Stanislaw Lem: The Futurological Congress

"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.