Peace on Earth

rivulets of that strange metallic liquid. Now almost the whole floor gleamed like a mercury mirror. I switched on the table lamp. The stuff wasn’t mercury, it had more the color of tarnished silver. There was so much of it now that the rug floated, then the light behind the door went out. I sat and watched wide-eyed. The syrupy liquid separated into drops and the drops clumped together to form a mushroom shape that swelled like leavened dough and stiffened and lifted. This had to be a dream, I told myself, and yet I didn’t dare let my bare feet touch the “quicksilver,” which was indeed a metaphor come true, for quick meant living and this moved like a thing alive, though not animal or vegetable. The monster changed into a cocoon, a shell, armor that was more and more humanoid, though full of holes, especially the gaping slit in front. When I tried recreating that metamorphosis in my memory, which was much later, the best comparison I could think of was watching a film run in reverse: as if someone had built a weird weapon and then subjected it to high temperature so it would melt, except that what took place before my eyes was all backward, first the liquid, then the hollowed-out body rising from it. The figure lost its sheen now and resembled a large store-window mannequin with a hairless head and face without mouth or nose though two round holes could serve as eyes. Then it turned into a woman, or not a woman but the statue of a woman, empty inside and open like a cupboard, and this statue began to extrude its own clothes, first white underwear then over that a light-green dress.

Convinced now I was asleep and dreaming, I got out of bed and approached the apparition. The green dress turned white like a hospital gown and the face grew more defined. On the head a white nurse’s cap with a red silk ribbon appeared over blond hair. Enough, I thought, time to wake up, this dream is too stupid — but I hadn’t the courage to touch the thing. Looking around, I saw my whole room in the light of the lamp, the desk, the curtain, the chairs. I stood undecided, then turned again to the phantom. She looked a lot like Didi, a nurse I had seen often in the garden or Dr. House’s office, though was much larger and taller. She said: “Get in me, you’ll leave here, take the doctor’s Toyota, you can drive out because the gate is open. Get dressed and take money, you’ll buy a ticket and fly straight to Tarantoga. Don’t stand there like a moron, no one will stop you as a nurse…”

“But Didi is smaller than you…” I stammered, surprised not only by her words but also by the fact that she was speaking although not with her mouth. The voice came from the body which together with the white coat opened so wide, I could actually step inside. But should I, that was the question. Suddenly I was thinking very clearly: it didn’t have to be a dream because of the technology of molecular teleferics which I had used myself. But if it was real, might it not be a trap?

“Size doesn’t matter at night. Come on, get moving! Dress, and take your checkbook,” she said.

“But why should I leave and who are you anyway?” I asked, but started dressing at the same time, not because I really intended to participate in this unexpected escapade, it’s just that one feels more confident when clothed.

“I am not a person — you can see that,” she replied. The voice was a woman’s, however, low, warm, a little husky, I knew it from somewhere. I was sitting on the edge of the bed tying my shoes.

“So who sent you, Mrs. Nonperson?” I asked, looking up, and the next thing I knew, she had fallen upon me, that is, engulfed me, wrapped me not in her arms but in her whole body, and this happened so quickly that one moment I was sitting in my sweater and no tie, thinking I’d tied the left shoe too tight, and the next moment I was pulled inside and surrounded as if I’d been swallowed by a python. I can’t describe it better because nothing like that had ever happened to me before. It was soft inside, and I saw the room through the eye openings, but I couldn’t move, that is I could but only as she wanted to, she or it, though of course somebody was operating this remote for the purpose of taking me to where they were waiting impatiently for Ijon Tichy. I fought the monster with all my strength but to no avail. My limbs moved not as I wanted them to but against my will, my hand opening the door, turning the knob, even though I resisted every inch of the way. The hall was dim, lit with green night- lights, and there was not a soul about. I hadn’t time to wonder who was behind this, because the who-less thing that had swallowed me, a veritable Frankenstein suit, was walking steadily, unhurriedly, then I remembered the ring from Kramer, but how could it help me? Even if I knew I was supposed to bite it or turn it on my finger as in a fairy tale to make the genie appear, I couldn’t have done anything.

The front door of the pavilion loomed ahead, swinging doors, and my captive hand pushed them open. In the shadow of an old palm tree was the black shape of a car, rivers of distant light on its body. One of its rear doors opened but there was no one inside, at least I couldn’t see anyone.

I got in or rather was got in, still pulling back for all I was worth, until I realized my mistake. I shouldn’t pull back — that was what the operator of the remote expected. I should go instead in the direction imposed on me, but in such a way as to achieve my own ends. Bent over in the doorway of the car, I hurled myself forward, hit my head against something, passed out, and opened my eyes.

I was lying on the floor beside my bed. The curtains were gray with dawn. I raised my hand to my eyes and saw no ring. Was it a dream after all? But at what point did it begin? Kramer had definitely been here. I went to the closet where he had stood and yes, my clothes were all pushed to one side. Something white lay on the floor of the closet, a letter. I picked it up — no address — and tore open the envelope. Inside was a sheet of paper that had typewritten words, no date, no letterhead. I checked to see if the door was locked, turned on the lamp, not wanting to open the curtains, and read:

If you’ve had a dream about being abducted or tortured and it was vivid and in color, that means you’ve been subjected to a test, given a drug. They may be examining your reaction to certain substances. We aren’t sure about this. The only one you can turn to besides me is your doctor.

 — Slug Eater

Slug Eater. So the letter was from Kramer. He could be telling the truth or lying. I tried to remember as precisely as possible what Shapiro had said and what Kramer had said. According to both, the lunar mission had failed. But on other things they parted company. The professor wanted me to be examined, Kramer wanted me to wait. The professor represented the Lunar Agency, or at least that’s what he claimed, while Kramer didn’t say anything about who stood behind him. But why hadn’t he warned me about the possibility of drugs, leaving only this letter? Could there be another player in this game? Both spoke at length, yet I still hadn’t been told why what my right brain held was so important. And why hadn’t that poor, practically mute half of my head shown any sign of life since — when was it? — yesterday? Did I swallow something which put it to sleep? Let’s suppose. But for what reason? It seemed to me that all these hunters of Tichy didn’t really know what to do and were playing for time. In which game I was a wild card, maybe a high trump, maybe nothing, and each was preventing the others from finding out. Had they put my right hemisphere to sleep so I couldn’t communicate with myself? This at least I could verify immediately. I took my left hand in my right and addressed it in the way I had developed.

“What’s new?” I asked with my fingers.

The little finger and the thumb of the left hand twitched, but weakly.

“Hello, are you there?” I signaled.

My ring finger and my thumb made a circle that meant “Hello.”

“So how are you doing?”

“Get lost.”

“Tell me how you feel. Look, we have a common interest.”

“My head hurts.”

And at that moment I felt that my head hurt too. I had read enough in the neurological literature by now to know that emotionally I was not halved but whole, because the seat of the emotions is in the midbrain, which was not touched by the callotomy.

“The same head hurts both of us. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“You don’t?”

“Don’t.”

I was in a sweat from this silent exchange but decided, come what may, not to let go. I would learn something if it killed me. Then I had an inspiration. The sign language of the deaf required a lot of work and dexterity. But I knew Morse code, had known it since childhood. So I made my left hand flat and with the forefinger of my right began to draw dots and dashes. The left hand submitted to this for a while, but suddenly it clenched into a fist and punched me hard. “Isn’t working,” I thought, but then the hand extended a finger and began marking dots and dashes on my right cheek. Yes, son of a gun, it was answering in Morse code.

“Don’t tickle or you’ll get it.”

This was the first English sentence I had received, albeit only by touch, from It. I sat perfectly still on the