The Futurological Congress

(from the memoirs of Ijon Tichy)

translated from the Polish by Michael Kandel

The Eighth World Futurological Congress was held in Costa Rica. To tell the truth, I never would have gone to Nounas if it hadn't been for Professor Tarantoga, who gave me clearly to understand that this was expected of me. He also said-pointedly-that space travel nowadays was an escape from the problems of Earth. That is, one took off for the stars in the hope that the worst would happen and be done with in one's absence. And indeed I couldn't deny that more than once I had peered anxiously out the porthole-especially when returning from a long voyage-to see whether or not our planet resembled a burnt potato. So I didn't argue the point with Tarantoga, but only remarked that, really, I wasn't much of an expert on futurology. His reply was that hardly anyone knows a thing about pumping, and yet we don't stand idly by when we hear the cry of "Man the pumps!"

The directors of the Futurological Association had chosen Costa Rica to be the site of their annual meeting, which this year was to deal exclusively with the population explosion and possible methods of keeping it in check. Costa Rica presently boasts the highest rate of demographic growth in the world; presumably the force of that reality alone was to help spur our deliberations to some successful conclusion. Though there were cynics who observed that only the new Hilton in Nounas had vacancies enough to accommodate all the futurologists, not to mention twice again as many reporters. Inasmuch as this hotel was completely demolished in the course of our conference, I can't be accused of making a plug when I say that the place was absolutely first-rate. These words have particular weight, coming from a confirmed sybarite; for indeed, it was only a sense of duty that had driven me to forsake the comforts of home for the travail of outer space.

The Costa Rica Hilton soared one hundred and six floors upward from its flat, four-story base. On the roof of this lower structure were tennis courts, swimming pools, solariums, racetracks, merry-go-rounds (which simultaneously served as roulette wheels), and shooting galleries where you could fire at absolutely anyone you liked-in effigy-provided you put in your order twenty-four hours in advance, and there were concert amphitheaters equipped with tear gas sprinklers in case the audience got out of hand. I was given a room on the hundredth floor; from it I could see only the top of the bluish brown cloud of smog that coiled about the city. Some of the hotel furnishings puzzled me-the ten-foot crowbar propped up in a corner of the jade and jasper bathroom, for example, or the khaki camouflage cape in the closet, or the sack of hardtack under the bed. Over the tub, next to the towels, hung an enormous spool of standard Alpine rope, and on the door was a card which I first noticed when I went to triple-lock the super-yale. It read: "This Room Guaranteed BOMB-FREE. From the Management."

It is common knowledge that there are two kinds of scholar these days: the stationary and the peripatetic. The stationaries pursue their studies in the traditional way, while their restless colleagues participate in every sort of international seminar and symposium imaginable. The scholar of this second type may be readily identified: in his lapel he wears a card bearing his name, rank and home university, in his pocket sticks a flight schedule of arrivals and departures, and the buckle on his belt-as well as the snaps on his briefcase-are plastic, never metal, so as not to trigger unnecessarily the alarms of the airport scanners that search boarding passengers for weapons. Our peripatetic scholar keeps up with the literature of his field by studying in buses, waiting rooms, planes and hotel bars. Since I was-naturally enough-unacquainted with many of the recent customs of Earth, I set off alarms in the airports of Bangkok, Athens and Costa Rica itself, having six amalgam fillings in my mouth. These I was planning to replace with porcelain in Nounas, but the events that followed so unexpectedly made that quite impossible. As for the Alpine rope, the crowbar, the hardtack and the camouflage cape, one of the members of the American delegation of futurologists patiently explained to me that today's hotels take safety precautions unknown in earlier times. Each of the above items, when included in the room, significantly increases the life expectancy of the occupant. How foolish it was of me, not to have taken those words more seriously!

The sessions were scheduled to begin in the afternoon of the first day, and that morning we all received complete programs of the conference; the materials were handsomely printed up, elegantly bound, with numerous charts and illustrations. I was particularly intrigued by a booklet of embossed sky-blue coupons, each stamped: "Good for One Intercourse."

Present-day scientific conventions, obviously, also suffer from the population explosion. Since the number of futurologists grows in proportion to the increase in magnitude of all humanity, their meetings are marked by crowds and confusion. The oral presentation of papers is quite out of the question; these have to be read in advance. Though there wasn't time for reading anything that morning-the Management treated us all to free drinks. This little ceremony took place without incident, barring the fact that a few rotten tomatoes were thrown at the United States contingent. I was sipping my Martini when I learned from Jim Stantor, a well-known UPI reporter, that a consul and a grade-three attachß of the American Embassy in Costa Rica had been kidnapped at dawn. The abductors were demanding the release of all political prisoners in exchange for the diplomats. To show they meant business, these extremists had already delivered individual teeth of their hostages to the Embassy and various government offices, promising an anatomical escalation. Still, this contretemps did not mar the cordial atmosphere of our morning get-together. The United States ambassador himself was there, and gave a short speech on the need for international cooperation-short, as he was surrounded by six muscular plainclothesmen who kept their guns trained on us all the time. I was rather disconcerted by this, especially when the dark-skinned delegate from India standing next to me had to wipe his nose and reached for the handkerchief in his back pocket. The official spokesman for the Futurological Association assured me afterwards that the measures taken had been both necessary and humane. Bodyguards now employ weapons of high caliber and low penetration, the kind security agents carry on board passenger flights in order that innocent bystanders not be harmed. In the old days it often happened that the bullet which felled the would-be assassin would subsequently pass through five or even six persons who, though minding their own business, were standing directly behind him. Still, the sight of a man at your side crumpling to the floor under heavy fire is not among the most pleasant, even if it is the result of a simple misunderstanding, which ends with an exchange of diplomatic notes and official apologies.

But rather than attempt to settle the thorny question of humanitarian ballistics, perhaps I ought to explain why I was unable, all that day, to familiarize myself with the conference materials. So then, after hurriedly changing my blood-spattered shirt, I went to the hotel bar for breakfast, which usually I do not do. My custom is to eat a soft-boiled egg in the morning, but the hotel hasn't yet been built where you can have one sent up to your room that isn't revoltingly cold. This is due, no doubt, to the continually expanding size of metropolitan hotels. If a mile and a half separates the kitchen from your room, nothing will keep that yolk warm. As far as I know, the Hilton experts did study the problem; they came to the conclusion that the only solution would be special dumbwaiters moving at supersonic speeds, but obviously sonic booms in an enclosed area would burst everyone's eardrums. Of course you could always have the automatic cook send the eggs up raw and the automatic bellhop soft-boil them right in your room, except that that would eventually lead to people coming in and out with their own chicken coops. And thus I headed for the bar.

More than ninety-five percent of a hotel's guests are there for some conference or convention. The individual tourist, the single guest without a card in his lapel and briefcase stuffed with programs and memoranda, is as rare as a pearl in the desert. Besides our own group in Costa Rica, there was the Plenary Council of Student Protest Veterans, the Convention of Publishers of Liberated Literature, and the Phillumenist Society (matchbook collectors). As a rule, members of an organization are given rooms on the same floor, but the Management, apparently wishing to honor me, offered me one on the hundredth. It had its own palm tree grove, in which an all-girl orchestra played Bach while performing a cleverly choreographed striptease. I could have done quite well without all this, but unfortunately there were no other vacancies, so I was obliged to stay where they put me. Scarcely had I taken a seat at the bar on my floor when a broad-shouldered individual with a jet-black beard (a beard that read like a menu of all the past week's meals) unslung his heavy, double-barreled gun, stuck the muzzle right beneath my nose and asked, with a coarse laugh, how I liked his papalshooter. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but knew better than to admit it. The safest thing in such situations is to remain silent. And indeed, the next moment he confided in me that this high-powered repeater piece of his, equipped with a laser-finding telescopic sight, triple-action trigger and self-loader, was custom-made for killing popes. Talking continually, he pulled a folded photo from his pocket, a picture of himself taking careful aim at a mannequin in a robe and zucchetto. He had become an excellent shot, he said, and was now on his way to Rome, prepared for a great pilgrimage-to gun down the Holy Father at St. Peter's Basilica. I didn't believe a word of it, but then, still chattering away, he showed me, in turn, his airplane ticket, reservation, tourist missal, a pilgrim's itinerary for American Catholics, as well as a pack of cartridges with a cross carved on the head of each bullet. To economize he'd purchased a one-way ticket only, for he fully expected the enraged worshippers to tear him limb from limb-the prospect of which appeared to put him in the best possible humor. I immediately assumed that this was either a madman or a professional terrorist-fanatic (we have no lack of them these days), but again I was mistaken. Talking on and on, though he repeatedly had to climb off the high bar stool, for his weapon kept slipping to the floor, he revealed to me that actually he was a devout and loyal Catholic; the act which he had carefully planned-he called it "Operation P"-would be a great personal sacrifice, for he wished to jolt the conscience of the world, and what could provide a greater jolt than a deed of such extremity? He would be doing exactly what according to Scripture Abraham had been commanded to do to Isaac, except in reverse, as he would be slaying not a son, but a father, and a holy one at that. At the same time, he explained to me, he would attain the utmost martyrdom of which a Christian was capable, for his body would suffer terrible torment and his soul eternal damnation-all to open the eyes of mankind. "Really," I thought, "we have too many of these eye-opening enthusiasts." Unconvinced by his arguments, I excused myself and went to save the Pope-that is, to notify someone of this plot-but Stantor, whom I bumped into on the 77th floor bar, told me, without even hearing me out, that among the gifts offered to Hadrian XI by the last group of American tourists there had been two time bombs and a cask containing-not sacramental wine, but nitroglycerin. I understood Stantor's indifference a little better when I heard that the local guerrillas had recently mailed a foot to the Embassy, though as yet it was uncertain whose. In the middle of our conversation they called him to the phone; it seemed that someone on the Avenida Romana had just set fire to himself in protest. The bar on the 77th had an entirely different atmosphere than the one up on mine: there were plenty of barefoot girls in waist-length fishnet dresses, some with sabres at their sides; a number of them had long braids fastened, in the latest fashion, to neck bands or spiked collars. I wasn't sure whether these were lady phillumenists or perhaps secretaries belonging to the Association of Liberated Publishers-though most likely it was the latter, judging from the color prints they were passing around. I went down nine floors to where our futurologists were staying, and in the bar there had a drink or two with Alphonse Mauvin of Agence France-Presse; for the last time I tried to save the Pope, but Mauvin received my story with stoicism, observing that only last month a certain Australian pilgrim had opened fire in the Vatican, albeit on entirely different ideological grounds. Mauvin was hoping for an interview with one Manuel Pyrhullo. This Pyrhullo was wanted by the FBI, Süreté, Interpol, and a variety of other police organizations. It seems he had started a business which offered the public a new kind of service: that is, he hired himself out as a specialist-consultant on revolution through explosives (he was generally known under the pseudonym of "Dr. Boom"). Pyrhullo took great pride in the fact that his work was wholly nonpartisan. A pretty redhead wearing something that resembled a nightgown riddled with bullet holes approached our table; sent by the guerrillas, she was supposed to conduct a reporter to their headquarters. Mauvin, as he followed her out, handed me one of Pyrullo's fliers, from which I learned that it was high time to dispense with the bungling of irresponsible amateurs who couldn't tell dynamite from melinite, or fulminate mercury from a simple Bickford fuse. In these days of high specialization, the advertisement read, one attempted nothing on one's own, but placed one's trust in the expertise and integrity of certified professionals. On the back of the flier was a list of services, with prices given in the currencies of the world's most advanced and civilized nations.

Just then the futurologists began to congregate in the bar, but one of them, Professor Mashkenasus, ran in pale and trembling, claiming there was a time bomb in his room. The bartender, evidently accustomed to such episodes, automatically shouted "Hit the deck!" and dived under the counter. But the hotel detectives soon discovered that some colleague had played a practical joke on the Professor, placing an ordinary alarm clock in his cookie jar. It was probably an Englishman-only they delight in such childish pranks-but the whole thing was quickly forgotten when Stantor and J. G. Howler, also from UPI, came in with the text of a memo from the United States government to the government of Costa Rica with regard to the matter of the kidnapped diplomats. The language of it was typical of all such official communiques; neither teeth nor feet were named. Jim told me that the local authorities might resort to drastic measures; General Apollon Diaz was currently in power and leaned toward the position of the hawks, which was to meet force with force. The proposal had already been made at Parliament (which stood in permanent emergency session) to counterattack: to pull twice the number of teeth from the political prisoners the abductors were demanding and mail them poste restante, as the address of guerrilla headquarters was unknown. The air edition of the New York Times ran an editorial (Schultzberger) calling for common sense and the solidarity of the human species. Stantor informed me in strictest confidence that the government had commandeered a train carrying secret military supplies- United States property-through Costa Rican territory on the way to Peru. Somehow the guerrillas hadn't yet hit upon the idea of kidnapping futurologists, which would certainly have made better sense from their point of view, inasmuch as there were many more futurologists than diplomats available in the country.

A hundred-story hotel is an organism so vast and so comfortably isolated from the rest of the world, that news from the outside filters in as if from another hemisphere. So far the futurologists hadn't panicked; the Hilton travel desk wasn't swamped by guests making flight reservations back to the States or elsewhere. The official banquet and opening ceremonies were scheduled for two, and still I hadn't changed into my evening pajamas, so I rushed up to my room, dressed and took an elevator down to the Purple Hall on the 46th. In the foyer two stunning girls in topless togas, their bosoms tattooed with forget-me-nots and snowflakes, came over and handed me a glossy folder. Without looking at it I entered the hall, which was still empty, and gasped at the sight of the tables-not because the spread was so extremely lavish, but the trays of hors d'oeuvres, the mounds of páté, the molds, even the salad bowls, everything was arranged in the unmistakable shape of genitalia. For a moment I thought it might be my imagination, but a loudspeaker somewhere was playing a song, popular in certain circles, which began with the words: "Now to make it in the arts, publicize your private parts! Critics say you can't offend 'em with your phallus or pudendum!"

The first banqueters ambled in, gentlemen with thick beards and bushy whiskers, though they were really rather young, some in pajamas and some in nothing at all. When six waiters brought in the cake and I got a glimpse of that most indecent of desserts, there was no longer any doubt: I had accidentally strayed into the wrong hall and was sitting at the banquet for Liberated Literature. On the pretext that I couldn't find my secretary I beat a hasty retreat and took the elevator down a floor to the Purple Hall (I'd been in the Lavender), which by now was packed. My disappointment at the modesty of the reception I hid as best I could. It was a cold buffet, and there was nowhere to sit; all the chairs had been removed, so to eat anything one had to display an agility common to such occasions, particularly as there was an impossible crowd around the more substantial dishes. Senor Cuillone, a representative of the Costa Rican section of the Futurological Association, explained with an engaging smile that any sort of Lucullean abundance here would have been quite out of place, considering that a major topic of the conference was the imminent world famine facing humanity. Of course there were skeptics who said that the Association's allotments must have been cut, since only that could account for such heroic frugality. The journalists, long accustomed to doing without, busied themselves among us, seeking spot interviews with various foreign luminaries of prognostication. Instead of the United States ambassador, only the third secretary of the Embassy showed up, and with an enormous bodyguard; he was the only one wearing a tuxedo, perhaps because it would have been difficult to hide a bulletproof vest beneath a pair of pajamas. I learned that the guests from the city had been frisked in the lobby; supposedly there was already a growing pile of discovered weapons there. The meetings themselves were not to begin until five, which meant we had time to relax, so I returned to my room on the hundredth. I was terribly thirsty from the oversalted slaw, but since the bar on my floor had now been seized and occupied by the student protesters-dynamiters and their girls-and anyway one conversation with that bearded papist (or antipapist) had been quite enough-I made do with a glass of water from the bathroom sink. The next thing I knew, all the lights were out, and the telephone, no matter what number I dialed, kept connecting me with an automated recording of the story of Rapunzel. I tried to take the elevator down, but it too was out of order. The students were singing in chorus, shooting their guns in time to the music-in the other direction, I hoped. Such things happen even in the best hotels, which doesn't make them any the less aggravating, yet what perplexed me the most were my own reactions. My mood, fairly sour since that conversation with the Pope's assassin, was now improving by the minute. Groping about in my room, I overturned some furniture and chuckled indulgently in the dark; even when I cracked my knee against a suitcase it didn't diminish my feeling of good will towards all mankind. On the night table I found the remains of the brunch I'd had sent up to my room, took one of the convention folders, rolled it up and stuck it in the leftover butter, then lit it with a match: that made a sort of torch-it sputtered and smoked, but gave enough light. After all, I had more than two hours to kill, counting on at least an hour on the staircase, since the elevator wasn't working. I sat back in an armchair and observed with the greatest interest the fluctuations and changes that were taking place within me. I was cheerful, I was never happier. No end of reasons for this wonderful state of affairs came rushing to my mind. In all seriousness it seemed to me that this hotel room, plunged in Stygian darkness, filled with stench and floating ashes from a homemade torch, totally cut off from the rest of the world, with a telephone that told fairy tales-was one of the nicest places on the face of the earth. Moreover I felt an irresistible urge to pat someone on the head, or at least squeeze a hand and look long and soulfully into a pair of eyes.

I would have embraced and kissed the most implacable enemy. The butter, melting, hissed and spat, and the thought that the butter might sputter and make the flame gutter was so hilarious that I burst out laughing, though my fingers were burnt relighting the paper whenever the torch went out. In the flickering light I hummed arias from old operettas, paying no heed to the bitter smoke that made me gag, or the tears streaming down my cheeks. Standing up, I tripped and fell, crashing into a trunk on the floor; the bump on my head swelled to the size of an egg, but that only put me in a better humor (to the extent that that was possible). I giggled, choking in the searing smoke, which in no way lowered my spirits. I climbed into bed; it still hadn't been made, though this was already the afternoon. The maids responsible for such neglect-I thought of them as my very own children: nothing but sugary words and gushing baby talk came to my lips. It occurred to me that even if I were to suffocate here, that would be the most amusing, the most agreeable kind of death any man could ask for. This thought was so blatantly contrary to my nature, that it had a sobering effect. A curious dissociation arose within me. As before, my soul was filled with light and languor, an all-embracing tenderness, a love of everything that existed, while my hands simply itched to fondle and stroke someone-it didn't matter who-till in the absence of any such third person I began to caress my own cheeks and chuck myself fondly under the chin; my right hand proffered itself to my left for a hearty shake. Even the feet, trembling eagerly, wanted to join in. And yet, throughout all this, distress signals were flashing on in the depths of my being: "Something's wrong!" cried a far-off, tiny voice inside. "Careful, Ijon, watch your step, be on your guard! This good weather can't be trusted! Come now, one-two-three, snap out of it! Don't sit there sprawled like some Onassis, weeping from the smoke, a bump on your head and universal loving-kindness in your heart! It's a trap, there's treachery afoot!" Though I didn't budge an inch. Yet my throat was exceedingly dry and the blood did pound in my ears (but that was due, no doubt, to the sudden rush of happiness). Driven by a powerful thirst, I got up to get another glass of water. I was thinking about the oversalted slaw at the banquet, and that dreadful buffet, then to experiment I thought about J. W., H. C. M. and M. W., my worst enemies-and discovered that beyond an impulse to clap them on the back, give them each a friendly hug, exchange a few kind words and kindred thoughts, I felt nothing whatever towards them. Now this was truly alarming. With one hand on the nickel spigot and the other holding the empty glass, I froze. Slowly I turned the water on, filled it, raised it, and then, twisting my face in a weird grimace-I could see the struggle in the bathroom mirror-I poured it down the drain.

The water from the tap. Of course. These changes in me had begun the moment I drank it. There was something in it, clearly. Poison? But I'd never heard of any poison that would… Wait a minute! I was, after all, a steady subscriber to all the major scientific publications. In just the last issue of Science Today there had been an article on some new psychotropic agents of the group of so-called benignimizers (the N,N-dimethylpeptocryptomides), which induced states of undirected joy and beatitude. Yes, yes! I could practically see that article now. Hedonidol, Euphoril, Inebrium, Felicitine, Empathan, Ecstasine, Halcyonal and a whole spate of derivatives! Though by replacing an amino group with a hydroxyl you obtained, instead, Furiol, Antagonil, Rabiditine, Sadistizine, Dementium, Flagellan, Juggernol, and many other polyparanoidal stimulants of the group of so-called phrensobarbs (for these prompted the most vicious behavior, the lashing out at objects animate as well as inanimate-and especially powerful here were the cannibal-cannabinols and manicomimetics).

My thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing, and then the lights came on again. A voice from some assistant manager at the reception desk humbly apologized for the inconvenience, with assurances that the malfunction had been located and corrected. I opened the door to air out the room-there wasn't a sound in the hall-and stood there, dizzy from the smoke and still filled with the desire to bless and caress. I shut the door, locked it, sat in the middle of the room and struggled to get a grip on myself. It is extremely difficult to describe my state at that time. The thoughts didn't come to me as easily or coherently as they may seem written here. Every analytical reflex was as if submerged in thick syrup, wrapped and smothered in a porridge of self-satisfaction, all dripping with the honey of idiotic optimism; my soul seemed to sink into the sweetest of oozes, like drowning in rosebuds and chocolate icing; I forced myself to think only of the most unpleasant things, the bearded maniac with the double-barreled papalshooter, the licentious publisher-procurers of Liberated Literature and their Babylonian hors d'oeuvres, and, of course, J. W., W. C. and J. C. M. and a hundred other villains and snakes in the grass-only to realize, with horror, that I loved them all, forgave them everything, and (what was worse) arguments kept popping into my head, arguments that defended every sort of evil and abomination. Bursting with love for my fellow man, I felt a driving need to lend a helping hand, to do good works. Instead of psychotropic poisons I greedily thought of the widows and orphans and with what pleasure I would watch over them forevermore. Ah, how shamefully had I neglected them in the past! And the poor, and the hungry, and the sick and destitute, Good Lord! I found myself kneeling over a suitcase, frantically pulling things out to find some article of value I could give to the needy. And once again the feeble voices of alarm called out desperately from my subconscious: "Attention! Danger! It's a trick, an ambush! Fight! Bite! Parry! Thrust! Help!" I was torn in two. I felt such a sudden surge of the categorical imperative, that I wouldn't have touched a fly. A pity, I thought, that the Hilton didn't have mice or even a few spiders. How I would have pampered the dear little things! Flies, fleas, rats, mosquitoes, bedbugs-all God's beloved, lovable creations! Meanwhile I blessed the table, the lamp, my own legs. But the vestiges of reason hadn't abandoned me altogether, so with my left hand I beat at the right, which was doing all the blessing, beat it until the pain made me writhe. Now that was encouraging! Perhaps there was hope after all! Luckily the desire to do good carried with it the wish for self-mortification. For a start, I punched myself in the mouth a couple of times; my ears rang and I saw stars. Good, excellent! When the face grew numb, I began kicking myself in the shins. Fortunately I had on heavy boots, with hard heels. After the therapeutic application of several swift kicks I felt much better-that is, much worse. Tentatively I tested the thought of how it would be to kick a certain C. A. as well. That no longer lay outside the realm of possibility. My shins ached like the blazes, and yet apparently it was thanks to the self-administered injury that I was now able to imagine the same dished out to old M. W. Ignoring the pain, I kicked on and on. Sharp objects were of use here too, and I availed myself of a fork and then some pins from an unused shirt. I was making progress, but there were setbacks; in a few minutes I was ready once again to immolate myself on the altar of some higher cause, all bubbling over with honor, virtue and noblesse oblige. Though I knew full well that something had been put in the water. And then suddenly I remembered that there were sleeping pills in my suitcase-I carried them around with me but never used them, since they always left me feeling irritable and depressed. But now I took one, chewing it with a little soot-covered butter (water was out of the question, of course), then forced down two caffeine pills-to counteract the sleeping pill-then sat and waited, full of dread but also full of boundless affection, waited for the outcome of this chemical war to be waged within my organism. Love seized me as never before, I was carried to unheard-of heights of generosity. Yet the chemicals of evil apparently were beginning to resist and push back the chemicals of goodness; I was still prepared to devote my life to charitable acts, but no longer without hesitation. Of course I would have felt more secure to have been a thorough scoundrel, if only for a while.

In about a quarter of an hour it was more or less over. I took a shower, rubbed myself vigorously with a towel, now and then-just to be on the safe side-slapped myself in the face, then applied bandaids to the cuts on my shins and fingers, inspected bruises (I had beaten myself black and blue in the course of this ordeal), put on a fresh shirt, a suit, adjusted my tie in the mirror, straightened my cape. Before leaving, I gave myself one good jab in the ribs-a final test-and then was out the door, right on time too, for it was almost five. To my great surprise everything seemed normal in the hotel. The bar on my floor was practically empty; the papalshooter was still there, propped up against a table, and I noticed two pair of feet, one pair bare, sticking out from under the counter, but that hardly suggested anything out of the ordinary. A couple of student militants were playing cards off to the side, and another was strumming his guitar and singing a popular song. The lobby downstairs literally swarmed with futurologists: they were all heading for the first session of the congress (without having to leave the Hilton, of course, since a hall had been reserved for that purpose in the lower part of the building). My surprise passed when I realized, upon reflection, that in such a hotel no one ever drank the water; if thirsty, they would have a coke, or a schweppes, and in a pinch there was always juice, tea or beer, or even soda water. All beverages came bottled. And even if someone should, out of carelessness, repeat my mistake, he wouldn't be out here, but up in his room behind locked doors, rolling on the floor in the throes of universal love. I concluded that it would be best for me to make no mention of this incident-I was new here, after all, and might not be believed. They would pass it off as a hallucination. And what could be more natural nowadays than to suspect someone of a fondness for drugs?

Afterwards I was criticized for following this oysterlike (or ostrichlike) policy, the argument being that, had I brought everything out in the open, the catastrophe might have been averted. Which is nonsense: at the very most I would have alerted the hotel guests, yet what took place at the Hilton had absolutely no effect on the march of political events in Costa Rica.

On the way to the convention hall I stopped at a newsstand and bought a batch of local papers, as is my habit. I don't buy them everywhere I go, of course, but an educated man can get the gist of something in Spanish, even if he doesn't speak the language.

Above the podium stood a decorated board showing the agenda for the day. The first item of business was the world urban crisis, the second-the ecology crisis, the third-the air pollution crisis, the fourth-the energy crisis, the fifth-the food crisis. Then adjournment. The technology, military and political crises were to be dealt with on the following day, after which the chair would entertain motions from the floor.

Each speaker was given four minutes to present his paper, as there were so many scheduled-198 from 64 different countries. To help expedite the proceedings, all reports had to be distributed and studied beforehand, while the lecturer would speak only in numerals, calling attention in this fashion to the salient paragraphs of his work. To better receive and process such wealth of information, we all turned on our portable recorders and pocket computers (which later would be plugged in for the general discussion). Stan Hazelton of the U.S. delegation immediately threw the hall into a flurry by emphatically repeating: 4, 6, 11, and therefore 22; 5, 9, hence 22; 3, 7, 2, 11, from which it followed that 22 and only 22!! Someone jumped up, saying yes but 5, and what about 6, 18, or 4 for that matter; Hazelton countered this objection with the crushing retort that, either way, 22. I turned to the number key in his paper and discovered that 22 meant the end of the world. Hayakawa from Japan was next; he presented plans, newly developed in his country, for the house of the future-eight hundred levels with maternity wards, nurseries, schools, shops, museums, zoos, theaters, skating rinks and crematoriums. The blueprints provided for underground storage of the ashes of the dear departed, forty-channel television, intoxication chambers as well as sobering tanks, special gymnasiums for group sex (an indication of the progressive attitude of the architects), and catacombs for nonconformist subculture communities. One rather novel idea was to have each family change its living quarters every day, moving from apartment to apartment like chessmen-say, pawns or knights. That would help alleviate boredom. In any event this building, having a volume of seventeen cubic kilometers, a foundation set in the ocean floor and a roof that reached the very stratosphere, would possess its own matrimonial computers-matchmaking on the sadomasochistic principle, for partners of such opposite persuasions statistically made the most stable marriages (each finding in that union the answer to his or her dreams)-and there would also be a round-the-clock suicide prevention center. Hakayawa, the second Japanese delegate, demonstrated for us a working model of such a house-on a scale of 10,000 to 1. It had its own oxygen supply, but without food or water reserves, since the building would operate entirely on the recycling principle: all waste products, excreta and effluvia, would be reclaimed and reprocessed for consumption. Yahakawa, the third on the team, read a list of all the delicacies that could be reconstituted from human excrement. Among these were artificial bananas, gingerbread, shrimp, lobster, and even artificial wine which, notwithstanding its rather offensive origin, in taste rivaled the finest burgundies of France. Samples of it were available in the hall, in elegant little bottles, and there were also cocktail sausages wrapped in foil, though no one seemed to be particularly thirsty, and the sausages were discreetly deposited under chairs. Seeing which, I did the same. The original plan was to have this house of the future be mobile, by means of a powerful propeller, thereby making collective sightseeing excursions possible, but that was ruled out because, first of all, there would be 900 million houses to begin with and, secondly, all travel would be pointless. For even if a house had 1,000 exits and its occupants employed them all, they would never be able to leave the building; by the time the last was out, a whole new generation of occupants would have reached maturity inside. The Japanese were clearly delighted with their own proposal. Then Norman Youhas from the United States took the floor and outlined seven different measures to halt the population explosion, namely: mass media and mass arrests, compulsory celibacy, full-scale deeroticization, onanization, sodomization, and for repeated offenders-castration. Every married couple would be required to compete for the right to have children, passing examinations in three categories, copulational, educational and nondeviational. All illegal offspring would be confiscated; for premeditated birth, the guilty parties could face life sentences. Attached to this report were those detachable sky-blue coupons-sex rations-we had received earlier with the conference materials. Hazelton and Youhas then proposed the establishment of new occupations: connubial prosecutor, divorce counselor, perversion recruiter and sterility consultant. Copies of a draft for a new penal code, in which fertilization constituted a major felony, tantamount to high treason against the species, were promptly passed around. Meanwhile someone in the spectator gallery hurled a Molotov cocktail into the hall. The police squad (on hand in the lobby, evidently prepared for such an eventuality) took the necessary steps, and a maintenance crew (no less prepared) quickly covered the broken furniture and corpses with a large nylon tarpaulin which was decorated in a cheerful pattern. Between reports I tried to decipher the local papers, and even though my Spanish was practically nonexistent, I did learn that the government had summoned armored units to the capital, put all law enforcement agencies on extreme alert, and declared a general state of emergency. Apparently no one in the audience besides myself grasped the seriousness of the situation developing outside the hotel walls. At seven we adjourned for supper-at our expense, this time-and on my way back to the conference I bought a special evening edition of Nacion, the official newspaper, as well as a few of the opposition tabloids. Perusing these (with considerable difficulty), I was amazed to find articles full of saccharine platitudes on the theme of the tender bonds of love as the surest guarantee of universal peace-right beside articles that were full of dire threats, articles promising bloody repression or else an equally bloody insurrection. The only explanation I could think of for this peculiar incongruity was that some of the journalists had been drinking the water that day, and some hadn't. Of course less water would be consumed by the staff of a right-wing newspaper, since reactionary editors were better paid than their radical counterparts and consequently could afford to imbibe more exclusive liquids while they worked. The radicals, on the other hand, though they were known to display a certain degree of asceticism in the name of higher principles, hardly ever quenched their thirst with water. Especially since quartzupio, a fermented drink from the juice of the melmenole plant, was extremely cheap in Costa Rica.

We had settled back in our comfortable armchairs, and Professor Dringenbaum of Switzerland was just delivering the first numeral of his report, when all at once the hollow rumble of an explosion shook the building and made the windows rattle. The optimists among us passed this off as a simple earthquake, but I was inclined to think that the group of demonstrators outside that had been picketing the hotel since morning was now resorting to incendiary tactics. Though the following blast and concussion, much more powerful, changed my mind; now I could hear the familiar staccato of machine-gun fire in the streets. No, there was no longer any doubt: Costa Rica had entered into the stage of open hostilities. Our reporters were the first to disappear; at the sound of shooting they jumped to their feet and rushed out the door, eager to cover this new assignment. But Professor Dringenbaum went on with his lecture, which was fairly pessimistic in tone, for it maintained that the next phase of our civilization would be cannibalism. He cited several well-known American theoreticians, who had calculated that, if things on Earth continued at their present rate, in four hundred years humanity would represent a living sphere of bodies with a radius expanding at approximately the speed of light. But new explosions interrupted the report. The futurologists, confused, began to leave the hall and mingle in the lobby with people from the Liberated Literature convention. Judging by the appearance of these latter, the outbreak of the fighting had caught them in the middle of activity which suggested complete indifference to the threat of overpopulation. Behind some editors from the publishing house of Knopf stood naked secretaries-though not entirely naked, for their limbs were painted with various op designs. They carried portable water pipes and hookahs filled with a popular mixture of LSD, marijuana, yohimbine and opium. The liberationists, someone told me, had just burned the United States Postmaster General in effigy (it seems he had ordered the destruction of a pamphlet calling for the initiation of mass incest) and now, gathered in the lobby, they were behaving most inappropriately-particularly given the seriousness of the situation. With the exception of a few who were exhausted or remained in a narcotic stupor, they all carried on in a positively scandalous fashion. I heard screams from the reception desk, where switchboard operators were being raped, and one potbellied gentleman in a leopardskin tore through the hotel cloakroom, waving a hashish torch as he chased the attendants. It took several porters to restrain him. Then someone from the mezzanine threw armfuls of photographs down on our heads, photographs depicting in vivid color exactly how one man could satisfy his lust with another, and a great deal more besides. When the first tanks appeared in the streets-clearly visible from our windows-panic-stricken phillumenists and student protesters came pouring from the elevators; trampling underfoot the abovementioned pate mounds and salad molds (which the publishers had brought out with them), these newcomers scattered in all directions. And there was the bearded anti-papist bellowing like a bull and wildly swinging his papalshooter, knocking down anyone who stood in the way. He pushed through the crowd and ran out in front of the hotel, where he hid behind a corner of the building and-I saw this with my own eyes-opened fire on the figures running past. Obviously this dedicated, ideologically motivated fanatic really didn't care, when it came down to it, whom he shot at. The lobby, filled with cries of terror and revelry, became a scene of utter pandemonium when the huge picture windows began to shatter. I tried to locate my reporter friends and, seeing them dash up the street, followed after; the atmosphere in the Hilton had really become too oppressive. Behind a low concrete wall along the hotel driveway crouched two cameramen, frantically filming everything, which made little sense, since everyone knows that the first thing that happens on such occasions is the burning of a car with foreign license plates. Flames and smoke were already rising from the hotel parking lot. Mauvin, standing beside me, rubbed his hands and chuckled at the sight of his Dodge crackling in the blaze-he had rented it from Hertz. The majority of the American reporters, however, did not find this amusing. I noticed some people struggling to put out the fire: these were mainly old men, poorly dressed, and they were hauling water in buckets from a nearby fountain. That struck me as odd. In the distance, at the far end of the Avenida del Salvacion and the Avenida del Resurreccion, police helmets glimmered; yet the square in front of the hotel, with its surrounding lawns and luxuriant palms, was still empty. Those doddering old men, hoarsely calling to one another, quickly formed a fire brigade, in spite of their canes and crutches; such gallantry was astounding, but then I remembered what had happened earlier that day and immediately shared my suspicions with Mauvin. The rattle of machine guns and the thunder of bursting shells made it difficult to talk; for a while the Frenchman's keen face showed a total lack of comprehension, but suddenly his eyes lit up. "Aha!" he roared above the din. "The water! The drinking water! Great God, for the first time in history… cryptochemocracy!" And with these words he ran back to the hotel like one possessed. To get to a telephone, apparently. Strange though, that the lines should still be open.

I was standing there in the driveway when Professor Trottelreiner, one of the Swiss futurologists, joined me. By then the police were doing what they should have done hours ago: wearing black helmets, shields and gas masks, armed with guns and clubs, they formed a cordon around the whole Hilton complex to keep back the mob, which was just beginning to pour from the park that separated us from the city's theater district. With great skill special police units set up grenade launchers and fired these into the crowd; the explosions were remarkably weak, though they raised thick clouds of whitish smoke. At first I thought that this was tear gas, but the people, instead of fleeing and choking in fury, clearly began to huddle around the pale vapors; their shouts quickly died away, and soon I could hear them singing-they were singing hymns. The reporters, rushing back and forth between the cordon and the hotel entrance with their cameras and tape recorders, were completely mystified by this, though it was obvious to me that the police were employing some new pacification chemical, in aerosol form. But then, from the Avenida del… I can't recall which… another group of people appeared, and these were somehow unaffected by the grenades, or so it seemed. Later I was told that this group had continued advancing in order to help the police, not to attack them. Yet who could draw such subtle distinctions in that general chaos? There were several more salvos of grenades, and that was followed by the characteristic roar and hiss of a water cannon, then finally the machine guns opened up and the air was filled with the whine of bullets. They were playing for keeps now, so I ducked behind the low driveway wall, using it like the breastwork of a trench, and found myself between Stantor and Haynes of the Washington Post. In a few words I filled them in; they were furious that I had betrayed such a banner-headline secret first to an AFP man, and crawled full speed back to the hotel, only to return shortly, scowling-the lines were no longer open. But Stantor had managed to buttonhole the officer in charge of hotel defenses and learned from him that planes carrying LTN bombs (LTN: Love Thy Neighbor) were now on their way. Then we were ordered to clear the area, and all the policemen put on gas masks with special filters. We received masks too.

Professor Trottelreiner was, as luck would have it, a specialist in the field of psychotropic pharmacology, and he cautioned me not to use the gas mask under any circumstance, as it would cease to operate at sufficiently high concentrations of aerosol; this would then give rise to the so-called phenomenon of filter overload, and in an instant one could inhale a much heavier dose than if one breathed the air without the benefit of a mask. The only sure protection, he said, anticipating my question, would be a separate oxygen supply; so we went to the hotel desk, managed to catch one receptionist still on duty and found, with his assistance, a storeroom full of fire-fighting equipment, including plenty of oxygen masks: Draeger make, with closed circulation. Thus accoutered, the Professor and I returned to the street, just in time to hear the dreadful, ear-splitting whistle that announced the arrival of the first planes. As everyone knows, the Hilton was accidentally bombed with LTN minutes after the air raid commenced; the consequences of that error were disastrous. True, the LTN hit only the far wing of the building's lower structure, where display booths had been set up by the Association of Publishers of Liberated Literature, and therefore none of the hotel guests suffered immediate injury. On the other hand, the police guarding us took the full brunt of it. Paroxysms of love soon swept their ranks, assuming mass proportions. Before my eyes policemen tore the masks from their faces and, shedding copious tears of remorse, fell to their knees and begged the demonstrators for forgiveness, pushing the billy clubs into their hands with fervent pleas to be severely beaten. Following another LTN bombardment, which raised the drug's concentration even more, these minions of the law stumbled over themselves in the mad rush to kiss and hug everyone within reach. It was only several weeks after the whole tragedy that we were able, more or less, to piece together what had happened. The government had decided that morning to nip the developing revolution in the bud, so it put into the municipal water tower about 700 kilograms of bromo-benignimizer, mixing equal parts of Felicitine, Placidol and Superjubilan. The water to the police and military barracks had been shut off first, of course. Except that without the proper experts this plan was doomed to failure-the phenomenon of filter overload in the masks was not taken into account, for example, nor the fact that different social groups would consume the drinking water in radically different amounts.

The conversion of the police took place with particular violence because, as Trottelreiner explained to me, the less an individual was accustomed to following his own natural good impulses, the greater the effect of such drugs upon him. That explained why, when two planes in the next wave accidentally LTN'd the city hall, so many of the highest ranking police and military officials committed suicide, unable to endure the terrible pangs of conscience over policies they had implemented in the past. And if you add to this the fact that General Diaz himself had-before putting a bullet through his head-ordered the immediate release of all political prisoners, it is easier to understand the extraordinary ferocity of the fighting that developed in the course of the night. The airstrips, being far from the city, remained untouched, and the pilots had their orders, and followed them to the letter. Police and military observers in their hermetic bunkers, seeing what was going on, finally resorted to the extreme measures that plunged all Nounas into the chaos of total emotional derangement. Of course we had no inkling of any of this at the Hilton. It was eleven o'clock at night when the first armored divisions of the army appeared on the scene, rolling into the square surrounded by parks and palms; they had come to stifle the brotherly love rampant among the police. This they did, with considerable bloodshed. Poor Mauvin was standing a foot away from the place where a pacification grenade exploded; the force of the blast tore the fingers off his left hand as well as his left ear, but he assured me that he had never really cared for that hand in the first place and the ear wasn't worth mentioning, in fact if I liked I could have the other, and he pulled a penknife from his pocket to make good the offer; but I took the penknife gently from his hand and led him to an improvised first-aid station. There he was tended by the secretaries of the liberated publishers; now chemically converted, they were all bawling like babies. They had put on modest clothing and even wore veils, so as not to tempt anyone to sin; a few of these pitiful creatures, more strongly affected, had actually shaven their heads. On the way back from the first-aid area I had the miserable luck to run into a group of publishers. Though I didn't recognize them at first: they were dressed in old burlap bags tied around with rope (which they also used to flog themselves); crying for mercy, clamoring, they threw themselves at my feet and beseeched me to whip them properly, for they had depraved society. Imagine my surprise when, looking at these flagellants more closely, I saw that they were all from the staff of Playboy, including the editor in chief! That gentleman wouldn't let me go, so bitterly did his conscience torment him. They pulled at my sleeves, realizing that thanks to the oxygen mask I was the only one able to harm a hair on their head. I could take no more of this and gave in to their demands at last, much against my will. Soon my arms were aching, and it grew difficult to breathe-I was afraid I might not find another tank of oxygen when this one ran out-meanwhile the publishers had formed a long line, trembling with impatience for their turn. Finally, to get rid of them, I told them to pick up all those enormous color posters that had been thrown into the lobby by the LTN explosions in the wing of the Hilton, that made the place look like Sodom and Gomorrah twice over; following my instructions, they put the posters in a huge pile out in front of the hotel and burned them. Unfortunately an artillery unit stationed in the park took the bonfire for some kind of signal and opened up on us. I left as quickly as I could, only to bump into one Harvey Simsworth in the basement. This was a writer who had hit upon the lucrative idea of turning fairy tales into hardcore pornography (he: was the author of Ali Baba and the Forty Perverts), then made another fortune by rewriting the classics of world literature (works like King Leer); he employed the simple device: of revealing the "secret sex life" of all the traditional tales-for example, what Snow White really did with the seven dwairfs, what Jack did with Jill, what Aladdin did with his lamp, etc., etc. I tried to beg off, explaining that my arm was tired. In that case-he shouted, sobbing-I could at least kiick him. What could I do? It was heartless to refuse. Later, (completely worn out by these exertions, I dragged myself back to the room with the fire extinguishers, where luckily I found a couple more unused cylinders of oxygen. Professor Trottelreiner was there, seated on a coil of fire hose; he was reading the futurological articles, glad to have found a little free time in the professional hustle and bustle of attending conferences. Meanwhile the LTN bombs continued to fall thick and fast. The Professor advised that in severe cases of lovestroke-and especially serious was an attack of universal good will, accompanied by petting convulsions-poultices should be applied, as well as heavy doses of castor oil in alternation with the pumping of the stomach.

In the newsroom Stantor Wooley (from the Herald), Sharkey and Kuntze (a photographer working temporarily for Paris-Match) were playing cards with masks on their faces. Since the lines were out, they had nothing better to do. I began to watch, but Joe Missinger, an important American journalist, burst in yelling that the police had been given tablets of Furiol to counteract the benignimizers. We understood at once what that meant and ran for the basement, but it turned out to be another false rumor. So we went outside to look around; I made the dismal discovery that our hotel was missing its top twenty or thirty floors; my room, along with everything in it, was lost in a mountain of rubble. Flames filled three quarters of the sky. A burly policeman in a helmet was chasing some youth, roaring: "Stop, stop for God's sake, I love you!"-but the youth ignored these exhortations. Things had quieted down somewhat, and the reporters, driven by their professional urge to investigate, cautiously headed for the park. I went along. There were a variety of religious services in progress, black masses and white, with the secret police participating conspicuously. Nearby stood a large crowd of people weeping and tearing their hair; they were holding over their heads an enormous sign which read, SPIT ON US, WE ARE INFORMERS! Judging by the number of these penitent Judases, it must have cost the government plenty to maintain them-funds which might have been better spent improving the economic situation in Costa Rica. Back at the Hilton we saw another crowd. Police dogs, behaving more like friendly Saint Bernards, were trotting out bottles of the most expensive liquor from the hotel bar and distributing them indiscriminately. In the bar itself policemen and protesters, arms around one another, took turns singing patriotic and revolutionary songs. I tried the basement, but couldn't endure all the converting and cavorting going on in there, so I went to the room with the fire extinguishers to talk to Professor Trottelreiner. To my surprise, he had found three partners and was playing bridge. Quetzalcoatl, a graduate student, trumped his ace; this so angered the Professor that he left the table in a huff. Just then Sharkey stuck his head in the door and announced that he had caught General Aquillo's speech on the radio: they were going to crush the rebellion by dropping conventional bombs on the city. After a brief council of war we decided to retreat to the lowest level of the Hilton, which was an underground sewer system. The hotel kitchen having been totally demolished, there was nothing to eat; hungry demonstrators, phillumenists and publishers stuffed themselves with the chocolate lozenges, aspics and other morsels they had discovered in the abandoned centro erotico at the corner of the hotel wing. I saw how their faces changed when the sexual stimulants contained in those comestibles began to mix in their veins with the benignimizers. One shuddered to think where this chemical escalation might lead. I saw the pairing off of futurologists with Indian bootblacks, I saw secret agents in the arms of hotel janitors, and enormous sleek rats fraternizing with cats-while the police dogs licked everyone and everything in sight. Our progress was slow and difficult, for we had to push our way through a heavy crowd, and I was bringing up the rear, struggling with half the oxygen tanks on my back. Patted, kissed on the arms and legs, fondled and adored, smothered by hugs and squeezes, I stubbornly plowed ahead, until I heard Stantor shout in triumph: he'd found the entrance to the sewers! Exerting the last of our strength, we moved aside the heavy manhole cover and lowered ourselves one by one into the concrete well. I held Professor Trottelreiner, whose foot had slipped on a rung of the iron ladder, and asked him if he'd ever imagined the convention turning out like this. Instead of answering, he tried to kiss my hand, which immediately aroused my suspicions; his mask had been knocked loose, as it turned out, causing him to swallow some of the drug-contaminated air. Without delay we applied physical torture, forced him to breathe pure oxygen, and read Hayakawa's report aloud-that was Howler's idea. The Professor finally came to his senses, of which he gave ample evidence by a series of pungent oaths, and we were able to continue on our way. Suddenly in the dim beam of our flashlight we saw the dark wall of the sewer covered with patches of oil; this was a most welcome sight, for now thirty feet of earth separated us from the surface of the LTN'd city. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that we had not been the first to think of this haven. There on the concrete platform sat, in full assembly, the management of the Hilton; these prudent officials had provided themselves with inflatable reclining chairs from the hotel pool, transistor radios, plenty of scotch and bourbon, and an ample picnic lunch. Since they too were wearing oxygen masks, there was little chance, if any, that they would willingly share their provisions with us. But we assumed a threatening attitude and managed to convince them (they were outnumbered anyway). And so with a little arm-twisting full agreement was reached, and we all sat down to dine on cold lobster. This meal, unscheduled and unforeseen in the program, concluded the first day of the futurological congress.

Quite exhausted by the stormy events of the day, we settled down for the night in more than Spartan circumstances, considering that we were obliged to sleep on a narrow concrete platform that bore the unmistakable traces of the sewer. The first problem that arose was to divide up fairly the reclining chairs, which the hotel directors had so thoughtfully brought with them. There were six chairs, accommodating twelve persons, for the six-membered management team had planned to share this bedding (in the spirit of camaraderie) with its private secretaries; while those of us who had entered the sewer under Stantor's leadership numbered twenty. That included the futurological group of Professors Dringenbaum, Hazelton and Trottelreiner, several reporters and television commentators from CBS, and two individuals enlisted along the way, a muscular man in a leather jacket and riding boots (no one knew who he was) and little Josephine Collins, girl Friday to the editor of Playboy. Stantor evidently intended to profit from her chemical conversion; he had already gotten her to agree, so I heard, to sign over the first rights to her memoirs. With six chairs and thirty-odd applicants, the situation became explosive. We lined up on either side of these makeshift beds and glowered at one another, to the extent that one can glower in an oxygen mask. Somebody proposed that on the count of three we all remove our masks; in that way, obviously, everyone would be overcome with altruism, and there would then be no contention. However, no one seemed particularly anxious to put this plan into action. After a great deal of bickering we finally reached a compromise: we would draw lots and sleep in three-hour shifts. For lots we used those booklets of sky-blue copulation coupons some of us still carried on our person. It turned out that I got the first shift, along with Professor Trottelreiner, who was a bit more gaunt and angular than I would have liked, since we had to sleep together in the same bed, or rather chair. The ones who were next woke us roughly, and while they made themselves comfortable in our place we squatted at the edge of the sewer and nervously checked the pressure in our cylinders. The oxygen wouldn't last more than a few hours, that much was clear. The grim prospect of becoming benignimized seemed inevitable. Gloom descended upon us. Knowing that I had already had a taste of that state of bliss, my companions anxiously inquired how it felt. I assured them that it wasn't so bad really, but I spoke without conviction. Sleep overpowered us; to keep from falling into the sewer we tied ourselves, with whatever we could, to the iron rungs beneath the manhole. Dozing fitfully, I was awakened by the sound of an explosion far more powerful than anything yet; I looked around in the darkness-all the flashlights but one had been turned off, to conserve the batteries. Enormous sleek rats trotted by along the edge of the sewer. The odd thing was that they were walking single file, and on their hind legs. I pinched myself, but no, it wasn't a dream. I woke Professor Trottelreiner and showed him this phenomenon; he didn't know what to make of it. The rats were now walking in pairs, completely ignoring our presence; at least they weren't attempting to lick us, which the Professor considered a good sign, since it indicated that in all probability the air was clean. Cautiously we removed our masks. Both journalists on my right were sleeping soundly while the rats continued to promenade on two legs, but then the Professor and I sneezed, something was tickling our nostrils-the sewer stench, I thought at first, until I noticed the roots. I bent over to look at my feet. There was no mistake, I was sending out roots all right-from the knees down, more or less-and turning green above. And now my arms were sprouting buds, which opened quickly, unfolding before my very eyes. It's true the leaves were rather pale, but that is usually the case with plants grown underground. I had the feeling that any minute I should start bearing fruit. I wanted to ask Trottelreiner what he thought of this, but had to raise my voice, he was rustling so much. The sleepers meanwhile resembled a clipped hedge strewn with lilac and scarlet flowers. The rats nibbled at the foliage, smoothed their whiskers with their paws, and grew even larger. A little more, I thought, and one might ride them. Like a tree I yearned for the sun. As if from a great distance intermittent thunder reached my ears, something was falling gently, there was a rumbling, like echoes in corridors, and I turned red, then gold, then finally my leaves flew away in the wind. What-I wondered, surprised-was it autumn already?

If so, then it was time to be off; I pulled up roots and cocked an ear. Ah yes, there were the trumpets sounding. A rat with a saddle-a truly remarkable specimen, for a rodent-turned its head and, blinking its heavy, slanting lids, looked at me with the mournful eyes of Professor Trottelreiner. I hesitated, struck by a sudden doubt; if this was the Professor with the features of a rat, it would hardly be proper to mount him; on the other hand if this was merely a rat that bore some resemblance to the Professor, there was nothing to worry about. But the trumpets were sounding again, so I leaped into the saddle-and fell in the sewer. The foul water restored me to my senses at last. Shuddering with disgust and indignation, I crawled back onto the platform. The rats reluctantly made room for me. They were still walking about on two legs. But of course-it dawned on me-hallucinogens! If I could think I was a tree, why couldn't they think they were people? Hurriedly I groped around for my oxygen mask, found it, put it on, breathing in however with some misgiving, for how could I be sure that it was a real mask, and not an illusion?

Suddenly there was light all around me; I raised my head and saw that the manhole was open; an American sergeant was holding out his hand.

"Come on!" he yelled. "Come on!"

"What, have the helicopters arrived?!" I jumped to my feet.

"Quickly!" he yelled. "There's not a second to lose!"

The others were up now too. I climbed the ladder.

"It's about time!" Stantor wheezed beneath me.

Outside the sky was bright with fire. I looked-no helicopters, only a few soldiers in helmets and dressed like paratroopers. They handed us some kind of harness.

"What is it?" I asked, confused.

"Quickly, quickly!" yelled the sergeant.

The soldiers began to saddle me with the thing. "I'm hallucinating!" I thought.

"Not at all," said the sergeant. "These are jump holsters, our individual rocket carriers, the fuel tank's in the backpack. Here, grab this." And he shoved some kind of lever into my hand, while a soldier standing behind me tightened the shoulder straps and belt. "There!"

The sergeant clapped me on the back and pushed a button. There was a long, piercing whistle and white smoke poured from the pack's nozzle, enveloping my legs. In an instant I was borne into the air like a feather.

"But I don't know how to steer it!" I shouted as I soared up into the flickering, blazing night.

"You'll learn!" called the sergeant from below. "Take your azimuth-from-the-Nooorth-Staaar!!"

I looked down. I was flying over the gigantic pile of rubble which not too long ago had been the Hilton. Near it was a tiny cluster of people, and farther on a bursting blood-red ring of fire that silhouetted some object, small and round-it was Professor Trottelreiner blasting off, his umbrella open. I checked to see if my straps and buckles were holding properly. The power pack gurgled, clanged, hissed, the propelling column of steam began to burn my calves, so I drew up my knees as far as possible, but this made me lose stability and for a full minute I was spinning in the air like a lopsided top. But then without thinking I clutched at the lever, which must have changed the direction of the jets, because the next thing I knew I was horizontal and cruising comfortably, even pleasantly-though it would have been a lot more enjoyable had I had the least idea of where I was going. I maneuvered the lever, trying at the same time to, take in the whole scene that lay below. Ruins of buildings, like dark fangs, stood outlined against rising walls of flame. Thin filaments of fire-blue, red, green-came rushing up from the ground to meet me, went screaming by, and I realized that I was being shot at. Quickly as I could, I pushed the lever. The power pack coughed and whined like a broken boiler, it scalded my legs and hurled me head over heels into pitch-black space. The wind whistled in my ears, I felt the wallet, penknife and other odds and ends slip out of my pockets, and tried to dive after them, but they had vanished from sight. Alone beneath the silent stars, still hissing, sputtering, clanging, I flew on. I looked for the North Star, to get my bearings, but by the time I'd found it the power pack gave a last gasp and down I went like a stone, picking up speed. By the greatest stroke of luck, just above the ground-I could see a pale, winding highway, shadows of trees, some rooftops-an unexpected spurt from the nozzle broke my fall enough to let me land, and quite softly too, on the grass. Someone lay in a ditch nearby and groaned. It would be strange indeed, I thought, if that was the Professor! And yet it really was he. I helped him up. He felt himself all over, complaining that he'd lost his glasses. Though otherwise he seemed all right. He asked me to assist him in removing his pack. He crouched over it and pulled out something from a side pocket-steel tubes and a wheel.

"And now yours… "

From my pack too he took a wheel, fiddled awhile and finally cried:

"Hop on! Let's go!"

"What is it? Where are we going?" I asked, amazed.

"A tandem bicycle. To Washington," the Professor laconically replied, his foot already on the pedal.

"I'm hallucinating!" flashed through my mind.

"Nonsense!" huffed Trottelreiner. "It's standard paratroop equipment."

"All right, but how are you such an expert on this?" I asked, climbing onto the back seat. The Professor kicked off and we drove along the grass to where the asphalt began.

"I work for the USAF!" he said, pedaling like mad.

Now as far as I could recall, Peru and Mexico lay between us and Washington, not to mention Panama.

"We'll never make it by bicycle!" I shouted against the wind.

"Only to the rendezvous point!" the Professor shouted back.

Was he then not the simple futurologist he seemed? Oh, what had I gotten myself into this time? Something big, no doubt… And anyway, what business did I have in Washington? I started to brake.

"What are you doing?" growled the Professor, hunched over the handlebars. "Keep going!"

"No, I'm getting off!" I said, my mind made up.

The bicycle slowed and came to a stop. The Professor, putting a foot on the ground to support himself, showed me the surrounding darkness with a sarcastic sweep of the hand. "As you wish. Good hunting!" And he was on his way again. "Thanks for everything!" I called out after him as the red glow of his taillight vanished in the night. Thoroughly disoriented, I sat on a milepost to gather my thoughts.

Something was jabbing me in the calf. Absent-mindedly I reached down and, feeling some branches, began to break them off. It hurt. "If those are my branches," I told myself, "then this is definitely still a hallucination!" I was bending over to see, when a bright beam hit me in the face. Silver headlights came swerving around the corner, the enormous shadow of a car pulled up, and a door swung open. Inside-blue, green, golden rows of lights flashing on a dashboard, a pair of shapely legs in nylons, alligator slippers resting on the accelerator, a dark face with crimson lips turned in my direction, and sparkling diamonds on the fingers that held the steering wheel.

"Need a lift?"

I got in. I was so stunned that I had forgotten about the branches. Secretly I ran a hand along my legs. They were only twigs.

"What, already?" she asked in a low, sensuous voice.

"What do you mean?" I said, completely at a loss.

She shrugged. The powerful car surged forward, the lighted strip of road rushed towards us out of the darkness; she pushed a button and a lively tune flowed from under the dashboard. And yet, I thought, it didn't fit somehow. It didn't make sense. True, they weren't branches, only twigs. But even so!

I looked her over. She was beautiful all right, beautiful in a way that was at once seductive, demonic, and raspberry. But instead of a skirt she had feathers. Ostrich? Was I hallucinating?… Women's fashions being what they were, I didn't know what to think. The road was deserted; we tore along until the needle on the speedometer leaned all the way to the right. Suddenly a hand from behind clutched my hair. I jumped. But the long nails were clawing the back of my neck affectionately rather than with murderous intent.

"Who's that?" I tried to pull free, but couldn't. "Let go of me, please!"

Lights flickered up ahead, a big house loomed, gravel crunched beneath our tires, then the car made a sharp turn, drew up to a curb and stopped.

The hand that still held me by the hair belonged to another woman; she was pale, slender, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. The car door flew open.

"Where are we?" I asked.

Without a word they pounced and, with the one at the wheel pushing and the other-already on the sidewalk-pulling, I was forced from the car. There was a party going on in the house, I heard music, drunken shouts, and the fountain near the driveway ran yellow and purple in the light of the windows. My companions took me firmly by the arms.

"But I really don't have the time," I muttered.

They paid no attention. The one in black leaned over and whispered, her hot breath in my ear:

"Hoo!"

"I beg your pardon?"

By now we were at the door; they both began to laugh, apparently at me. Everything about them was repulsive, and besides that, they were growing smaller. Kneeling? No, their legs were covered with feathers. "Aha!" I said to myself, not without relief. "Then it is a hallucination after all!"

"Hallucination, is it?" snorted the one in the sunglasses. She raised her handbag beaded with black pearls and hit me over the head. I groaned.

"I'll give you a hallucination, dungbutt!" screamed the other, and dealt me a savage blow in the very same place. I fell, covering my head with my arms. I opened my eyes. Professor Trottelreiner was bending over me, his umbrella in his hand. I was lying on the sewer platform. The rats were walking in pairs as if nothing had happened.

"Where, where does it hurt you?" inquired the Professor. "Here?"

"No, here… " I showed him the lump on my head.

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, the 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… "