Peace on Earth

a writer or poet. The man did come up with a few passable ideas for him, but a good fantasy compels its realization and after that it’s gone, so they had to be all but impossible. I interrupted to say that that shouldn’t be so hard. Move a continent. Saw the moon into four equal parts. Eat the leg of the President of the United States in Chinese duck sauce (I pulled out all the stops, after all I was talking to a madman). Have intercourse with a firefly at the moment of its brightest light. Walk on water, become a national holiday, change places with God. Pay the terrorists to leave ministers, ambassadors, and company executives alone and go after the people who really deserve it.

Adelaide was looking at me now not only with fondness but also with admiration. “A pity we didn’t meet sooner, Jonathan,” he sighed. “You’re on the right track, but, you see, with continents and moons and miracles there’s no personal involvement. A true fantasist’s emotions have to be engaged. And fireflies don’t do anything for me. But a good fantasy isn’t really a matter of lust or fury, it’s like a rainbow, it’s there and not there, and then you fall asleep. During the day I never had time for rainbows. My writer expert stated that the number of one’s possible fantasies is inversely proportional to the amount of one’s liquid assets. For him who has everything dreams are no longer possible. Change places with God? God forbid! But I would have hired you anyway.”

On the broad leaf of a low needleless cactus was a large slug. An ugly thing, and that was no doubt why Adelaide nodded to his servant. “Eat that,” he said, pointing. At the same time he pulled a checkbook and pen out of his pajama pocket.

“How much will he do it for?” I wondered. The servant put out his hand for the slug but I stopped him.

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars more than Mr. Kramer if you don’t eat it,” I said, taking my notebook from my pocket. It was covered with the same green plastic as Adelaide’s checkbook.

The servant froze. In the face of the millionaire was hesitation, and I didn’t know whether or not we would start bidding now. My resources were certainly no match for Kramer’s. So I had to change tactics.

“How much will you eat it for, Adelaide?” I asked, opening my notebook as though I were about to write a check. This delighted him. The servant was no longer in the picture.

“I’ll give you a blank check if you swallow it without chewing and describe to me how it moves in your stomach,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Unfortunately I had breakfast already and I don’t eat between meals,” I said with a smile. “Anyway your bank account must be controlled by trustees.”

“No, you’re wrong! Chase Manhattan always honors my checks.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not hungry. Let’s return to fantasies.” This conversation had so absorbed me that I forgot all about my left side but it reminded me. We were moving away from the slug of contention when I tripped the millionaire and at the same time chopped him in the neck so that he fell flat on the grass. I relate this in the first person though it was my left foot and left hand that did it.

“Forgive me,” I said, thinking quickly, “but that was my fantasy.” I helped him up. He was not so much offended as stunned. It was obvious no one had ever treated him like that, either here or before the asylum.

“A clever fellow,” he said, brushing off the dirt. “But don’t do that again, because I might slip a disk. And start fantasizing about you.” He laughed an evil laugh. “So what is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, of course, but why are you here?”

“To get a little rest.”

I saw Dr. House at the far end of the shady path. He lifted his hand, beckoned for me, then turned and went toward the pavilion.

“I have to go, Adelaide,” I said, slapping him on the back. “We’ll fantasize another time.”

From the open door came the pleasant coolness of air conditioning. The walls were pale green and the place as quiet as pharaoh’s tomb, with a thick carpet white like the fur of a polar bear. Dr. House was waiting for me in his office. Tarantoga was there too and seemed embarrassed. In his lap was a briefcase stuffed with papers which he sorted through while House pointed to an armchair. I sat down with a sinking feeling that I was getting into something I would not be able to get out of in one piece.

Dr. House sat at his desk reading a newspaper. Then Tarantoga finally found what he had been looking for.

“This is how it is, Ijon… I saw two attorneys, two of the best, to assess your situation from the legal point of view. I said nothing about your Mission, of course, and sketched your story only in the most general terms. A man gains access to certain highly secret information and must report it to a certain division of the government, but he is callotomized before he can do this, and part of what he learned is forgotten, residing no doubt in the right hemisphere of his brain. What is his duty now? What steps can the government take legally to retrieve the information? Both lawyers said it is a difficult case because it sets a precedent. If it is decided in court, expert witnesses will have to be called in, though their testimony might or might not be ignored. In any case without a subpoena you cannot be subjected to any examination or experiment, if that’s the route the government wishes to take.”

Dr. House raised his head from his paper. “An amusing case,” he said, taking a bag of ginger cookies from a drawer, sliding them onto a plate and pushing the plate in my direction. “I realize, Mr. Tichy, that you are not amused, but every paradox of the circulus vitiosus variety is amusing. Do you know what lateralization is?”

“Of course,” I answered, frowning as my left hand reached for a cookie that I didn’t want at all. But wanting even less to make a fool of myself, I bit into it. “I’ve read plenty about it. In the average man the left hemisphere is dominant because it governs speech. The right is generally silent though it understands simple sentences and sometimes can even read a little. If left lateralization is not strong, the right hemisphere may be more independent and also have more linguistic ability. In rare cases there is almost no lateralization and then the centers of speech are found in both hemispheres, which can cause stuttering and other problems…”

“Very good.” House smiled at me approvingly. “From what I have been told I would conclude that your left brain, as we sometimes call it, is distinctly dominant, but that the right is unusually active. To be certain of this, though, I would need to examine you at length.”

“Where is the paradox?” I asked, trying inconspicuously to avoid my left hand because it was putting more ginger cookies into my mouth.

“The value of questioning your right brain depends on the degree of your right lateralization. We must first determine that degree, which means examining you, but to examine you we need your consent. In other words, the court experts could not go beyond what I am saying now: that the court’s decision depends upon the extent of the lateralization of Ijon Tichy, but that cannot be determined without examination. One must examine you to decide whether you can be examined. Do you understand?”

“Yes. What do you advise me to do, doctor?”

“I cannot advise you to do anything, because I am in the same boat as the court and the experts. No one in the world, including you, knows what your right brain holds. Your idea to use sign language has been done before but without significant results, because the right lateralization in those cases was too weak.”

“And that’s really all you can tell me?”

“You might put your left arm in a sling or better yet a cast. It betrays you.”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. House pointed at the plate of ginger cookies.

“The right brain usually likes sweets more than the left. There have been statistical studies. I wanted to show you how simply someone could establish your lateralization. As a right-handed person you would have reached for the cookies with your right hand — or not at all.”

“But why should I keep my arm in a cast? What good would that do?”

Dr. House shrugged.

“Very well. I shouldn’t say this but I will. You know about piranha?”

“The small carnivorous fish.”

“As a rule they don’t attack a man in the water. But if he has the least cut, one drop of blood is enough for them to attack. The language skills of the right brain are no greater than those of a three-year-old child, and usually less. With you, they are considerable. If that fact gets out, you are in serious trouble.”

“Perhaps he should just go to the Lunar Agency,” said Tarantoga, “and put himself in their hands. They owe him something, since he risked his neck for them…”