Authors: Stanislaw Lem
When I regained consciousness, the cabin was packed with people. There was barely elbowroom. As it turned out, they were all of them me, from different days, weeks, months, and one—so he said—was even from the following year. There were plenty with bruises and black eyes, and five among those present had on spacesuits. But instead of immediately going out through the hatch and repairing the damage, they began to quarrel, argue, bicker and debate. The problem was, who had hit whom, and when. The situation was complicated by the fact that there now had appeared morning me’s and afternoon me’s—I feared that if things went on like this, I would soon be broken into minutes and seconds—and then too, the majority of the me’s present were lying like mad, so that to this day I’m not altogether sure whom I hit and who hit me when that whole business took place, triangularly, between the Thursday, the Friday and the Wednesday me’s, all of whom I was in turn. My impression is that because I had lied to the Friday me, pretending to be the Sunday me, I ended up with one blow more than I should have, going by the calendar. But I would prefer not to dwell any longer on these unpleasant memories; a man who for an entire week does nothing but hit himself over the head has little reason to be proud.
Meanwhile the arguments continued. The sight of such inaction, such wasting of precious time, drove me to despair, while the rocket rushed blindly on, straight ahead, plunging every now and then into another gravitational vortex. At last the ones wearing spacesuits started slugging it out with the ones who were not. I tried to introduce some sort of order into that absolute chaos and finally, after superhuman efforts, succeeded in organizing something that resembled a meeting, in which the one from next year—having seniority—was elected chairman by acclamation.
We then appointed an elective committee, a nominating committee, and a committee for new business, and four of us from next month were made sergeants at arms. But in the meantime we had passed through a negative vortex, which cut our number in half, so that on the very first ballot we lacked a quorum, and had to change the bylaws before proceeding to vote on the candidates for rudder-repairer. The map indicated the approach of still other vortices, and these undid all that we had accomplished so far; first the candidates already chosen disappeared, and then the Tuesday me showed up with the Friday me, who had his head wrapped in a towel, and they created a shameful scene. Upon passage through a particularly strong positive vortex we hardly fit in the cabin and corridor, and opening the hatch was out of the question—there simply wasn’t room. But the worst of it was, these time displacements were increasing in amplitude, a few grayhaired me’s had already appeared, and here and there I even caught a glimpse of the close-cropped heads of children, that is of myself, of course—or rather—myselves from the halcyon days of boyhood.
I really can’t recall whether I was still the Sunday me, or had already turned into the Monday me. Not that it made any difference. The children sobbed that they were being squashed in the crowd, and called for their mommy; the chairman—the Tichy from next year—let out a string of curses, because the Wednesday me, who had crawled under the bed in a futile search for chocolate, bit him in the leg when he accidentally stepped on the latter’s finger. I saw that all this would end badly, particularly now as here and there gray beards were turning up. Between the 142nd and 143rd vortices I passed around an attendance sheet, but afterwards it came to light that a large number of those present were cheating. Supplying false vital statistics, God knows why. Perhaps the prevailing atmosphere had muddled their wits. The noise and confusion were such that you could make yourself understood only by screaming at the top of your lungs. But then one of last year’s Ijons hit upon what seemed to be an excellent idea, namely, that the oldest among us tell the story of his life; in that way we would learn just who was supposed to fix the rudder. For obviously the oldest me contained within his past experience the lives of all the others there from their various months, days and years. So we turned, in this matter, to a hoary old gentleman who, slightly palsied, was standing idly in the corner. When questioned, he began to speak at great length of his children and grandchildren, then passed to his cosmic voyages, and he had embarked upon no end of these in the course of his ninety-some years. Of the one now taking place—the only one of interest to us—the old man had no recollection whatever, owing to his generally sclerotic and overexcited condition, however he was far too proud to admit this and went on evasively, obstinately, time and again returning to his high connections, decorations and grandchildren, till finally we shouted him down and ordered him to hold his tongue. The next two vortices cruelly thinned our ranks. After the third, not only was there more room, but all of those in spacesuits had disappeared as well. One empty suit remained; we voted to hang it up in the corridor, then went back to our deliberations. Then, following another scuffle for the possession of that precious garment, a new vortex came along and suddenly the place was deserted. I was sitting on the floor, puffy-eyed, in my strangely spacious cabin, surrounded by broken furniture, strips of clothing, ripped-up books. The floor was strewn with ballots. According to the map, I had now passed through the entire zone of gravitational vortices. No longer able to count on duplication, and thus no longer able to correct the damage, I fell into numb despair. About an hour later I looked out in the corridor and discovered, to my great surprise, that the spacesuit was missing. But then I vaguely remembered—yes—right before that last vortex two little boys sneaked out into the corridor. Could they have possibly, both of them, put on the one spacesuit?! Struck by a sudden thought, I ran to the controls. The rudder worked! So then, those little tykes had fixed it after all, while we adults were stuck in endless disagreements. I imagine that one of them placed his arms in the sleeves of the suit, and the other—in the pants; that way, they could have tightened the nut and bolt with wrenches at the same time, working on either side of the rudder. The empty spacesuit I found in the air lock, behind the hatch. I carried it inside the rocket like a sacred relic, my heart full of boundless gratitude for those brave lads I had been so long ago! And thus concluded what was surely one of my most unusual adventures. I reached my destination safely, thanks to the courage and resourcefulness I had displayed when only two children.
It was said afterwards that I invented the whole thing, and those more malicious even went so far as to insinuate that I had a weakness for alcohol, carefully concealed on Earth but freely indulged during those long and lonely cosmic flights. Lord only knows what other gossip has been circulating on the subject. But that is how people are; they’ll willingly give credence to the most far-fetched drivel, but not to the simple truth, which is precisely what I have presented here.
W
ell, it finally happened. I was Earth’s delegate to the United Planets—or more precisely, a candidate, though that isn’t right either, since it was not my candidacy, but all humanity’s which the General Assembly was going to consider.
Never in my life did I feel so nervous. My tongue was thick, my mouth dry, and when I walked out onto the red carpet spread from the astrobus, I couldn’t tell whether it or my knees were gently buckling under me. Speeches would surely have to be given, but I was too choked with emotion to stammer out a single word, so that when I caught sight of a large, shiny machine with a chrome counter and little slots for coins, I hurriedly inserted one, placing the cup of my thermos underneath its spigot. This was the first interplanetary incident in the history of human diplomacy on the galactic level, since what I had taken for a soft drink vending machine turned out to be the deputy chairman of the Rhohch delegation in full regalia. By a great stroke of luck the Rhohches happened to be the ones who had offered to sponsor our candidacy at the meeting, though I didn’t know this at the time, and when that high dignitary spat upon my boots I took it as a bad sign, while in fact it was only the aromatic secretion of his salutation glands. All this I understood after swallowing an informational-translational tablet handed me by some sympathetic UP official; immediately the jangling sounds around me changed in my ears to perfectly coherent words, the quadrangle of aluminum bowling pins at the end of the plush carpet became an honor guard, and the Rhohch that greeted me—till then looking more like a very large pretzel—seemed an old acquaintance, whose appearance was in no way unusual. But my nervousness remained. A small trundler pulled up, constructed especially for the conveyance of biped creatures such as myself; the Rhohch accompanying me squeezed in after me with difficulty and, taking a seat to the right as well as to the left of me, said:
“Honorable Earthling, I must inform you that a slight procedural complication has taken place. The actual head-chairman of our delegation, the one most qualified to promote your candidacy, being a specialist-Earthist, was unfortunately recalled to the capital last night and I am supposed to replace him. You are familiar with the protocol?…”
“No, I … I haven’t had the chance,” I muttered, trying without much success to make myself comfortable in the chair of the trundler, which had not been completely adapted to the needs of the human body. The seat was more like a steep pit, practically two feet deep, and on the bumps my knees touched my forehead.
“Never mind, we’ll manage…” said the Rhohch. His flowing robe, pressed into rectangular shapes that glittered metallically—and which I had mistaken earlier for a refreshment stand—hummed softly as he cleared his throat and continued:
“Of course I am acquainted with the history of your people, indeed to be so informed is one of my duties. And truly what a magnificent thing it is, this humanity! Our delegation will move (item number eighty-three on the agenda) that you be accepted as official members of the Assembly, with full rights and privileges accruing thereunto … you haven’t by any chance lost your certification papers, have you?!” he asked so suddenly that I jumped and strenuously shook my head. The roll of parchment in question, somewhat limp with sweat, was clutched in my right hand.
“Good,” he said. “So then, yes, I shall deliver a speech depicting your great achievements, achievements which entitle you to take your rightful place in the Astral Federation… This is, you understand, a kind of ancient formality. I mean, you don’t anticipate any opposition … do you?”
“I—well—no, I don’t think,” I mumbled,
“Of course not! The very idea! So then, strictly a formality, nonetheless I will need certain information. Facts, you understand, details. Atomic energy, one may assume, you already have at your disposal?”
“Oh yes! Yes!” I eagerly assured him,
“Marvelous. But wait, ah, I have it right here, the head-chairman left me his notes, but his handwriting, h’m, well … and for how long have you availed yourselves of this energy?”
“Since the sixth of August, 1945!”
“Excellent. What was it? The first power plant?”
“No,” I replied, feeling myself blush, “the first atomic bomb. It destroyed Hiroshima…”
“Hiroshima? A meteor?”
“Not a meteor … a city.”
“A city…?” he said, uneasy, “In that case, h’m, how to put it…” he thought for a moment. “No, it’s best to say nothing,” he decided. “All right, fine, but I must have something to praise. Come now, think hard, we’ll be there any minute.”
“Uh … space travel,” I began.
“That is self-evident, without space travel you wouldn’t be here now,” he explained, a little testily I thought. “To what do you devote the bulk of your national revenue? Try to recall, any grand feat of engineering, architecture on the cosmic scale, gravitational-solar launchers, well?” he prompted.
“Yes … that is, work is under way,” I said. “Government funds are rather limited, most of it goes into defense…”
“Defense of what? The continents? Against meteors, earthquakes?”
“No, not that kind of defense … armaments, armies…”
“What is that, a hobby?”
“Not a hobby … internal conflicts,” I muttered.
“This is no recommendation!” he said with obvious distaste. “Really, you didn’t come flying here straight out of the cave! Your learned ones must have realized long ago that planetary cooperation is invariably more profitable than struggles for loot and supremacy!”
“They did, they did, but there are reasons … reasons of a historical nature, you see.”
“We are getting nowhere!” he said. “I am here, after all, not to defend you, as if you were on trial, but to commend, applaud, speak highly of, enumerate your merits and your virtues. You understand?”
“I understand.”
My tongue by now was as stiff as if someone had frozen it, the starched collar of my dress shirt choked me, its front was all damp with the sweat that was pouring from me; I caught my roll of credentials on one of the medals and tore the outside sheet. The Rhohch, annoyed, contemptuous, yet at the same time detached, as though thinking of other things, suddenly said with an unexpected calm and mildness (ah, the artful diplomat!):
“I shall speak instead of your culture. Of its outstanding achievements. You do have a culture?!” he quickly added.
“We do indeed! A splendid culture!” I assured him.
“That’s good. Art?”
“Oh yes! Music, poetry, architecture…”
“So then, architecture after all!” he exclaimed. “Wonderful. I must make a note of that. Explosives?”
“How do you mean, explosives?”
“Creative detonations, controlled, to regulate the climate, shift continents, river beds—you have that?”
“So far only bombs…” I said, then added in a hesitant whisper: “But there are many different kinds, napalm, phosphorus, and even with poison gas…”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” he said coldly. “Let us stick to the intellectual life. What do you believe in?”
This Rhohch who was supposed to recommend us was not, as I finally realized, a specialist in Earthly affairs. The thought that our fate would shortly be decided by the appearance of a creature of such ignorance before the forum of the entire Galaxy—well, it took my breath away. What rotten luck, I thought, they
would
have to go recall that head-chairman, the Earthist!