“It is not your fault; you are ill. And the name of your illness is
“Fancy
“It is a worm that gnaws black wrinkles on one’s forehead. It is a fever that drives one to run farther and farther, albeit ‘farther’ may begin where happiness ends. It is the last barricade on our road to happiness.
“Rejoice! This Barricade Has Been Blasted at Last! The Road is Open!
“The latest discovery of our State science is that there is a centre for fancy—a miserable little nervous knot in the lower region of the frontal lobe of the brain. A triple treatment of this knot with X-rays will cure you of fancy—
“Forever!
“You are perfect; you are mechanized; the road to hundred percent happiness is open! Hasten then all of you, young and old, hasten to undergo the great Operation! Hasten to the auditoriums where the great Operation is being performed! Long live the Great Operation! Long live the United State! Long live the Well-Doer.”
You, had you read all this not in my records which look like an ancient strange novel, had you like me held in your trembling hands the newspaper, smelling of typographic ink … if you knew as I do, that all this is most certain reality, if not the reality of today, then that of tomorrow—would you not feel the very things I feel? Would not your head whirl as mine does? Would there not run over your back and arms those strange, sweet, icy needles? Would you not feel that you were a giant, an Atlas?—that if only you stood up and straightened out you would reach the ceiling with your head?
I snatched the telephone receiver.
“I-330. Yes. … Yes. Yes … 330!” And then, swallowing my own words I shouted, “Are you at home? Yes? Have you read? You are reading now? Is it not, is it not stupendous?”
“Yes. …” A long, dark silence. The wires buzzed almost imperceptibly. She was thinking.
“I must see you today without fail. Yes, in my room, after sixteen, without fail!”
Dear … she is such a dear! … “Without fail!” I was smiling and I could not stop, I felt I should carry that smile with me into the street like a light above my head.
Outside the wind ran over me, whirling, whistling, whipping, but I felt even more cheerful. “All right, go on, go on moaning and groaning! The Walls cannot be torn down.” Flying leaden clouds broke over my head … well let them! They could not eclipse the sun! We chained it to the zenith like so many Joshuas, sons of Nuns!
At the corner a group of Joshuas, sons of Nuns, were standing with their foreheads pasted to the glass of the wall. Inside, on a dazzling white table already a Number lay. One could see two naked soles diverging from under the sheet in a yellow angle. … White medics bent over his head—a white hand, a stretched-out hand holding a syringe filled with something. …
“And you, what are you waiting for?” I asked nobody in particular, or rather all of them.
“And you?” Someone’s round head turned to me.
“I? Oh, afterward! I must first. …” Somewhat confused, I left the place. I really had to see I-330 first. But why first? I could not explain to myself. …
The docks. The Integral, bluish like ice, was glistening and sparkling. The engine was caressingly grumbling, repeating some one word, as if it were my word, a familiar one. I bent down and stroked the long, cold tube of the motor. “Dear! What a dear tube! Tomorrow it will come to life, tomorrow for the first time it will tremble with burning, flaming streams in its bowels.”
With what eyes would I have looked at the glass monster had everything remained as it was yesterday? If I knew that tomorrow at twelve I should betray it, yes, betray. … Someone behind cautiously touched my elbow. I turned around. The plate-like, flat face of the Second Builder.
“Do you know already?” he asked.
“What? About the Operation? Yes. How everything, everything … suddenly. …”
“No, not that. The trial flight is put off until day-after-tomorrow—on account of that Operation. They rushed us for nothing; we hurried. …”
“On account of that Operation!” Funny, limited man. He could see no farther than his own platter! If only he knew that but for the Operation tomorrow at twelve he would be locked-up in a glass cage, would be tossing about, trying to climb the walls!
At twelve-thirty when I came into my room I saw U-. She was sitting at my table, firm, straight, bone-like, resting her right cheek on her hand. She must have waited for a long while because when she brusquely rose to meet me there remained on her cheek five white imprints of her fingers.
For a second that terrible morning came back to me; she beside I-330, indignant. But for a second only. All was at once washed off by the sun of today, as it happens sometimes when you enter your room on a bright day and absentmindedly turn on the light, the bulb shines but it is out of place, droll, unnecessary.
Without hesitation I held out my hand to her; I forgave her everything. She firmly grasped both my hands and pressed them till they hurt. Her cheeks quivering and hanging down like ancient precious ornaments, she said with emotion:
“I was waiting. … I want only one moment. … I only wanted to say … how happy, how joyous I am for you! You realize of course, that tomorrow or day-after-tomorrow you will be healthy again, as if born anew.”
I noticed my papers on the table; the last two pages of my record of yesterday; they were in the place where I left them the night before. If only she knew what I wrote there! Although I did not care after all. Now it was only history; it was the ridiculously far off distance like an image through a reversed opera-glass.
“Yes,” I said, “a while ago, while passing
