The Futurological Congress: From the Memoirs of Ijon Tichy

by Stanisław Lem

  "Come in, Tichy."

  So I went in. I wasn't even that surprised that he'd been waiting for me, and I took it calmly, too, that there on the other side of the desk sat George P. Symington Esquire himself, in a gray flannel suit, a natty ascot around his neck and a thin cigarillo in his mouth. And wearing sunglasses. He seemed to look at me with either amusement or regret, I couldn't tell which.

  "Have a seat," he said, "this will take a while."

  I sat. The room, with windowpanes intact, was an oasis of tidiness and warmth in the general neglect: no freezing drafts, no snowdrifts in the corners, a pot of steaming black coffee, an ashtray, a dictaphone, and hanging on the wall above his head—a few female nudes, in color. Odd, though, that those photographed bodies should have no scales or bristles. And odd, that that should strike me odd.

  "Now you've done it!" he said abruptly. "And note that you have only yourself to blame! The best nurse, the only soothseer in the neighborhood, everyone doing his best to help you, but no, you had to go rooting around for the 'truth' on your own!"

  "Me?" I said, stunned by his words, and before I could gather my thoughts, before I could digest what he was saying, he snapped:

  "Please, no lies. It's a little late for that. You thought you were being so frightfully clever, parading out all those protests, those grievances of yours, those suspicions about 'hallucinating'—'sewers,' 'hotel rats,' 'mounting,' 'saddling.' And did you really think such primitive inventions would serve the purpose? Only a grandfather stiff could be so incredibly stupid!"

  I listened to him, my mouth hanging open. Then suddenly it hit me—any denial would be in vain, he would never believe me. For he took my genuine obsessions for some sort of maneuver! In other words, that previous conversation in which he'd revealed to me the secrets of Procrustics, Inc., it was only to draw me out, that was why he'd used those words which threw me into such confusion at the time. Perhaps he thought that they were passwords—for initiation into some antipsychem conspiracy? My private fear of hallucination he read as a tactical move, a gambit… Yes, it was indeed too late for explanations, particularly now that the cards were on the table.

  "You were waiting for me here?" I asked.

  "Of course. With all your initiative and enterprise we were in full control throughout. No unmonitored rebellion can be permitted to threaten the status quo."

  The old man dying in the corridor—it dawned on me—he too had been a part of the system of barriers that led me here…

  "A nice status quo," I said. "And you're in charge, I suppose? Congratulations."

  "Save your sarcasm for a more suitable occasion!" he hissed. I had succeeded in touching on a sore point. He was annoyed.

  "All this time you've been looking for some 'diabolical plot.' Well, let me tell you, my fine feathered defrostee, let me satisfy your curiosity here and now—there's no such thing. It doesn't exist. Do you understand? We keep this civilization narcotized, for otherwise it could not endure itself. That is why its sleep must not be disturbed. And that is why you will be returned to it. Oh there's nothing to fear—for you, this will be not only painless, but pleasurable. Our lot is far more difficult; we must remain awake, to watch over you."

  "A noble sacrifice," I said. "For the common good, no doubt."

  "If you value your almighty freedom of thought," he said coldly, "then I would advise you to drop these snide remarks, for you'll only have to part with it that much sooner."

  "Very well then. You have something else to tell me? I'm listening."

  "At this moment I am the only man in the whole state, besides yourself, who can see! What am I wearing on my face?" he suddenly asked, as if to trap me.

  "Sunglasses."

  "Then you see as well as I!" he said. "The chemist who provided Trottelreiner with those antidotes has returned to the bosom of society and no longer harbors the least suspicion. No one must suspect. Surely you can understand that."

  "Wait a minute," I said. "It really matters to you, doesn't it, that I be convinced? But—but why?"

  "Soothseers aren't monsters!" he answered. "We are prisoners of the situation, backed into a corner, forced to play out the hand that history has dealt us. We bring peace and contentment in the only way remaining. We hold in precarious balance that which without us would plunge into the throes of universal agony. We are the last Atlas of this world. And if it must perish, let it at least not suffer. If the truth cannot be altered, let us at least conceal it. This is the last humanitarian act, the last moral obligation."

  "Then nothing can be done? Nothing at all?" I asked.

  "The year is 2098," he said, "with 69 billion inhabitants legally registered and approximately another 26 billion in hiding. The average annual temperature has fallen four degrees. In fifteen or twenty years there will be glaciers here. We have no way of averting or halting their advance—we can only keep them secret."

  "I always thought there would be ice in hell," I said. "And so you paint the gates with pretty pictures?"

  "Exactly," he said. "We are the last Samaritans. Someone had to speak to you from this place—it happens that I am that man."

  "Yes, I seem to recall: ecce homo!" I said. "But wait … now I see what it is you're after. You want to make a believer of me, you want me to accept your role of—of eschatological anesthetist. When there's no bread—let them eat opium! But I don't understand why you're so bent on my conversion, which in any event I'm to forget completely. If the methods you employ are good, then what's the point of all this reasoning and argument? A few drops of credendium, a single squirt in the eyes, and I applaud your every word with enthusiasm, you have my full approval, my esteem. If those methods are good. Yet apparently you yourself are not convinced of their worth, preferring simple, old-fashioned hot air and rhetoric, wasting words on me instead of reaching for the atomizer! Apparently you're well aware that the triumph of psychem is a sham, and that you will be standing on the field alone, a conqueror with a bad case of heartburn. Yes, you wanted to win me over, then cast me off into oblivion, but it won't work. I say to hang with your lofty mission, and those whores on the wall who soften the burden of your saviorhood. You like them the good old way, I take it, without bristles?"

  His face was twisted with rage. He jumped up, shouting: "I have other drugs besides the heavenly delights! There are also chemical infernos!"

  I stood up too. He was reaching for the button on his desk when I cried, "We'll go together!"—and leaped for his throat. The momentum carried us—as I had planned—to the open window. Then there were footsteps and iron hands trying to pull me from him, while he writhed and kicked, but we were on the sill now, I was pushing him, bending him back, gathering the last of my strength, leaping; the air whistled in our ears, we went head over heels, still grappling, the spinning funnel of the street rushed up—I readied myself for a bone-crushing blow but the impact, when it came, was soft, black waves surging up and the stinking, blessed waters closing over my head, then opening again. I surfaced in the middle of the sewer, wiping my eyes, gulping, choking on the foul swill but happy, happy! Professor Trottelreiner, roused from his slumber by my ungodly howls, leaned out over the edge of the platform and offered me—like a brotherly hand—the handle of his tightly wound umbrella. The thunder of the LTN bombs was dying down. The Hilton managers were all spread out in a row on their inflatable reclining chairs (inflatable-inflagrantable, the concuballoons!), and the secretaries were carrying on most provocatively in their sleep. Jim Stantor, snoring, turned over on his side and nearly smothered a rat that was nibbling at the chocolate in his pocket—both were frightened. Meanwhile Professor Dringenbaum, that methodical Swiss, was squatting next to the wall and by the yellowish glow of the flashlight making corrections in his paper with a fountain pen. Then it occurred to me that this intense activity of his was heralding the beginning of the second day of deliberations of the Futurological Congress, and I burst into such violent laughter, that the manuscript slipped from his hands, hit the dark
water with a splash, and floated away—off into the unknown future.