Authors: Stanislaw Lem
“No, for he refused. Therefore we could not do this.”
“Now I don’t understand a thing! After all, you would have been acting exactly as that adversary of his, only in reverse!”
“Not at all. Not at all, because our ex-priest had no desire for any further disputations. The concept of a ‘disputation’ has changed and broadened considerably, you realize. He who now enters its lists must be prepared for more than words. Our priest displayed, alas, a most lamentable ignorance and naiveté, for he had been warned, for that other one had told him of its superiority in advance, but he just would not accept the fact that his unshakable faith could capitulate to anything. Theoretically, of course, there does exist a way out of this escalational dilemma: namely, to construct a mind capable of entertaining ALL variations of ALL POSSIBLE facts, but since their class is of transfinite magnitude, only a transfinite mind could achieve metaphysical certainty. Such a mind it is impossible to build. For whatever we build, we build in a finite fashion, and if there exists an infinite computer, it is He and He alone.
“And so at each new level of civilization the debate about God not only may, but must be carried on with new technologies—if it is to be carried on at all. For the informational weaponry has changed ON BOTH SIDES EQUALLY, the situation in the event of battle would be symmetrical and therefore identical to the situation that obtained in the medieval disputes. This new evangelism may be judged immoral only insomuch that you judge immoral the old converting of pagans or the polemics of ancient theologians with atheists. No other mode of missionary work is now possible, for today he who is willing to believe, will believe
without fail,
and he who has faith and wishes to cast it off, will cast it off
without fail
—with the help of the appropriate procedures.”
“So is it then possible to affect in turn the faculty of will, producing the desire for faith?” I asked.
“It is indeed. As you know, someone once came up with the dictum that God stands on the side of the strongest battalions. Nowadays, in keeping with the idea of technogenic crusades, He would appear on the side that had the strongest conversional equipment, but we do not consider it our task to enter into this sort of theodicean, religious-antireligious arms race. We do not wish to involve ourselves in the kind of escalation where we develop a proselytizer, and they an antiproselytizer, where we convert, and they controvert, and so on, contending century after century, turning the cloisters into factories of better and better means and tactics to awaken the thirst for faith!”
“How can it be,” I said, “that there is no other road, Father, but this that you are showing me? Do not all minds have the same logic in common? The same natural intelligence?”
“Logic is a tool,” replied the prior, “and a tool alone does nothing. It has to have a point of leverage and a guiding hand, and that leverage and that hand we are able to fashion entirely as we please. And as for natural intelligence, am I, are the friars here, natural? I already told you, we constitute scrap, and our Credo is, to those who first constructed us and then discarded us, a side effect, the jabbering of scrap. We were given freedom of thought, because the industry for which they fashioned us required that. Listen closely. I am now going to reveal to you a secret, a secret I would not reveal to any other. I know that you will leave us soon and not convey it to the authorities; it would cause us untold mischief.
“The brothers of one of the distant orders, who devote themselves to science, discovered a method of exercising such influence on the will and thought, that in a twinkling of an eye we could convert the entire planet, there being no antidote against it. This method neither clouds nor dulls the reason, nor deprives one of one’s freedom, it merely does to the spirit what is done to the sight by a hand that lifts the head skyward and a voice that cries: ‘Behold!’ The sole constraint—coercion—would be that at that moment the eyes could not be closed. This method compels one to look into the face of the Enigma, and he who sees it thus shall nevermore be free of it, for the impression it makes—thanks to this method—is indelible. It would be as if, to use a simile, I were to bring you to the mouth of a volcano and induce you to look
down,
and the one constraint that I would place upon you then would be: that you could never lose that memory. And therefore we are EVEN NOW all-powerful in conversion, having reached—in the area of the spreading of the faith—the highest degree of mastery, as has been reached in another area—that of physical-corporeal invention—by civilization. Thus we can, at long last … you understand? We have this missionary omnipotence and yet do nothing. For now the only way in which our faith can still be shown is to refuse to take that step. I say, above all: NON AGAM. Not merely
Non
serviam,
but also: I shall not act. I shall not act, because I
can, with certainty,
and by that action do
everything
I wish. Nothing remains for us then but to sit here among the fossils of rats, in this maze of dried-up sewers.”
I had no answer to these words. Seeing the pointlessness of staying any longer on the planet, I bade the good friars a fond and tearful farewell, loaded my rocket, which had all this time been safely camouflaged, and started on the journey home, a different man than the one who not so very long ago had landed there.
I
have my hands full now sorting out all the curiosities I brought back from my voyages to the remotest corners of the Universe. I had decided some time ago to donate the whole collection, the only one of its kind, to our museum; just the other day the curator told me he was setting aside a special room for it.
Not all the items are equally precious to me: some awaken cheerful memories, others bring to mind events full of dread and menace, but all—regardless—are evidence, full corroboration of the authenticity of my adventures.
Among the exhibits that rouse particularly strong emotions in me is a tooth; placed on a small cushion beneath a bell glass, it has two large roots and is completely healthy; I lost it at a reception given by Mandibus, ruler of the Gnelts from the planet Ophoptopha; the food they served there was excellent, but incredibly hard.
No less an important place in my collection is occupied by a pipe, broken into two unequal parts; it fell from the rocket while I was cruising over a rocky sphere in the star system of Pegasus. Regretting the loss, I spent a day and a half searching cliffs and chasms in the heart of that wilderness of stone,
A little farther on, in a tiny box, lies a pebble no larger than a pea. Its story is most unusual. When I set out for Xiff, the farthermost star in the twin nebulae NGC 887, I nearly overestimated my strength; the journey dragged on so long, I was close to collapse; what oppressed me especially was homesickness for Earth, and I paced the rocket, unable to rest. Lord knows how this would have ended, but then on the two hundred and sixty-eighth day of the journey I felt something digging into the heel of my left foot; I removed the shoe and, with tears in my eyes, shook out a pebble, a grain of genuine terrestrial gravel—it must have fallen in there back at the airport, when I had walked up the steps to the rocket. Holding to my breast this minuscule but oh so precious particle of my native planet, I flew on to my destination with spirits lifted; that memory is particularly dear to me.
And over here, resting on a velvet pillow, is an ordinary brick, fired from clay, yellow-pink in color, a little cracked and also chipped at one end; had it not been for a lucky coincidence and my own presence of mind, I might never have returned, on account of it, from the Nebula of the Hunting Dogs. This brick I usually took with me on trips to the coldest regions of space; as a rule I would place it for a while in the atomic engine, then put it, nice and warm, into my bed before turning in for the night. In the upper left quadrant of the Milky Way, there where the stellar cloud of Orion joins with the constellation of the Archer, I witnessed, while flying at low velocity, a collision of two enormous meteors. The sight of that fiery explosion in the void so excited me, that I reached for the towel in order to dab my forehead—completely forgetting that earlier I had wrapped the brick in it—and, lifting my hand in a rapid sweep, came within an inch of smashing my own skull. Fortunately with my usual quick-wittedness I became aware of the danger in time.
Next to the brick stands a small wooden chest; in it rests my penknife, a companion of many journeys. Just how attached I am to it, let the following story show, a story that certainly bears telling.
I left Satelline at two in the afternoon with an awful runny nose. The local physician, to whom I went, recommended its amputation, a procedure that is routine for the inhabitants of the planet, since their noses grow back like fingernails. Discouraged, I went straight from his office to the airport, to fly to some sector of the heavens where medical science was more advanced. On this voyage everything went wrong. Right at the start, when I had pulled out from the planet a mere nine hundred thousand miles, I heard the call signal of some rocket, so I inquired by radio who was flying there. In answer I received the very same question. “I asked first!” I snapped, irritated by the stranger’s lack of manners. “I asked first,” replied the other. This mimicry was so provoking, that I told the unknown traveler exactly what I thought of his impertinence. He paid me back in the same coin; we began to quarrel more and more heatedly, till after twenty minutes of this, indignant to the extreme, I suddenly realized there was no other rocket there at all, that the voice I heard was simply an echo of my own radio signals, bouncing off the surface of Satelline’s moon, which I was just then passing. I hadn’t noticed it before because its night side was facing me.
An hour or so later, wishing to peel myself an apple, I discovered that my penknife was missing. I immediately tried to recall where I’d seen it last—yes, the snack bar at the Satelline airport; I had placed it on the slanting counter, it must have slipped off and fallen to the floor in the corner. I visualized the place so well, I could have found the thing with my eyes shut. I turned the rocket around—and now a new problem arose: the whole sky was alive with twinkling lights and I had no idea of where to look for Satelline. It is one of one thousand, four hundred and eighty spheres orbiting the sun Erysipelas. Not only that, but the majority of these have several dozen moons apiece, and moons as large as planets, which makes it even more difficult to get one’s bearings. Nonplused, I tried raising Satelline by radio. In reply a score of stations responded, all talking at once, which resulted in terrible cacophony; the inhabitants of the Erysipelan system, you have to understand, are as disorganized as they are polite, and they happened to have given the name “Satelline” to at least two hundred different planets. I looked out the window at the myriad pinpoints of light; on one of them was my penknife, but it would have been easier finding a needle in a haystack than the right planet in that interstellar ant hill. At last I trusted to Lady Luck and made for the planet that lay straight ahead.
Less than fifteen minutes later I set down at the airport; it was exactly like the one from which I’d blasted off at two. Delighted at my good fortune, I proceeded directly to the snack bar. Imagine my disappointment when after the most painstaking search I failed to find my penknife. With a little thought I reached the conclusion that either someone had taken it or else I was on an altogether different planet. Questioning the natives, I soon learned that the second supposition was correct. I was on Andrygon, an old, dilapidated wreck of a planet, which should have been taken out of circulation long ago, but no one bothers with it, for it lies far off the main rocket lanes. At the port they asked me which Satelline I wanted, since those spheres are numbered. Only now did I find myself at a loss, for the number had flown right out of my head. Meanwhile, notified by the airport management, the local authorities showed up, in order to extend to me a formal welcome.
This was a great day for the Andrygonians; in all the schools final examinations were just now being held. One of the government representatives inquired if I would care to honor the proceedings with my presence. Since I had been received with exceptional hospitality, I could hardly refuse this request. So then, straight from the airport we went by wurbil (large, legless amphibians, similar to snakes, widely used for transportation) to the city. Having presented me to the assembled youths and to the instructors as an eminent guest from the planet Earth, the government representative left the hall forthwith. The instructors had me sit at the head of the plystrum (a kind of table), whereupon the examination in progress was resumed. The pupils, excited by my presence, stammered at first and were extremely shy, but I reassured them with a cheerful smile, and when I whispered the right word now to this one, now to that, the ice was quickly broken. They answered better and better towards the end. At one point there came before the examining board a young Andrygonian, overgrown with ruddocks (a kind of oyster, used for clothing), the loveliest I had seen in quite some time, and he began to answer the questions with uncommon eloquence and poise. I listened with pleasure, observing that the level of science here was high indeed.
Then the examiner asked:
“Can the candidate for graduation demonstrate why life on Earth is impossible?”
With a little bow the youth commenced to give an exhaustive and logically constructed argument, in which he proved irrefutably that the greater part of Earth is covered with cold, exceedingly deep waters, whose temperature is kept near zero by constantly floating mountains of ice; that not only the poles, but the surrounding areas as well are a place of perpetual, bitter frost and that for half a year there night reigns uninterrupted. That, as one can dearly see through astronomical instruments, the land masses, even in the more temperate zones, are covered for many months each year by frozen water vapor known as “snow,” which lies in a thick layer upon both hills and valleys. That the great Moon of Earth causes high tides and low, which have a destructive, erosive effect. That with the aid of the most powerful spyglasses one can see how very often large patches of the planet are plunged in shadow, produced by an envelope of clouds. That in the atmosphere fierce cyclones, typhoons and storms abound. All of which, taken together, completely rules out the possibility of the existence of life in any form. And if—concluded the young Andrygonian in a ringing voice—beings of some sort were ever to try landing on Earth, they would suffer certain death, being crushed by the tremendous pressure of its atmosphere, which at sea level equals one kilogram per square centimeter, or 760 millimeters in a column of mercury.