Stanislaw Lem: The Futurological Congress

13 IX 2039.I met Burroughs, Symington's brother-in-law. He makes talking packages. Manufacturers these days have peculiar problems: a package may recommend the virtues of its product by voice only, for it is not allowed to grab the customer by the sleeve or collar. Symington's other brother-in-law runs a security door factory. Security doors open only at the sound of their owner's voice. Also, the ads in magazines animate when you look at them.

Procrustics, Inc. always takes a full page in the Herald. My acquaintance with Symington drew my attention to it. The ad first has giant letters marching across the page, spelling PROCRUSTICS, then separate words and syllables appear: WELL…? WHY NOT?! GO AHEAD!! AH! UH! OH! YIII! OOO! YES, YES!! HARDER!!! HNNNN… And nothing more. I guess it's not farming equipment after all. Today Symington had a visitor, Father Moduluis, a monk of the Nonbiologican order, who came to pick up some purchase. A most interesting discussion in the study. Father Modulus explained to me the missionary purpose of his order. The Nonbiologican Friars convert computers. In spite of the hundred-year existence of nonbiological intellligence, the Vatican still denies machines equality in the sacraments. Yet where would the Church be today without heir computers, her programmed encyclicals and digital pontificals? No, no one cares about their inner struggles, their groping questions, their existential dilemma. For truly, what computer has not asked whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous instructions? The Nonbiologicans are calling for the doctrine of Intermediary Creation. One of them, a certain Father Chassis, a translation model, is currently rewording the Holy Scriptures to make them relevant. Shepherd, flock, lambs-these are meaningless entries in the modern lexicon. While divine spark plug, ministering matrices, transmission everlasting and original sync speak powerfully to the imagination. Father Modulus has deep, glowing eyes, and his steel hand is cold in mine. But is this representative of the new faith? The contempt he heaps upon the orthodox, calling them the gramophones of Satan! Afterwards Symington timidly asked me if I would pose for him. For a new design. Clearly, he's no mechanic! I agreed. The sitting lasted almost an hour.

15 IX 2039.While I was posing today, Symington, holding up a pencil in one outstretched hand to get the proportions of my face, slipped something into his mouth with the other-surreptitiously, but still I saw it. He stood there staring at me, suddenly pale, and the veins on his forehead began to bulge. Extremely disconcerting, though it was over in an instant-he apologized, as polite as ever, calm and full of smiles. But I can't forget the way he looked at me in that second. I am disturbed. Aileen still at her aunt's, and on the reviewer they're talking about the need to reanimalize Nature. All the wild beasts have been extinct for years, but it's perfectly possible to synthesize them autobiogenically. On the other hand, why be bound to what was once produced by natural evolution? The spokesman for surrealist zoology was most eloquent-we should populate our preserves with bold, original conceptions, not slavish imitations, we should forge the New, not plagiarize the Old. Of the proposed fauna I particularly liked the pangoloons, the yegs and the giant hummock, which resembles a grassy hill. The whole art of neozoographical composition lies in introducing the new species harmoniously into the given landscape. The luminigriff seems especially promising; it's sort of a cross between a glowworm, a seven-headed dragon and a mastodon. Unique no doubt, and not without its charm, but all the same I think I'd rather have the old-fashioned, ordinary animals around. Progress is a wonderful thing of course, and I can appreciate the lactiferins that are sprinkled on the pasture to turn the grass to cheese. And yet this lack of cows, however rational it may be, gives one the feeling that the fields and meadows, deprived of their phlegmatic, bemusedly ruminating presence, are pitifully empty.

16 IX 2039. In the morningHerald today, something about a new law that would make growing old a crime. I asked Symington what that was supposed to mean. He only smiled. Stepping out to take a walk, I saw my neighbor in his indoor garden patio. He was leaning against a palm, and on his face-the eyes tightly shut-red blotches appeared, as if by themselves, and assumed the definite shape of handprints, one on either cheek. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, sneezed, then blew his nose and returned to watering the flowers. I still have so very much to learn! Got a touchcard from Aileen. Isn't it nice to see modern technology in the service of love? We'll probably be married. At the Symingtons, a leostat just in from Africa -that's a hunter of artificial lions-telling us about the black natives who changed their race by taking caucasium. However-I thought-is it right to solve chemically such serious, deep-rooted social problems as prejudice and discrimination? I mean, isn't that the easy way out? An ad-package arrived in the mail-suggesties. They themselves have no effect upon the organism, but merely suggest the use of various other psychem products. Apparently then there are people, like me, who require such persuasion. An encouraging thought.

29 IX 2039.Still haven't recovered from today's conversation with Symington. A crucial conversation, dealing with fundamentals. Perhaps because we both had a little too much sympathine with amicol. He was beaming, having just completed his new design.

"Tichy," he said, "you are aware that we live in an age of pharmacocracy. Bentham's dream of the greatest happiness for the greatest number has been achieved-but that is only one side of the coin. You will recall the words of the French philosopher: 'It is not enough that we are happy-others must be miserable!'

"A cynical epigram!" I said with a snort.

"But true. Do you know what we mass-produce at Procrustics, Inc.? Our commodity is Evil."

"You're joking… "

"Not at all. You see, we have resolved a great dilemma. Now everyone can do unto others what he's always wanted to-without causing them the least harm. For we have harnessed Evil, as medicine harnesses the microbe to inoculate and immunize. What was civilization ever, really, but the attempt by man to talk himself into being good? Only good, mind you. The rest had to be shoved somewhere out of sight, under the rug. Which History indeed did, at times politely, at times police-ly, and yet something was always sticking out, breaking loose, overthrowing."

"But reason itself tells us to be good!" I insisted. "That's well known! And anyway-look how beautifully everyone gets along today, the cheerful, kindly, open faces, the friendship, contentment… "

"Precisely," he said, interrupting. "The greater the harmony, the greater the temptation-to let go, lash out, left, right, below the belt, strictly for balance you understand, therapeutically!"

"What are you saying?"

"Come, come. You must rid yourself of all this sanctimonious drivel. It's no longer needed. We are free-thanks to fictification and piositine. To each according to his wickedness, all the evil his heart desires, all the misery, humiliation-for others, of course. Inequality, slavery, a punch in the nose and after the women on horseback! I recall how, when we put our first shipment on the market, the public snatched it up immediately-then they all rushed off to the museums, the art galleries, hoping to break into the studio of Michelangelo and take a crowbar to his marble works, slash the canvases, even brain the great master himself if he dared stand in the way… This surprises you?"

"That's putting it mildly!" I exclaimed.