The Futurological Congress

"I-?"

"Your brain, that is."

"Then who is this? I mean, was?" I said, indicating myself.

"One of those demonstrators. A leader, most likely. Didn't know how to handle fuses, ended up with a piece of shrapnel in his brain, I understand. And then, well… " Trottelreiner gave a shrug with my shoulders.

I shuddered, feeling queer in this new body, uncertain how to relate to it. Mainly, I was filled with loathing. The thick, square fingernails hardly spoke of any great intelligence!

"And now what?" I murmured, taking a seat beside the Professor, my knees grown suddenly weak. "Do you have a mirror?"

He pulled one from his pocket. I grabbed it anxiously and looked: a swollen black eye, a spongy nose, the teeth in dreadful condition, a double chin. The bottom of the face was buried in red hair. Returning the mirror, I saw that the Professor had again bared his knees and shins to the sun; my first impulse was to warn him that I had extremely sensitive skin, but I held my tongue. If he got a sunburn, well, that was his business, not mine, not any more!

"Where will I go now?" I said, thinking out loud.

Trottelreiner sat up. He observed my-my?-face; there was pity in his-his?-eyes.

"I wouldn't advise you to go anywhere! He was wanted by both the police and the FBI for numerous acts of terrorism. There are warrants out for his arrest, with orders to shoot on sight!"

This was all I needed! Good God, I thought, I must be hallucinating!

"You aren't!" Trottelreiner vigorously protested. "This is reality, my boy, reality pure and simple!"

"Then why is the hospital empty?"

"You don't know? Ah, of course, you were unconscious… There's a strike on."

"The doctors?"

"Everyone, the entire staff. You see, the guerrillas took Fisher. They want you in exchange for his freedom."

"Me?"

"Certainly. They have no idea, you understand, that you are no longer you but only Ijon Tichy… "

I was getting a splitting headache.

"I'll commit suicide!" I said in a hoarse bass.

"Better not. You'll just be transplanted again."

Frantically I racked my brains for some way to convince myself that this wasn't a hallucination after all.

"But what if… " I began, rising to my feet.

"What if what?"

"What if I ride you out of here? H'm? How about that?"

"Ride me? Have you taken leave of your senses?!"

I looked him in the eye, squared off, crouched, leaped onto his back and fell in the sewer. The black, putrid sludge nearly made me gag, but what a comfort it was! I crawled out. There were fewer rats now, they must have walked off somewhere. Only four remained. At the feet of Professor Trottelreiner, who was sound asleep, they were playing bridge, using his cards. Bridge? Even with the unusually high concentration of hallucinogens in the air, was it possible for rats to play bridge? Worried, I looked over the fattest one's shoulder. He was holding his cards helter-skelter, and didn't even follow suit. It was all right then… I gave a sigh of relief.

But just in case, I firmly resolved not to budge one inch from the sewer: I'd had quite enough of these rescuings, at least for a while. In the future I would demand proof first. Otherwise, well, God only knew what I might start seeing next. I felt my face. No beard, no mask either. What had happened to the mask?

"As for me," said Professor Trottelreiner, his eyes still closed, "I am an honest, respectable girl and hope, sir, you will take that into consideration."

He cocked his head, as if listening carefully to some reply, whereupon he added:

"On my part, sir, this is no semblance of virtue, no pose which some may assume, merely to rouse a sluggish passion, but 'tis the simple truth itself. Touch me not, else I be forced with violence to end my life."

"Aha!" I thought. "He wants to get back to the sewer too!"

Which set me at ease. The fact that the Professor was hallucinating seemed to prove that I, at least, was not.

"You would have me sing something?" continued the Professor. "Very well. An innocent song or two cannot harm. Will you, sir, provide the accompaniment?"

On the other hand he could have been simply talking in his sleep. In which case nothing was certain. Mount him again, to make sure? But I could, after all, jump into the sewer without his help.

"Alas, I fear I am not in voice today. And maman is waiting. I need no escort, if you please!" Trottelreiner declared with a haughty toss of the head. I stood up and looked around, flashlight in hand. The rats were gone. The Swiss futurologists were all snoring, stretched out along the wall. Farther on, in the inflated chairs, lay reporters and a few Hilton managers. The floor was littered with chicken bones and beer cans. Remarkable realism, for a hallucination. But I would settle for nothing less than definitive, irreversible, full actuality. What was that overhead?

Explosions, TNT or LTN, muffled and infrequent. Then a loud splash close by. The surface of the dark water parted to reveal the grimacing face of Professor Trottelreiner. I offered him a hand. He pulled himself out, shook himself off, then said:

"I had the most idiotic dream."

"You were a fair young maiden, I take it?"

"Damn! Then I'm still hallucinating!"

"What makes you think so?" I asked.

"Only in hallucinations do others know the contents of our dreams."

"I heard you talking, that's all," I explained. "Listen, Professor, you're an expert. Do you happen to know any foolproof method of telling whether one is in his right mind or not?"

"Well, I always carry some vigilax on me. The package is soaked, but that doesn't hurt the tablets. Vigilax disperses all states of somnolence, trances, illusions, figments, nightmares. Care to try it?"

"The medicine may work as you say," I muttered, "but it certainly won't if it's a figment itself."

"If we're hallucinating, then we'll wake, and if not, absolutely nothing will happen," the Professor assured me, popping a pale pink tablet into his mouth. I took one from the wet package he held out, put it on my tongue, swallowed. Then the manhole opened with a clang above us and the helmeted head of a paratrooper bellowed:

"Come on! Up out of there! Make it snappy!"

"What is it this time, sergeant, helicopters or jump holsters?" I asked with a smirk. "Really, I think you'd better count me out!"

And I sat near the wall and folded my arms.

"Off his rocker, eh?" the sergeant remarked to Trottelreiner as the latter began scrambling up the rungs. There was much commotion. Stantor took me by the shoulders and tried to lift me, but I pushed him away.

"You want to stay here?" he said. "Suit yourself… "

"No," I corrected him, "you're supposed to say 'Good hunting!' " One by one they disappeared up the open manhole; I saw the flickering glow of fire, heard shouts, commands, and a hissing, whistling roar, from which I gathered that they were being evacuated with the aid of those flying backpacks. Strange, very strange. What did it mean? Could I be hallucinating for them? Hallucination by proxy? And was I to go on sitting here like this till doomsday?

Still, I didn't move. The manhole cover snapped shut with another clang and I was alone. A flashlight placed upright on the floor threw a faint circle of light across the ceiling, which provided a little illumination. Two rats walked by, their tails tightly braided. Now that had to mean something, I told myself, but what? It was probably better not to ask.

Something stirred, gurgling in the sewer. "Well, well," I said under my breath, "and whose turn is it now?" The viscous surface of the water was broken, and there appeared the glistening, black forms of five frogmen wearing goggles and oxygen masks, and holding guns. One by one they jumped up on the platform and approached me, slapping their flippers on the concrete.

"?Habla usted espanol?" the first addressed me, pulling off his mask. He had a swarthy face and a thin mustache.

"No," I answered. "But I bet that you speak English."

"Some smart-aleck gringo," he snapped to another. As if on command, they all leveled their guns at me.

"You want me to jump in the sewer?" I asked cheerfully.

"Stand against the wall! Hands up! Higher!"

A barrel was stuck in my ribs. This hallucination, I observed, was quite accurate-the pistols were even wrapped in plastic bags, to prevent them from getting wet.

"There were more of them here," said the man in the mustache to a stocky brunet who was trying to light a cigarette (this one looked like the leader). Meanwhile they searched the place, kicking the beer cans with a deafening clatter, turning over chairs. At last the officer said:

"Any weapons?"

"Nothing on him, Captain. I checked."

"Can I lower my hands now?" I asked. "They're falling asleep."

"We'll put them to sleep-for keeps. Give it to him now?"

"M'm," nodded the officer, blowing smoke through his nose. "No, wait!" he added.

He walked up to me, swaying his hips. Attached to the belt was a cluster of gold wedding rings on a string. Amazing detail, I thought, so realistic!

"Where are the others?" he demanded.

"You're asking me? Why, they hallucinated themselves out the manhole. But you know that, of course."

"Touched in the head, Captain. Loco. Let me put him out of his misery," said the one with the mustache, releasing the safety on his pistol through the plastic.

"Not that way, stupid," said the officer. "You'll make a hole in the bag, and where will you get another? Use a knife."

"Excuse me for interrupting," I said, lowering my hands a little, "but I think I would prefer a bullet."

"Who has a knife?"

They all looked. Of course they wouldn't find one, I thought. That would end things much too quickly. The officer threw his butt on the ground, crushed it beneath the toe of his flipper with a scowl, spat and said:

"Finish him off. Let's go."

"Yes, by all means!" I eagerly agreed.

They crowded around me, curious.

"What's your hurry, gringo? Look at the bastard, he's begging for it! Maybe we should only cut off his fingers and nose!" They all had suggestions.

"Gentlemen, please! No half measures now! Do your duty, show no mercy!" I urged them.

"Into the water! Upstream!" barked the officer, and they pulled their masks on while he opened his diving suit, unbuttoned his jacket, drew out a small revolver, blew into the muzzle, then twirled it like some cowboy in a cheap Western and shot me in the chest. A fierce, searing pain went through me. I began to sink along the wall, but he seized me by the hair, pulled my head back and shot me again, point-blank in the face. The flash was blinding, but I didn't have time to hear the bang. Afterwards I was in total darkness, suffocating, for ages it seemed, then something picked me up, tossed me about, not an ambulance, I hoped, or a helicopter, but the darkness grew darker yet, and finally even that darker darkness was blotted out, till nothing was left.

When I opened my eyes I was propped up on a well-made bed in a room with a narrow window, the glass painted over with white. I stared dully at the door, as if waiting for something. Not that I had the faintest idea of where I was or how I had gotten there. On my feet were flat sandals, and my pajamas had stripes. Well, that was a little variety at least, I thought, though this dream didn't look like it would be too interesting. The door swung open. Standing in the middle of a group of young people in white lab coats was a short, bearded doctor, bristly gray hair on his head, gold spectacles on his nose. He held a rubber mallet.

"Now here's an interesting case, gentlemen," he said. "Most interesting. The patient suffered an overdose of hallucinogens four months ago. The effects, of course, wore off soon after, yet he refuses to acknowledge this and persists in the opinion that everything he sees is in reality unreal. Indeed, he had progressed so far in his aberration that he actually pleaded with the soldiers of General Diaz-they were then fleeing from the occupied palace through the sewer system-to be executed, calculating that death would in fact constitute an awakening from the illusion. His life was saved thanks to three extremely serious operations-two bullets removed from the left ventricle-and he continues to believe that he hallucinates."

"Schizophrenia?" asked a thin female intern. Unable to see over the shoulders of her colleagues, she was standing on tiptoe to get a look at me.

"No. We are dealing here with a new form of reaction psychosis, undoubtedly brought on by the wanton application of those lethal drugs. A hopeless case. His condition is so grave, in fact, that it's been decided to have the patient immediately undergo vitrification."

"Really, Professor?" cried the female intern. She could hardly contain her excitement.

"Yes. As you all know, hopeless cases presently may be refrigerated in liquid nitrogen for a period of forty to seventy years. The subject is placed in a hermetic container, a sort of Dewar flask or thermos, with a complete history of the disease. As new discoveries and advances in medicine are made, the vaults in which these people lie in storage are inventoried, and whoever can be helped is promptly resuscitated."

"Do you give your consent to be vitrified?" the female intern asked me, poking her head between two hulking colleagues. Her eyes shone with scientific curiosity.

"Sorry, I don't talk to apparitions," I said. "But I can tell you what your first name is. Hallucinda."

They left, shutting the door, but I could still hear her voice: "Vitrification! Perennial hibernation! Why, it's like traveling in time! How romantic!" I didn't exactly share her opinion, but there was no point in trying to resist this elaborate fiction. The next day, in the evening, two orderlies wheeled me to the operating room, where there was a glass tank; the vapors rising from it were so cold, I had to catch my breath. After a number of injections I was laid out on the operating table, fed some sweet, transparent liquid through a tube-glycerin, explained the older orderly. A friendly type. I decided to name him Hallucinathan. As I was falling asleep, he leaned over and shouted in my ear: "Pleasant dreams!"

I couldn't answer, I couldn't move, not a finger, afraid all the while-weeks, it seemed!-afraid they'd be too hasty and throw me into the tank before I lost consciousness completely. And apparently they were in somewhat of a hurry, for the last sound that reached me from that world was the splash my body made as it plunged into the liquid nitrogen. Most unpleasant.