Stanislaw Lem - The Futurological Congress

"Who's that?" I tried to pull free, but couldn't. "Let go of me, please!"

Lights flickered up ahead, a big house loomed, gravel crunched beneath our tires, then the car made a sharp turn, drew up to a curb and stopped.

The hand that still held me by the hair belonged to another woman; she was pale, slender, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. The car door flew open.

"Where are we?" I asked.

Without a word they pounced and, with the one at the wheel pushing and the other-already on the sidewalk-pulling, I was forced from the car. There was a party going on in the house, I heard music, drunken shouts, and the fountain near the driveway ran yellow and purple in the light of the windows. My companions took me firmly by the arms.

"But I really don't have the time," I muttered.

They paid no attention. The one in black leaned over and whispered, her hot breath in my ear:

"Hoo!"

"I beg your pardon?"

By now we were at the door; they both began to laugh, apparently at me. Everything about them was repulsive, and besides that, they were growing smaller. Kneeling? No, their legs were covered with feathers. "Aha!" I said to myself, not without relief. "Then it is a hallucination after all!"

"Hallucination, is it?" snorted the one in the sunglasses. She raised her handbag beaded with black pearls and hit me over the head. I groaned.

"I'll give you a hallucination, dungbutt!" screamed the other, and dealt me a savage blow in the very same place. I fell, covering my head with my arms. I opened my eyes. Professor Trottelreiner was bending over me, his umbrella in his hand. I was lying on the sewer platform. The rats were walking in pairs as if nothing had happened.

"Where, where does it hurt you?" inquired the Professor. "Here?"

"No, here… " I showed him the lump on my head.

He lifted the point of his umbrella and jabbed me in the injured place.

"Help!" I yelled. "Please, no more! Why are you-"

"Helping you is precisely what I'm trying to do!" said the futurologist sternly. "Unfortunately, I have no other antidote at hand!"

"At least not with the point, for God's sake!"

"It's more efficacious that way."

He struck once more, turned and called someone. I closed my eyes. My head throbbed. Then I felt a tugging. The Professor and the man in the leather jacket took hold of my arms and legs and began to carry me somewhere.

"Where now?" I cried.

Bits of rubble dribbled down on my face from the trembling ceiling; I felt my bearers stepping along some shaky board or plank and shuddered, afraid they might slip. "Where are you taking me?" I asked feebly, but there was no answer. The air was filled with incessant thunder. Then it grew bright, and we were outside, fire all around; men in uniform were seizing everyone brought out of the sewer and pushing them rather roughly, one by one, through an open door-I got a glimpse of the large white letters U.S. ARMY COPTER 1-109-894-then I was lying on a stretcher. Professor Trottelreiner stuck his head inside the helicopter window.

"Sorry, Tichy old boy!" he shouted. "It was necessary!"

Someone standing behind him tore the umbrella from his hand, whacked the Professor twice over the head, and shoved him in among us; the futurologist fell to the floor with a groan. Meanwhile the rotors whirred, the motors roared, and the machine lifted majestically into the air. The Professor took a seat by my stretcher, gingerly rubbing the back of his head. I confess that though I fully understood the charitableness of his actions, it was with some satisfaction that I noticed the bump swelling there.

"Where are we going?"

"To the futurological congress," said Trottelreiner, still wincing.

"But… wasn't it-isn't it over?"

" Washington stepped in," he explained laconically. "We're continuing the conference."

"Where?"

" Berkeley."

"You mean, the university?"

"Right. You wouldn't happen to have a penknife on you?"

"No."

The helicopter lurched, burst into flames. An explosion ripped open the cabin and we were flung out into the void. There was a great deal of pain after that. I seemed to hear the long wail of a siren, someone was cutting my clothes with scissors, I blacked out, I regained consciousness again. Shaken by a fever and a bumpy road, I was looking at the dull white ceiling of an ambulance. Next to me lay another body, bandaged like a mummy; by the umbrella tied to it I recognized Professor Trottelreiner. It occurred to me that I was still alive. So by some miracle we had survived that terrible fall. Suddenly the ambulance swerved and skidded, tires screeching-turned over, burst into flames, and an explosion ripped apart its metal frame. "What, again?" was my final thought before I sank into oblivion. When I opened my eyes, I saw a glass dome over me; some people in white, wearing masks, their arms raised like priests giving benedictions, were conferring in lowered tones.

"Yes, this was Tichy," came the words. "We'll put it here, in the jar. No, no, only the brain. The rest is useless. Now the anesthetic, please."

A nickel ring lined with cotton shut out everything; I wanted to scream, to call for help, but inhaled the stinging gas and floated off into nothingness. When I woke again, I was unable to open my eyes, unable to move my arms or legs, as if I had been paralyzed. I redoubled my efforts in spite of the pain.

"Easy there! Don't struggle!" said a soothing, melodious voice.

"What? Where am I? What's wrong with me?" I blurted out. My lips felt odd, my whole face.

"You're in a hospital. Everything's fine. There's absolutely nothing to worry about. In just a minute we'll give you something to eat… "

"But how can I, if I don't have any… " I was about to say, but heard the snipping of scissors. Whole swaths of gauze fell from my face; it grew brighter. Two hulking orderlies took me gently but firmly under the arms and set me on my feet. I was astonished at their size. They helped me into a wheelchair. Before me steamed an appetizing broth. Reaching automatically for the spoon, I noticed that the hand that picked it up was small and black as ebony. I inspected this hand. Seeing that it moved exactly as I wished, I was forced to conclude that it was my own. And yet it had changed so much. I looked around to ask someone the reason and my eyes fell on a mirror on the opposite wall. There in a wheelchair sat an attractive young black woman, bandaged up, in pajamas, an expression of dismay on her face. I touched my nose. The reflection in the mirror did the same. I felt my face all over, my neck, but when I came to the bosom I cried out in alarm. My voice was high and reedy. "Good Lord!"

The nurse scolded someone for not covering up the mirror, then turned to me and said: "You are Ijon Tichy?"

"Yes. That is-yes, yes!! But what does this mean? That lady-that black woman-"

"A transplant. There was no other way. We had to save your life, and saving your life meant-well, your brain!" The nurse spoke quickly but clearly, holding both my hands in hers. I closed my eyes. I opened them, suddenly feeling very weak. The surgeon burst in with a look of the greatest indignation.

"What's going on here?" he roared. "The patient could fall into shock!"

"He already has!" returned the nurse. "It was Simmons, Doctor. I told him to cover the mirror!"

"Shock? Then what are you waiting for? Take him to surgery!" ordered the doctor.

"No! I've had enough!" I yelled.

But no one listened to my woman's pleas and squeals. A white sheet fell across my face. I tried to tear free, but couldn't. I heard and felt the rubber wheels of the hospital cart rolling along a tiled floor. Then there was a terrible blast, the sound of windows shattering, flames and smoke. An explosion rocked the corridor.