Authors: Stanislaw Lem
“You really owe them that much, then? I was not aware of this…”
“What—not aware? But the squamp carried us in their wombs for twenty thousand years! Living inside them, protected by their powerful armor against the hail of deadly meteors, our forefathers became what we are today: intelligent, beautiful beings that shine by night. And you were not aware of this?”
“I am a foreigner…” I muttered, vowing in my soul never, never again to raise a hand against a squamp.
“Yes, of course…” replied the director, no longer listening to me, and got to his feet. “Unfortunately we must go back: I have my duties to attend to…”
From the zoological garden I took a transom to Galax, where some tickets for a matinée were supposed to have been put aside for me.
In the center of town thundering explosions could again be heard, louder and with increasing frequency. Above the roofs rose columns of smoke, flickering with flames. But none of the pedestrians appeared to mind it in the least, so I kept silent. The transom stopped in front of Galax. The official on duty asked me how I had liked the Zoo.
“Yes, very nice,” I said, “but … good Lord!”
All of Galax jumped. Two office buildings across the way, clearly visible through the window, flew apart under the impact of a meteor. Deafened, I went reeling against a wall.
“It’s nothing,” said the official. “You’ll get used to it in time. Here are your tick—”
He didn’t finish. There was a flash, a crash, dust everywhere, and when it settled, instead of the person talking to me I saw a giant hole in the floor. I stood there, petrified. Hardly a minute went by before several Ardrites in overalls patched the hole and wheeled up a dolly with a large bundle. When it was unwrapped, there before my eyes appeared the official, holding the tickets in his hand. He brushed the rest of the packing from himself, climbed onto his perch and said:
“Your tickets. I told you it was nothing. Each of us, in case of emergency, is replicated. You are surprised at our composure? Well, but this has been going on for a good thirty thousand years, we have grown accustomed to it. If you would like some lunch, the Galax restaurant is now open. Downstairs, and to your left.”
“No thanks, I—I’m not hungry,” I replied and, a little weak in the knees, went out amidst the continual explosions and thunderclaps. Suddenly I was seized with anger.
“They won’t see an Earthling cower!” I thought and, glancing at my watch, asked to be driven to the theater.
Along the way a meteor smashed the transom, so I got into another. At the place where yesterday the theater building had stood there was now a smoking pile of rubble.
“Will my money be refunded for these tickets?” I asked the cashier, who was standing in the street.
“Certainly not. The show begins on schedule.”
“On schedule? But didn’t a meteor just…”
“We still have twenty minutes,” said the cashier, pointing to his watch.
“Yes, but…”
“Would you mind not blocking the box office? We want to buy tickets!” shouted some individuals in the line that had formed behind me. With a shrug I stepped aside. Two big machines meanwhile loaded the debris and carted it away. In a few minutes the site was cleared.
“Are they going to perform in the open air?” I asked one of those waiting. He was fanning himself with a program.
“Nothing of the kind! I assume that everything will be as usual,” he replied.
I bit my lip, incensed, thinking he was trying to make a fool of me. An enormous tanker drove up to the site. From it was poured a doughy, cherry-red substance, which formed a sizable blob; immediately they inserted pipes into this pulpy, steaming mass and began pumping air inside it. The blob changed into a bubble that expanded with incredible speed. A minute later it presented an exact copy of the theater building, except that it was completely soft, for it wobbled in the breeze. But in another five minutes the newly inflated structure had hardened; just then a meteor shattered part of the ceiling. So a new ceiling was blown, then the doors were flung open, and in thronged the spectators. Taking my seat, I noticed it was still warm. That was the only indication of the recent catastrophe. I asked a neighbor just what that substance was which they had used to rebuild the theater, and found out: it’s the famous Ardrite fab gum.
The show began a minute late. At the sound of a gong the house dimmed, resembling a gridiron full of dying coals, while the actors shone brilliantly. The play they did was symbolic and historical; to tell the truth I didn’t get much out of it, particularly as a number of things were conveyed by color pantomime. The first act took place in a temple; a group of young Ardritesses crowned a statue of the Munge with flowers, singing about their betrotheds.
Suddenly an amber prelate appeared and drove away the maidens, with the exception of the most beautiful, who was as clear as spring water. Her the prelate locked inside the statue. Imprisoned, she sang an aria summoning her beloved, who ran in and extinguished the old prelate. Just then a meteor pulverized the roof, part of the scenery, and the beautiful maiden, but from the prompter’s box they immediately brought out a spare, and so adroitly, that if you happened to have coughed or blinked your eyes, you wouldn’t have noticed a thing. Following this, the lovers decided to raise a family. The act concluded with the rolling of the prelate off a cliff.
When the curtain went up again after the intermission, I beheld an exquisite sphere of husband, wife and progeny, swaying back and forth, back and forth to the sound of the music. A servant entered and announced that an unknown benefactor had sent the married couple a bouquet of scrupts. Then an enormous crate was wheeled onstage; I watched its opening with bated breath. But just as the lid was being lifted, something struck me violently in the forehead and I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was seated in the very same place. Of the scrupts there was no longer any mention in the scene, the extinguished prelate was now spinning about, sputtering the most dire imprecations at the tragically glowing children and parents. I clutched my head—there was no bump.
“What happened to me?” I whispered to the lady at my side.
“Pardon? Oh, a meteor got you, but you didn’t miss a thing, believe me, that duet was absolutely awful. Of course it
was
scandalous: they had to send all the way to Galax for your spare,” whispered the pleasant Ardritess.
“What spare?” I asked, suddenly feeling numb.
“Why, yours of course…”
“Then where am I?”
“Where? Here in the theater. Are you all right?”
“Then I am the spare?”
“Certainly.”
“But where is the I that was sitting here before?”
Those in front of us went “Shh!” and my neighbor fell silent. “Please,” I whispered, “you have to tell me, where are the … the … you know what I mean.”
“Quiet! What is this?! We’re trying to hear!” they were hissing from all sides now. The one behind me, orange with anger, began calling for the usher. More dead than alive, I fled the theater, took the first transom back to the hotel and examined myself carefully in the mirror. My spirits revived a little, for there seemed
to be no
change, however upon closer inspection I made a terrifying discovery. My shirt was inside out and the buttons were fastened all wrong—clear proof that those who had dressed me didn’t know the first thing about Earth clothing. And on top of it all, I shook bits of packing out of my socks—left there in haste, no doubt. I could hardly breathe; then the telephone rang.
“This is the fourth time I’ve called,” said the secretary from CCCC. “Professor Pook would like to see you today.”
“Who? Professor Pook?” I repeated, pulling myself together with the greatest effort, “Good. What time?”
“At your convenience. Now, if you like.”
“I’ll go to him at once!” I suddenly decided. “And … and please have my bill ready!”
“You’re leaving?” asked the CCCC secretary, surprised.
“Yes, I must. I’m not myself!” I explained and slammed the receiver on the hook.
I changed and went downstairs. The recent events had affected me so much, that when, just as I was getting into the transom, a meteor smashed the entire hotel to smithereens, I didn’t even blink, but gave my driver the Professor’s address. The Professor lived in an outlying district, among silvery hills. I stopped the transom fairly far from his house, glad for the chance to walk a little after the nervous tension of the last few hours. Proceeding along the road, I noticed a bent, elderly Ardrite, who was slowly pushing a kind of wheelbarrow with a cover. He saluted me politely; I nodded in return. For a minute or so we walked together. Around the corner a hedge came into view, bordering the home of the Professor; on the other side wisps of smoke were drifting up into the sky. The Ardrite walking next to me stumbled; then, from under the cover I heard a voice:
“Now?”
“Not yet,” replied the carter.
I was surprised at this, but said nothing. When we came to the fence, I stopped and stared at the smoke billowing from the spot where one would have expected the Professor’s house to be. The carter, when I brought this to his attention, nodded.
“Right, a meteor fell, oh just about a quarter of an hour ago.”
“No!!” I exclaimed, horrified. “How dreadful!”
“The gum mixer’ll be here any minute,” said the carter. “It’s the suburbs, you understand, they’re never in a hurry, not for us.”
“Now?’’
came that scratchy voice again from inside the wheelbarrow.
“Not yet,” said the carter and turned to me: “Would you mind opening the gate?”
I obliged and asked:
“You’re going to the Professor too…?”
“Right, delivering a spare,” said the carter as he set about lifting the cover. I held my breath upon seeing a large package, carefully wrapped and tied. In one place the paper was torn; a living eye peered out.
“Ah … you’ve come to see me … to see me…” rasped the ancient voice within the package, “be right with you … right with you … please wait in the gazebo…”
“Yes, I … fine…” I answered. But as the carter wheeled his burden on ahead, I turned around, leaped over the fence and ran as fast as I possibly could to the airport. In an hour I was out in space, scudding my way among the stars. Professor Pook, I hope, will not hold this against me.
I
t all started less than a day after my return from the Hyades, a spherical cluster so thick with stars that the civilizations there hardly have room to turn around. I hadn’t even unpacked half the suitcases—filled with specimens—and already my arms were falling off. I decided to put the luggage in the cellar and attend to it later, when I’d rested up a bit. The return trip had taken forever and all I wanted now was to sit back in my carved armchair by the fireplace, stretch out my legs, put my hands in the pockets of my old smoking jacket and tell myself that besides the milk boiling over on the stove there was nothing I had to worry about. Yes, four years of such traveling and you can get pretty tired of the Universe, at least for a while. I’ll walk over to the window, I thought, and see not the black void, not sizzling prominences—but a street, flower beds, bushes, a little dog lifting its leg beneath a tree with complete indifference towards the problems of the Milky Way, and what a joy that will be!
But, as is usually the case with such dreams, it didn’t work out that way. I noticed that the first parcel I pulled off the rocket had one side bashed in and, fearful for the hundreds of priceless specimens I’d collected, immediately set about unpacking. The bhingets were all right, but the mups had gotten crushed on the bottom, I just couldn’t leave things like that, and in a few hours had knocked the lids off the largest crates, opened up the trunks, spread the fenticles over the radiator to dry—they were soaked through by the tea from the thermos—but I really shuddered when I saw the stuffings. These were to have been the pride and glory of my collection; all the way home I had tried to think of just the right place for them, as they are the greatest of rarities, those products of the militarization on Regulus (a civilization conscripted in its entirety, you won’t find a single civilian there). Taxidermy is no “hobby” among the Regulans, as Tottenham writes, but something between a religious practice and a sport. Tottenham simply fails to grasp the grounds on which they stuff. Taxidermy on Regulus represents a symbolic act; thus Tottenham’s remarks, full of wonder, and his rhetorical questions too, they only demonstrate his total ignorance. Marital taxidermy is one thing, school taxidermy quite another—and then there’s the vacationing kind, the dating, etc. But I can’t go into that now. Suffice it to say that in carrying the Regulusian trophies upstairs I slipped a disk, so although there was still a bundle of work to be done I said to myself that this head-on assault would accomplish little. I hung the chimpers up on the clothesline in the basement and went to the kitchen to fix supper. And now only loafing, siestas,
dolce far niente,
I said firmly. Of course an ocean of memories continued to assail me, like a swollen tide when the storm has passed. While cracking an egg I looked at the blue flame of the burner—nothing special about it, yet how very like the Nova of Perseus. And those curtains there—as white as the sheet of asbestos I’d used to cover the atomic pile that time when… No, enough!—I told myself. Decide instead how you want your eggs—scrambled or fried? I had just settled on sunny-side up when the whole house shook. The eggs, still raw, flopped to the floor, and as I turned to the stairs I heard a long, drawn-out rumble like an avalanche. I threw down the skillet and ran upstairs. Had the roof caved in? A meteor?… But that was impossible! Such things didn’t happen!
The only room I hadn’t cluttered up with packages was the study, and that was where the noise was coming from. The first thing I saw was a pile of books at the foot of a tilting bookcase. Out from under the thick volumes of my cosmic encyclopedia crawled a man, backwards, crushing the fallen books with his knees, as if the damage he had done them already wasn’t enough. Before I could speak he pulled out some sort of long metal rod after him, holding it by its handlebars—it resembled a bicycle without wheels. I coughed, but the intruder, still on all fours, paid absolutely no attention to me. I coughed louder, however now his profile seemed oddly familiar, but it was only when he stood up that I recognized him. He was myself. Exactly, just like looking into a mirror. I had indeed already experienced, once, a whole series of such encounters, still that had been in a swarm of gravitational vortices, not in the peace and quiet of my own home!