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

thirst, I got up to get another glass of water. I was thinking about the oversalted slaw at the banquet, and
that dreadful buffet, then to experiment I thought about J. W., H. C. M. and M. W., my worst
enemies—and discovered that beyond an impulse to clap them on the back, give them each a friendly
hug, exchange a few kind words and kindred thoughts, I felt nothing whatever towards them. Now this
was truly alarming. With one hand on the nickel spigot and the other holding the empty glass, I froze.
Slowly I turned the water on, filled it, raised it, and then, twisting my face in a weird grimace—I could
see the struggle in the bathroom mirror—I poured it down the drain.
The water from the tap. Of course. These changes in me had begun the moment I drank it. There
was something in it, clearly. Poison? But I'd never heard of any poison that would … Wait a minute! I
was, after all, a steady subscriber to all the major scientific publications. In just the last issue of Science
Today there had been an article on some new psychotropic agents of the group of so-called
benignimizers (the N,N-dimethylpeptocryptomides), which induced states of undirected joy and
beatitude. Yes, yes! I could practically see that article now. Hedonidol, Euphoril, Inebrium, Felicitine,
Empathan, Ecstasine, Halcyonal and a whole spate of derivatives! Though by replacing an amino group
with a hydroxyl you obtained, instead, Furiol, Antagonil, Rabiditine, Sadistizine, Dementium, Flagellan,
Juggernol, and many other polyparanoidal stimulants of the group of so-called phrensobarbs (for these
prompted the most vicious behavior, the lashing out at objects animate as well as inanimate—and
especially powerful here were the cannibal-cannabinols and manicomimetics).
My thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing, and then the lights came on again. A voice
from some assistant manager at the reception desk humbly apologized for the inconvenience, with
assurances that the malfunction had been located and corrected. I opened the door to air out the
room—there wasn't a sound in the hall—and stood there, dizzy from the smoke and still filled with the
desire to bless and caress. I shut the door, locked it, sat in the middle of the room and struggled to get a
grip on myself. It is extremely difficult to describe my state at that time. The thoughts didn't come to me
as easily or coherently as they may seem written here. Every analytical reflex was as if submerged in thick
syrup, wrapped and smothered in a porridge of self-satisfaction, all dripping with the honey of idiotic
optimism; my soul seemed to sink into the sweetest of oozes, like drowning in rosebuds and chocolate
icing; I forced myself to think only of the most unpleasant things, the bearded maniac with the
double-barreled papalshooter, the licentious publisher-procurers of Liberated Literature and their
Babylonian hors d'oeuvres, and, of course, J. W., W. C. and J. C. M. and a hundred other villains and
snakes in the grass—only to realize, with horror, that I loved them all, forgave them everything, and (what
was worse) arguments kept popping into my head, arguments that defended every sort of evil and
abomination. Bursting with love for my fellow man, I felt a driving need to lend a helping hand, to do
good works. Instead of psychotropic poisons I greedily thought of the widows and orphans and with
what pleasure I would watch over them forevermore. Ah, how shamefully had I neglected them in the
past! And the poor, and the hungry, and the sick and destitute, Good Lord! I found myself kneeling over
a suitcase, frantically pulling things out to find some article of value I could give to the needy. And once
again the feeble voices of alarm called out desperately from my subconscious: "Attention! Danger! It's a
trick, an ambush! Fight! Bite! Parry! Thrust! Help!" I was torn in two. I felt such a sudden surge of the
categorical imperative, that I wouldn't have touched a fly. A pity, I thought, that the Hilton didn't have
mice or even a few spiders. How I would have pampered the dear little things! Flies, fleas, rats,
mosquitoes, bedbugs—all God's beloved, lovable creations! Meanwhile I blessed the table, the lamp, my
own legs. But the vestiges of reason hadn't abandoned me altogether, so with my left hand I beat at the
right, which was doing all the blessing, beat it until the pain made me writhe. Now that was encouraging!
Perhaps there was hope after all! Luckily the desire to do good carried with it the wish for
self-mortification. For a start, I punched myself in the mouth a couple of times; my ears rang and I saw
stars. Good, excellent! When the face grew numb, I began kicking myself in the shins. Fortunately I had
on heavy boots, with hard heels. After the therapeutic application of several swift kicks I felt much
better—that is, much worse. Tentatively I tested the thought of how it would be to kick a certain C. A.
as well. That no longer lay outside the realm of possibility. My shins ached like the blazes, and yet