*
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-blac
k 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.
The Futurological Congress: From the Memoirs of Ijon Tichy Page 4
