by Rick K. Reut
“What? What is it?!” the Director sprung from behind the Controller, cutting off Adam’s retreat.
Taken aback, Adam swerved to one side and tripped on a chest of drawers, upsetting something that looked like a cock-shaped candlestick onto the cream-colored carpet. He straightened up hurriedly, but there was nowhere left to go. The two transsexuals were coming closer, cramming him into a corner like a vise. Adam’s eyes darted between their iron faces, before he shut them tightly, preparing to be crushed.
The sunset-painted room plunged into deep purple darkness, turning to throbbing red inside his boiling brain. He was sure something horrible would happen before he blacked out completely. But nothing did. Through the thunderous throbbing in his head, he heard only the Controller’s voice, cool and clear, like water in his hissing-hot ears.
“It’s okay, Mister Marx. We’re not here to hurt you.”
“We’re your friends, Adam,” seconded the voice of the Director, a word or two farther away. “Open your eyes.”
Obeying Its Freudship’s order, he opened first one and then the other eye, while unconsciously tying the tail-like towel even tighter around his thin thighs. He saw that they had backed off, and were now standing several steps away from him. Feeling a little relieved, he swallowed and sighed.
“Now talk. Tell us what’s wrong,” pressed the impatient Director.
“Quiet, Darlina.” Controller Globe curtly cut the Director out of the conversation. “Don’t worry, Mister Marx. We’re not here to harm you. So, calm down and tell us the truth. I give you my word that nothing horrible will happen no matter what you say.”
There was seconds of stressful silence as Adam considered the Controller’s words.
“Well,” he spoke, taking a deep, lung-tearing breath, “I’ve been… studying my body here,” he stuttered.
“And?” they urged him in unison.
“And um… and are you absolutely sure that… that they’ll be able to correct all this mess?”
There was another second of silence. But this time, instead of stress, it was filled with surprise. The Director and the Controller shared a stunned stare that soon bloated into two big, balloon-like smiles just before they both exploded with laughter.
They laughed a lot, very loudly, and for quite a while couldn’t bring themselves to say anything. Neither could Adam, who had no idea why it was supposed to be so amusing. All his attempts to squeeze a few words between the peels were drowned out by waterfalls of genuine glee.
“So, that’s what it’s all about!” cackled the Director, calming down to casual coherence.
“Relax, Mister Marx,” cut in the Controller, coming a little closer. “Soon all of it will be over, and I will call you Adam all the time. That is, as long as you do come when I call.” It chuckled at Its own pun. “To be totally true, though, I’d rather call you Ada.”
“Ada?” echoed Adam
“Yes, your new name,” noted the Director, picking the cock-shaped candlestick up from the floor.
“I selected it myself,” stated Controller Globe, smugly.
“Gianna’s a great fan of Our FordoFreud’s First Coming by Their T model in literature. Namely, the works of Nabokov,” the Director explained, examining the candlestick in Its hand.
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are,” insisted the Director, dreamily driving the candlestick – like a cutlass – into an imaginary air hole.
“No, I’m not! I can’t possibly be a fan of something so pre-transsexual.”
“Yes, you are, and you can, for it’s still technically from the time of the First Coming and can, consequently, be connived at,” said the Director, drawing the cutlass out of the obscure orifice.
“I know that. But I still don’t like him.”
“Who?” wondered Adam, managing to stick in a word.
“Nabokov,” said Director Downing, still stinging the fictitious hole. “And don’t you dare deny it. If it wasn’t so, why else would you want to use one of his titles to name your latest creation?”
“But I didn’t. It’s just a conceptual coincidence. I mean, even if I did, I didn’t do it deliberately.”
“Yes, you did,” insisted the Director, slapping one of Its bulging buttocks with the candlestick.
“Never mind Nabokov. And put the bloody candlestick back where it belongs, will you?”
“Okay. Never mind Nabokov,” said the Director, grumpily, placing the candlestick back on the chest of drawers. “Never mind anything. Even his new name, I guess. Do you like it, by the way?” It added, addressing Adam.
“The new name of Nabokov?”
“No, not the new name of Nabokov! Your new name. Ada! Nabokov is only the name of an author who’s widely associated with it thanks to one of his works.”
“What works?”
“It doesn’t matter! Just tell us what you think.”
“Well, I don’t know. And what’s wrong with Adam?” he wondered, a little confused.
“Nothing much, except the fact that it has a masculine ending.”
“So?”
“So?!” echoed the Controller, Its eyebrows jumping on Its forehead. “You may have noticed that no name has a masculine ending in our world, Mister Marx.”
“I have. But why?”
“Because in our world a masculine name is a token of bad taste. Darlina, dear, please, be so kind as to explain it to Mister Marx.”
“Certainly, Controller,” chirped the Director, cheerfully. “You see, we try to distance ourselves from these atavistic creatures as much as we can. By these atavistic creatures I mean men, of course, for they are the ones responsible for the most heinous crimes committed against humanity in its pre-transsexual past. They are what we’ve now come to call the true reason and root of almost all existing evil.”
“And are women somehow less of an evil?” asked Adam, after a pensive pause.
“By comparison – certainly,” said the Controller. “And what is most important, they aren’t as aggressive as men. Which, in its turn, makes them a lot more obedient. And after ages and ages of enduring experimentation with empirical evidence we’ve come to one and only conceivable conclusion that obedience of its members is the main asset of any society that wishes to remain stable. Isn’t that so, Director?”
“But of course it is” confirmed the carefully conforming Director, coming forward from behind the chest of drawers. “Even Nietzsche spoke of the servile nature of women. And that was almost a quarter of a century before our Founding Father FordorFreud’s First Coming up with Their T Model. Remember the tiny but zealous truth of Zarathustra?”
“Oh yes!” cried the Controller. "Du gehst zu Frauen? Vergiss die Peitsche nicht!" To translate this from the long dead German language into the only currently living one, which is New World State English: “You go to women? Don’t forget the whip, Mister Marx.” For that’s exactly what women want. At least all traditionally born and brought up women. Am I wrong, Director?”
“Of course, you aren’t, Your Freudship! You are, as always, right where you ought to be! Though, it’s horribly hard to pinpoint how much of this want is due to nature and how much to social conditioning. This I must state as a specialist in the sphere.”
“Definitely, Director. No one can doubt your professional expertise when it comes to conditioning. Still, no matter how obscure its origin is, the song seems to have stayed the same since ancient times. Women are and have always been much more obedient and law-abiding than men. According to the statistical data of the early First Coming Period, about ninety-five percent of all crimes were committed by human males, and only five of those by females. Which persuasively proves that we all want the whip from time to time. Some ninety-five percent more than others, though,” Controller Globe winked at the Director from behind Adam’s back, as It continued circling around him in course of their controversial confabulation.
“Thus, returning to our initial question, namely of names, out of the two evils
we always prefer the lesser one. Which is obviously a womanish one. Unless, of course, you wish to choose a totally neutral name of a so-called middle sex. In your case, it would sound like a lot of Ado about nothing, if you pardon my pun,” chuckled the Controller.
“I don’t think I get what you mean,” said Adam, getting even more confused.
“That’s probably because you’ve never read Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare?” echoed the man in the mirror. “That sounds familiar. Who’s that?”
“Was,” corrected the Controller. “He’s no longer with us.”
“I see. But who was he when he was?”
“Well, no one really. Just another author, a madman with a bunch of odd ideas he was pretty prominent at putting into words. Most of his writings did not survive the First Coming, though. And now there’s absolutely no point in trying to reanimate them. Or him, for that matter. However, I have a complete collection of his works stashed up in my office by the last male Controller of the European Continent Mustapha Mond in case you’re interested.”
“Mond?” the last male Controller’s last name caught Adam’s attention, causing another short circuit in his already overheated brain. “Brave New World,” he whispered, looking directly at the Director, but hardly seeing It.
“I beg your pardon, Mister Marx?”
“Shakespeare!” cried Adam, still staring into space with utterly unseeing eyes. “I remember! The Savage liked to quote him!”
“The Savage?” the Controller frowned at the name, casting a glance at Director Downing, whose bright blue eyes were also darkened with suspicion.
“How did you know about the Savage, Mister Marx?” Its Freudship asked finally, focusing all Its attention on Adam.
Adam blinked and switched his stare to the source of the Controller’s voice.
“What?”
“How did you know about the Savage?”
“Well,” he mumbled, blinking wildly, “about a month ago, I read a book called Brave New World by Helmholtz Watson. In it, he describes his and my grandfather’s experiences in the society of Ford’s and Freud’s First Coming, using the penname of Aldous Huxley.”
‘So I see,” said the Controller, casting another glance at Director Downing, who only shrugged Its shoulders in return.
“And where exactly, if you don’t mind my asking, did you get this queer little book of yours?” The Controller continued Its crafty interrogation, coiling around Adam like a snake around a mesmerized mouse.
“Uncle Helmholtz gave it to me himself.”
“He did, didn’t he?”
“Oh yes! He was the one who told me about this place,” exclaimed the young man, getting more and more excited as he spoke. “It made me dream again. I even brought the book here with me, hoping that I could maybe write a sequel or something when I saw it all with my own eyes.”
“With your own eyes, eh?” echoed the Controller.
“Yes! Wait till I show you!” he shouted and out of the room, holding his tail-like towel with his left hand.
The Director and the Controller followed him out with their eyes and then looked at each other suspiciously. There was a minute of bustling activity coming from the bedroom, with sounds of furniture being moved, drawers being opened and closed, and then finally – “There! I found it!” – came a cry of triumph.
Right after the cry, came Adam. He was accompanied by his copy that joined those of the Controller and the Director in the looking glass.
Still holding to his towel with one hand, he was carrying something that looked like a paper parcel in the other. Panting, Adam handed the parcel to the Controller. So did his glass copy. The Controller looked at it suspiciously and then slowly unwrapped the paper.
Inside the parcel, there was a manuscript about a hundred pages long. Most of the pages were crumpled or dog-eared as if listening to the title sheet say:
BRAVE NEW WORLD
by
Aldous Huxley
The Controller studied the title sheet for some time and then looked at Adam and asked:
“And when did that Mister.…”
“Watson!”
“Yes, Watson. When did he give it to you?”
“Let me see,” Adam brushed his free hand through his hair. “About a month ago, I guess. One or two days before I applied for the program.”
“So, the author is still alive then?”
“I surely hope so,” said Adam, sensing something sinister in the Controller’s words. “Though, he was in a mournful mood when I left him.”
“And by this mournful mood you mean what exactly?”
“Well, he was really upset about something. I’m not quite sure what.”
“So I see,” the Controller nodded and checked Its T-phone timer, no longer paying attention to what Adam was saying. “Mister Marx, we really have to hurry. Otherwise we won’t make it to the clinic in time for your first procedure.
“O, okay! I’ll just put on my pants and…”
“I’m afraid there’s no time for your pants, Mister Marx,” interrupted the Controller. “Director Downing will to take you to the helicopter as you are and you’ll be provided with everything you need there.”
“Let’s go, Adam,” whispered Director Downing, taking him by the hand.
When they were already in the doorway, the Controller called after them.
“Mister Marx!”
The Director and Adam both halted and looked around.
“You don’t mind me keeping this manuscript for a while, do you?”
Adam looked at the book and then back at the Controller’s face.
“No, not at all,” he said, shaking his head.
“Thank you, Mister Marx. You and the Director can go ahead. But don’t take off just yet. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Certainly, Controller. We’ll wait as long as you want,” said the Director, walking Adam out of the room.
After Adam and the Director were gone, Controller Globe stood still, watching the empty doorway for some time, Its face frozen with clear concern.
Soon Its ice-cold blue eyes began to thaw, turning to the Controller’s copy in the looking glass and then gliding down to the dog-eared manuscript in Its hands. They held on the title sheet for a while and, when Its Freudship finally let them, fell on the floor, rolling into the farthest corner of the room, where they noiselessly bumped against a trash can crammed between the wall and a writing table.
The Controller stared at the can for some time and then slipped Its hand in Its purse. Having produced a T-phone, It speed-dialed a number and listened to the long tones, two or three of which later a gruff, grunting voice filled the air with phony servility.
“Controller Globe! What a splendid surprise! And a pleasure, too! Please, allow me to…”
“Cut the crap, warden. I’m not calling you for fun. So, shut up and listen.”
“Of course, my Controller! I’m all yours. I mean ears! I mean both,” babbled the voice, scared out of coherence.
“Silence!” commanded the Controller. “I need information on one of your island’s inmates.”
“Certainly, Your Freudshipfulness! Anything you want!” squealed the voice, falling head over its sycophantic heels to sound helpful.
“I’m interested in someone going by the name of Helmholtz Watson. In certain circles, he may also be known as Mister Aldous Huxley.”
“I see, my Controller! And what exactly does Your Freudship wish to know?”
“Everything. Especially his address and current physical state.”
“Certainly, Controller. I’ll call You back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t bother. Just send his file together with your monthly report to my Trans-Mail Box. I’ll call you myself in case I need any additional information.”
“Your wish is, as always, my command, my…”
Controller Globe cut off the warden’s voice before he could complete the sentence. Its eyes had already come back to the t
rash can and clung to it in thoughtful silence. Tapping Its chin with the back of the T-phone, the Controller approached the can and looked inside. It was completely empty: not a sheet, not a note, nothing.
Controller Globe hovered over the can for some time, hefting the manuscript in Its hand. Then It carefully placed the copy on the edge of the writing table, tracing the title sheet’s outline with Its index finger, feeling the smooth surface as It pushed the manuscript off the table, making it fall into the empty trash can with a dull thud. The Controller then took a deep breath and, after briefly eyeing the room, walked out and closed the door.
For a few minutes, the room remained utterly empty. Sunk in soundproof silence, it looked vacuum-cleaned of all life. Not a motion, not a sound. Even the conditioned air seemed sucked out. Time itself seemingly stood still, waiting for a chance to go on on some old clock or watch…
All of a sudden, the door reopened. Controller Globe rapidly reentered the room and approached the trash can once again, towered over it with a heavy frown. Finally, It took a deep breath, fished the Brave New World Book out of the can – the same way circus conjurors sometimes fish hares out of hats – and, having put it in Its purse, hastily left the room with the door closing behind It like the last page of a badly written picture book.
This time the badly written book was bound to be closed for good.
From the Central City District, where the Hotel Belarus was situated, Communist Street continued in the south-east direction and then all the way to the former Victory and current De Feat Square. There it turned north-east and carried on as current Dependence and former Independence Avenue past former Yakub Kolas and current Colossal Cube Square until It reached the upgraded building of the Academy of Sciences.
Then, turning south-east again, the street stopped several hundred feet short of the backyard of one of the former EHU’s buildings, before bending south-west into a back alley of one of the Former City Hospitals and the current Central City Clinic of Sexual Research and Transformation.
