Stanislaw Lem: The Futurological Congress

The water from the tap. Of course. These changes in me had begun the moment I drank it. There was something in it, clearly. Poison? But I'd never heard of any poison that would… Wait a minute! I was, after all, a steady subscriber to all the major scientific publications. In just the last issue of Science Today there had been an article on some new psychotropic agents of the group of so-called benignimizers (the N,N-dimethylpeptocryptomides), which induced states of undirected joy and beatitude. Yes, yes! I could practically see that article now. Hedonidol, Euphoril, Inebrium, Felicitine, Empathan, Ecstasine, Halcyonal and a whole spate of derivatives! Though by replacing an amino group with a hydroxyl you obtained, instead, Furiol, Antagonil, Rabiditine, Sadistizine, Dementium, Flagellan, Juggernol, and many other polyparanoidal stimulants of the group of so-called phrensobarbs (for these prompted the most vicious behavior, the lashing out at objects animate as well as inanimate-and especially powerful here were the cannibal-cannabinols and manicomimetics).

My thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing, and then the lights came on again. A voice from some assistant manager at the reception desk humbly apologized for the inconvenience, with assurances that the malfunction had been located and corrected. I opened the door to air out the room-there wasn't a sound in the hall-and stood there, dizzy from the smoke and still filled with the desire to bless and caress. I shut the door, locked it, sat in the middle of the room and struggled to get a grip on myself. It is extremely difficult to describe my state at that time. The thoughts didn't come to me as easily or coherently as they may seem written here. Every analytical reflex was as if submerged in thick syrup, wrapped and smothered in a porridge of self-satisfaction, all dripping with the honey of idiotic optimism; my soul seemed to sink into the sweetest of oozes, like drowning in rosebuds and chocolate icing; I forced myself to think only of the most unpleasant things, the bearded maniac with the double-barreled papalshooter, the licentious publisher-procurers of Liberated Literature and their Babylonian hors d'oeuvres, and, of course, J. W., W. C. and J. C. M. and a hundred other villains and snakes in the grass-only to realize, with horror, that I loved them all, forgave them everything, and (what was worse) arguments kept popping into my head, arguments that defended every sort of evil and abomination. Bursting with love for my fellow man, I felt a driving need to lend a helping hand, to do good works. Instead of psychotropic poisons I greedily thought of the widows and orphans and with what pleasure I would watch over them forevermore. Ah, how shamefully had I neglected them in the past! And the poor, and the hungry, and the sick and destitute, Good Lord! I found myself kneeling over a suitcase, frantically pulling things out to find some article of value I could give to the needy. And once again the feeble voices of alarm called out desperately from my subconscious: "Attention! Danger! It's a trick, an ambush! Fight! Bite! Parry! Thrust! Help!" I was torn in two. I felt such a sudden surge of the categorical imperative, that I wouldn't have touched a fly. A pity, I thought, that the Hilton didn't have mice or even a few spiders. How I would have pampered the dear little things! Flies, fleas, rats, mosquitoes, bedbugs-all God's beloved, lovable creations! Meanwhile I blessed the table, the lamp, my own legs. But the vestiges of reason hadn't abandoned me altogether, so with my left hand I beat at the right, which was doing all the blessing, beat it until the pain made me writhe. Now that was encouraging! Perhaps there was hope after all! Luckily the desire to do good carried with it the wish for self-mortification. For a start, I punched myself in the mouth a couple of times; my ears rang and I saw stars. Good, excellent! When the face grew numb, I began kicking myself in the shins. Fortunately I had on heavy boots, with hard heels. After the therapeutic application of several swift kicks I felt much better-that is, much worse. Tentatively I tested the thought of how it would be to kick a certain C. A. as well. That no longer lay outside the realm of possibility. My shins ached like the blazes, and yet apparently it was thanks to the self-administered injury that I was now able to imagine the same dished out to old M. W. Ignoring the pain, I kicked on and on. Sharp objects were of use here too, and I availed myself of a fork and then some pins from an unused shirt. I was making progress, but there were setbacks; in a few minutes I was ready once again to immolate myself on the altar of some higher cause, all bubbling over with honor, virtue and noblesse oblige. Though I knew full well that something had been put in the water. And then suddenly I remembered that there were sleeping pills in my suitcase-I carried them around with me but never used them, since they always left me feeling irritable and depressed. But now I took one, chewing it with a little soot-covered butter (water was out of the question, of course), then forced down two caffeine pills-to counteract the sleeping pill-then sat and waited, full of dread but also full of boundless affection, waited for the outcome of this chemical war to be waged within my organism. Love seized me as never before, I was carried to unheard-of heights of generosity. Yet the chemicals of evil apparently were beginning to resist and push back the chemicals of goodness; I was still prepared to devote my life to charitable acts, but no longer without hesitation. Of course I would have felt more secure to have been a thorough scoundrel, if only for a while.

In about a quarter of an hour it was more or less over. I took a shower, rubbed myself vigorously with a towel, now and then-just to be on the safe side-slapped myself in the face, then applied bandaids to the cuts on my shins and fingers, inspected bruises (I had beaten myself black and blue in the course of this ordeal), put on a fresh shirt, a suit, adjusted my tie in the mirror, straightened my cape. Before leaving, I gave myself one good jab in the ribs-a final test-and then was out the door, right on time too, for it was almost five. To my great surprise everything seemed normal in the hotel. The bar on my floor was practically empty; the papalshooter was still there, propped up against a table, and I noticed two pair of feet, one pair bare, sticking out from under the counter, but that hardly suggested anything out of the ordinary. A couple of student militants were playing cards off to the side, and another was strumming his guitar and singing a popular song. The lobby downstairs literally swarmed with futurologists: they were all heading for the first session of the congress (without having to leave the Hilton, of course, since a hall had been reserved for that purpose in the lower part of the building). My surprise passed when I realized, upon reflection, that in such a hotel no one ever drank the water; if thirsty, they would have a coke, or a schweppes, and in a pinch there was always juice, tea or beer, or even soda water. All beverages came bottled. And even if someone should, out of carelessness, repeat my mistake, he wouldn't be out here, but up in his room behind locked doors, rolling on the floor in the throes of universal love. I concluded that it would be best for me to make no mention of this incident-I was new here, after all, and might not be believed. They would pass it off as a hallucination. And what could be more natural nowadays than to suspect someone of a fondness for drugs?

Afterwards I was criticized for following this oysterlike (or ostrichlike) policy, the argument being that, had I brought everything out in the open, the catastrophe might have been averted. Which is nonsense: at the very most I would have alerted the hotel guests, yet what took place at the Hilton had absolutely no effect on the march of political events in Costa Rica.