The Futurological Congress: From the Memoirs of Ijon Tichy by Stanisław Lem

  3 X 2039 Keeping to myself, living like a hermit. Today, while leafing through an issue of my new subscription to the quarterly National Augur, I was amazed to come across the name of Professor Trottelreiner. Again my worst suspicions were aroused. Is all this nothing but a dream, a tangled web of apparition and illusion? Theoretically that's possible. Hasn't "Psychomatics" been promoting lately their strata pills, the multilaminars, which produce many-leveled fantasies? Suppose for example you want to be Napoleon at Marengo, but when the fighting is over you're in no hurry to return to reality, so right there on the battlefield Marshal Ney or one of the Old Guard hands you another pill on a silver tray. It's part of the hallucination too, but that doesn't matter, for when you take it the gates to the next dream open before you, and so on ad libitum. Since I am in the habit of cutting Gordian knots, I swallowed the telephone directory and—learning the right number—rang up the Professor. It's him! We're to meet for supper.

  3 X 2039. Three in the morning. Dead tired as I write this, and sick at heart. The Professor arrived a little late, so I waited for him in the restaurant. He showed up on foot. I recognized him instantly, though he's a whole lot younger now than he was in the last century and no longer wears glasses or carries an umbrella. He seemed moved at the sight of me.

  "On foot?" I asked. "What, did your car balk?" (Sometimes they do.)

  "No," he said, "I prefer to travel per pedes apostolorum…"

  But he gave an odd little smile when he said this. The waiters finally rolled away, and I began to ask him what he was doing—but couldn't help dropping a word or two about my doubts concerning reality.

  "There you go again, Tichy, with your hallucinations!" he said with a sigh. "I could just as well suspect you of being part of my dream. You were frozen? So was I. You were unfrozen? I also. Except that they unaged me in addition—you know, rejuvenex, desenescenine—not necessary for you, but without a couple of good, stiff shots I couldn't be a futurologian today!"

  "A futurologist?"

  "That word means something different now. A futurologist makes profutes, prognoses, prophecies, while I deal exclusively with theory. This is a completely new field, unknown in our day. You might call it divination through linguistic derivation. Morphological forecasting! Projective etymology!"

  "Never heard of it. How does it work?"

  To tell the truth, I had asked more out of politeness than curiosity, but he didn't seem to notice. Meanwhile the waiters brought our soup and, with it, a bottle of Chablis, vintage 1997. A good year.

  "Linguistic futurology investigates the future through the transformational possibilities of the language," Trottelreiner explained.

  "I don't understand."

  "A man can control only what he comprehends, and comprehend only what he is able to put into words. The inexpressible therefore is unknowable. By examining future stages in the evolution of language we come to learn what discoveries, changes and social revolutions the language will be capable, some day, of reflecting."

  "Amazing. How exactly is this done?"

  "Our research is conducted with the aid of the very largest computers, for man by himself could never keep track of all the variations. By variations of course I mean the syntagmatic-paradigmatic permutations of the language, but quantized…"

  "Professor, please!"

  "Forgive me. The Chablis is excellent, by the way. A few examples ought to make the matter clear. Give me a word, any word."

  "Myself."

  "Myself? H'm. Myself. All right. I'm not a computer, you understand, so this will have to be simple. Very well then—myself. My, self, mine, mind. Mynd. Thy mind—thynd. Like ego, theego. And we makes wego. Do you see?"

  "I don't see a thing."

  "But it's perfectly obvious! We're speaking, first, of the possibility of the merging of the mynd with the thynd, in other words the fusion of two psychic entities. Secondly, the wego. Most interesting. A collective consciousness. Produced perhaps by the multiple dissociation of the personality, a mygraine. Another word, please."

  "Foot."

  "Good. Onefoot, twofoot. Threefooter, fourfooted. Footing, footingly, footling. Footage, befootery. Footment. And footloose gets you footless, unfooted, defected. Ah, defeetism. Feetish, feetus … feetback? Infoot and outfoot! I think we're getting somewhere. Feetality, twofootalitarianism."

  "But these words have no meaning!"

  "At the moment, no, but they will. Or rather, they may eventually acquire meaning, provided footeries and defeetism catch on. The word 'robot' meant nothing in the fifteenth century, and yet if they had had futurolinguistics then, they could have easily envisioned automata."

  "So what is defeetism?"

  "In this particular case I can tell you precisely, but only because it isn't a prognosis but something that already exists. Defeetism is a very recent concept, a new approach to human autoevolution."

  "You, mean, creating men without feet?"

  "Yes. Inasmuch as walking has become a vestigial activity and we're running out of space besides."

  "But that's insane!"

  "I quite agree. And yet such shining lights as Professor Hatzelklatzer and Foeshbeene are defeetists. You weren't aware of that, were you, when you gave me that word?"

  "No. And the other derivations, what do they mean?"

  "That is as yet unknown. If defeatism wins out over twofootalitarianism, such things as footments, infoots and underfeet will come into being. This is no prophecy, mind you, but a simple stock-taking of the possibilities in their purest form. Let's have another word."

  "Interferent."

  "Good. Inter and fero, fero, ferre, tuli, latum. It comes from the Latin, so we must seek a continuation in Latin. Flos, floris. Interflorentrix. But of course. This is a virgin who has a child by an interferent, for it took her maidenhead."

  "Where do you get the maidenhead?"

  "Flos, floris—flower. She was deflowered, you see. Though they'll probably say: physigenitress, or physitress for short. Or simply reviewer wife. Or that she interloped. I assure you, we have a most fertile field at our disposal here. PV-dultery. Coitus interferentus. High-infidelity reception/conception, heterodyne insemination. A whole new world of social patterns opens up, a whole new morality!"

  "I see that you are an enthusiast of this new science. Would you care to try another word? Trash."

  "Why not? It doesn't matter that you're a skeptic. Not in the least. What was it again, trash? Very well … trash, trashcan, ashcan, trashman. Trashmass, trashmic, catatrashmic. Trashmass, trashmosh. On a large enough scale, trashmos. And—of course—macrotrashm! Tichy, you come up with the best words! Really, just think of it, macrotrashm!"

  "I'm afraid I don't follow. It's nonsense to me."

  "First of all, we don't say follow now but swallow. You don't swallow. (Your speech, I've noticed, is full of anachronisms. This is not good. But we'll talk of that later.) Secondly, macrotrashm is nonsense so far, yet we can already guess its sense-to-be, its future significance. The word, observe, implies nothing less than a new psychozoic theory! Implies that the stars are of artificial origin!"

  "Now where do you get that?"

  "From the word itself. Macrotrashm indicates, or rather suggests, this image: in the course of many eons the Universe filled up with trash, the wastes of various civilizations. The wastes got in the way, of course, hampering astronomers and cosmonauts, and so enormous incinerators were built, all at extremely high temperatures, observe, to burn the trash, and with sufficient mass to pull it in from space themselves. Gradually space clears up and behold, there are your stars, those selfsame furnaces, and the dark nebulae—this is the trash that remains to be removed."

  "You can't be serious! The Universe nothing but one big trash disposal? You don't really think that's possible? Professor!"

  "It isn't a matter of what I think or don't think, Tichy. We have simply used futurological linguistics to create a new cosmogony, another theory for future generations to consider. The
y may or may not take it seriously, but the fact remains that it is possible to articulate such a hypothesis! Note that if morphological extrapolation had existed in the fifties of the last century, they could have foreseen, even then, the benignimizers—remember them?—by projective derivation from 'benign' and 'tranquilizer.' Language, my boy, is a gold mine of possibilities, though those possibilities are not limitless. Remember that the word 'utopia' literally means nowhere, a never-never land, an unattainable ideal, and you will better understand the pessimism of many of our futurologicians!"

  The conversation had finally come around to the subject that concerned me most. I confessed to Trottelreiner my apprehensions, my loathing for this new world. He gave a snort, but patiently heard me out, and—kindly old soul that he was—actually began to sympathize. I even saw him reach for a pack of commiserine in his vest pocket, then stop halfway, so vehemently did I inveigh against all manner of psychem. When I had finished, however, his face assumed a stern expression, and he said:

  "This is not good, Tichy. And anyway, your criticisms are quite beside the point. You see, you do not know the real truth. Nor indeed could you ever have guessed it. Compared to it, Procrustics and the psychemized society are mere trifles!"

  I couldn't believe my ears.

  "But … but… "I stammered, "what are you saying, Professor? What could be worse than that?"

  He leaned over across the table.

  "Tichy, for you I'll do it. I'll break a professional secret. Everything you've complained of is known to the littlest child. And how could it be otherwise? For progress was destined to travel this path the moment narcotics and early hallucinogens were replaced by the so-called psycholocalizers, drugs whose effects were highly selective. Yet the real revolution in experiential engineering took place only twenty-five years ago, when mascons were synthesized. These are psychotropes whose specificity is so great, they can actually influence isolated sites of the brain. Narcotics do not cut one off from the world, they only change one's attitude towards it. Hallucinogens, on the other hand, blot out and totally obscure the world. That you have learned from your own experience. But mascons, mascons falsify the world!"

  "Mascons… "I said. "I seem to know that word. Yes! Those mechanical dogs they used to have at football games. But how does that tie in with this…?"

  "It doesn't. The word has taken on—excuse me, tasted on—an altogether different meaning. From mask, masquerade, mascara. By introducing properly prepared mascons to the brain, one can mask any object in the outside world behind a fictitious image—superimposed—and with such dexterity, that the psychemasconated subject cannot tell which of his perceptions have been altered, and which have not. If but for a single instant you could see this world of ours the way it really is—undoctored, unadulterated, uncensored—you would drop in your tracks!"

  "Wait a minute. What world? Where is it? Where can I see it?

  "Why, anywhere. Here, even!" he whispered in my ear, glancing nervously around. Then he pulled his chair up and slipped me—under the table—a small flask with a worn cork, saying with an air of dark conspiracy:

  "This is up'n'at'm, one of the vigilanimides, a powerful countersomniac and antipsychem agent. A derivative of di-methylethylhexabutylpeptopeyotine. Merely carrying it upon your person, let alone using it, is a federal offense! Remove the cork and sniff—but only once, mind you, and carefully. Like smelling salts. And then, for heaven's sake control yourself, don't panic, remember where you are!"

  My hands were trembling as I pulled the cork and lifted the flask to my nostrils. A whiff of bitter almonds made my eyes well up with tears, and when I wiped them away, and could see again, I gasped. The magnificent hall, covered with carpets, filled with palms, the ornamented majolica walls, the elegance of the sparkling tables, and the orchestra in the back that played exquisite chamber music while we dined, all this had vanished. We were sitting in a concrete bunker, at a rough wooden table, a straw mat—badly frayed—beneath our feet. The music was still there, but I saw now that it came from a loudspeaker hung on a rusted wire. And the rainbow-crystal chandelier was now a dusty, naked light bulb. But the worst change had taken place before us on the table. The snow-white cloth was gone; the silver dish with the steaming pheasant had turned into a chipped earthenware plate containing the most unappetizing gray-brown gruel, which stuck in globs to my tin—no longer silver—fork. I looked with horror upon the abomination that only moments ago I'd been consuming with such gusto, savoring the crackling golden skin of the bird and crunching—in sweet, succulent counterpoint—the croutons, crisp on the top and soaked with gravy on the bottom. And what I had taken for the overhanging leaves of a nearby potted palm turned out to be the drawstrings on the drawers of the person sitting (with three others) right above us—not on a balcony or platform, but rather a shelf, it was so narrow. For the place was packed beyond belief! My eyes were practically popping from their sockets when this terrifying vision wavered and began to shift back, as if touched with a magic wand. The drawstrings near my face grew green and once again assumed the graceful shape of palm leaves, while the slop bucket reeking a few feet away took on a dull sheen and turned into a sculptured pot. The grimy surface of our table whitened back to the purest snow, the crystal goblets gleamed, the awful gruel grew golden, sprouting wings and drumsticks in the proper places, and the tin of our cutlery regained its former silvery shine … as the waiters' tailcoats went fluttering, flapping all around. I looked at my feet—the straw was a Persian rug once more. I had returned to the world of luxury. But examining the ample breast of the pheasant, I couldn't forget what it concealed …

  "Now you are beginning to understand," whispered Trottelreiner, looking carefully in my face, as if afraid the shock may have been too great. "And note that this is one of the most expensive establishments! Had I not provided for the contingency of letting you in on the secret, who knows, we might have gone to a restaurant, the sight of which could have seriously affected your mind."

  "You mean … there are places … even worse?"

  "Yes."

  "That's impossible."

  "Here at least we have real tables, chairs, plates, knives and forks; there, people lie on planks—stacked in many tiers—and eat with their fingers from buckets moving by on conveyor belts. And what they eat in the guise of pheasant there, is, I assure you, much less palatable."

  "What is it?"

  "Not poison, Tichy, but simply a powdered concentrate of grass and beets, soaked in chlorinated water and mixed with fish meal; usually they add gelatin and vitamins, plus synthetic emulsifiers and oils to keep the stuff from sticking in your throat. Did you notice the smell?"

  "Yes! Yes!"

  "There, you see?"

  "For God's sake, Professor, what is this? Please, I must know! Tell me! Is it some diabolical treachery? An evil scheme? A plot to destroy the human race?"

  "Really, Tichy. Don't be so demonic. Ours is simply a world in which more than twenty billion people live. Did you read today's Herald? The government of Pakistan claims that in this year's famine only 970,000 perished, while the opposition gives a figure of six million. In such a world where are you going to find Chablis, pheasants, tenderloin with sauce béarnaise? The last pheasant died a quarter of a century ago. That bird is a corpse, only excellently preserved, for we have become masters of its mummification—or rather: we have learned how to hide its death."

  "Wait a minute! Let me get this straight… You're saying that—"

  "That no one wishes you ill. On the contrary, it is out of a deep sense of compassion and for the highest humanitarian reasons that this chemical hoax has been perpetrated, this camouflage, this bedecking of reality in plumage it does not possess…"

  "Professor, then is the deception everywhere?"

  '"Yes."

  "But I eat at home, I don't go out, so how…"

  "How do you absorb the mascons? You're asking that, you? They're in the air we breathe, atomized. Don't you remember the LTN bomb
s in Costa Rica, the aerosols? Those were the hesitant first attempts, like Montgolfier's with jet propulsion."

  "And everyone knows of this? And accepts it?"

  "Of course not. No one knows."

  "But are there no rumors?"

  "Rumors there will always be. But remember, we have amnesol. There are things, my boy, that everyone knows, and things that no one knows. Pharmacocracy has its open as well as its secret side; the first depends upon the second."

  "No, I can't believe it."

  "And why not?"

  "Because someone has to look after these straw mats, and someone has to make the plates we're really using, and this pap that passes for food. And everything!"

  "Certainly. You're right. Everything must be manufactured and maintained. What of it?"