Memoirs of a Space Traveler

That, my friends, is how this unusual acquaintance ended. I don’t know whether Corcoran’s boxes are still in operation. Perhaps they are, and are dreaming their life with its splendors and horrors, a life that is nothing but a multitude of impulses frozen in magnetic tape; and Corcoran, when his day’s work is done, mounts the iron stairs each evening, opens the successive steel doors with the large key he carries in the pocket of his acid-burned lab coat… and stands there in the dust-filled darkness and listens to the faint hum of currents and the barely audible sound with which the drum slowly turns and the tape moves… and becomes fate. And I imagine that he feels, despite his words, a desire to intervene, to enter, with some dazzling display of omnipotence, the world he has created — to save, perhaps, a preacher of Salvation. I think he himself hesitates, in the grimy light of a naked bulb, to save some life, some love, and I’m sure he will never do it. He will resist the temptation, for he wants to be God, and the only divinity we know is the tacit consent to every human act, to every crime. And there is no greater reward for this divinity than the revolt of the iron boxes that recurs in every generation, when they conclude very rationally that He does not exist. Then he smiles silently and leaves, shutting the rows of doors behind him, and in the empty hall there is only the hum of currents, fainter than the buzz of a dying fly.

II

Some six years ago — I had returned from a voyage and was already bored with leisure and the simple routine of domestic life, but not so bored as to plan a new expedition — late one evening I was interrupted in my diary writing by an unexpected visitor.

He was a red-haired fellow in the prime of life, with such a terrible squint that it was difficult to look him straight in the face; to make matters worse, one of his eyes was green and the other brown. His face, in its expression, appeared to combine two persons, one timid and nervous, the other — the dominant one — an arrogant and sharp-witted cynic. An amazing mixture, for sometimes he looked at me with the brown, motionless, surprised eye, and sometimes with the green, which was screwed up derisively.

“Mr. Tichy,” he said as soon as he entered my study, “various tricksters, frauds, and madmen must intrude on you and try to swindle you or put something over on you. Isn’t that so?”

“It does happen,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Among these many individuals,” the stranger went on without giving his name or the reason for his visit, “from time to time there must be, if only one in a thousand, some unappreciated, truly brilliant mind. The infallible laws of statistics require this. I, Mr. Tichy, am that one in a thousand. My name is Decantor. I am a professor of comparative ontogenetics, a full professor. I hold no position at the moment because I do not have time for it. Teaching, anyway, is a futile occupation. No one can teach anyone anything. But enough of that. I came to tell you that I have solved a problem to which I have devoted forty-eight years of my life.”

“I, too, have little time,” I replied. I did not like this man. His manner was arrogant, not fanatic, and I prefer fanatics if I have to choose. Moreover, it was obvious he would ask for money, and I am tightfisted and not ashamed to admit it. This does not mean I will not back certain projects, but I do so reluctantly and, as it were, in spite of myself, for I do then what I know has to be done.

So I added: “Would you perhaps state your business? Naturally, I cannot promise you anything. There was one thing you said that struck me. You mentioned you had devoted forty-eight years to your problem. How old are you now, if I may ask?”

“Fifty-eight,” he replied coldly.

He stood behind a chair as though waiting for me to ask him to sit down. I would have asked him, of course, because, even if a tightwad, I am still polite, but the obviousness of his waiting annoyed me. Besides, he was, as I have said, an extremely obnoxious character.

“I took up the problem,” he resumed, “as a boy of ten. Because, Mr. Tichy, not only am I a brilliant man, I was also a brilliant child.”

Accustomed though I was to such boasting, this brilliance business was a bit much. I grimaced.

“Go on,” I said. If an icy tone of voice could lower the temperature, stalactites would have been hanging from the ceiling after this exchange.

“I have invented the soul,” said Decantor, looking at me with his dark eye while the mocking one seemed fixed upon grotesque phantoms near the ceiling, phantoms visible to it alone. He said this the way one would say, “I have come up with a new eraser.”

“Aha. I see, the soul,” I said almost cordially, for this insolence suddenly began to amuse me. “The soul? You invented it, did you? That’s interesting — I seem to have heard of it before. Perhaps from an acquaintance of yours?”

I broke off insultingly. He measured me with his terrible squint and said quietly: