelled up, flared and burst into a shower of sparks like a Roman candle, burning hundreds of tiny holes in the shirts I had spread out to dry. In spite of a black eye and a battered face I kept my appointment with Aileen. "Good Lord!" she exclaimed when she saw me, understanding at once. "You had an interferent!" If between two PV programs, beamed from separate satellite stations, there should occur any sustained interference, one can get an interferent, which is actually a composite or hybrid of a number of actors or other persons appearing on the reviewer. Such a hybrid, fully solid, can do all sorts of nasty things, for its existence may continue up to three minutes after the set has been switched off. The energy maintaining this phantom is believed to be of the same type that causes the phenomenon of spherical lightning. A friend of Aileen's once got an interferent during a paleontology broadcast; it came from a special on Nero. She had the presence of mind to jump, clothes and all, into the bathtub, which fortunately was full of water. That saved her life, although the compartment had to be completely overhauled. Safety shields can be installed, but they're awfully expensive, and the reviewer corporations evidently find it more convenient to put up with lawsuits than to equip every set with the proper emission controls. I made up my mind that thereafter I would watch the reviewer with a heavy club in hand. By the way, La Scarlatina del Mutango isn't about a mustang that comes down with a fever, but a midget prostitute who falls in love with a man who was born (thanks to some genetically engineered mutation) with the uncanny ability to perform Spanish-American dances.

  3 IX 2039. I was at my lawyer's. He saw me personally, which is a rare honor; usually the clerk machines handle the clients. Counselor Crawley received me in an office furnished with all the usual imposing legal paraphernalia, ornate cabinets, shelves packed with deeds and
documents—strictly for show, of course, since now everything is recorded on magnetic tape. On his head he wore a mnemonor, an auxiliary memory, a sort of transparent pointed cap inside which the currents danced like a cloud of fireflies. The second head, smaller and looking like a much younger version of the first, stuck out from between his shoulder blades and softly spoke into a telephone the whole time I was there. One of those detachables. He asked me what I was doing with myself and was quite surprised to hear that I didn't intend to travel overseas. When I told him that after all I had to watch my money he appeared even more surprised.

  "But you can always get what you need from the giveaway," he said.

  As it turns out, all one has to do is go to the bank and write out a receipt, and the cashier (at the giveaway counter) hands over the desired amount. It's not a loan either—withdrawal of the sum carries with it no obligation whatever. True, there is a catch. Return of the money is not required by law but rather left up to one's own conscience. And one can take as many years as one likes to pay off the debt. But what keeps the banks from going bankrupt, I asked, if the borrowers don't have to honor their debts? Again he was amazed at my innocence. I keep forgetting that we live in an era of psychem. Letters containing gentle reminders about accounts outstanding and amounts owed are saturated with a volatile substance which rouses one's sense of responsibility, one's scrupulousness, and also one's desire for gainful employment. In this way the giveaway never operates at a loss. Of course there are a few dishonest individuals who hold their noses upon receiving the mail—but then every age has its deadbeats. Recalling the recent physivised discussion about the penal code, I asked him whether this psychemical impregnation of letters might not constitute a felony under paragraph 139 (whosoever employs psychem to influence persons, be they actual or actuarial, without their knowledge or consent, is subject to arrest etc., etc…). My remark seemed to please him. He began to explain the subtle nature of the situation—the giveaway may pursue its claims in this manner, for if the recipient of the letter is in fact solvent and without creditors, he can experience no guilt, and the desire to work more diligently than before is from the point of view of society a commendable thing. The lawyer was most courteous; he invited me out to dinner. At the "Bronx," September ninth.

  Returning home, I concluded that it was high time to acquaint myself with the outside world and not rely exclusively on the reviewer. I began with a frontal attack on the newspaper, but gave up halfway through an introductory article about hemsters and hawks. The international scene wasn't much better. Turkey reports a significant increase in fugitive dissimulators as well as an unprecedented wave of underground natalities in spite of the best efforts of that country's Demoppression Center. To make matters worse, maintenance of the numerous cretinoids is putting a serious strain on the national economy. My Webster, as I expected, provides little enlightenment. A dissimulant—an object that exists but pretends not to. No mention at all of dissimulators. An underground natality is a baby born off the record. That's what Aileen told me. Demoppressive tactics are necessary for population control. A childing license may be obtained in either of two ways: filling out forms and taking the appropriate examinations, or else winning the grand prize in the tottery (tot lottery). Most applicants try for the latter, as they have no other chance to get a license. A cretinoid is an artificial idiot. This was all I was able to learn. Which isn't bad, considering the language used in these Herald articles. Here's a sample: An erroneous or inadequately indexed profute discourages competition no less than repetition; false profutes, moreover, will continue to be exploited by the lubricrats, due to all the low-risk loopholes, since the Supreme Court still seems unable to reach a decision in the Herodotus case. For many months now the public has been asking who is the more competent to hunt down and expose instances of embrozzlement: the countercomputer or the hyperdeductive calculator? And so on. The Webster says only that lubricrat is archaic slang, though still in wide use, for one who gives bribes. Derived from the greasing of palms, I imagine. So apparently some corruption exists in this idyllic world and things are not as perfect as they seem.

  Willum Humberg, a friend of Aileen's, wants to interview me on the reviewer, though it's not definite yet. To be conducted in my own compartment, not at the PV studio, for the set can also act as a transmitter. This immediately made me think of those gloomy antiutopian novels which paint a future where every citizen is spied upon in the privacy of his home. Willum laughed at my fears, explaining that the direction of the signal cannot be changed without the full permission of the set's owner. To break this rule means to face certain imprisonment. After all, by simply reversing the emissions one could even commit remote-control adultery with the neighbor's wife. At least that's what Willum says, but I can't tell whether it's true or he's only pulling my leg. I took the scuttle around the city today. No more churches, the place of worship now is the pharmacy. The men in white robes and silver miters aren't priests, they're pharmacists. It's interesting that, on the other hand, you can't find a drugstore anywhere.

  4 IX 2039. I finally learned how to come into possession of an encyclopedia. I already own one now—the whole thing contained in three glass vials. Bought them in a science psychedeli. Books are no longer read but eaten, not made of paper but of some informational substance, fully digestible, sugar-coated. I also did a little browsing in a psychem supermarket. Self-service. Arranged on the shelves are beautifully packaged low-calorie opinionates, gullibloons—credibility beans?—abstract extract in antique gallon jugs, and iffies, argumunchies, puritands and dysecstasy chips. A pity I don't have an interpreter. Psychedeli must be from psychedelicatessen. And the theoapotheteria on Sixth Avenue has to be a theological apothecary cafeteria, judging from the items on display. Aisles and aisles of absolventina, theopathine, genuflix, orisol. An enormous place; organ music in the background while you shop. All the faiths are represented too—there's christendine and antichristendine, ormuzal, arymanol, anabaptiban, methadone, brahmax, supralapsarian suppositories, and zoroaspics, quaker oats, yogart, mishnameal and apocryphal dip. Pills, tablets, syrups, elixirs, powders, gums—they even have lollipops for the children. Many of the boxes come with halos. At first I was skeptical, but accepted this, innovation when after taking four algebrine capsules I suddenly found myself perfectly at home in higher mathematics, and without the least exertion on my part. All knowledge is acquired now by way of the stomach. Eagerly seizing this opportunity, I began to satisfy my hunger for information, but the first two volumes of the encyclopedia gave me the most terrible cramps. Willum warned me not to stuff my head with too many facts: its capacity is not unlimited after all! Fortunately there are also drugs to purge the mind. Obliterine and amnesol, for example. With them one can easily rid oneself of unnecessary intellectual baggage or unpleasant memories. In the psychotropic grocery around the corner I saw Freudos, morbidine, quanderil, and the most recent of the iamides, heavily advertised—authentium. Creates synthetic recollections of things that never happened. A few grams of dantine, for instance, and a man goes around with the deep conviction that he has written The Divine Comedy. Why anyone would want that is another matter and quite beyond me. There are new branches of science, like psychedietetics and alimentalism. At any rate the encyclopedia did come in handy. Now I know that a child may indeed be born to two women: one supplies the egg, the other the womb. The eggman carries the egg from demimother to demimother. What could be simpler? But it's not the sort of thing I can discuss with Aileen. I really ought to expand my circle of friends.

  5 IX 2039. Friends are not an indispensable source of information; you can take a drug called duetine which doubles your consciousness in such a way, that you can hold discussions with yourself on any topic (determined by a separate drug). But I confess I feel somewhat overwhelmed by these limitless horizons of psychem. For the time being I'll exercise caution. In the course of my further reconnoitering about the city I came by chance upon a cemetery. It's called an obituarium. A
nd they don't have gravediggers any more, but thanautomata. Pallrobots. I witnessed a funeral. The deceased was placed in a so-called reversible sepulcher, since it's not as yet certain whether or not they'll reincease him. His last wish was to lie there for good, that is for as long as possible, but the wife and mother-in-law are challenging the will in court. This is not, I've been told, an uncommon occurrence. The case is sure to drag on through endless appeals, as there are many complex legal issues involved. Any suicide who wished to avoid such meddlesome resurrections would have to use a bomb, I suppose. Somehow it never occurred to me that a person would not want to be brought back. Apparently though it's possible, in an age where death can be so easily conquered. A lovely cemetery, foliage everywhere, cool and green. Except that the coffins are incredibly small. Could it be that the remains are ironed out and folded? In this civilization anything seems possible.

  6 IX 2039. No, the remains aren't ironed out and folded; burial is reserved exclusively for the biological parts of the organism, its artificial replacements being broken down for scrap. To what extent then are people artificialized today? A fascinating debate on the reviewer over a new proposal to make humanity immortal. The brains of old men much advanced in years would be repotted in the bodies of those in their prime, who would suffer nothing by this, for their brains would be in turn repotted in the bodies of adolescents, and so on, and since new persons were continually coming into the world, no one's brain would ever be permanently unpotted. Several objections were raised, however. The opponents of this proposal call its advocates pot-heads. While returning from the cemetery on foot, to get a little fresh air, I tripped over a wire stretched between two tombstones. Fell flat on my face. What kind of practical joke was this? A mortuary unit standing nearby explained, rather brusquely, that it was a juggermugger's prank. Back to the Webster. Juggermugger: a delinquent robot, the product of either a mechanical defect or a broken home. Tonight I started to read The Cassette Courtesan in bed. Am I going to have to eat the entire dictionary, or what? The text is practically incomprehensible! Anyway the dictionary won't help—I'm beginning to realize that more and more. Take this novel, for example. The hero is having an affair with a concuballoon (there are two kinds: convertible-pervertible and inflatable-inflagrantable). Well, I know what a concuballoon is, but have no idea how such a liaison is looked upon. Is there a social stigma attached to it? And abusing a concuballoon—is it nothing more than, say, kicking a volleyball, or is it morally censurable?