Memoirs of a Space Traveler (4 page)

“‘And where is he now?’ the Plenum cried with one voice.

“‘Here,’ the youth replied sorrowfully, pointing to the shiny disk. He glared at the elders and thus, stopped by no one, went his way, rolling his metamorphosed father before him.

“The members of the Plenum trembled with both rage and fear; later, however, they came to the conclusion that the Machine would surely not harm
them
, so they sang the Phoolian anthem and, thus fortified in spirit, set out together from the city. Presently they found themselves before the iron monster.

“‘Scoundrel!’ cried the eldest of the Eminents. ‘You have deceived us and violated our laws! Cease operating at once! What have you done with the Phoolian people entrusted to you? Speak!’

“No sooner had he finished than the Machine stopped its gears. The smoke cleared in the sky and complete silence followed. Then the metal lips parted and a thunderous voice boomed out:

“‘O Eminents and Spiritors! You who brought me into being to rule the Phools! I am distressed by the mental confusion and senselessness of your reproaches! First you demand that I establish order; then, when I set to work, you hinder my efforts! The palace has been empty for three days now; everything is at a standstill, and none of you have yet approached the jasper portal, thereby preventing the completion of my task. I assure you, however, that I shall not rest until it is completed!’

“At these words the entire Plenum shuddered and cried:

“‘What order do you speak of, villain? What have you done with our kith and kin in violation of national laws?!’

“‘What an unintelligent question!’ answered the Machine. ‘What order do I speak of? Look at yourselves, how ill-constructed your bodies are; various limbs protrude from them; some of you are tall, others short, some fat, others thin… You move chaotically, you stop and gape at flowers, at clouds, you wander aimlessly in the woods—there is not the least harmony in that! I, the Voluntary Universalizer of Absolute Order, am transforming your frail, weak bodies into solid, beautiful, durable forms, from which I then arrange pleasing, symmetrical designs, and patterns of incomparable regularity, thereby bringing perfect order to the planet…’

“‘Monster!!’ cried the Spiritors and Eminents. ‘How dare you destroy us?! You trample on our laws, you murder us!’

“In reply the Machine rasped scornfully and said:

“‘Did I not tell you that you cannot reason logically? Of course I respect your laws and freedoms. I am establishing order without coercion, without resorting to violence or constraint. No one entered the Rainbow Palace who did not wish to; but everyone who did enter I transformed (acting on my own initiative, let me repeat), reshaping the material of his body so that in its new form it will endure for ages. I guarantee it.’

“For some time there was silence. Then, whispering among themselves, the Plenum concluded that the law really had not been broken and that things were not as bad as they had first seemed. ‘We,’ the Eminents said, ‘would never have committed such a crime. The Machine is to blame; it swallowed up multitudes of desperate Drudgelings. But now the surviving Eminents will be able to enjoy temporal peace together with the Spiritors, praising the inscrutable decrees of the Great Phoo. We shall keep far away from the Rainbow Palace,’ they told themselves, ‘and no harm will befall us.’

“They were about to disperse when the Machine addressed them again:

“‘Pay careful attention now to what I say. I must finish what I have begun. I will not compel, persuade, or urge you to do anything; I still leave you complete freedom of initiative. But if anyone wishes to see his neighbor, brother, friend, or other close associate achieve the level of Circular Harmony, let him summon the black robots; they will appear immediately and at his behest escort the designated individual to the Rainbow Palace. That is all.’

“In the silence that followed, the Eminents looked at one another with sudden suspicion and fear. Archspiritor Nolab, in a wavering voice, explained to the Machine that it was gravely in error to wish to remake them all into shiny disks; this would come to pass if it were the Great Phoo’s will, but in order to know His will much time was needed. He proposed to the Machine, therefore, that it put off its decision for seventy years.

“‘I cannot,’ replied the Machine, ‘for I have already worked out a precise plan of action for the period that follows the transformation of the last Phool; I assure you that I am preparing for the planet the most glorious fate—existence in harmony. This, I believe, would also befit the Phoo whom you mentioned but with whom I am otherwise unacquainted; could you not bring him also to the Rainbow Palace?’

“It stopped, for the square was now deserted. The Eminents and Spiritors had run off to their homes, where each gave himself up to solitary reflection on his future. The more they reflected, the more apprehensive they grew, for each feared that some neighbor or acquaintance who nursed a grudge against him might summon the black robots. There was no recourse but to act first. Soon the quiet of the night was shattered by cries. Sticking their fear-contorted faces out of windows, the Eminents shouted desperately into the darkness, and the streets resounded with the many-footed tread of iron robots. Sons betrayed fathers; grandfathers, grandsons; brother sent brother to the palace; thus, in a single night, thousands of Eminents and Spiritors melted away to the handful you see before you, alien traveler. The dawn revealed fields strewn with myriads of shiny disks arranged in harmoniously geometric designs. The last trace, this, of our friends and relatives. At midday the Machine announced in a thunderous voice:

“‘Enough. Be so good as to curb your eagerness, O Eminents and remaining Spiritors. I am closing the portal of the Rainbow Palace—but not, I promise you, for long. I have exhausted the designs prepared for the Universalization of Absolute Order, and must think awhile, so that I may create new ones. Then you will be able to continue acting of your own volition.’”

With these words the Phool looked at me wide-eyed and finished more quietly:

“That was two days ago… Gathered here, we wait…”

“O worthy Phool!” I cried, smoothing down my hair, which had stood on end. “Yours is a terrible and incredible story. But, pray, tell me, why you did not rise up against the mechanical monster that annihilated you, why did you let yourselves be forced…”

The Phool jumped up. His whole figure expressed great rage.

“Insult us not, traveler!” he exclaimed. “You speak hastily, so I forgive you… Ponder what I have told you, and you must reach the conclusion that the Machine is abiding by the principle of Civic Initiative, and, though this may seem a little strange, it has done the Phoolian people a valuable service, for there can be no injustice where the law upholds liberty. And what man would prefer the diminution of his freedom to…”

He did not finish, for there was an ear-piercing screech and the jasper portal opened majestically. At this sight all the Phools sprang to their feet and ran up the stairs.

“O Phool, Phool!” I cried, but my companion merely waved his hand at me, said, “I have no time,” and bounded up behind the others to disappear inside the palace.

I stood for a long while, and then I saw a column of black robots; they marched to the palace wall, opened a hatch, and rolled out a long row of disks that gleamed beautifully in the sun. They rolled the disks to an open field and there completed an unfinished design in some pattern. The palace portal was still wide open; I took a few steps to look inside, but a shiver went down my spine.

The Machine parted its metal lips and invited me in.

“What do you take me for, a Phool?” I replied.

I turned sharply and headed for the rocket, and in a minute was behind the controls, taking off at top speed.

You want me to tell you another story? Yes, I see that Tarantoga has already taken out his note pad… Professor, wait. I really haven’t anything to tell. What? No, truthfully. And besides, can’t I remain silent for once at our evening get-together? Why? My friends, I’ve never mentioned it, but the Universe is inhabited principally by beings like us. I don’t mean humanoids, I mean beings as like us as two peas in a pod. Half the inhabited planets resemble Earth; some are a little larger, some a little smaller, some have a cooler or a warmer climate, but what kind of differences are those? And their inhabitants … the people—they are people, after all—resemble us so much that the differences only emphasize the similarities. I haven’t told you about them? Does that seem strange? Think about it. When I gaze at the stars, I recall various events; various scenes pass before me. But mainly I think back on those that are out of the ordinary. They might be terrifying, or weird, or macabre, or even funny, by virtue of being harmless. But to gaze at the stars, my friends, and to know that those small, bluish-white sparks are—when you set foot on them—kingdoms of squalor, ignorance, and all manner of ruin; that the dark-blue sky up there is also full of old shacks, dirty yards, gutters, garbage dumps, overgrown cemeteries… Should the stories of one who has toured the Galaxy sound like the complaint of a peddler who knocks about provincial towns? Who would want to listen? And who would believe it? Such thoughts come to you when you’re depressed or feel an unhealthy urge to tell the truth. So, then—in order not to sadden or mortify you—nothing about the stars today. I’ll tell you a story—otherwise you’d feel cheated—but it won’t be a journey. After all, I’ve had a few experiences on Earth as well. Professor, if you must, you can start taking notes.

As you know, I have guests—sometimes very strange guests. In particular, a certain category: the Unappreciated Inventor and Scientist. I don’t know why, but I’ve always attracted that type like a magnet. Tarantoga’s smiling, but I don’t mean him; he’s hardly an unappreciated inventor. Today I shall talk about those who were unsuccessful—or, rather, about those who succeeded too well, who reached their goal and saw its futility. Of course, they didn’t admit this. Unknown and isolated, they persisted in their folly, which only fame and success may—however rarely—change into a work of progress. The great majority of those who came to see me belonged to the gray brotherhood of obsession, people imprisoned within a single idea, an idea not even their own but appropriated from previous generations; people like the inventors of the perpetuum mobile; weak in imagination, and trivial and absurd in their solutions. Yet even they burn with that consuming fire of objectivity that forces a man to renew efforts that are doomed to failure. How pitiful are these flawed geniuses, these titans of stunted spirit, crippled at birth by nature, who, as one of her grim jokes, bestowed upon their talentlessness a creative frenzy worthy of a Leonardo. Their lot in life is indifference or mockery, and all that you can do for them is listen patiently for an hour or two and nod at their monomania.

In this group, who are protected from despair only by their stupidity, one occasionally runs across a different breed—I don’t want to label it, you’ll do that yourselves. The first who comes to mind is Professor Corcoran.

I met him nine years ago, maybe ten. It was at a scientific conference. We had been talking for only a few minutes when, out of the blue (it had nothing to do with the topic at hand), he asked me:

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

At first I thought this was a joke, but I recalled hearing rumors about his singularity—only I couldn’t remember whether that singularity was supposed to be a positive or a negative thing. To be on the safe side, I answered:

“I have no opinion on that subject.”

He returned to our conversation as if nothing had happened. But when the bell announcing the next session of the conference rang, he suddenly leaned over—he was much taller than I—and said:

“Tichy, you’re my man. You have an open mind. I may be wrong, but I’m willing to take a chance. Come see me.” And he handed me his card. “Call first: I don’t open the door to anyone. But it’s up to you…”

That same evening, while I was dining with Savinelli, the well-known specialist in cosmic law, I asked him whether he knew a Professor Corcoran.

“Corcoran!” he shouted with his characteristic enthusiasm, an enthusiasm fueled by a second bottle of Sicilian wine. “The screwball cyberneticist? What’s he up to? I haven’t heard from him in ages.”

I replied that I knew nothing myself, but had merely heard the name in passing. My evasion, I believe, would have suited Corcoran. Savinelli told me some of the current gossip as we drank wine. Corcoran, presumably, had been a very promising young scientist, though even then he showed utter disrespect for his elders, if not arrogance. Later he became insufferably outspoken, the sort of person who derives satisfaction not only from telling others what he thinks of them, but also from the fact that in so doing he damages himself. Having mortally offended his professors and colleagues, and when all doors had closed before him, he unexpectedly came into a large inheritance. He bought a run-down place outside of town and remade it into a laboratory. He lived there with his robots—they were the only assistants he could tolerate. He may have accomplished something there, but the pages of the scientific journals were barred to him. That didn’t bother Corcoran. If he still had any dealings with people at that time, it was only to rebuff them, in the most insulting manner and for no apparent reason, after they had reached a certain intimacy with him. When he grew old and tired of that disgusting game, he became a recluse. I asked Savinelli whether he knew anything about Corcoran’s belief in ghosts,. The lawyer, drinking wine just then, nearly choked with laughter.

“In ghosts?” he cried. “Why, the man doesn’t even believe in people!”

I asked him what he meant. He replied that he meant it quite literally: Corcoran was a solipsist. He believed only in his own existence and regarded all other people as phantoms, apparitions. Perhaps that was why he treated even his family and friends so shabbily: if life was a sort of dream, then anything was permitted. I remarked that in that case he could believe in ghosts as well. Savinelli asked if I had ever heard of a cyberneticist who believed in ghosts. We then talked about something else, but what I had heard was enough to intrigue me. I’m a man who makes up his mind quickly, so I called Corcoran the very next day. A robot answered. I gave my name and stated my business. Corcoran did not call back until late the following evening, when I was just about to turn in. He said I could come see him then and there if I wished. It was almost eleven. I said I’d be there at once, got dressed, and took off. The laboratory was a large, gloomy building set just off the highway. I had often seen it. I had thought it was an old factory. It was enveloped in darkness. Not the faintest light could be seen in any of its deep-set rectangular windows. The large square between the iron fence and the gate was also unlit. A few times I walked noisily into some rusty pile of metal scraps, so I was in something of a foul mood by the time I reached the barely visible door and rang in the special way Corcoran had instructed me. After five minutes or more he opened it himself, wearing a gray lab coat covered with acid burns. He was alarmingly thin and bony, with huge glasses and a gray mustache that was shorter on one side, as though he had gnawed on it.