Stanislaw Lem: The Futurological Congress

"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… "

"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?"