He lifted the point of his umbrella and jabbed me in the injured place.
"Help!" I yelled. "Please, no more! Why are you—"
"Helping you is precisely what I'm trying to do!" said the futurologist sternly. "Unfortunately, I have no other antidote at hand!"
"At least not with the point, for God's sake!"
"It's more efficacious that way."
He struck once more, turned and called someone. I closed my eyes. My head throbbed. Then I felt a tugging. The Professor and the man in the leather jacket took hold of my arms and legs and began to carry me somewhere.
"Where now?" I cried.
Bits of rubble dribbled down on my face from the trembling ceiling; I felt my bearers stepping along some shaky board or plank and shuddered, afraid they might slip. "Where are you taking me?" I asked feebly, but there was no answer. The air was filled with incessant thunder. Then it grew bright, and we were outside, fire all around; men in uniform were seizing everyone brought out of the sewer and pushing them rather roughly, one by one, through an open door—I got a glimpse of the large white letters U.S. ARMY COPTER 1-109-894—then I was lying on a stretcher. Professor Trottelreiner stuck his head inside the helicopter window.
"Sorry, Tichy old boy!" he shouted. "It was necessary!"
Someone standing behind him tore the umbrella from his hand, whacked the Professor twice over the head, and shoved him in among us; the futurologist fell to the floor with a groan. Meanwhile the rotors whirred, the motors roared, and the machine lifted majestically into the air. The Professor took a seat by my stretcher, gingerly rubbing the back of his head. I confess that though I fully understood the charitableness of his actions, it was with some satisfaction that I noticed the bump swelling there.
"Where are we going?"
"To the futurological congress," said Trottelreiner, still wincing.
"But … wasn't it—isn't it over?"
"Washington stepped in," he explained laconically. "We're continuing the conference."
"Where?"
"Berkeley."
"You mean, the university?"
"Right. You wouldn't happen to have a penknife on you?"
"No."
The helicopter lurched, burst into flames. An explosion ripped open the cabin and we were flung out into the void. There was a great deal of pain after that. I seemed to hear the long wail of a siren, someone was cutting my clothes with scissors, I blacked out, I regained consciousness again. Shaken by a fever and a bumpy road, I was looking at the dull white ceiling of an ambulance. Next to me lay another body, bandaged like a mummy; by the umbrella tied to it I recognized Professor Trottelreiner. It occurred to me that I was still alive. So by some miracle we had survived that terrible fall. Suddenly the ambulance swerved and skidded, tires screeching—turned over, burst into flames, and an explosion ripped apart its metal frame. "What, again?" was my final thought before I sank into oblivion. When I opened my eyes, I saw a glass dome over me; some people in white, wearing masks, their arms raised like priests giving benedictions, were conferring in lowered tones.
"Yes, this was Tichy," came the words. "We'll put it here, in the jar. No, no, only the brain. The rest is useless. Now the anesthetic, please."
A nickel ring lined with cotton shut out everything; I wanted to scream, to call for help, but inhaled the stinging gas and floated off into nothingness. When I woke again, I was unable to open my eyes, unable to move my arms or legs, as if I had been paralyzed. I redoubled my efforts in spite of the pain.
"Easy there! Don't struggle!" said a soothing, melodious voice.
"What? Where am I? What's wrong with me?" I blurted out. My lips felt odd, my whole face.
"You're in a hospital. Everything's fine. There's absolutely nothing to worry about. In just a minute we'll give you something to eat…"
"But how can I, if I don't have any…" I was about to say, but heard the snipping of scissors. Whole swaths of gauze fell from my face; it grew brighter. Two hulking orderlies took me gently but firmly under the arms and set me on my feet. I was astonished at their size. They helped me into a wheelchair. Before me steamed an appetizing broth. Reaching automatically for the spoon, I noticed that the hand that picked it up was small and black as ebony. I inspected this hand. Seeing that it moved exactly as I wished, I was forced to conclude that it was my own. And yet it had changed so much. I looked around to ask someone the reason and my eyes fell on a mirror on the opposite wall. There in a wheelchair sat an attractive young black woman, bandaged up, in pajamas, an expression of dismay on her face. I touched my nose. The reflection in the mirror did the same. I felt my face all over, my neck, but when I came to the bosom I cried out in alarm. My voice was high and reedy.
"Good Lord!"
The nurse scolded someone for not covering up the mirror, then turned to me and said:
"You are Ijon Tichy?"
"Yes. That is—yes, yes!! But what does this mean? That lady—that black woman—"
"A transplant. There was no other way. We had to save your life, and saving your life meant—well, your brain!" The nurse spoke quickly but clearly, holding both my hands in hers. I closed my eyes. I opened them, suddenly feeling very weak. The surgeon burst in with a look of the greatest indignation.
"What's going on here?" he roared. "The patient could fall into shock!"
"He already has!" returned the nurse. "It was Simmons, Doctor. I told him to cover the mirror!"
"Shock? Then what are you waiting for? Take him to surgery!" ordered the doctor.
"No! I've had enough!" I yelled.
But no one listened to my woman's pleas and squeals. A white sheet fell across my face. I tried to tear free, but couldn't. I heard and felt the rubber wheels of the hospital cart rolling along a tiled floor. Then there was a terrible blast, the sound of windows shattering, flames and smoke. An explosion rocked the corridor.
"It's a demonstration! Protesters!" someone cried. Broken glass crunched beneath the shoes of people fleeing. Helplessly trapped in the sheet, I felt a sharp pain in my side and lost consciousness.
I came to and found myself in jam. Cranberry jam, awfully sour. I was lying on my stomach, with something large and fairly soft crushing me. A mattress. I kicked it off. Pieces of brick were digging into my knees and palms. I propped myself up, spitting out cranberry pits and sand. The room looked as though a bomb had hit it. The window frames jutted out, jagged slivers of glass protruding from their edges, pointing to the floor. The overturned hospital bed was charred. Near me lay a large printed card, smeared with jam. I picked it up and read:
Dear Patient (first name, last name)! You are presently located in our experimental state hospital. The measures taken to save your life were drastic, extremely drastic (circle one). Our finest surgeons, availing themselves of the very latest achievements of modern medicine, performed one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten operations (circle one) on you. They were forced, acting wholly in your interest, to replace certain parts of your organism with parts obtained from other persons, in strict accordance with Federal Law (Rev. Stat. Comm. 1-989/0-001/89/1). The notice you are now reading was thoughtfully prepared in order to help you make the best possible adjustment to these new if somewhat unexpected circumstances in your life, which, we hasten to remind you, we have saved. Although it was found necessary to remove your arms, legs, spine, skull, lungs, stomach, kidneys, liver, other (circle one or more), rest assured that these mortal remains were disposed of in a manner fully in keeping with the dictates of your religion; they were, with the proper ritual, interred, embalmed, mummified, buried at sea, cremated with the ashes scattered in the wind—preserved in an urn—thrown in the garbage (circle one). The new form in which you will henceforth lead a happy and healthy existence may possibly occasion you some surprise, but we promise that in time you will become, as indeed all our dear patients do, quite accustomed to it. We have supplemented your organism with the very best, the best, perfectly functional, adequate, th
e only available (circle one) organs at our disposal, and they are fully guaranteed to last a year, six months, three months, three weeks, six days (circle one). Of course you must realize that…
Here the text broke off. It was only then that I saw my name written in block letters across the top of the card: IJON TICHY, Operations 6, 7 and 8, COMBO. The paper shook in my hands. Good Lord, I thought, what was left of me? I was afraid to look, even at my own finger. There was thick red hair on the back of the hand. Dizzy and trembling all over, I got up, holding on to the wall for support. No bosom—well at least that was something. Complete silence, except for a bird chirping outside. A fine time to chirp! COMBO. What did COMBO mean? Who was I then? Ijon Tichy. I was sure of that. So … first I felt my legs. Yes, there were two of them, but crooked—knock-kneed. The stomach—too much of it, the bellybutton like a well, folds and folds of fat—brrr! What had happened to me? The helicopter, first. Shot down, probably. Then the ambulance. A grenade or a mine. And then I was that little black woman—the demonstration—the corridor—another grenade? And what about her, the poor thing? And now, again… But what did all this devastation mean?
"Hello!" I called. "Anybody there?"
I jumped, startled. I had a magnificent voice, a resounding, operatic bass. It was time to look in the mirror, but I couldn't, I was too afraid. I put my hand to my cheek. Great Scott! Thick, woolly curls… Looking down, I saw a beard—shaggy, matted, covering half my chest, and flaming red. Ahaenobarbus! Well, I could always shave… I stepped out on the terrace. That idiot bird was still chirping away. Poplars, sycamores, shrubs—what was this? A park? In a state hospital? Someone was sitting on a bench, trousers rolled up, sunning himself.
"Hello there!" I called.
He turned. That face, it was strangely familiar. I rubbed my eyes. But of course, it was mine, it was I! In three leaps I was on the ground and running over to stare, panting, at myself. It was myself, all right, without a doubt.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" he said nervously, in my voice.
"What—where did you get—" I stammered. "Who are you?! Who gave you the right to—"
"Ah, it's you!"
He rose.
"I am Professor Trottelreiner."
"But—but why, for God's sake why—did you—"
"I had no part in it," he said, frowning with my eyebrows. "They broke in here, you see, those hippies, zippies. Protesters. A grenade… Your condition was considered hopeless, mine too. For I was lying in the next room."
"Hopeless my foot!" I snarled. "I can see, can't I? Really, Professor, how could you?!"
"But I was unconscious, I give you my word! Doctor Fisher, the head surgeon, explained everything afterwards: they used the best organs first, and when it came to my turn only the scraps were left, so…"
"How dare you! It's not enough for you to appropriate my body, you have to insult it too!"
"I'm merely repeating what Doctor Fisher told me! They considered this"—he pointed to his chest—"totally unfit, but in the absence of anything better proceeded with the reanimation. Meanwhile you had already been transplanted…"
"I—?"
"Your brain, that is."
"Then who is this? I mean, was?" I said, indicating myself.
"One of those demonstrators. A leader, most likely. Didn't know how to handle fuses, ended up with a piece of shrapnel in his brain, I understand. And then, well…" Trottelreiner gave a shrug with my shoulders.
I shuddered, feeling queer in this new body, uncertain how to relate to it. Mainly, I was filled with loathing. The thick, square fingernails hardly spoke of any great intelligence!
"And now what?" I murmured, taking a seat beside the Professor, my knees grown suddenly weak. "Do you have a mirror?"
He pulled one from his pocket. I grabbed it anxiously and looked: a swollen black eye, a spongy nose, the teeth in dreadful condition, a double chin. The bottom of the face was buried in red hair. Returning the mirror, I saw that the Professor had again bared his knees and shins to the sun; my first impulse was to warn him that I had extremely sensitive skin, but I held my tongue. If he got a sunburn, well, that was his business, not mine, not any more!
"Where will I go now?" I said, thinking out loud.
Trottelreiner sat up. He observed my—my?—face; there was pity in his—his?—eyes.
"I wouldn't advise you to go anywhere! He was wanted by both the police and the FBI for numerous acts of terrorism. There are warrants out for his arrest, with orders to shoot on sight!"
This was all I needed! Good God, I thought, I must be hallucinating!
"You aren't!" Trottelreiner vigorously protested. "This is reality, my boy, reality pure and simple!"
"Then why is the hospital empty?"
"You don't know? Ah, of course, you were unconscious… There's a strike on."
"The doctors?"
"Everyone, the entire staff. You see, the guerrillas took Fisher. They want you in exchange for his freedom."
"Me?"
"Certainly. They have no idea, you understand, that you are no longer you but only Ijon Tichy…"
I was getting a splitting headache.
"I'll commit suicide!" I said in a hoarse bass.
"Better not. You'll just be transplanted again."
Frantically I racked my brains for some way to convince myself that this wasn't a hallucination after all.
"But what if…" I began, rising to my feet.
"What if what?"
"What if I ride you out of here? H'm? How about that?"
"Ride me? Have you taken leave of your senses?!"
I looked him in the eye, squared off, crouched, leaped onto his back and fell in the sewer. The black, putrid sludge nearly made me gag, but what a comfort it was! I crawled out. There were fewer rats now, they must have walked off somewhere. Only four remained. At the feet of Professor Trottelreiner, who was sound asleep, they were playing bridge, using his cards. Bridge? Even with the unusually high concentration of hallucinogens in the air, was it possible for rats to play bridge? Worried, I looked over the fattest one's shoulder. He was holding his cards helter-skelter, and didn't even follow suit. It was all right then… I gave a sigh of relief.
But just in case, I firmly resolved not to budge one inch from the sewer: I'd had quite enough of these rescuings, at least for a while. In the future I would demand proof first. Otherwise, well, God only knew what I might start seeing next. I felt my face. No beard, no mask either. What had happened to the mask?
"As for me," said Professor Trottelreiner, his eyes still closed, "I am an honest, respectable girl and hope, sir, you will take that into consideration."
He cocked his head, as if listening carefully to some reply, whereupon he added:
"On my part, sir, this is no semblance of virtue, no pose which some may assume, merely to rouse a sluggish passion, but 'tis the simple truth itself. Touch me not, else I be forced with violence to end my life."
"Aha!" I thought. "He wants to get back to the sewer too!"
Which set me at ease. The fact that the Professor was hallucinating seemed to prove that I, at least, was not.
"You would have me sing something?" continued the Professor. "Very well. An innocent song or two cannot harm. Will you, sir, provide the accompaniment?"
On the other hand he could have been simply talking in his sleep. In which case nothing was certain. Mount him again, to make sure? But I could, after all, jump into the sewer without his help.
"Alas, I fear I am not in voice today. And maman is waiting. I need no escort, if you please!" Trottelreiner declared with a haughty toss of the head. I stood up and looked around, flashlight in hand. The rats were gone. The Swiss futurologists were all snoring, stretched out along the wall. Farther on, in the inflated chairs, lay reporters and a few Hilton managers. The floor was littered with chicken bones and beer cans. Remarkable realism, for a hallucination. But I would settle for nothing less than definitive, irreversible, full actuality. What
was that overhead?
Explosions, TNT or LTN, muffled and infrequent. Then a loud splash close by. The surface of the dark water parted to reveal the grimacing face of Professor Trottelreiner. I offered him a hand. He pulled himself out, shook himself off, then said:
"I had the most idiotic dream."
"You were a fair young maiden, I take it?"
"Damn! Then I'm still hallucinating!"
"What makes you think so?" I asked.
"Only in hallucinations do others know the contents of our dreams."
"I heard you talking, that's all," I explained. "Listen, Professor, you're an expert. Do you happen to know any foolproof method of telling whether one is in his right mind or not?"
"Well, I always carry some vigilax on me. The package is soaked, but that doesn't hurt the tablets. Vigilax disperses all states of somnolence, trances, illusions, figments, nightmares. Care to try it?"
"The medicine may work as you say," I muttered, "but it certainly won't if it's a figment itself."
"If we're hallucinating, then we'll wake, and if not, absolutely nothing will happen," the Professor assured me, popping a pale pink tablet into his mouth. I took one from the wet package he held out, put it on my tongue, swallowed. Then the manhole opened with a clang above us and the helmeted head of a paratrooper bellowed:
"Come on! Up out of there! Make it snappy!"
"What is it this time, sergeant, helicopters or jump holsters?" I asked with a smirk. "Really, I think you'd better count me out!"
And I sat near the wall and folded my arms.
"Off his rocker, eh?" the sergeant remarked to Trottelreiner as the latter began scrambling up the rungs. There was much commotion. Stantor took me by the shoulders and tried to lift me, but I pushed him away.
"You want to stay here?" he said. "Suit yourself…"
"No," I corrected him, "you're supposed to say 'Good hunting!'" One by one they disappeared up the open manhole; I saw the flickering glow of fire, heard shouts, commands, and a hissing, whistling roar, from which I gathered that they were being evacuated with the aid of those flying backpacks. Strange, very strange. What did it mean? Could I be hallucinating for them? Hallucination by proxy? And was I to go on sitting here like this till doomsday?
The Futurological Congress: From the Memoirs of Ijon Tichy Page 5