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

dynamite from melinite, or fulminate mercury from a simple Bickford fuse. In these days of high
specialization, the advertisement read, one attempted nothing on one's own, but placed one's trust in the
expertise and integrity of certified professionals. On the back of the flier was a list of services, with prices
given in the currencies of the world's most advanced and civilized nations.
Just then the futurologists began to congregate in the bar, but one of them, Professor Mashkenasus,
ran in pale and trembling, claiming there was a time bomb in his room. The bartender, evidently
accustomed to such episodes, automatically shouted "Hit the deck!" and dived under the counter. But the
hotel detectives soon discovered that some colleague had played a practical joke on the Professor,
placing an ordinary alarm clock in his cookie jar. It was probably an Englishman—only they delight in
such childish pranks—but the whole thing was quickly forgotten when Stantor and J. G. Howler, also
from UPI, came in with the text of a memo from the United States government to the government of
Costa Rica with regard to the matter of the kidnapped diplomats. The language of it was typical of all
such official communiques; neither teeth nor feet were named. Jim told me that the local authorities might
resort to drastic measures; General Apollon Diaz was currently in power and leaned toward the position
of the hawks, which was to meet force with force. The proposal had already been made at Parliament
(which stood in permanent emergency session) to counterattack: to pull twice the number of teeth from
the political prisoners the abductors were demanding and mail them poste restante, as the address of
guerrilla headquarters was unknown. The air edition of the New York Times ran an editorial
(Schultzberger) calling for common sense and the solidarity of the human species. Stantor informed me in
strictest confidence that the government had commandeered a train carrying secret military
supplies—United States property—through Costa Rican territory on the way to Peru. Somehow the
guerrillas hadn't yet hit upon the idea of kidnapping futurologists, which would certainly have made better
sense from their point of view, inasmuch as there were many more futurologists than diplomats available
in the country.
A hundred-story hotel is an organism so vast and so comfortably isolated from the rest of the world,
that news from the outside filters in as if from another hemisphere. So far the futurologists hadn't
panicked; the Hilton travel desk wasn't swamped by guests making flight reservations back to the States
or elsewhere. The official banquet and opening ceremonies were scheduled for two, and still I hadn't
changed into my evening pajamas, so I rushed up to my room, dressed and took an elevator down to the
Purple Hall on the 46th. In the foyer two stunning girls in topless togas, their bosoms tattooed with
forget-me-nots and snowflakes, came over and handed me a glossy folder. Without looking at it I
entered the hall, which was still empty, and gasped at the sight of the tables—not because the spread was
so extremely lavish, but the trays of hors d'oeuvres, the mounds of páté, the molds, even the salad bowls,
everything was arranged in the unmistakable shape of genitalia. For a moment I thought it might be my
imagination, but a loudspeaker somewhere was playing a song, popular in certain circles, which began
with the words: "Now to make it in the arts, publicize your private parts! Critics say you can't offend 'em
with your phallus or pudendum!"
The first banqueters ambled in, gentlemen with thick beards and bushy whiskers, though they were
really rather young, some in pajamas and some in nothing at all. When six waiters brought in the cake and
I got a glimpse of that most indecent of desserts, there was no longer any doubt: I had accidentally
strayed into the wrong hall and was sitting at the banquet for Liberated Literature. On the pretext that I
couldn't find my secretary I beat a hasty retreat and took the elevator down a floor to the Purple Hall (I'd
been in the Lavender), which by now was packed. My disappointment at the modesty of the reception I
hid as best I could. It was a cold buffet, and there was nowhere to sit; all the chairs had been removed,
so to eat anything one had to display an agility common to such occasions, particularly as there was an
impossible crowd around the more substantial dishes. Señor Cuillone, a representative of the Costa
Rican section of the Futurological Association, explained with an engaging smile that any sort of Lucullean
abundance here would have been quite out of place, considering that a major topic of the conference was
the imminent world famine facing humanity. Of course there were skeptics who said that the Association's
allotments must have been cut, since only that could account for such heroic frugality. The journalists,