The conversation had finally come around to the subject that concerned me most. I confessed to
Trottelreiner my apprehensions, my loathing for this new world. He gave a snort, but patiently heard me
out, and—kindly old soul that he was—actually began to sympathize. I even saw him reach for a pack of
commiserine in his vest pocket, then stop halfway, so vehemently did I inveigh against all manner of
psychem. When I had finished, however, his face assumed a stem expression, and he said:
"This is not good, Tichy. And anyway, your criticisms are quite beside the point. You see, you do not
know the real truth. Nor indeed could you ever have guessed it. Compared to it, Procmstics and the
psychemized society are mere trifles!"
I couldn't believe my ears.
"But... but... "I stammered, "what are you saying, Professor? What could be worse than that?"
He leaned over across the table.
"Tichy, for you I'll do it. I'll break a professional secret. Everything you've complained of is known to
the littlest child. And how could it be otherwise? For progress was destined to travel this path the
moment narcotics and early hallucinogens were replaced by the so-called psycholocalizers, drags whose
effects were highly selective. Yet the real revolution in experiential engineering took place only
twenty-five years ago, when mascons were synthesized. These are psychotropes whose specificity is so
great, they can actually influence isolated sites of the brain. Narcotics do not cut one off from the world,
they only change one's attitude towards it. Hallucinogens, on the other hand, blot out and totally obscure
the world. That you have learned from your own experience. But mascons, mascons/a/sz/y the world!"
"Mascons ... "I said. "I seem to know that word. Yes!
Those mechanical dogs they used to have at football games. But how does that tie in with this ... ?"
"It doesn't. The word has taken on—excuse me, tasted on—an altogether different meaning. From
mask, masquerade, mascara. By introducing properly prepared mascons to the brain, one can mask any
object in the outside world behind a fictitious image—superimposed—and with such dexterity, that the
psychemasconated subject cannot tell which of his perceptions have been altered, and which have not. If
but for a single instant you could see this world of ours the way it really is—undoctored, unadulterated,
un-censored—you would drop in your tracks!"
"Wait a minute. What world? Where is it? Where can I see it?
"Why, anywhere. Here, even!" he whispered in my ear, glancing nervously around. Then he pulled his
chair up and slipped me—under the table—a small flask with a worn cork, saying with an air of dark
conspiracy:
"This is up'n'at'm, one of the vigilanimides, a powerful countersomniac and antipsychem agent. A
derivative of di-methylethylhexabutylpeptopeyotine. Merely carrying it upon your person, let alone using
it, is a federal offense! Remove the cork and sn if f—but only once, mind you, and carefully. Lik e smelling
salts. And then, for heaven's sake control yourself, don't panic, remember where you are!"
My hands were trembling as I pulled the cork and lifted the flask to my nostrils. A whiff of bitter
almonds made my eyes well up with tears, and when I wiped them away, and could see again, I gasped.
The magnificent hall, covered with carpets, fill ed with palms, the ornamented majolica walls, the elegance
of the sparkling tables, and the orchestra in the back that played exquisite chamber music while we dined,
all this had vanished. We were sitting in a concrete bunker, at a rough wooden table, a straw mat—badly
frayed—beneath our feet. The music was still there, but I saw now that it came from a loudspeaker hung
on a rusted wire. And the rainbow-crystal chandelier was now a dusty, naked light bulb. But the worst
change had taken place before us on the table. The snow-white cloth was gone; the silver dish with the
steaming pheasant had turned into a chipped earthenware plate containing the most unappetizing
gray-brown gruel, which stuck in globs to my tin—no longer silver—fork. I looked with horror upon the
abomination that only moments ago I'd been consuming with such gusto, savoring the crackling golden
skin of the bird and crunching—in sweet, succulent counterpoint—the croutons, crisp on the top and
soaked with gravy on the bottom. And what I had taken for the overhanging leaves of a nearby potted
palm turned out to be the drawstrings on the drawers of the person sitting (with three others) right above
us—not on a balcony or platform, but rather a shelf, it was so narrow. For the place was packed beyond
belief! My eyes were practically popping from their sockets when this terrifying vision wavered and
began to shift back, as if touched with a magic wand. The drawstrings near my face grew green and once
again assumed the graceful shape of palm leaves, while the slop bucket reeking a few feet away took on
a dull sheen and turned into a sculptured pot. The grimy surface of our table whitened back to the purest
snow, the crystal goblets gleamed, the awful gruel grew golden, sprouting wings and drumsticks in the
proper places, and the tin of our cutlery regained its former silvery shine ... as the waiters' tailcoats went
fluttering, flapping all around. I looked at my feet—the straw was a Persian mg once more. I had
returned to the world of luxury. But examining the ample breast of the pheasant, I couldn't forget what it
concealed ...
"Now you are beginning to understand," whispered Trottelreiner, looking carefully in my face, as if
afraid the shock may have been too great. "And note that this is one of the most expensive
establishments! Had I not provided for the contingency of letting you in on the secret, who knows, we
might have gone to a restaurant, the sight of which could have seriously affected your mind."
"You mean ... there are places ... even worse?"
"Yes."
"That's impossible."
"Here at least we have real tables, chairs, plates, knives and forks; there, people lie on
planks—stacked in many tiers—and eat with their fingers from buckets moving by on conveyor belts.
And what they eat in the guise of pheasant there, is, I assure you, much less palatable."
// and later in the book: //
"Listen," I said, "let's run away. We can get a supply of oxygen, provisions, and hole up somewhere in
the Rocky Mountains. Remember the sewers of the Hilton? It wasn't all that bad there, was it?"
"You're not serious?" began the Professor, as if hesitating.
By sheer accident I happened to raise the vial to my nose—I had completely forgotten that I was still
holding it. Tears welled up from the acrid smell. I sneezed, and sneezed again, and when I opened my
eyes the room had changed. The Professor was still speaking, I could hear his voice but, fascinated by
the transformation, no longer listened to the words. The walls were now all covered with grime; the blue
sky had taken on a brownish tinge; some of the windowpanes were missing, and the rest had a coat of
greasy soot, streaked with gray from previous rains.
I don't know why, but it was particularly upsetting to see that the Professor's handsome briefcase, the
one in which he'd brought the conference materials, had turned into a moldy old satchel. I grew numb. I
was afraid to look at him. I peeked under the desk. Instead of his appliqued trousers and professorial
spats there were two casually crossed artificial legs. Between the wire tendons of the feet bits of gravel
were lodged, and mud from the street. The steel pin of the heel gleamed, worn smooth with use. I
groaned.
"What is it, a headache? Want an aspirin?" came the sympathetic voice. I gritted my teeth and looked
up.
Not much was left of the face. Stuck to his sunken cheeks were the rotting shreds of a bandage that
hadn't been changed in ages. And evidently he still wore glasses, though one of the lenses was cracked.
In his neck, in the opening of a tracheotomy, a vocoder had been inserted—carelessly enough—and it
bobbed up and down as he talked. A jacket hung in mildewed tatters on the rack that was his chest, and
beneath the left lapel there was a gaping hole lidded with a cloudy plastic window. Inside, a heart, held
together with clamps and staples, beat in blue-black spasms. I didn't see a left hand; the right, clutching a
pencil, was fashioned out of brass and green with verdigris. Sewn to his collar—a crooked label, on
which someone had scribbled in red ink: "Barbr 119-859-21 transpl. /5 rejec." I stared, eyes popping,
while the Professor, taking on my horror like a mirror, suddenly froze behind his desk.
"I... I've changed, haven't I?" he croaked.
The next thing I knew, I was struggling with the doorknob.
"Tichy! What are you doing? Come back! Tichy!!" he cried in despair, struggling to stand up. The
door swung open, but just then I heard an awful clatter. Professor Trottelreiner, losing his balance from
an overly violent movement, had toppled over and fallen apart on the floor, hooks and hinges snapping
lik e bones. I carried away with me the image of his helpless kicking, the flailing iron stumps that sent chips
of wood flying, the dark sack of the heart pounding desperately behind the scratched plastic. Down the
corridor I ran, as if driven by a hundred Furies.
The building swarmed with people, I had hit on the lunch hour. Out of the offices came clerks and
secretaries, chatting as they headed for the elevators. I elbowed my way through the crowd towards one
of the open doors, but apparently the elevator car hadn't yet arrived; looking into the empty shaft, I
immediately understood why panting was so common a phenomenon. The end of the cable, long since
disconnected, was hanging loose, and the people were clambering, agile as monkeys, up the vertical cage
that enclosed the shaft—they must have had a lot of practice. Crawling up to the snack bar on the roof,
they conversed cheerfully despite the sweat dripping from their brows. I backed off slowly, then ran
down the stairway that spiraled around the shaft with the c li mbers patiently scaling its sides. A few flights
lower I slowed down. They were still pouring out of all the doors. Nothing but offices here, evidently. At
the end of the hall shone an open window, looking out on the street. I stopped by it, pretending to
straighten my tie, and peered down. At first it seemed to me that there wasn't a living soul in that crowd
on the sidewalk, but I simply hadn't recognized the pedestrians. The general splendor had disappeared
without a trace. They walked separately, in pairs, clothed in rags—patches, holes—many with bandages
and plasters, some in only their underwear, which enabled me to verify that they were indeed spotted and
had bristles, mainly on their backs. A few had evidently been released from the hospital to attend to some
urgent business; amputees and paraplegics rolled along on boards with little wheels, talking and laughing
loudly. I saw women with drooping elephant flaps for ears, men with horns on their heads, old
newspapers, clumps of straw or burlap bags carried with the utmost elegance and aplomb. Those who
were healthier and in better condition raced on the road, cantering, prancing, kicking up their feet as if
changing gears. Robots predominated in the crowd, wielding atomizers, dosimeters, spray guns,
sprinklers. Their job was to see that everyone got his share of aerosol. Nor did they limit themselves to
that: behind one young couple, arms around each other—hers were covered with scales, his with
boils—there plodded an old clonker, methodically beating the lovers over the head with a watering can.
Their teeth rattled, but they were perfectly oblivious. Was it doing this on purpose? I could no longer
think. Gripping the window sill, I stared at the scene in the street, its bustle, its msh, its industry, as if I
were the only witness, the only pair of eyes. The only? No, the cmelty of this spectacle demanded at
least another observer, its creator, the one who, without intervening in that grim panorama, would give it
meaning; a patron, an impresario of decay, therefore a ghoul—but someone. A tiny juggermugger,
cavorting around the legs of a spry old lady, repeatedly undercut her knees, and she fell flat on her face,
got up, walked on, was tripped again, and so they went, it mechanically persistent, she energetic and
determined, until they were out of sight. Many of the robots hovered over the people, peering into their
mouths, possibly to check the effect of the sprays, though it didn't exactly look that way. On the comer
stood a bunch of robots, loiterants, dejects; out of some side alley came shifts of dmdgers, kludgers,
meniacs and manikoids; an enormous trashmaster rumbled along the curb, lifting up on the claws of its
shovel whatever lay in the way, tossing—together with junkets and selfaborts—an old woman into its
disposal bin. I bit my knuckles, forgetting that that hand held the other vial, the second vial, and my throat
was seared with fire. Everything wavered, a bright fog descended across my eyes like a blindfold, which
an unseen hand then slowly began to lift. I looked, petrified, at the transformation taking place, realizing in
a sudden shudder of premonition that now reality was sloughing off yet another layer—clearly, its
falsification had begun so very long ago, that even the most powerful antidote could do no more than tear
away successive veils, reaching the veils beneath but not the tmth. It grew brighter—white. Snow lay on
the pavement, frozen solid, trampled down by hundreds of feet; the street presented a bleak and
colorless scene; the shops, the signs had vanished, and instead of glass in the windows—rotting boards,
crossed and nailed together. Winter reigned between the dingy, discolored buildings, long icicles hung
from the lintels, lamps; in the sharp air there was a sour smell, and a bluish gray haze, like the sky above.
Mounds of dirty snow along the walls, garbage heaped in the gutters; here and there a shapeless bundle,
a dark clump of rags kicked to the side by the constant stream of pedestrian traffic, or shoved between
msty trashcans, tins, boxes, frozen sawdust. Snow wasn't falling at the moment, but one could see that it
had fallen recently, and would again. Then all at once I knew what was missing: the robots. There wasn't
a single robot on the street—not one! Their snow-covered bodies lay sprawled in doorways, lifeless iron
hu lks in the company of human refuse, scraps of clothing, with an occasional bone showing underneath,
yellow, sheathed with ice. One ragamuffin sat atop a pile of snow, settling down for the night as if in a
feather bed; I saw the contentment on his face; he felt right at home, apparently, made himself
comfortable, stretched his legs, wriggled his naked toes into the snow. So that was that chill, that strange
invigoration which came over one from time to time, even in the middle of the street, at noon, with the sun
shining—he was already snoring peacefully—so that was the reason. The throngs of people passing by
ignored him, they were occupied with themselves—some were spraying others. It was easy to tell from
their manner who thought h im self a human, and who a robot. So the robots too were only a fiction? And
what was winter doing here in the middle of summer? Unless the whole calendar was a hoax. But why?
Sleeping in snow to lower the birth rate? Whichever, someone had carefully planned it all and I wasn't
about to give up the ghost before I tracked him down. I lifted my eyes to the skyscrapers, their
pock-marked sides and rows of broken windows. It was quiet behind me: lunch was over. The
street—the street was all that was left to me now, my new-found sight would be to no advantage there, I
would be swallowed up in that crowd, and I needed someone; alone, I'd hide for a time l ik e a rat—that
was the most I could do—no longer safely inside the illusion, but shipwrecked in reality. Horrified,
despairing, I backed away from the window, chilled to the bone, unprotected now by the lie of a
temperate climate. I didn't know myself where I was going, trying to make as little noise as possible; yes,
I was already concealing my presence—crouching, skulking, furtively glancing over my shoulder, halting,
listening—a creature of reflex, making no decisions, though I was certain that the fact that I could see
was plainly written on my face and I would have to pay for it. I went down the corridor, it was either the
sixth or fifth floor, I couldn't go back to Trottelreiner—he needed help, but I had none to give him—I
was thinking feverishly about several things at once, but mainly about whether or not the drug would wear
off and I would find myself back in Paradise. Strange, but the prospect fil led me with nothing but fear and
loathing, as if I would have rather shivered in some garbage dump—with the knowledge that that was
what it was—than owed my deliverance to apparitions. My way down a side passage was blocked by
an old man; too feeble to walk, he gave an imitation of it with his trembling legs, and managed a smile of
greeting even as he breathed his last, the death rattle already in his throat. So I went another way—till I
reached the frosted glass of some office. Complete silence inside. I entered through the swinging door
and saw a hall with rows of typewriters—empty. At the other end, another door, half-open. I could see
into the large, bright room, and began to retreat, for someone was there, but a familiar voice rang out:
"Come in, Tichy."
So I went in. I wasn't even that surprised that he'd been waiting for me, and I took it calmly, too, that
there on the other side of the desk sat George P. Symington Esquire himself, in a gray flannel suit, a natty
ascot around his neck and a thin cigarillo in his mouth. And wearing sunglasses. He seemed to look at me
with either amusement or regret, I couldn't tell which.
"Have a seat," he said, "this will take a while."
en.wikipedia.org
Actually nowadays the meet with more affordable prices comes from mass production farms where the animals are kept in small places, fed with trashy food and medicines. So probably cultured meat would be a healthier choice anyway. And let's not forget what costs to feed the animals. Livestock eat between five and ten kg of grain to eventually produce just 500 gr of meat. and this amount of cereal would feed like 20 people. We all know that rich people can afford the best food, the best health care, and stuff like this, but the general population is not rich.