Stanislaw Lem: The Futurological Congress

In the newsroom Stantor Wooley (from the Herald), Sharkey and Kuntze (a photographer working temporarily for Paris-Match) were playing cards with masks on their faces. Since the lines were out, they had nothing better to do. I began to watch, but Joe Missinger, an important American journalist, burst in yelling that the police had been given tablets of Furiol to counteract the benignimizers. We understood at once what that meant and ran for the basement, but it turned out to be another false rumor. So we went outside to look around; I made the dismal discovery that our hotel was missing its top twenty or thirty floors; my room, along with everything in it, was lost in a mountain of rubble. Flames filled three quarters of the sky. A burly policeman in a helmet was chasing some youth, roaring: "Stop, stop for God's sake, I love you!"-but the youth ignored these exhortations. Things had quieted down somewhat, and the reporters, driven by their professional urge to investigate, cautiously headed for the park. I went along. There were a variety of religious services in progress, black masses and white, with the secret police participating conspicuously. Nearby stood a large crowd of people weeping and tearing their hair; they were holding over their heads an enormous sign which read, SPIT ON US, WE ARE INFORMERS! Judging by the number of these penitent Judases, it must have cost the government plenty to maintain them-funds which might have been better spent improving the economic situation in Costa Rica. Back at the Hilton we saw another crowd. Police dogs, behaving more like friendly Saint Bernards, were trotting out bottles of the most expensive liquor from the hotel bar and distributing them indiscriminately. In the bar itself policemen and protesters, arms around one another, took turns singing patriotic and revolutionary songs. I tried the basement, but couldn't endure all the converting and cavorting going on in there, so I went to the room with the fire extinguishers to talk to Professor Trottelreiner. To my surprise, he had found three partners and was playing bridge. Quetzalcoatl, a graduate student, trumped his ace; this so angered the Professor that he left the table in a huff. Just then Sharkey stuck his head in the door and announced that he had caught General Aquillo's speech on the radio: they were going to crush the rebellion by dropping conventional bombs on the city. After a brief council of war we decided to retreat to the lowest level of the Hilton, which was an underground sewer system. The hotel kitchen having been totally demolished, there was nothing to eat; hungry demonstrators, phillumenists and publishers stuffed themselves with the chocolate lozenges, aspics and other morsels they had discovered in the abandoned centroerotico at the corner of the hotel wing. I saw how their faces changed when the sexual stimulants contained in those comestibles began to mix in their veins with the benignimizers. One shuddered to think where this chemical escalation might lead. I saw the pairing off of futurologists with Indian bootblacks, I saw secret agents in the arms of hotel janitors, and enormous sleek rats fraternizing with cats-while the police dogs licked everyone and everything in sight. Our progress was slow and difficult, for we had to push our way through a heavy crowd, and I was bringing up the rear, struggling with half the oxygen tanks on my back. Patted, kissed on the arms and legs, fondled and adored, smothered by hugs and squeezes, I stubbornly plowed ahead, until I heard Stantor shout in triumph: he'd found the entrance to the sewers! Exerting the last of our strength, we moved aside the heavy manhole cover and lowered ourselves one by one into the concrete well. I held Professor Trottelreiner, whose foot had slipped on a rung of the iron ladder, and asked him if he'd ever imagined the convention turning out like this. Instead of answering, he tried to kiss my hand, which immediately aroused my suspicions; his mask had been knocked loose, as it turned out, causing him to swallow some of the drug-contaminated air. Without delay we applied physical torture, forced him to breathe pure oxygen, and read Hayakawa's report aloud-that was Howler's idea. The Professor finally came to his senses, of which he gave ample evidence by a series of pungent oaths, and we were able to continue on our way. Suddenly in the dim beam of our flashlight we saw the dark wall of the sewer covered with patches of oil; this was a most welcome sight, for now thirty feet of earth separated us from the surface of the LTN'd city. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that we had not been the first to think of this haven. There on the concrete platform sat, in full assembly, the management of the Hilton; these prudent officials had provided themselves with inflatable reclining chairs from the hotel pool, transistor radios, plenty of scotch and bourbon, and an ample picnic lunch. Since they too were wearing oxygen masks, there was little chance, if any, that they would willingly share their provisions with us. But we assumed a threatening attitude and managed to convince them (they were outnumbered anyway). And so with a little arm-twisting full agreement was reached, and we all sat down to dine on cold lobster. This meal, unscheduled and unforeseen in the program, concluded the first day of the futurological congress.

Quite exhausted by the stormy events of the day, we settled down for the night in more than Spartan circumstances, considering that we were obliged to sleep on a narrow concrete platform that bore the unmistakable traces of the sewer. The first problem that arose was to divide up fairly the reclining chairs, which the hotel directors had so thoughtfully brought with them. There were six chairs, accommodating twelve persons, for the six-membered management team had planned to share this bedding (in the spirit of camaraderie) with its private secretaries; while those of us who had entered the sewer under Stantor's leadership numbered twenty. That included the futurological group of Professors Dringenbaum, Hazelton and Trottelreiner, several reporters and television commentators from CBS, and two individuals enlisted along the way, a muscular man in a leather jacket and riding boots (no one knew who he was) and little Josephine Collins, girl Friday to the editor of Playboy. Stantor evidently intended to profit from her chemical conversion; he had already gotten her to agree, so I heard, to sign over the first rights to her memoirs. With six chairs and thirty-odd applicants, the situation became explosive. We lined up on either side of these makeshift beds and glowered at one another, to the extent that one can glower in an oxygen mask. Somebody proposed that on the count of three we all remove our masks; in that way, obviously, everyone would be overcome with altruism, and there would then be no contention. However, no one seemed particularly anxious to put this plan into action. After a great deal of bickering we finally reached a compromise: we would draw lots and sleep in three-hour shifts. For lots we used those booklets of sky-blue copulation coupons some of us still carried on our person. It turned out that I got the first shift, along with Professor Trottelreiner, who was a bit more gaunt and angular than I would have liked, since we had to sleep together in the same bed, or rather chair. The ones who were next woke us roughly, and while they made themselves comfortable in our place we squatted at the edge of the sewer and nervously checked the pressure in our cylinders. The oxygen wouldn't last more than a few hours, that much was clear. The grim prospect of becoming benignimized seemed inevitable. Gloom descended upon us. Knowing that I had already had a taste of that state of bliss, my companions anxiously inquired how it felt. I assured them that it wasn't so bad really, but I spoke without conviction. Sleep overpowered us; to keep from falling into the sewer we tied ourselves, with whatever we could, to the iron rungs beneath the manhole. Dozing fitfully, I was awakened by the sound of an explosion far more powerful than anything yet; I looked around in the darkness-all the flashlights but one had been turned off, to conserve the batteries. Enormous sleek rats trotted by along the edge of the sewer. The odd thing was that they were walking single file, and on their hind legs. I pinched myself, but no, it wasn't a dream. I woke Professor Trottelreiner and showed him this phenomenon; he didn't know what to make of it. The rats were now walking in pairs, completely ignoring our presence; at least they weren't attempting to lick us, which the Professor considered a good sign, since it indicated that in all probability the air was clean. Cautiously we removed our masks. Both journalists on my right were sleeping soundly while the rats continued to promenade on two legs, but then the Professor and I sneezed, something was tickling our nostrils-the sewer stench, I thought at first, until I noticed the roots. I bent over to look at my feet. There was no mistake, I was sending out roots all right-from the knees down, more or less-and turning green above. And now my arms were sprouting buds, which opened quickly, unfolding before my very eyes. It's true the leaves were rather pale, but that is usually the case with plants grown underground. I had the feeling that any minute I should start bearing fruit. I wanted to ask Trottelreiner what he thought of this, but had to raise my voice, he was rustling so much. The sleepers meanwhile resembled a clipped hedge strewn with lilac and scarlet flowers. The rats nibbled at the foliage, smoothed their whiskers with their paws, and grew even larger. A little more, I thought, and one might ride them. Like a tree I yearned for the sun. As if from a great distance intermittent thunder reached my ears, something was falling gently, there was a rumbling, like echoes in corridors, and I turned red, then gold, then finally my leaves flew away in the wind. What-I wondered, surprised-was it autumn already?