"Stanislaw Lem - Ijon Tichy 03 - The Futurological Congress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lem Stanislaw)

hundredth. It had its own palm tree grove, in which an all-girl orchestra played Bach while performing a
cleverly choreographed striptease. I could have done quite well without all this, but unfortunately there
were no other vacancies, so I was obliged to stay where they put me. Scarcely had I taken a seat at the
bar on my floor when a broad-shouldered individual with a jet-black beard (a beard that read like a
menu of all the past week's meals) unslung his heavy, double-barreled gun, stuck the muzzle right beneath
my nose and asked, with a coarse laugh, how I liked his papalshooter. I had no idea what that was
supposed to mean, but knew better than to admit it. The safest thing in such situations is to remain silent.
And indeed, the next moment he confided in me that this high-powered repeater piece of his, equipped
with a laser-finding telescopic sight, triple-action trigger and self-loader, was custom-made for killing
popes. Talking continually, he pulled a folded photo from his pocket, a picture of himself taking careful
aim at a mannequin in a robe and zucchetto. He had become an excellent shot, he said, and was now on
his way to Rome, prepared for a great pilgrimage—to gun down the Holy Father at St. Peter's Basilica. I
didn't believe a word of it, but then, still chattering away, he showed me, in turn, his airplane ticket,
reservation, tourist missal, a pilgrim's itinerary for American Catholics, as well as a pack of cartridges
with a cross carved on the head of each bullet. To economize he'd purchased a one-way ticket only, for
he fully expected the enraged worshippers to tear him limb from limb—the prospect of which appeared
to put him in the best possible humor. I immediately assumed that this was either a madman or a
professional terrorist-fanatic (we have no lack of them these days), but again I was mistaken. Talking on
and on, though he repeatedly had to climb off the high bar stool, for his weapon kept slipping to the floor,
he revealed to me that actually he was a devout and loyal Catholic; the act which he had carefully
planned—he called it "Operation P"—would be a great personal sacrifice, for he wished to jolt the
conscience of the world, and what could provide a greater jolt than a deed of such extremity? He would
be doing exactly what according to Scripture Abraham had been commanded to do to Isaac, except in
reverse, as he would be slaying not a son, but a father, and a holy one at that. At the same time, he
explained to me, he would attain the utmost martyrdom of which a Christian was capable, for his body
would suffer terrible torment and his soul eternal damnation—all to open the eyes of mankind. "Really," I
thought, "we have too many of these eye-opening enthusiasts." Unconvinced by his arguments, I excused
myself and went to save the Pope—that is, to notify someone of this plot—but Stantor, whom I bumped
into on the 77th floor bar, told me, without even hearing me out, that among the gifts offered to Hadrian
XI by the last group of American tourists there had been two time bombs and a cask containing—not
sacramental wine, but nitroglycerin. I understood Stantor's indifference a little better when I heard that the
local guerrillas had recently mailed a foot to the Embassy, though as yet it was uncertain whose. In the
middle of our conversation they called him to the phone; it seemed that someone on the Avenida Romana
had just set fire to himself in protest. The bar on the 77th had an entirely different atmosphere than the
one up on mine: there were plenty of barefoot girls in waist-length fishnet dresses, some with sabres at
their sides; a number of them had long braids fastened, in the latest fashion, to neck bands or spiked
collars. I wasn't sure whether these were lady phillumenists or perhaps secretaries belonging to the
Association of Liberated Publishers—though most likely it was the latter, judging from the color prints
they were passing around. I went down nine floors to where our futurologists were staying, and in the bar
there had a drink or two with Alphonse Mauvin of Agence France-Presse; for the last time I tried to save
the Pope, but Mauvin received my story with stoicism, observing that only last month a certain Australian
pilgrim had opened fire in the Vatican, albeit on entirely different ideological grounds. Mauvin was hoping
for an interview with one Manuel Pyrhullo. This Pyrhullo was wanted by the FBI, Süreté, Interpol, and a
variety of other police organizations. It seems he had started a business which offered the public a new
kind of service: that is, he hired himself out as a specialist-consultant on revolution through explosives (he
was generally known under the pseudonym of "Dr. Boom"). Pyrhullo took great pride in the fact that his
work was wholly nonpartisan. A pretty redhead wearing something that resembled a nightgown riddled
with bullet holes approached our table; sent by the guerrillas, she was supposed to conduct a reporter to
their headquarters. Mauvin, as he followed her out, handed me one of Pyrullo's fliers, from which I
learned that it was high time to dispense with the bungling of irresponsible amateurs who couldn't tell