XZXCN_9787531733362_20141223

120天之后，“积分号”宇宙飞船即将竣工。最伟大的历史时刻就在眼前，它将首次进入太空。1000年前，你们英勇的祖先统一了全球，建立了伟大的联合国。而今，你们面临着更加光荣的使命：我们所建造的玻璃电飞船，将喷吐着火焰，进入宇宙深处。而它此番进入宇宙就是为了完成将其他星球上的未知的生物从原始的蒙昧中解救出来，即为它们套上那充满理性之光的逻辑之枷。这是一种充满着数学般精确的幸福，如果它们还懵懂不知，我们的责任便是将这种幸福加诸它们。当然，武力的征服总是要在文字语言之后的。

因此，仅以全知全能者之名向联合国全体号码公告如下：

凡有能力者，都应竭尽所能撰写论文、史诗、宣言、颂歌及其他各类文章，赞颂这一威武、壮美及伟大之联合王国。

这些作品便是“积分号”将要运载太空的首批礼物。

联合国万岁，号码们万岁，全知全能者万岁！

我满怀激动地抄写下这一字一句，此刻，我的两颊仍灼烧似的发烫。我们要将这逻辑等式运用到浩瀚的宇宙之中，解放那野蛮的曲线，将它纠正成一条完美的直线，就像联合国这样的直线，这是一条神圣的直线！它英明、它精确、它睿智、它伟大！

我，即D-503，是“积分号”的设计师，也是联合国的数学家，与其他的数学家一样，我的笔也写惯了数字公式，想用它来描述那富于动感的进军乐章，有点困难。因此，我就将我的所见所闻，所思所想，更确切地说，就是将我们的思想记录下来。对，“我们的”；这个意思准确多了。那么，就用《我们》来为这个笔记命名吧。我将用这个笔记记录下在联合国的美妙数学式生活。这样，记录本身就会成为一部赞美诗，是的，我非常确信这一点。

在这篇笔记接近尾声的时候，我的双颊仍然是滚烫的。此刻，我更像体会到了一个女子初次听到腹内胎儿的搏动的心情。它似我，但又不是我。我必须如母亲一般，将我的精力、我的心血全副交予它，日复一日，年复一年地滋养它，孕育它。最后，忍痛将它从我的躯体上撕裂下来，毕恭毕敬地交给联合国。

我已做好了准备，如同其他所有的号码一样，准备全力以赴。

笔记之二

芭蕾舞

和谐的四方形

未知数X

春天到了。风吹了进来，它来自绿墙之外，从哪个不知名的田野里吹来，带着香甜的黄色花粉。这甜得发腻的花粉弄得我们的嘴唇也跟着干了起来，你不住地舔着它。现在，我在大街上遇到的每个女性（当然，也包括那些男性们）必然也有着这般甜的嘴唇。这么想着，多少有点影响我的逻辑思维。

但是，天空却不然！一片湛蓝，连一丝云彩都没有（古代人的鉴赏力真不可理喻。那种被吹嘘得天花乱坠的团团雾气，多么奇形怪状又毫无秩序。他们的诗人竟能从中获得灵感）。我只爱今天这样经过消毒的、完美无瑕的天空。如果我说，我们只爱这样的天空，我相信绝没说错。在这样的日子里，整个世界仿佛都是用最坚固的、永世长存的玻璃烧铸成的，就像那道绿色大墙和我们所有的建筑物。在这些日子，你可以看到这蓝色世界的最深处，可以看到它们至今无人知晓的令人惊叹的方程式，这些你可以在最普通、最习以为常的事物中见到。

不过，瞧那天空！它依然湛蓝湛蓝的，没有一点儿云彩的影子（古人的审美趣味是那般可笑，从那些既毫无价值的，又奇形怪状，甚至没有秩序可言的因水蒸气聚合而形成的团团雾气里寻求灵感），而我则只热爱今天的天空，哦，我也可以说是“我们”只热爱它。只有在这样的天空之下，整个宇宙才似用最坚不可摧的永久留存的玻璃所铸成的，就如同那绿墙一般。在这样的天空之下，我们便能深入到这蓝色世界的最核心，洞悉那至今我们未曾知晓的美妙方程式，而这些方程式我们在那些最普通、最平凡的事物中也能看得到。

下面的事就是最好的例子：今天早上，我在“积分号”飞船上照常工作，我无意间看了一眼机床：它们是那样清楚明了，调速飞球不停地旋转着；那发亮的曲柄按照规矩转着圈；平衡器骄傲地晃动着肩膀；钻头也有节奏地转动着，仿佛应和着无声的音乐节拍伴奏。在淡蓝色阳光的照耀之下，我突然间发现了一种难于言表之美，即这个庞然大物的机械芭蕾之舞，简直美极了。

紧接着，问题便来了。这美从何而来呢？为什么这场芭蕾舞如此美妙？随即我自问自答：因为这是一种非自由的运动，这场芭蕾舞意味着绝对的审美服从，这种服从是对理想的非自由状态全心全意的服从。若说我们的祖先，在人生最富于灵性的时候，也曾沉浸其中的话（例如，在秘密宗教仪式和军事行进之中的某些舞蹈成分），这仅代表着，人类天生便具有着非自由的属性，而如今的我们，只是有意识地……

我还没有来得及完成上面的话，联络机便发出了咔嚓的响声。我抬眼一瞧，是O-90，当然会是她。半分钟以后，她就会过来，同我出去散步。

可爱的O！我总觉得她的名字恰如其分，她的身高比母性标准低了10厘米，因此，她看上去显得圆滚滚的。不论我讲些什么话，她的粉红色双唇都会变成O形来回答我的话。而且，她的手腕如孩童一般有着一道圆乎乎的肉褶。

当她进来的时候，我脑袋里的逻辑飞轮还在转着，因为惯性的作用，我便和她谈起了我的新公式，当然也包括那机器和舞蹈秩序之美。

“太美妙了，是不是？”我问。

“是的，简直妙极了……春天到了。”O-90脸上洋溢着柔美的笑。

春天！她居然说的是春天。女人哪！……我不想再说什么了。

我们在街上散步，街上有不少号码散步，因为今天是个好天气，这种时候，下午的私人时间号码们都用来散步。同往常一样，音乐塔铜管齐鸣，吹奏着《联合国进行曲》。无数个身着浅蓝色制服（这种制服是从古代的制服传承下来的）的号码们，整整齐齐地四人一排，有序地散着步。每个号码胸前都挂着一枚金色的胸章，上面印着用于区别他们身份的号码。而我——我们，我们这四人一排的小组合仅仅是这奔腾的大海中一朵小浪花而已。我左侧是O-90（如果在1000年前，写这篇笔记的某位留着长发的祖先，可能会可笑地称她为“我的”）；我右侧两个陌生的号码，一个是男性号码，另一个是女性号码。

天空瓦蓝瓦蓝的，我们的胸章上映着一个个小太阳，我们脸上洋溢着微笑，没有一丝太阳照射不到的蒙昧存在。到处都是阳光明媚的，你明白吗？……仿佛周遭的一切都是由某种阳光般通透的物体所组成的物质一般。我们踏着铿锵的节拍：特拉嗒嗒嗒，特拉嗒嗒搭，迈着铿锵有力的步伐朝向着太阳光愈走愈高……

此时，我用早上在飞船站时的目光，开始打量眼前的一切，就像我首次见到它们一样：每条街道都呈现出完美的笔直状态，在街道的两旁是锃亮的玻璃路面，而街道边上的透明住所也是美妙的平行六面体，以及由我们这些灰蓝色号码所组成的四方形的和谐队列。我觉得，仿佛不是前几代人的杰作，而是我，恰恰是我自己取得了与过去古老生活战斗的胜利，我才是这一切的创造者。此刻，我更像是一座高塔，我不敢随意呼吸，也不敢挪动自己的臂肘，就像整个墙壁、屋顶、机器都会跟着坍塌一样，瞬间灰飞烟灭。

然后，我的思绪闪回到几个世纪之前，显然，是通过对比，我联想到了在博物馆中所见到的一幕，那是一幅二十世纪的先祖们所拍摄的照片：一条大街，街上有很多杂着五颜六色的乱糟糟的人群、汽车、牲畜、广告、树木、禽鸟及其他色彩……据说，这就是那时候的生活！

这些所谓的确实存在的景象让我吃惊不已！简直不可思议！因为觉得太荒诞了，我竟忍不住笑出声来。而我的右边也随之传来了笑声，仿佛呼应我的笑声似的，我扭过头去，看到了一个陌生女人的脸以及她那一排显眼的洁白牙齿。

“抱歉，”她说道，“你刚才打量四周的神情非常激昂，仿佛是传说中的上帝完成了创世的第七日。我觉得，你当时的神情甚至认为，我也是你创造的杰作。因此，我觉得十分荣幸……”

她这么说的时候，表情严肃，我甚至还能感觉出有某些尊敬的意味（可能她知道我是“积分号”的设计师）。但是我有些纳闷，她的眉头还是眼睛里有一种奇特的X，我有些捉摸不定，猜不透那到底是什么，一时之间也没法找到答案。不知为什么，我觉得有些窘迫，连忙用我符合逻辑的话解释我的举动。

“今天显然已经和二十世纪时的情形判若天渊了，它们之间存在着不可逾越的鸿沟……”

“为什么说是不可逾越呢？（多么洁白的牙齿啊！）鸿沟上是可以架桥的啊！你试想一下：和着乐鼓行进的军队、整齐划一的队伍——这些在过去也是存在过的，所以……”

“是的，确实是这样！”我大声说道。

真是不谋而合啊。她所说的话跟我在散步前所记述的话居然惊人的相似。你懂吗？甚至连思想结构都相同。这是因为，我们中的任何一个都不是“单独的个体”，而是“整体中的一员”，因此，我们是如此的相似……

她说：“你也这么认为吗？”

我见到她那两道眉毛，它们高高挑起，就像字母X上端的两道线一样。我有点不知所措了，我向左边看了看，又向右边看了看。我的右手边是她，颀长、苗条、柔韧，又灵活得像一条马鞭。她是I-330号（我终于看清了她的胸章）。我的左手边是O，她又是截然不同的风格，浑身上下都是浑圆的，而手腕上还有那孩童般的肉褶；我们这排的最后一个是那个陌生的男性号码。他有些佝偻，身体就像字母S。我们这四个人真可以说是迥然不同……

右手边的I-330，似乎看出了我眼中的迷惑，随之叹了口气，说道：“是呢，唉！”

说实话，这声叹气正符合我的心境，但是在她的脸上，要不就是在这声音里，我总觉察出有某些说不出的异样来。

我一反常态，言辞激烈地说：“有什么可‘唉’的呢？科学在进步，如果现在办不到，或许再过50年，100年……”

“那时候连大家的鼻子……”

“是的，就连鼻子，”我几乎大喊起来，“若是有差别，就会有妒忌心……比方说，有人是蒜头鼻，而有的人则是……”

“是呢，你的鼻子依照古代的说法，应该属于古典类型了。但是你的手……不，请不要抽回去，伸出来，让我看一看！”

我最不想让别人盯着我的手看。手上覆盖着浓密的汗毛，这非常不成体统，是返祖的现象。我将手伸了出去，假装无关紧要地说：“跟猿猴差不多吧。”

她仔细看着我的手，又看了看我的脸，说道：“这很有趣，简直是最古怪的和弦。”她不住打量着我，好像在掂我的分量似的，此时眉梢又微微挑起。

“他已登记我了。”O乐悠悠地张着粉红色的圆嘴，笑着说道。

我有些不高兴了，我该怎么说她呢？她还不如不说话，现在显然她有点混乱了。这个可爱的O，她的语言速度总是计算错误，正确的算法应该是语言的秒速小于思想的秒速，而她恰恰相反。

在大街尽头的蓄电塔上，钟表敲响了17下。这表示私人活动时间结束了。I-330和S形的男性号码一起离开了。看到他的脸觉得有让人尊敬的意味，我又发觉有点熟悉，但是却想不起来在哪里见到过他。

临分开的时候，I-330又露出她那令人不解的微笑：“后天，请来112号礼堂找我。”

我耸了耸肩膀说：“若是我恰好被分配到那个礼堂的话……”

她居然用非常肯定的语气说道：“你会收到通知单的。”

这个女人让我觉得十分不快，她恰如一个偶然闯进的因子，钻进方程式干扰解题的进程，而你却无法除掉她。终于能和亲爱的O单独待着了——虽然时间并不多了。我牵着她的手，我们一起走过了四条街。到了街口该分手了，她要向右拐，而我则要向左拐了。O温柔地抬起她那晶莹透彻的蓝眼睛，望着我害羞地说：“此刻我多想去你那里，拉下窗帘……就在今天，就在这时候……”

她真可笑。但是我又能怎么回答呢？明明昨天她已经来过了。她非常清楚，我们的下一个性日期是在后天。而这恰好能说明她的思想有时候又会超前很多，就如同给发动机提前点了火一样。

我们分开时，我吻了她的眼睛两次……不，应该说是三次，那令我着迷的、美丽的、湛蓝的、没有一丝阴霾的、清澈的蓝眼睛。

笔记之三

外套

绿墙

守时戒律表

我将昨天的笔记重新看了一遍，我发觉里边的内容还不够清楚。也就是说，这一切对我们来说是明白清楚的，但对你们来说则未必。你们，是我所不知道的读者，谁知道“积分号”将会被送往何处？那伟大的人类文化史，没准你们仅仅读到了900年前的位置，就如同我们的祖先一样。没准你们并不明白一些基本的知识，比如，守时戒律表、私人活动时间、母性标准、绿墙、全知全能者。可能你们会觉得这些说法十分奇怪，让我来谈这些，虽然有点滑稽，但也不是三言两语就可以说清楚的。这就像是让一位二十世纪的作家，将自己小说中的名词，比如外套、套间住房、妻子等词语解释清楚一样困难。但是，若他小说的读者是那些更古老的原始人，他就必须要说清楚什么是外套。

我可以想象，当原始人看到“外套”这个词，他会在心里琢磨着：“这是做什么用的？只是个累赘罢了。”我相信，如果我这样说，自从200年战争结束之后，我们中的所有人都没有走出绿墙之外，你们也会像野蛮人一样觉得不可思议吧。

但是，亲爱的读者们，你们可以就此动一下脑筋，设想一下。因为这是非常好的决定。我们都知道，整个的人类历史，就是由游牧生活逐渐向定居生活的过渡。所以说，我们最终的生活方式就是定居，而（我们的）最固定不变的生活方式，正是最最自然也最最完美的生活方式。过去的人们，总是从一边流窜到另一边，那是遥远的史前时代的事儿了，因为那时候人们有着某种需要，即与之产生的混乱的战争、商业经济，以及新大陆的发现。但是现在的人们还需要这么做吗？

我知道，这种定居生活人类起初未必能适应。在200年战争期间，城市变为废墟，道路被毁坏殆尽，荒草丛生。森林将城市阻隔开来。在这样的城市中居住，会让生活非常不方便，但又如何呢？试想，人类在尾巴进化掉之后，起初都是不适应的。没有了尾巴，人还不知道该怎么驱走讨厌的苍蝇。可以肯定地说，在刚开始的时候，他甚至因为没了尾巴而愁眉苦脸。但是，进化到现在，你能想象自己有尾巴吗？或者，你们能想象不穿衣服而全身赤裸地在街上走吗？（不过，也可能你们现在还光着身子出门也不一定。）但道理是相通的：我不敢设想在一个没有绿墙包围的城市中生活，我同样不敢设想，没有数字守时戒律表的生活会怎样。

守时戒律表……此刻它正待在墙上，它有金色的背景，上面的紫色数字正满怀威严又含情地望着我。此刻，我突然想到了古人们所说的“圣像”，突然有想吟诗或者写祈祷文（当然，两者都差不多）的冲动。唉，可惜我不会作诗！否则我就能够写出一首热情洋溢的优美诗篇了。啊，守时戒律表，联合国的心脏与脉搏！

当我们小的时候，也许你们也是如此，在学校里一定读过古代文学中那篇流传至今的最伟大的文献：《铁路时刻表》。但是若将它和守时戒律表放在一处，二者高下立现。它们一个是石墨，而另一个则是金刚石，虽然组成它们的元素相同，都是碳元素，但是晶莹剔透的金刚石永远比石墨要灿烂，它有着永恒的光芒！

当我们翻阅《铁路时刻表》的时候，是那样激动，甚至不敢大声喘气。但是守时戒律表，这并不是夸大其词，它才让我们所有人成为了伟大史诗中的六轮钢铁英豪。每天早晨，在同一时刻，我们几百万人像六轮机器一样准时地起床，如同一个人一般。而又在同一时刻，几百万人一齐进入工作状态，又同时结束一天的工作。我们恰似那有着一百万只手的一个人一样，在同一秒钟，我们将饭勺送进嘴里吃饭；在同一秒钟，我们走出门散步，我们一同进入讲演厅，又在同一时刻，我们上床睡觉……

当然，我必须承认，时至今日，我们仍然没能找出关于幸福的精确答案。我们这统一的巨大机体，在一天之中有两次将被分解成无数个单独的小细胞。这两次便是所谓的私人时间，它们是16点至17点，21点至22点。在这些时候，你们会发现，有些人会将房间里的窗帘放下来，而有些人会选择在《进行曲》的旋律中走上街头散步；还有些人会像我一样，坐在书桌前忙事情。但是我相信，让那些人叫我理想主义者好了，或者幻想家我也不介意。那一天早晚会来临，等到那时候，一天中全部的86400秒全都被守时戒律表所统治。

我通过书本，以及人们的讲述知道古代人的种种不可思议的事情。当然，那些人仍然生活在不受管束的所谓自由之中，也就是说，生活在那种毫无纪律性可言的原始野蛮状态之下。我太困惑了：一个国家政权，即使这个政权还不够成熟，怎么会允许人们在没有守时戒律表的状况下自由生活呢？那里没有散步，用餐时间也可以随意安排，甚至人可以随意选择起床和睡觉的时间。有的史学家甚至还提及，那时候连大街上也是灯火通明，深更半夜还有行人走动。

我实在难以接受这些。即使他们的智力还达不到聪慧的程度，但也不至于如此愚昧啊！难道他们看不出来吗？这样的生活毫无意义，简直就是集体自杀，虽然是慢性的。那时候的政权由于人道主义的考量，禁令谋害别人，但是它们却容许这种光天化日下的罪行发生。杀死一个人，就是将个人的寿命总和减少50岁，这便是犯罪。但是，若使人类整体的寿命总和减少5000万岁，却不是犯罪。这是多么可笑的逻辑！这则简单的数学运算，随便找出一个10岁的号码，不出半分钟就能精确地计算出来。

但是过去的那些人却办不到，即使把他们认为聪明绝顶的康德们请出来也办不到。因为没有哪个康德会想到要建立科学伦理学体系，即这种以加减乘除为基础的科学伦理学体系。

而且，更为奇怪的是，那些国家（他们居然敢这样称呼！）对性生活完全放任不管。这也太不可思议了。不分对象、不分场合，甚至不分时间……简直跟牲畜相仿，完全反科学！还有一点，与牲畜别无二致，就是随便生孩子。真是可笑至极！他们会园艺、懂养鸡、会养鱼（我们有十分可靠的材料可以证明这些），虽然他们掌握了这些知识，但是他们却没有按逻辑发展的递进方式发展到最后阶段，即婴儿生育学。他们也没有想到要制定母性标准和父性标准，这也太荒唐了！

这些都太可笑了，我简直不知道该怎么形容才好。当我写到这里的时候，隐隐地便有些担心起来：你们，这些我所不认识的读者们，会不会以为我在说笑？或者以为我就是想嘲笑你们而已，而装腔作势地说出以上那些荒唐的话？

所以，我要郑重地重申，首先，这不是笑话，我并没有开玩笑；而且我也不善于开玩笑。因为我觉得任何玩笑都有谎言的成分；其次，联合国的科学家们已经不止一次地证实了，古代人的生活确实像我说的那样，而联合国的科学是最权威的；再者，若是现在人们还生活在自由之中，也就是说，仍然处于原始的野蛮状态，那国家又从何谈起呢？即便在今天这个时代，在我们这众多号码之中，有时仍会传来猿猴时代的野性之声。对于古人，我们又会有什么过多的苛求呢？

值得庆幸的是，这种野性之声也不过是偶然现象，是不值一提的。仅仅是机器零件的小故障，很容易修复，而整部机器的伟大的、永恒的运转将不受任何阻碍。若是不得不卸掉那些变了形的螺栓，全知全能者自然会伸出熟练的铁手，而安全卫士也不会熟视无睹……

顺便写一句，我一下子就想起了那个人，昨天我们在散步的时候见到的那个双曲线S。大概有一次，我在安全卫士局见过他。这就难怪了，昨天我看到他便有一种肃然起敬的感觉。我也想通了为什么见到那个举止奇特的I-330号在他旁边，我竟有些尴尬……

睡觉铃响起了。已经22点半了。明天接着写吧。

笔记之四

晴雨表与野蛮人

羊角风

如果

到目前为止，我生活中的所有一切都明明白白（可能是因为这样，所以我才比较喜欢使用“明白”这个词）。但是今天……我却有点晕了。

首先，我竟然真的收到了一张前往112号礼堂的通知单，居然被她说中了。虽然这可能性微乎其微，仅仅是500/1000万，即等于2万分之1（礼堂共有500个，而号码则有1000万个）。其次……还是先让我理清顺序，一一道来吧。

礼堂：这是一个巨大的半圆形建筑，当然，它的组成材料依然是透明玻璃，阳光照射进来，在一圈圈的座椅上，都坐着那些尊贵无比的圆球似的光脑袋。我非常高兴地环顾四周。其实我是想看看，在这一片蓝色之中，我会不会见到O的那粉色的可爱嘴唇。啊！但是我脑海中居然闪现出一副洁白的牙齿，仿佛……不对。今晚21点，O会过来我家。所以，我此刻最想见到的必定是她啊。

铃声响了。全体起立，齐唱《联合国国歌》。接着，录音讲演者全身披着扩音机的金光，冉冉升起。随后洪亮的声音便充斥了全场：

“尊敬的号码们！不久之前，考古专家们发掘出了一本20世纪的著作。那位讽刺作家在书中提及了野蛮人与晴雨表。野蛮人发觉，每次当晴雨表停在‘雨’上面时，天就会下雨。野蛮人很高兴，他想有雨，于是就将晴雨表中的水银倒了出来。直到晴雨表恰好停在了‘雨’上面。（屏幕上立即出现了一个戴羽毛饰品的野蛮人，他正在专心致志地倒水银。底下一阵哄笑。）

“你们都在笑，可是你们觉不觉得，其实那个时代的欧洲人更可笑。欧洲人和野蛮人有着同样的期盼，他们也想要下雨，但是他们却毫无办法，只能眼巴巴地看着晴雨表。这样一比较，野蛮人至少还有动手实验的勇气、干劲和逻辑性（虽然这逻辑感是那么的原始）。但是，他至少做出了判断，将因果之间联系了起来：他倒出了水银，即迈出了行动的第一步……”

我仍然在那里，但是突然之间，我忘了眼前所看到和听到的一切（我必须要强调：我遵照事实记录下一切，毫不掩饰），虽然讲演还在进行，且依然是那么妙趣横生，可是我却突然发觉自己不应该来。（怎么会有这种感觉呢？但是，我既然收到了通知，我必须要来的呀！）我突然觉得很空洞无聊，而我这么说又没有任何意义。于是，我又努力集中注意力，重新关注起讲演来，这时已经讲演到了此次的主题——我们依据数学结构制成的音乐（数学为因由，而音乐则是结果），他正在讲解最近刚发明的音乐创作机。

“……只需要简单地转动手把，谁都可以在一小时内完成三部奏鸣曲的创作。与之相比，你们祖先作曲时却那么难。他们先要获得所谓的‘灵感’，这种东西就像得了羊角风一样奇怪，有了它他们才能完成创作。接下来，我们就来听一段他们经由灵感爆发之后所创作的音乐，这音乐简直可笑至极！这是20世纪的作曲家斯克里亚宾的作品。而这个（此时台上的帷幕缓缓拉开，一架20世纪的古老乐器呈现在所有人面前）黑色的大箱，被叫作皇家大三角钢琴，从这件乐器上也能看出，他们的音乐水平……”

我再也想不起来下面的话了，可能是因为……我还是实话实说吧，其实是因为我看到了她，是的，就是因为她，I-330出现在了“钢琴”边上。可能是因为她的突然出现，让我有些呆住了！

她穿着一条有些奇怪的古代服装。这条很长的黑色裙将她的身体紧紧裹住，让她的双肩和前胸更显得白皙。随着起伏的呼吸，她胸前的那道阴影显得十分诱人……还有那两排洁白的小牙齿，它们甚至亮得有些刺目……她面露微笑，随后落座，并开始弹奏。这音乐是野蛮的、狂热的、震撼的，就跟古代人的生活一样，缺乏任何理性的因素。人们哄堂大笑，是啊，他们笑得那么有理，仅有几个人没有笑……但是，为什么我也没有笑……

我到底是怎么了？啊，羊角风，这是一种精神病，带着疼痛的病。我好像也得了似的，突然觉得有种轻微的、甜蜜的疼痛，它越蜇越深，越来越痛。尔后，我见到了太阳，它正在冉冉升起，但是这太阳与我们常见的不同，不是那种透彻、明晰，有着幽幽蓝光的太阳。而是充满野性的，它炙热地燃烧着，仿佛要将一切都弄得粉碎……

我左手边的号码用余光看了我一眼，他仍然咯咯笑着。那时，我并没有意识出他在笑着什么，但是我却看清楚了他的模样：我清楚地看到他嘴边上泛起的小唾沫星子，其中一个冒起了泡泡，然后，“啪”的一声，破了。这一声将我唤醒，我又回来了。

然后，我便跟所有人一样，也听到了那些没有任何意义、毫无系统可言的叮当乱想的琴声。我轻笑着，觉得无比畅快，心情又变得纯粹起来。那位天才的录音讲演者将那个野蛮时代描绘得绘声绘色，就是这样。

后来，又演奏了我们当代的音乐，以与那个野蛮的音乐进行对比。我很高兴地欣赏着我们当代的音乐，简直美极了。演奏厅里回响着那清亮、通透的半音音阶，它们一会儿集中，一会儿分散；应和着泰勒和麦克劳林公式的人造和声，还有毕达哥拉斯的短裤似的全音二次方的转调，曲子的起伏没有哀伤，只有和谐的音律之美，整个音乐采用了弗朗和费谱线条那行星光谱分析似的美丽节奏……简直堪称完美，那么恢宏庄严的曲子、那么富有整齐和谐！而古代人的音乐造诣简直太可悲了，它们那么恣肆任意、那么野蛮，毫无规矩可言。

与平常一样，所有人又四人一列地走出了礼堂。一个熟悉的双曲线身影从我身边闪过，我礼貌地朝他致意。

一小时之后，可爱的O就来了。我的心情舒畅极了，这是一种令人愉悦又健康的憧憬。回到家，我便赶到大楼办公室，将一张粉红色的票子递给值班员，她交给我一张允许拉窗帘的许可证。我们只有在性活动日才被允许拉窗帘。其余的时间，我们都生活在跟空气一样透明的玻璃房中，因此，我们的一切活动全部是公开的，任何人都能够看到。因为，所有人都是坦诚相见的，并没有什么秘密可隐藏。而且，这样的居住环境也减轻了安全卫士的工作压力。否则，肯定会有些令人厌烦的麻烦出现。恰恰是因为古代人的那些不透明的、奇怪的令人难以想象的居所造就了他们的狭隘、可悲的自我。“我的（原文如此！）房子即是我之堡垒。”他们居然说出这类话！

22点，我拉下窗帘，而O也微喘着气走了进来。她的粉红色双唇直接迎了过来，还有手里的一张粉红的票子。我扯下票根，但是我的嘴却怎么也离不开那粉红的嘴唇，直到最后一秒钟，22点15分，我才松开了嘴。

后来，我给她看我的日记，我们还一起说话。我还特别热情地谈到正方形和立方体之美，还有直线之美。刚开始，她着迷地听着，可过了一会儿，她的脸上便泛起了红晕。接着她清澈的蓝眼睛里便掉下泪来，一滴，二滴、三滴，呀，我摊开的稿页（第7页）已经被浸湿了。墨水化开了，看来，我得重抄一遍了。

“亲爱的，若是你愿意，我觉得……”

“愿意什么？”难道又是她想要个孩子的陈词滥调吗？或者想要说说别的什么，难道是关于那个女人的？虽说这……我觉得是有点儿……不过，也太荒谬了！

笔记之五

正方形

世界之主宰

愉快又宜人的生理功能

我们又见面了，我的那些读者们，我们这样的交谈形式，就像……举个例子来说，我们是多年的故交。R-13，他可是一个非常出名的诗人，虽然他的嘴唇厚得像古代的黑种人，可是他远近闻名。而你们却生活在遥远的地方，可能是月球、金星、火星或者水星上，我们素不相识，无从知道你们在哪里，又是些什么人。

可以试想：若是一个正方形，假设它是一个有生命的、绝妙的存在，它需要聊聊自己的生活。你们或许会猜到，这个正方形可能没有想过要去谈论自己的四个角，虽然它们都是相等的。但是它想不到这一点，因为它总是这样的，它已经习惯了这样。因此也就不当是一回事了。而我，我有时候也会身处于正方形的这种境地中。比方粉红票子，它的存在是必然的，就像正方形的四角必然均等一样。但是，可能在你们眼中，这也许比牛顿的二项式定理更让人难以捉摸。

那么请听我接下来要说的话：在古时候有位哲人曾说过一句至理名言（当然，这可能是偶然为之）：“爱情与饥饿才是世界之主宰。”所以，人类为了能统治世界就要付出努力来战胜饥饿。当然，我所指的努力是城市和乡村的战争，即那场旷日持久的200年大战。可能是因为宗教的偏见，基督徒将“面包”[1] 牢牢抓在手中，丝毫不肯放。而在联合国建立的前35年，我们所赖以生存的石油食物就已经发明了。确实，经过战争，地球上只有十分之二的人存活了下来，也正因为此，地球清除了那些多余的腐败垃圾，而今变得那么生机勃勃！

所以说，这些幸存的十分之二人口在联合国的美好大家庭中过得那么幸福。然后用来构成这个幸福百分比的分子和分母分别是快乐和嫉妒。这一点显而易见，若是在如今我们仍然存在着嫉妒的根由，那么在旷日持久的200年大战中死去的人的牺牲又有何意义可言呢？但是，嫉妒的根由确实存在，譬如蒜头鼻子和古典鼻子的差别（上回散步的谈话便涉及到这个内容），仍然有些人十分招人喜爱，而另外一些人则不讨人喜欢。

这是自然不过的事，从联合国解决了饥饿的困扰之后（代数的观念认为：饥饿便是身体获得福利的总和），便开始致力于征服另一个主宰，即爱情。最后爱情也被战胜，此意即，它被规范化，被组织了起来，纳入了数学的范畴。于是，在300年前，一个划时代意义的法典诞生了，即《性法典》。此法典规定“身为性的产物，每一个号码都对任何其他的号码享有使用的许可权利”。

具体的操作方法，便是技术性的了。首先号码们必须要到性管理局的化验室进行仔细而全面的检查，准确测算出血液中性荷尔蒙的含量，依据此给你制订出相应的性活动日期表。然后，就可以提出申请，自愿与某个或者某些号码产生性行为，然后，你便得到了一个粉红票子的小本子。至此，一切就办妥了。

这是非常明白清楚的，因此，也不会存在任何的嫉妒因由，而担当分母的数为零，自然我们的幸福指数便是无限地大。相对于古人，他们曾因那可怜可悲可叹的爱情而酿成的无数悲剧，在今天不会上演。在我们的时代这只会是和谐、愉快而又宜人的生理功能。就如同睡眠、体力工作、饮食、消化等其他功能一样。所以说，逻辑的力量是那么神奇，它足以让一切得到净化。啊，若是你们，亲爱的读者们，也能感受到这力量的伟大就好了，若是你们也能学会遵从逻辑的指引，并一以贯之，那可多美妙啊！

好奇怪！此刻我笔端流淌着人类历史的最高成就，呼吸着最纯净的空气，但是我的心底却涌上了阴霾，就像蒙着一层不透明的蛛网，中间还有一个长着四只爪子的未知数X。可能，就是因为它，我的爪子，那两只毛茸茸的瓜子一直在我眼前晃来晃去的。我不想谈起它们。也有些讨厌它们，它们就是野蛮时代的印记。难不成我身上真的有……

我想让这些内容不存在，因为这些内容超出了我提要的范围。可是，仔细一想，我又决定保留下来。这样，我的笔记便是精确如地震仪的存在了，哪怕我头脑中任何最细微的波动都能被真实地记录下来。因为，在某些时候，这种波动便有预兆的意味……天啊，这简直是胡说八道了。我不该这样想，想一想，所有的自然力量和本能问题都被我们解决了，不会有任何意外的灾祸发生了。

此刻，我想通了。看来我心里的那种奇怪的感觉应该是源于我所处的正方形状态，这个问题在笔记开头我已经写过了。而我心底深处也没有类似于X之类的存在。我仅仅是担心你们，亲爱的读者们，在你们心头会不会时常盘踞着X呢？我相信，你们会明白我的用心。也会体谅我，我完成这本笔记的难度。我所书写的比人类历史上任何一位作家还要难。他们当中，有人为同时代的人写作，而有的人为后世之人写作，但是，却从未有位作家为远古的祖先们写作，或者是类似于远古祖先的未开化的生命存在写作。

[1] 这种物质的化学组成我们还不清楚，但是如今它们只存在文学之中。

笔记之六

意外历险

该死的“清楚”

24小时

我必须再写一次：我觉得我有这样的责任，即在写作过程中毫不避讳任何事。所以，我必须在笔记中列出这些事实：至今我们的生活，连定型化、固定化都没能完全实现。而我们离理想的彼岸也仅仅差最后一步了。所谓的理想，自然是没有任何意外事故的太平境界（这是再清楚不过的了），然而，在现实中……瞧，仍然是有些让人不愉快的，比方说，今天我在《联合国报》上读到一篇文章：两日后，在立方体广场将举行审判大典。这表明，有某个号码又起来破坏了伟大国家机器的运行，一些超出预见的意外事故又发生了。

除了这个意外，我自己也有点意外。虽然这件事是发生在私人时间，即特地被用来处理有些意外的专门时间，但是，我仍然……

大概是16点的时候（确切地说，是15点50分），我正在家里。

突然电话铃响了：“请问是D-503吗？”一个女人的声音传了过来。

“是我。”

“你有空吗？”

“有。”

“我是I-330。现在我就去找你，我们一起去参观古代房子。你赞同吗？”

I-330……她总是让我心绪不宁，我觉得不安，甚至有点惶恐。就是因为这样，我更要说：“好吧，我去。”

5分钟以后，我们已经在飞船上了。五月的天空湛蓝湛蓝的，明亮轻盈的太阳在自己的飞船里优哉游哉的，它跟在我们后面，嗡嗡响着。前面是一片飘浮的白色云朵，它像一大团瀑布一样，胖乎乎，又十分有趣。我们乘坐的飞船前窗开着，风灌了进来，吹得我嘴唇发干，我忍不住舔着它，老得舔几下。

此刻，我已经看到了绿墙外的那一块块模糊的绿地。紧接着，心脏便微微沉了一下。我们在降落，下降，再下降，就像从陡峭的山坡上不断滑翔一样，终于，我们来到了古宅面前。

这幢房子被整个罩在玻璃壳子中，要不然，它早毁了。它长得很奇怪，破败不堪，还有些土里土气。玻璃门旁有个看门的老太太，她脸上满是皱纹，嘴巴更是，密密麻麻的褶皱布满四周，嘴唇已经完全瘪了进去，见不到嘴唇。我没法想象出她开口说话的样子。但是，她的确开了口。

“哦，亲爱的，你又来了。来看看我的小房子吗？”

她整张脸都展开了，显得容光焕发。我的意思是，她的那些呈放射状的皱纹就像光线，全部发散开来，显得像在放光一般。

“是的，老奶奶。”I-330说道。

她又在放光了：“多好的太阳！你看到没呢？哦，小淘气！真淘气！我知道，我知道。没事儿，你们自个去吧，我就在这里晒太阳。”

显然……我的这位女伴常常来这里。我有点心烦意乱的，想甩掉什么似的，但是却甩不掉——没准就是这天空在作怪，真糟糕！这样的天空却有云块堆在那。

当我们顺着宽大的、幽深的楼梯往上走的时候，I-330说：“这位老奶奶，我很爱她。”

“什么意思？”

“说不清楚。也许，看到她满是皱纹的嘴。也许，没有什么原因，只是爱而已。”

我不解地耸耸肩。她仍然在说着，并且面露笑容，也许她根本就没笑。

我觉得极其不舒服：“我认为不该这样说，这是再自然不过的事了，不会有‘没有原因的爱’，所有的爱都应该是‘有理由的’。因为自然界的一切都应该……”

“清楚……”我想接着说下去，但是，在我自己说了“清楚”这个词之后，我偷偷瞄了她一眼。不知道她发现没有。此刻，她往下望着，而她的眼睑就像窗帘似的拉了下来。

我的脑海里立即闪现出这样的一幕：深夜22点，当一个人走在大街上，眼睛所及的都是在灯火通明的玻璃方格，而那些之中有一些是黑色的方格，因为它们的窗帘都被拉下来了，而它的后面……那么，在她的窗帘后面又隐藏着什么呢？为什么她会给我打电话？她又为什么带我来这里？她做这一切又是为了什么？

一扇沉重的、不透明的门被推开了，一个昏暗的、杂乱的住处（这种地方，古代人都称之为“公寓”）呈现在了我们面前。里面摆着一台上回在礼堂见过的怪模怪样的“钢琴”，还有很多杂乱无章的、没有任何秩序感可言的色彩和线条，跟我那次听到的音乐一样。顶部是白色的，而四周则是深蓝色的，还有一堆乱七八糟的古旧书，它们色彩各异，红的、绿的、橙黄的。还有黄铜烛台、铜佛像，而木质家具的线条也是歪七扭八的，不成体统，没有一条线条能被列入等式。

这种混乱不堪的场景让我几乎忍无可忍了。可是，我的女伴可比我强多了。

“这间是我最喜欢的……”突然她像想到了什么，面露着微笑，这就像是一个咬唇的动作，那排洁白的小牙齿也露了出来，“或者应该这样说，这是所有这些公寓中最杂乱的一间了。”

“可能将它形容为‘王国’更恰当一些，而不应该说是所谓的‘套间’，”我说出我的意见来，“这就是无数个小型的王国，这里充满了火药味，充满了战乱的恐怖，类似于……”

“是啊，确实如此。”她很认真地回应道。

我们穿过一间房间，房间里有几张婴儿床（在古代，孩子也属于私人范畴）。之后呈现的又是一个个房间，以及房间里的东西，有闪亮的镜子、阴沉的柜子、五颜六色的沙发、很大很大的“壁炉”，还有一张红木大床。而我们的那些透明的、漂亮的、永久性的玻璃，仅仅被放在了那些毫不起眼的，小得可怜的窗户上。

“那么不可思议啊！这里的人们居然‘因爱而爱’，他们为爱痴狂，为爱而深受折磨……（说到这，她眼睛的窗帘又拉了下来）人类的精力虚耗在这些事情上，是多大的浪费啊。你觉得呢？”

她好像说出了我心中所想，且的确正中我的下怀。可她的笑容却让我心烦不已，那个刺人的X。她眼睑后面到底隐藏着什么，我不得而知。但是，相比这就是令我心烦的原因。我有些受不了了。我甚至想和她吵架。大声地喊叫（就是这样），但是我只能表示出赞同，因为她说的确实是对的。

我们停在了一面镜子面前。此时，我只能透过镜子看到她的双眼。一个念头突然间出现了：人的身体构造也有些不可思议，简直跟这该死的“公寓”差不多。太奇怪了。人的头部是不透明的，而只有两扇非常小的窗户，即眼睛。只有通过它，人们才能看出人的想法。可能是她看出了我的想法，便转向我说道：“看，我的眼睛……你觉得如何？”（这些话有些突兀，于是她又陷入了沉思。）

我面前是两扇黑洞洞的窗子，这对我来说是非常陌生的另一种生活。我见到幽暗的火光，那是从“壁炉”里发出来的，以及人影的晃动，仿佛……

这其实不难解释，因为我见到了自己的影子。但是，我觉得不舒服，甚至觉得这人不像我。的确，正是周遭的环境令我觉得十分不适。我甚至有些害怕，仿佛自己深陷古代的牢笼之中，那古代生活的旋涡似乎要将我吞噬一样。

“你啊，”I-330看着我，说，“你到隔壁房间去待一会儿吧。”她的声音仿佛来自幽暗的双眸，来自那生着壁炉的火上。

我来到了另一间房间，坐了下来。正对面的墙架上有一个诗人的塑像，他长着塌鼻子，相貌一般，我猜这人可能是普希金。此时，他正死死盯着我，似笑似不笑的。我为什么要坐在这里呢？一动不动地看着他的模样？到底发生了什么事？我怎么会来到这里了呢？眼前的一切实在是太荒唐了！这个奇怪的女人，这场莫名其妙的把戏，到底一切都是怎么了？

隔壁柜子的门砰地响了，我听到了似乎是丝质衣服的声音。我想站起身来，我想看看她到底要做什么，我想……现在我记不清了，也许想骂她一顿，但是，我极力忍耐着。而此时，她出现了。

她身着一件明黄色的短裙，而头上则是一顶宽边的黑色呢帽，脚上有黑色的长筒袜。裙子很薄，是丝绸的。

“很明显，你想显得与众不同，但是这样……”

她没有让我继续说下去，而是打断了我的话：“很明显，与众不同就是特别的。所以，与众不同就要违反平等原则……古人所说的‘甘愿平凡’，在我们看来就是要尽的‘义务’。因此……”

“说得很对，确实是这样，”我忍不住打断她，“那你又为何……”

她来到塌鼻子诗人的雕像前，再次垂下眼睑，将那充满野性之火的双眼隐藏住。随即，她便开口了。她很认真地（没准她想尽力安抚我的情绪）说道：“古人们怎么能容忍这样的人呢？居然称他为诗人，你不觉得荒唐吗？不但人们容忍他的所作所为，甚至还敬佩他。多么卑躬屈膝的思想！你认为呢？”

“很清楚……我的意思是说……（这句该死的‘很清楚’！）”

“是的，我懂。可是，事实上，这些诗人与那些成就帝位的君主相比，具有更强的主宰性。但是，那些君主们为什么不把他们关起来，消灭掉他们呢？而在我们这里……”

“是，在我们这里……”我还没有说完。

她便大笑了起来，她的眉眼里都是笑意，仿佛画出了一条曲线。我发觉那笑如同一条激越的，弹力十足的鞭子一般柔韧。当时我浑身发颤。我想做点儿什么……我要揪住她……可是，我也不记得了……我就下意识地看了下我的金色号码牌：16点50分。

“你不觉得是时候该离开了吗？”我尽量有礼貌地问道。

“如果我想让你和我一起留在这儿呢？”

“你在说什么？你知道你刚刚说了什么吗？10分钟后，我必须出现在礼堂。”

“……所有号码都有责任完成艺术和科学的必修课程……”I-330将我要说的话说了出来。

随即，她拉下了窗帘，抬起她的眼。幽暗的眼睛里有熊熊烈火在燃烧着。

“在医疗部有个医生，他登记了我。若我去求他，他一定会给你开一张病例证明，证明你生病了。如何？”

我明白了。现在我终于知道问题的答案了，原来她有这样的目的。

“原来如此！不过，身为一个诚实的号码，不妨实话告诉你，我应该立刻前往安全卫士局……”

“哦？”她又使出那勾人的微笑，“我非常想知道，你会不会去？”

“你仍旧不走吗？”

我抓住了门把手，它是铜制的，而我的声音也像是铜制的。

“等一下……行吗？”

她来到电话机旁，给一个号码打电话。当时我太紧张，居然没有听清那个号码。只记得她说：“我在古宅等你。是的，是的，只有我一个……”

我拧了铜把手：“我可以用飞船吗？”

“当然可以！随便。”

走到门口，老太太在太阳光下打瞌睡，仿佛一株植物。她那满是皱纹的嘴再一次张开了：“你的那位，怎么，她要一个人留下来吗？”

“是。”

老太太的嘴合上了。她摇着头。显然，连她那已经衰退的脑袋都深知干这样的蠢事是那么危险。

17点的时候，我已经在礼堂了。这时我突然想起来，我并没有说出全部的事实来，刚才我对老太太隐瞒了些什么：I并不是单独一个人。我并不是故意的，但是我却骗了老太太。我觉得也许是这件事让我没法集中精力听课。但是，是啊，其实是她不是一个人在那儿——我难受的应该是这一点。

21点30分，这一小时是我的私人时间，原计划我是要到安全卫士局去的。但是，经过这一天的历险，我非常累。而且，只要在两天之内报案都是算数的。因此，我决定明天再去，反正还有24小时呢。

笔记之七

很小的眼睫毛

泰罗

天仙子草与铃兰

深夜。满眼都是绿的、红的、蓝的各色颜色；那架红色的钢琴，还有那黄色的短裙。接着眼前又是一尊佛像，突然它抬起了铜眼皮，佛眼中竟然流出眼泪来；而那连衣裙也渗出血液来，而镜面上也是液汁，大床上也是，还有儿童床……太恐怖了……简直是一阵甜蜜的恐怖……

我突然醒了。见到眼前是柔和的蓝色之光。墙玻璃、椅子，还有桌子都闪着蓝色的光亮。我的心终于平复了下来，不再狂跳。液汁、佛像……简直荒诞透了！太明白不过了，我生病了。我从来都不做梦。据说古人常常做梦，而且做梦也是他们生活的一部分。怪不得，他们的生活中充斥着各种奇形怪状的事物：绿色、棕红色，佛像，流淌的液体。如今的我们十分清楚这一点：梦是非常严重的精神性疾病。而我，在接触这些之前，我的头脑就是一台精确的、干净而又闪亮的机器，但是如今……确实如此，我觉得大脑里有某种陌生的存在，就像眼睛里进了一根很小的睫毛。虽然全身都十分正常，可是对眼睛来说却万分难受，一分一秒也忘不掉……

令人愉快的清脆铃声响起了：7点钟，起床时间到了。通过眼角的余光，我知道左边和右边的玻璃墙里，跟我一样的人们，他们以跟我一样的动作穿衣。我觉得无比振奋，我就是一个强大统一体的一部分。精准的手势、同时弯腰、同时转身，这是多么精确之美啊。

确实，那位叫泰罗的古人的确堪称天才。只可惜他没能想到将自己的管理方式应用到生活领域，用它协调一天的24小时；而今他的体系已经被精确地应用到每分每秒。我实在不知道这些古人的想法，他们可以任由康德这类人写出几个图书馆那么多的书，而却对于泰罗的这一预见置若罔闻。

吃完早饭。众人齐声高唱《联合国国歌》。随后依然四人一列地进入电梯。我们听到马达的轻微声响——人随之下降，下降，再下降，我的心脏有些许震动。突然之间，又想起了那个奇怪的梦。大概这便是梦所留下的印记。啊，我记起来了，昨天在飞船上，我也曾有过这种降落的感觉。但是，一切都结束了。我是对的，昨天我很坚决地拒绝了她。

坐在地铁上，我知道我离“积分号”越来越近了。这时候的“积分号”一定躺在飞船的装配台上，它在淡蓝色的阳光下发着微光。我闭上眼睛，想着公式：我又计算了一遍需要多大的初速度它才能飞离地球。因为爆炸原料的力量，因而“积分号”每一秒的行进都会发生质的改变。公式是庞大而复杂的，我必须计算得一清二楚。当我在严谨的数学世界中遨游的时候，仿佛觉得有人来到我身边，似乎还触碰了我一下，“不好意思，打搅了。”这个声音是确实存在的。于是，我睁开了双眼。

一抬眼（可能是仍然沉浸在数字之中），仿佛眼前有个物件飞速远离我而去，再仔细分辨，这是一个脑袋，接着是它旁边的两只粉红色的招风耳。随后便是后脑勺从上到下的弯曲曲线，宛如字母S。

透过代数世界的玻璃，我再次体会到眼睛中掉入的睫毛。我心中隐隐不悦，今天我该……

“没关系，不用客气。”我朝他微笑了一下，同时又点头致意。

他的胸章此刻我也看清楚了：S-4711（这很有趣，怪不得我首次见到他时，就会将他与S联想到一起，这是某种下意识的视觉印象）。他目光炯炯，犹如两根尖利的芒刺，快速地钻进我的身体，而且愈钻愈深，仿佛要进入我的内心深处，获悉一些连我自己都不敢面对的真相……

突然，我又想到了那个讨厌的眼睫毛，他便是安全卫士人员，不妨此刻就来个痛快，将我所知道的全部告诉给他。

“嗯，昨天，昨天我去了古宅……”我好不容易说出了这句话，可是声音却好奇怪，干巴巴的，我甚至想咳嗽几下。

“这很不错啊，真不错。从那儿的材料里你应该能够得到一些更富有意义的结论。”

“是啊，可是……你知道吗，其实，我不是一个人去那里的，同行的还有I-330，而且……”

“I-330？你运气可真好！她是个非常富有才华的女性，而且还十分幽默，有不少人崇拜她呢。”

哦，可不是嘛，上回散步的时候，他就在她身边。或许他们，她登记了他。哦，不，我没法告诉他。绝对不能告诉他。

“是啊，你说得很对！的确是这样！”我微笑着，笑容十分灿烂，但是我知道，那样子肯定很蠢，尤其是那微笑，显得我愚蠢至极。

芒刺又钻进了我的心底，随后又飞快地钻了出来，回到他的眼中。他不置可否地笑笑，朝我点了一下头，就转身离开了。

我拿起报纸，遮住脸，假装认真看报（其实，我觉得所有人的目光都射向我），没一会儿，我便将眼睫毛、芒刺的事忘诸脑后了。因为报上的一则消息：“根据可靠情报，一个秘密的地下组织在私下进行所谓的解放运动，妄图颠覆利于国民的约束条例，他们的踪迹我们已经获悉了。”

“解放”？太奇怪了！人类的犯罪本能居然如此强烈。我说“犯罪本能”是有原因的：自由与犯罪总是相生而存的……这类似于飞船的飞行和它的速度之间的关系。若是飞船速度为零，那它就没法飞行。若人没有自由，他自然就不会犯罪。这是再清楚不过的了。

要想让人类远离犯罪，最行之有效的方法就是让人类远离自由。我们脱离自由还不算很久（从整个宇宙的范畴上来看，几个世纪也可以算是不久而已），某些可悲又可怜的白痴就又出来捣乱……不，我真想不通，昨天我为什么没有去，我应该马上去，是的，马上去安全卫士局。16点以后，我一定要去。

16点10分我来到了街上。在街角我意外遇见了O。她欣喜若狂，看到我兴奋得满脸粉红。这是一场多么及时的相遇啊！她单纯可爱，我正需要朝她倾诉。她会支持我的……但是，也不需要这样，我已经想好了，不会改变主意了。

音乐机器仍然演奏着《进行曲》，这首曲子每天的这个时候都会准时地播放。这种不断重复、富有规律的节奏是那么优美，又是那么令人愉悦啊！

O走向我，“我们去散步吧。”她的两只圆溜溜的大眼睛不住瞧着我。这美丽的蓝色犹如两扇窗子，通往她纯净的内心世界。我可以一眼看穿，甚至是毫无阻碍地看进去，看到里面空无一物。我的意思是说，那里面什么多余的东西都不存在。

“不，我不能散步。我要去另一个地方……”接着我便告诉了她，我要去哪儿。她的表情让我有些意外：她那粉红色的圆嘴忽而转成了弯月，嘴角往下撇着，流露出一种不屑，仿佛什么东西倒了她的胃口。我突然有点儿想发火了。

“你们这些女性号码，都有着严重的偏见，简直没救了。你们简直没法使用抽象思维。非常抱歉，我只能使用这样的措辞，这便是头脑迟钝的意思。”

“你居然，居然要去找那些间谍，这太可耻了！……算了，我不想说了！居然我刚刚还去植物馆给你采铃兰……”

“为什么要说‘居然我’，干吗要使用‘居然’两个字呢？毕竟是女人。”我气愤地（我不得不承认我不该这么做）抢过她手中的铃兰。“铃兰，看看吧，这就是你的铃兰，它很香，是吧？只要进行一点儿逻辑性思考也行啊。铃兰很香，的确如此。但是你不能仅仅谈论气味，说它是香或者不香，从而判定出它是好或者不好。你不能这样，对不对？铃兰有铃兰的香气，而天仙子草也有天仙子草的臭气，它们都是气味。古时候有间谍，而今也有……间谍，说出来也无妨。但是这一点不是已经很清楚了吗？古时候的间谍是天仙子草，而今我们国家的间谍则是铃兰。是啊，他们就是铃兰！”

她那粉红的嘴唇不断地发抖，仿佛要笑似的。如今我清楚了，其实是我的误解，当时我以为她就要笑了，其实并不是这样的。但我当时并不知道。因此，我的嗓门更高了：“是啊，他们就是铃兰。这很可笑吗？并非如此吧。”

每个经过我们身旁的光球似的脑袋都转向我们看着。O柔媚地挽住我的手说：

“你怎么了？今天好像有点不同……你难道是病了？”

那个梦……黄颜……佛像……我终于明白了：我必须要去卫生局。

“对啊，我应该是病了。”我回答道。心里居然有一丝庆幸（这是多么矛盾的心情啊；本来就没有什么值得庆幸的事啊）。

“你现在就得去看医生。你知道，你必须得健康，这不需要我说。”

“亲爱的O，你说得太对了，非常对！”

我没有去安全卫士局，因为我必须要去卫生局。在那里我一直待到17点。

而晚上（恰好那里的人已经下班了），O来我这里了。我们没有拉下窗帘，而是仔细演算着一本古老的习题集的算术。做这些会让我们头脑清楚，思维也能得到净化。O静静地坐着，她头稍微向左边歪着，舌头顶着左颊，正苦思如何计算出结果。她的样子十分孩子气，我很爱她这副神情……我感觉舒服多了，什么都是那么清清楚楚、明明白白，一切都又美好了起来。

最后她不得不离开了，而只剩下我一个人。我深呼吸了两口气（这个临睡前的呼吸动作对身体有益）。突然，一股淡淡的香气冲入我的鼻腔，一件不愉快的事涌上我的心头……我立即发现了它，那株藏在我床上的铃兰。瞬间，所有的回忆又搅了上来，让我情绪难宁。她真不该这样做。是的，我没有去安全卫士局。因为，我生病了，这可不是我的错。

笔记之八

无理数

R-13

三角形

我第一次碰到-1的平方根，是多年前的事，那时候我还在念小学。虽然时隔多年，但是往事依然清晰：在一间明亮的球形大厅里，坐着100位脑袋圆圆的小男孩，前面是我们的数学机器，因为它实在是太老旧了，在开始上课之前，老是会发出“啪啦啪”的声音，所以，我们叫它啪啦啪老师。那堂关于-1的平方根的讲述也是那样，在上课之前，值日生照常将它的背上插头插上，当扩音机发出了“啪啦啪”的响声之后，授课开始。我当时边哭，边用小拳头捶着桌子喊：“我不要-1的平方根，将它从我的脑海里消除吧。”这个无理根就如同别人的某些可怕的存在一样，它无声无息地钻进我的脑子里，让我不得安生，我找不到答案，没法解开它，因此心烦意乱，痛苦之极。

而今我又碰到了这个-1的平方根。我翻看前一篇笔记。我意识到，我在自欺欺人，目的就是为了避开这讨厌的-1的平方根。什么生病的事，简直就是扯淡。我完全有能力来到安全卫士局。若是这件事发生在一周之前，我肯定早就去举报了。但是，此时为什么我会犹豫不决呢？到底是怎么一回事呢？

今天也是这样。在16点10分，我已经来到了亮闪闪的玻璃墙前面，眼前便是安全卫士局的牌子，在阳光的照射下更显得亮闪闪的。透过透明的玻璃墙，我见到门里工作的人们，他们整齐地排成一列，身上的灰蓝色制服令人心生敬畏，他们的脸部发出幽幽的蓝光，犹如古代教堂的长明灯。他们在这里工作，肩负着伟大的责任：为联合国奉献一片赤胆忠心，在国家的祭坛上有他们的爱人、朋友，甚至是他们自己的身躯。连我都想加入这光荣的战列，与他们并肩作战。但是，此时，我却犹豫着，我的两只脚牢牢地钉在地面上，不能挪动一步。我就那么站着，痴痴地站着，一动不动……

“嘿，数学家，做白日梦呢吗？”

我吓了一跳。我眼前出现了一对乌黑的眼睛，眼中还闪着笑意，接着看到那张厚厚的嘴唇。是诗人R-13，我的老友。站在他身边的是粉红色的O。我气愤地扭过头去。我心里想着，若不是他们来碍事，我早就进入安全卫士局了，而那个盘亘在头脑中的-1的平方根也早已脱离开我的头脑，被扔得远远的了。

“谁说我在做白日梦，我是在欣赏得出了神。”我不留余地地回击道。

“确实如此，确实如此。我的老友，你不适合当数学家，而是应该去当个诗人！我是说真的，来我们那里吧。成为一名诗人。怎么样？如果你想的话，我马上就帮你安排，如何啊？”

R-13说话语速总是很快，那些字母从他那两片厚厚的嘴唇里蹦出来，嘴边都是唾沫星子，每当碰到要送气的辅音字母，口水就像喷泉一样溅了出来。

“我是为科学服务的，现在如此，将来也如此。”

我皱着眉头说，我不热衷于开玩笑，而显然R-13却十分擅长此道。

“唉，你不该这样想，所谓的科学只是一种胆怯的表现罢了。你只是用一堵墙将无限包裹其中，而不往墙外边去看一看。就是这样，若你朝墙外看一眼，你肯定会觉得眩晕，所以，你宁愿闭上眼……没错……”

“墙才是所有人类该遵守的界限……”我反驳道。

R接着口若悬河地反驳着，而一旁的O则微微媚笑着。我甩了下手说：“你们笑好了，无所谓，我不在乎这些。”我没空跟他进行辩论，我眼前需要解决的是那个讨厌的平方根，将它赶跑才是我要立马解决的问题。“你们看，这样可以不？”我接着说道，“你们一起到我那里去，做几道算术题（我想起了昨天的那个令人心安的时刻，可能今天也能这样度过）。”

O看了一眼R，随后眼波流转地看着我，她的脸颊上泛起柔和又令人心醉的粉红色，如同那粉红的票子。

“可是今天我……我的票子登记了他。”她朝R看了一眼，说道，“而他今天晚上有事……因此说……”

R湿润而发亮的嘴唇，翕动着说：“那不要紧的，我们差不多半小时就可以了。O，是吧？我对你的算术题没什么兴趣，不如你来我这里聊天吧。”

我不想一个人待着。或者更确切地说，我害怕和这个我单独待着，这个我是这样陌生，虽然他也同样地佩戴着“D-503”的胸章，仿佛只是某种巧合才会如此的。因此，我便答应了R的邀请。虽然他一贯缺乏逻辑性，也没有科学精神，甚至还不曾有诗的音韵，但至少，我们还是朋友。而且就在三年以前，我和他同时选了这个迷人的、可爱的O。所以，这多少让我们的关系更近了一层，比学生时代要好多了。

我们终于到了R的房间。屋里的所有摆设跟我房间里的一模一样：守时戒律表、玻璃软椅和桌子、柜子，还有床。然而，当R走进来之后，他搬开了一张圈椅，接着又是一张——转瞬之间，屋里的秩序感消失了，代之而来的是平衡被打破的混乱，也破坏了欧几里得几何公理。R一点儿也没变，依然是那样。在学习泰罗管理法和数学之时，他总是成绩最差的那个人。

我们一起聊到了“啪啦啪”。那时候我们都很喜欢它，于是就将很多写满感谢话的纸条贴在了他的玻璃腿上。还有给我们上课的法律课老师。他的嗓门非常大，每次说话的时候，扬声器里会送出一阵阵风来。我们便扯着嗓子跟它一起念。记得有一回，爱搞恶作剧的R-13就弄了些皱巴巴的纸团，将它们塞到了喇叭里。从那以后，每次念课文，喇叭里就会飞出很多纸团来。最后R接受了惩罚，但是现在回想起这件事，我们三个笑个不停。是的，我也忍不住哈哈大笑了起来。

“如果它跟古代人那样，它成为一个活人，那又会怎么样呢……”R忍不住猜想着，接着，他那两片厚嘴唇又不断冒出唾沫来……此刻太阳透过天花板和四壁照了进来。我们都被阳光包围着，而它的影子则在我们脚下。O温柔地坐在R-13的腿上，她漂亮的蓝眼睛也闪着可爱的光。此刻，我觉得分外平静，心烦的情绪也不在了，-1的平方根也安静了下来，不再出来捣鬼……

“你的‘积分号’如何了？它是不是很快就会进入太空去完成启迪太空居民的任务啦？加快进程吧，再快点！否则我们这些诗人会写出更多的诗篇，让‘积分号’都载不动。每天8点到11点……”R一边笑着，一边挠了挠自己的后脑勺。他的后脑勺有些方正，看起来活像小手提箱，我立即便联想到一幅古代的画作——《在马车里》。

我心情愉快地问道：“啊，你也在为‘积分号’创作吗？你快说说你都写什么啦？比方，就说说今天的感想吧。”

“今天啊，今天我什么也没写。因为，我有别的事要处理……”他说到“别的事”的时候有点犹豫，因此又喷了很多的唾沫出来。

“那是什么事情啊？”

R皱了皱眉头：“若是你很想知道，我就不妨直说了吧，嗯，其实，我是在写一份判决书，我想以诗歌的形式呈现出来。而被处决的正是我们中的一员，是的，他也是一位诗人。就是精神错乱了。有点白痴……我们在一起相处了两年多，本来什么都好好的，但是突然有一天，他就疯掉了。他居然说什么：‘我是天才，我凌驾于法律之上’。他还写过不少疯话……唉！我怎么说起这些来了。”

R的厚嘴唇不再向上翘起，而是突然耷拉了下来，眼里的光泽也突然消失了。他突然站起身来，别过身去，眼睛透过玻璃看向外面。我盯着他的后脑勺，看到那个小箱子，心中暗想：“此刻，他的小箱子在翻腾着什么呢？”

接着，是一阵令人不安的沉默。我觉得有些不妥，虽然说不上来为什么。但是就是觉得有什么地方不妥……

“幸运的时候，那些莎士比亚、陀思妥耶夫斯基（还有几个作家的名字）的时代已经一去不复返了。”我有心地高声说道。

R转过头来，看向我，同时，他从厚嘴唇里又喷出很多话来，但是，他的眼神却没有了先前的光泽。

“是啊，我可爱的数学家，我们多么幸运，我们多么幸运啊！我们在这个美好的算数黄金分割点上……就像你所说的那样，从零到无限大，从痴呆的人到聪明如莎士比亚的人，我们都进行了积分化。所有的一切都是这么的和谐统一。是不是？”

不知道为什么，我突然想起了她，那个女号码，想起了她说话时的语调。我意识到在他们之间有一根很细的线（到底是什么线呢？我说不清楚）。而此时联想到这些，真是我的不对。那个讨厌的-1的平方根又回来了。我看了看证章：16点25分。粉红票的使用时间只剩下35分钟了。

“我必须得走了……”我吻了O，和R握手道别，转身朝电梯走去。

我已经来到了大街上，当我穿过马路来到街对面时，再回头看那幢玻璃大楼。很多灰蓝色窗子被窗帘遮上了。那是美妙的泰勒式幸福。我找到了R-13家所在的小方格，窗帘已经放下了。

亲爱的O……亲爱的R……原来R身上也有（我不知道为什么会写下这个“也”字），是的，他身上也有着某种隐秘的心事。而我们三人，即我、R和O——我们是稳定的三角形，未必是等腰三角形，但一定是个三角形。我们，若是采用古人的说法（这可能对你们星球的读者来说更容易理解一些），我们亲如一家。偶尔，我们可以躲进这个牢固的三角内休息。即使是短暂的也好，这短暂的躲避也会让你心情愉快。

笔记之九

祭典

铿锵格

巨手

今天是个气氛庄严的日子，在这样光辉的日子里，你会忘记我们自身的一切，包括我们的弱点、我们的不精确性以及我们的病痛。周遭的一切都如同崭新的玻璃一样，通透、坚实、永恒。

我们身处在立方体广场。广场上的观众台是66个同心圆，有66排号码坐在那里，他们的脸上泛有安详之光，眼中满是肃穆的光亮，也许这便是联合国的光辉。女号码的嘴唇似殷红的鲜血所染就的花朵。那坐在座位前几排的则是一串串娇嫩的花带，他们是孩子们的笑脸。整个广场流露出肃穆又庄严的气势。

根据我们所掌握的材料来看，古人的礼拜仪式与我们今天的祭典非常相像。但是他们所顶礼膜拜的是上帝，即那个可笑的，古人所臆造出来无所不能的天神。我们可不会那样愚蠢，我们膜拜的是理性之神。他们所谓的上帝，只是让他们陷入不断的自我反省和痛苦无比的寻觅之中，什么也不会赋予他们。除了所谓的自我牺牲之外，甚至连那些牺牲的意义都没有搞清楚，他们仍然困惑，仍然蠢笨。与之相比，我们的理性之神则帮我们解决所有的难题，它又是平静的、祥和的。

今天是联合国最盛大的祭典，也是对200年大战的回忆，是全体对个人，是总和对单一的胜利！

而今，有一个号码就站在广场中央的立方体高台上，他虽被阳光照耀着，但脸色却如此苍白。不应该说是苍白，而应该说是无色的，类似玻璃般透明，不但是脸孔，连嘴唇也是透明的。但是他的双眼却是黑森森的，就像要将一切都吞噬掉的可怕黑洞一般。标志着他特征的胸章早已被摘除了。他的两只手用火红的带子捆住（这是古代的习俗，大意是这样的：那时候，还不存在联合国，因此，被判有罪的人肯定觉得自己有权利抗争，所以他们的手要用铁链铐住）。

在立方体高台的顶部有个一动不动的机器，它是死刑机。而在死刑机旁矗立着的则是凝然肃穆、身躯如金属铸成的全知全能者。我们在下面朝上望过去，因此，并没法看清他的面容，而只能见到他那棱角分明、匀称简朴的线条轮廓。

还有他的手……这跟照片上的效果是一样的，如果手足够近的话，你会觉得它非常强大。而此时，我们的注意力都被它们所吸引，忘记了其他的一切。只是专注在那一双沉甸甸的大手上，此刻，它们正稳稳当当地放在膝盖上。它们太重了，简直膝盖有点无法承受了……

突然，一只巨手缓缓地抬起了，庄严又沉重的命令由此而发出。观众台上的一个号码走了上来，这是遵照手势做出的回应。他是一名诗人，今天他非常幸运地向祭典献出自己的诗篇。

紧接着，全场响起了铿锵有力的诗句，每一句都指向那个疯狂的、丧失了理智的号码。此刻他正被反剪着双手，立在台阶之上，等待最终的宣判。

……一片火光。在这铿锵格的朗诵中，房屋也要坍塌了一般，周围泛起黄色的光，墙瞬间便倒塌了。绿色的树干被烈火烧干，流淌出脓液，最后余下焦黑的枯枝。随之普罗米修斯降临了（这当然是指我们）：

“火焰被锁上了枷锁，他用机器和钢铁，在混沌的世界中建立秩序的法则。”

一个焕然一些的世界出现了，这是钢铁浇筑的世界：钢铸的太阳、钢铸的森林、钢铸的人类……突然出现了一个疯子，他“打开了枷锁，火又再次出来兴风作浪”，而世界又进入了混沌之中……十分可惜的是，我没法记住这首诗。我只记得，当聆听的时候，我觉得这是最恰当的，也是最富教育意义的比喻了。

那沉重的铁掌又再一次举起，于是，立方体高台上又出现了一个诗人。我吃了一惊，不由得站起身来。居然是他！这怎么可能呢？但是，就是他，那厚厚的黑人般的嘴唇……他怎么没跟我说起呢？他居然被赋予了如此伟大的使命……他的嘴唇在瑟瑟发抖，居然变成了灰色。我能理解他此刻的心情。毕竟近在咫尺的是我们的全知全能者，他可是联合国的灵魂人物啊。还有身旁的众多安全卫士们，但是，即使是这样，也不要显得过分紧张啊。

诗句锋利无比，又干脆利落……就像利斧一般砍削，字字短促却分外有力。它述说了我从未听过的罪恶，他居然写出亵渎全知全能者的诗篇，说他是……天哪，我怎么能重复那些字眼呢？

R-13念完诗，面色苍白地走了回去，他的眼睛没有看任何地方，而是直视着脚下的路，最后坐下。（想不到，他居然这么腼腆。）我突然看到另一张脸，在他的身后。那是一张尖尖的脸庞，呈深色的三角形，转瞬即逝。接着，我的眼睛跟数千双眼睛的目光，一齐投向了死刑机。然后，便见到那只钢铁铸成的巨臂第三次做了个手势。

那个囚徒被风吹得有些摇晃，他慢慢地走了上去。一级、二级、三级……直到走到最顶端的台阶之上。终于到了生命的最后时刻，他昂起头，脸望天空。如命运般沉重的全知全能者走了过来，在死刑机四周环顾一圈，巨掌放在了操纵杆上……全场肃穆，落针可闻，所有的目光都集中在那巨掌之上。它承载着几十万伏电压，它执行了成千上万人的意志，这又是何等威严而伟大的使命啊！

这一秒钟分外长，终于，手臂一动，操纵杆被压动了，电流接通了。明晃晃的刀刃，只是微微颤了一下……死刑机的管道发出了非常轻微的咔嚓声，一阵轻烟将那个号码笼罩住，只一瞬，他便开始消融了，所有人都目不转睛地看着，顷刻间，他的身躯就消失不见了，取而代之的是一摊洁净的液体。在这之前，他还是有着鲜血涌动的生命……

这一切的原理，我们再熟悉不过了。这是物质的分解，即人体原子的分裂。但是每次欣赏这样的分裂过程，我们总能感觉到全知全能者的超人伟力，就像在看奇迹般观看这场祭典。

女性号码们涌了上去，她们簇拥在全知全能者身边，她们露出红彤彤的脸颊，激动地张着红润的小嘴，手中拿着的鲜花[1] 在微风中招展着。这是惯例，有10名女性号码可以在全知全能者身上装饰鲜花。而全知全能者则如最高司祭一般，肃穆而缓慢地走下台阶，缓缓地在观众席间走过。所有女性号码伸出手臂来欢迎他，而全体号码则要齐声欢呼、呼声震天。接着，全体号码再向安全卫士们致敬。虽然他们也在观众台上，在我们身旁，可是我们却认不出他们来……谁又清楚呢？没准古人所幻想的未来世界便是如此，他们心中的“守护之神”便是今日的安全卫士们。

是的，整个的祭典仪式，有些部分类似于古代的礼拜仪式，然而更多的则是类似于雷雨般的使人得到净化的功能……我所未见的读者们，你们若十分荣幸地读到这片笔记，看到我的这段描写，你们是不是也会有类似的经历呢？如果你们没有，那我真的觉得你们的人生太可悲了些。

[1] 这些鲜花是从我们的植物博物馆里摘来的。我并不认为它们很美，它们就跟其他在绿墙之外的那些野蛮的东西们一样低级。只有那些充满理性之光的、有用之物才是富有美感的。比方说，机器、靴子、公式、食品，等等。

笔记之十

信

小耳朵

毛茸茸的我

昨天。它成为了一张过滤纸，所谓的过滤纸就是那些化学家们常用来过滤化学液体的纸。经过过滤之后，所有的多余的分子就会被过滤掉。今天早上，我愉快地下楼，仿佛自己已经被蒸馏得干干净净，是那么地精神爽利。

楼下的大厅里，有一个控制员，她的工作职责就是时刻看表，登记那些进来的号码们。她家U……我不打算说出她的号码，否则我可能会说她什么不好听的话。而实际上，她是一个令人敬重的，年纪不小的女性。她唯一让我感觉不舒服的地方是，她的两颊总是下坠的，就像鱼鳃一样。（当然，这长相也没有什么特别需要批评的！）她用笔写着，我看到：纸上的字迹是D-503，而就在这时，一滴墨水滴了上去。我刚想说话，她却突然抬起了头，朝我微笑着，那微笑也像那滴浸淫了的墨水。

“有你的信，亲爱的。你会收到它的。你会的。”

我知道，凡是经她读过的信，都必须要送到安全卫士局去（这一点是不言自明的，不必我做过多的说明了）。在12点钟之前，这封信会如期转到我的手里。但是，她那浸淫着墨水的微笑让我很不舒服。纯正透明的液体又被墨水搅浑了。这干扰不言而喻。在“积分号”操作台上，我险些失误，差点计算错了一个数据，这在我是从来不会发生的事。

12点，在见了那个红褐色的鱼鳃脸和她那墨水似的微笑之后，信终于转到了我的手中。我说不清楚，为什么我没能当场就打开信，而是将它塞在里口袋里，急忙跑进了屋里去。随后才拆开了信封，很快就看完了它，然后……我便坐了下来。信的内容很简洁，是一份正式通知书，大意是：I-330登记了我，今晚21点我要去她那里，其余的就是她的地址。

“这是怎么回事？我已经很清楚地表明我的态度了。在发生了这一切之后，她怎么会有这种要求呢？再者，她怎么会知道我没有去安全卫士局呢？因为她不可能知道我生病了。而且……”

我的头脑如一台发电机般急速转动着，不停地响着。佛像……黄颜色……铃兰……粉红的月牙儿……而且，今天，是啊，O会到我这里来。我要将这张与I-330通知单告诉她吗？她一定不会相信的！这事跟我没有任何关系啊。我完全是……（铁定很难让她相信）但是，我们之前会有一场困难无比的、又毫无逻辑可言的谈话，这点儿我是十分肯定的。不，不能这样，只要不进行这类谈话，怎么都行。不如就顺其自然吧。就直接给她寄一份官方通知书的复制件算了。

我快速地将通知书塞进口袋里，这个动作让我一眼便看到自己那只原始人的手。我想起来那天散步的情形，I拿起我的手反复打量，难道她真的……

眼看要到21点15分了。今晚是一个明亮的夜晚，四周的一切都是用绿莹莹的玻璃组成的。但是这种玻璃跟我们用的那种不同，它更容易碎，又很薄。空中犹如罩了一层薄薄的玻璃，里面的一切都在飞旋着、乱叫着……若是眼前出现了那些情景，如礼堂的圆顶盖像烟雾般冉冉上升，或者是月亮像浸淫着墨水的U那样微笑，或者所有房间里的窗帘都被拉下……我也不会有丝毫惊讶的。

我有些不同，似乎所有的肋骨都变成了一根根铁条，压迫着心脏，使我呼吸急迫。我来到了一个玻璃门旁，门上清楚地印着金色号码的——I-330。此刻，她正背对着我，伏案写着些什么。我进了屋。

“票子……”我将一张粉红票子递了过去，“今天我接到了通知，因此，便过来了。”

“你真准时！稍等我一下，号码？先坐一下，我马上就结束了。”

说完，她便垂下眼去继续写。在那垂下的眼睑后面到底有什么呢？她到底想做什么呢？她心里到底藏着些什么呢？我怎样才能计算出答案呢？她自己仿佛就是那个来自野蛮时代的原始人。我默默地看着她。我的肋骨像一根根铁条，挤得更紧，心脏的压迫感也更强烈。

……每次交谈的时候，她的面孔就像是个飞速旋转的车轮一样，根本没法看清楚她有几根辐条。而此刻，这个轮子居然没有动。我眼前的她有着奇特的组合：她那两条挑起的眉毛已经延伸到太阳穴处了，因此，便成了一个颇具嘲弄意味的尖三角，此外，还有一个正三角，那就是从鼻端至嘴角的两道深深的皱纹，这是一个角尖朝上的三角形。两种三角形和平地呈现在一张脸上。这十分不协调，这就是那个令我烦躁的X。而整张脸又像一个画上十字架的大叉。

轮子快速地转了起来，辐条又看不清楚了……

“看来，你果真没有去安全卫士局！”

“我……我生病了……所以没去成。”

“嗯。我已经料到了，你一定不会去成的。不会有这件事，就会有那件事。（尖利的牙又露了出来，她微笑着。）不过，现在你可在我的手中了。你知道吧：‘任何号码若在48小时之内有隐情不汇报，将被认定……”

心脏猛地一跳，肋骨的铁条都被挤弯了。我太傻了，简直跟个小孩一样。我居然被骗了。我只得呆坐着一言不发。我已经深陷在一张网中，手脚拉扯着也逃不脱……

她站了起来，伸了个懒腰。随即便按下了按钮，窗帘被拉了下去。我和她单独相处了，外面的世界与我们暂时分开。

I站在了我的后面，窸窸窣窣地脱下衣服。我一动不动地听着，突然之间，我想起了一件事……不对，这是一种闪念。那还是不久之前的事，我接到命令，给一种新型街道音响振动膜片计算弧度（当然，这种振动膜片都有一个很好看的外观，就是一种粉红的小耳朵，它们被安放在马路上，为安全卫士局记录街头人们的谈话内容）。我记得那些粉红色的小耳朵，它们只有一种器官，只有一种功能，就是听。而我现在就是那种小耳朵。

我听到解扣子的声音，“吧嗒、吧嗒、吧嗒”，先是领子，接着是胸口，接着是更低的位置……丝织品滑过肩膀、膝盖的声音，落地的声音。接着，我又听到（这比用眼睛看更清晰）一只脚，从浅灰蓝的丝质衣服里跨了出来，接着，另一只脚……

小耳朵颤抖着，悄悄听着发生的一切。周遭无声无息的，不对，有心脏撞击铁条的声音，那声音沉闷而又剧烈。我听见，或者说我感觉到了，她在我背后，停顿了一秒钟。随后，柜门的声音响了，接着又是丝质衣服窸窸窣窣的声音……

“行了，转过来吧。”

我转过身来，她身着一件杏黄色的古装衣裙。她居然穿成这样，这比她什么都不穿要恐怖1000倍。薄薄的衣料半遮半掩地露出尖尖耸起的两个尖峰，那泛出粉红的颜色的两个小点儿若隐若现，还有一双柔软的浑圆的膝盖……

她坐在一张低矮的软椅里。面前的方形小桌上有一个小瓶子，瓶子里有满满的绿色液体像毒液一般，而在瓶子边上有两个高脚小杯子。此刻，她嘴里含着一根细细的纸管，不时地从嘴角喷出烟雾。（这是一种古代的制烟物质，我一时想不起这叫作什么了。）

小耳朵仍然在震颤着。心脏的锤子仍然在猛击烧得滚烫的铁条。我自己听得清清楚楚，那每一声的撞击声，如雷贯耳……若是她听到了怎么办？

但是，她只是悠然地喷吐着烟雾，偶尔瞥我几眼，然后，不动声色地将烟灰抖在我的粉红票子上。

我尽可能地保持冷静的语调，问道：“若你只想这样的话，为什么非要登记我呢？又为什么邀我来这呢？”

她好像什么都没听到一样，拿起小瓶往小杯子斟满那绿色的液体，又喝了一口。

“好酒。你要喝吗？”

原来这是酒。这时候，我才突然醒悟过来。昨天的场景又浮现了出来：全知全能者那只巨大的手臂，那炫目的利刃，以及立方体高台上的那个脸朝后仰的躯体。我的身躯剧烈地颤抖着。

我说道：“你什么都知道，对吧！法令规定，凡是吸食尼古丁或者饮用烈酒的人，联合国绝不会轻饶……”

两道黑色的眉高高挑起，直指太阳穴，形成一个尖三角。看着十分具有嘲讽的意味。

“‘杀掉几个人比让千千万万个人自我毁灭或堕落……更为明智’……你不觉得这很可笑吗？”

“可笑，你怎么会有这种想法？”

“若是将这些真理放到街上会怎样？那些赤裸裸、光秃秃的真理……你设想一下……比如，我那个忠实的追求者S，你不是也见过他吗？若是他衣不蔽体地走在大街上，让所有人看到他的真面目……这会怎么样？……噢！”她笑着说道。但是我意识到，从她的鼻子到嘴角有一个显示出悲伤的三角形。我立即弄明白了：那个佝偻着身形，有着招风耳的S，他搂抱着她的模样，她，当时这是副样子吧……

是的，而今我所记录的内容，只是当时我的所思所想而已。此刻，我边写边明白过来，他那样做是正常的。这话的意思即，他也是一个号码，如同所有诚实可靠的号码一样，他也有权享受生活，否则便不公平了……这是再明白不过的事实。

I大笑了很久，她笑得非常怪。收住了笑之后，她仔细地看了我一眼。

“最惊奇的是，我和你在一起很放松。我不觉得你有什么威胁。你是个不错的人，这一点我深信不疑。你不会去的，你绝对不会去安全卫士局告发，说我又喝酒又抽烟。你或者生病了，或者实在很忙，或者还有其他的原因……我相信，你肯定也想尝一尝这迷人的酒。”

她居然这么放肆，这么肆无忌惮地嘲讽我！我清楚地意识到，此刻我很恨她。为什么要说“此刻”呢？我应该是一直就很恨她的。

她将那杯满满的绿色毒液一饮而尽，随后站起身来，走了过来，在那杏黄色的衣裙掩映下，粉红的肌肤若隐若现，她停在了我软椅的后面……突然，她用手臂揽住我的脖子，嘴唇挨着我的嘴唇。不对，不是挨着，而是深些，更深些，更加可怕些……我发誓，这超出我预料之外，可能是……可能是我根本没法抗拒（现在我完全清楚了），单单是我，是不会发生后面的事情的。

嘴唇太甜腻了（我想这便是酒精的味道吧）。仿佛猛烈的毒药进入了我的口里，越来越多，越来越多……

我离开了大地，像一颗单独的卫星一样，不停地转着，沿着一条没经计算的轨道旋转着，转啊转，然后坠落……

此后发生的事，我仅能勉强写个大概。

从前我从来没有思考过这个问题，其实这是确实存在的事实，即我们所生活的地球，它的内核是熊熊火焰，而身为一个人，我们时时刻刻生活在这灼热的红海之表面。只是，我们从来没有认真思考过罢了，若是我们脚下薄薄的外壳变成玻璃的，转眼之间，我们便看到那……

我突然间变成了玻璃人，我看清了我自身的内部结构。我有两个我，一个是过去的D-503，号码为D-503，而另一个……从前他还只是偶尔显露一下他毛茸茸的爪子，而现在他却从躯壳里跳了出来。而这层外部的躯壳裂开了，快要……

我使出全身力气想抓住最后那根救命稻草（软椅的扶手），我大声地说出话来，以便我能听到曾经的自我的声音：“从什么地方……你究竟是从什么地方弄来的……这毒酒？”

“噢，这个啊！是一名医生给的，我的一个……”

“‘我的一个！’‘一个’什么人？”

另一个自我不可遏制地突然跳了出来，他大声喊道：“我不准许！不准许，任何人……只有我，只能是我。若是谁……我就杀死他……因为我……我……”我看见，另一个自我用毛茸茸的手使劲搂住了她，撕扯着她身上的薄丝裙，用牙咬着她。……是的，我记得确实如此，他用牙咬着她！……

我不记得细节了，反正，I最后挣脱掉了。那一刻，她的眼睛又盖上了那层该死的不透光的窗帘。她昂着头，直着身子，斜倚着柜子站着。

我清楚地记得，我跪在地板上，抱住了她的腿，亲吻着她的膝盖，哀求地冲她说：“此刻，快啊，现在，就现在。”

她露出了尖利的牙齿，眉毛挑起，那个具有讽刺意味的三角形又出现了……她缓缓地弯下腰，无声地摘下了我的胸章。

“甜心，甜心，就这样。”

我慌乱地脱下身上的制服。但I仍旧什么都没说，她将胸章上的表打开了，让我看时间。表上显示着22点25分。

我的心顿时彻底凉了。我知道，如果22点半以后，我还在街上游荡的话，那将会给我带来致命的恶果。刚才的狂热顿时烟消云散，我又恢复到了原来的我。但是有一件事我却无比清楚：我恨她，很恨，很恨！我甚至没有跟她道别，便头也不回地跑了出去。我一路跑一路尽力将胸章别到胸前，从备用楼梯（我怕在电梯里被人发现）使劲往下奔去，直到来到空无一人的大街。

一切都井然有序，又简单又规矩。我目光所及全是亮着灯的玻璃房子，白色的玻璃天空，还有那绿莹莹的静静的夜晚。然而，在这片宁静、冰冷的玻璃之下，却有着一颗狂暴的、躁动的、毛茸茸的东西在静静地沸腾着，我气喘吁吁地使劲跑着，一定不能晚啊！

突然，我意识到，刚才着急别上的胸章掉了下来，叮当一声落在人行道玻璃路面上。我连忙弯下腰去捡起来，就在这短短的一秒钟中，我似乎听到背后有脚步声传来，我扭头看去，只见一个瘦小的驼背身影在街角出现，至少我当时这么觉得。我又使劲地跑了起来，耳边有着风的呼呼声。终于来到了我的房门口，我停住脚步，22点29分。离规定时间只差1分钟！我侧耳倾听，并没有人跟来。这太奇怪了，一定是毒酒的副作用。

当夜我难以入睡。我感觉我的床仿佛会动，它一会儿升起来，一会儿又降下去，又升起……我不断默默地告诫自己：“深夜，所有号码都必须睡觉，这是责任，就如同白天所有号码都必须工作一样。为了白天的工作，夜晚必须安眠。否则便是犯罪。”但是，仍然没有用，我还是无法入睡……我完蛋了。我没法履行对联合王国的义务！我……

笔记之十一

不行，我写不来；没有提要就没有吧！

深夜。雾气蒙蒙。空中布满了金灿灿的云块，因此没法看到更远处。古代人觉得那便是天神——那个了不起的怀疑主义者——的所在地。而我们却十分清楚，那里是清澈、晶蓝、光秃的一片，其余则一无所有。其他的我也不知道了，而现在我却已经知道得太多了。能确信知识的正确这便是我的信仰。我曾坚信自己，我坚信我非常了解自己。而今——当我再一次对镜自照的时候，我居然生平首次看清楚了眼前的那一个“他”。我惊奇地发现，眼前的这个人，便是“他”：两道浓黑的眉毛，在中间的眉心位置居然有道类似刀疤的垂直的皱褶（这道皱纹以前也有吗？），浅灰色的眼睛四周有一圈黑眼圈，这是失眠导致的。而在这浅灰色的眼睛后面……而今我终于发现，在它后边的是什么。在此之前我从不曾知道那里会有些什么。我从“那里”（这个“那里”既熟悉又陌生，它仿佛就在眼前，又远隔万里）望着镜中的自己，也望着那个他。我终于可以确信，那个有着两道浓眉的人，并不是我，而是其他人，这并不是真正的我，我也是生平头一次与他相遇。

啊，我到底在写些什么，赶紧停下来吧。所有这些简直是胡说八道，太莫名其妙了，可能是昨天中毒所导致的吧……到底是中了什么毒呢？是中了那绿色的毒汁，还是中了她的毒？不过，这无所谓了。我之所以会写，就是想让大家看看，人类精密的逻辑与理智有时候会莫名其妙地颠倒到什么程度。而这样的头脑，则能将古代人百思不得其解的问题轻而易举地解决了……联络机响了，R-13。是他。我简直有点儿欣喜若狂了。我实在不想一个人待着……

20分钟以后

在这由平面的二维世界所组成的纸上，我见到一行行的字整齐排列着，而我眼前的另一个世界，则……我对数字的感觉居然在逐步消失，只有20分钟，怎么我感觉却过了200分钟，甚至是20万分钟……

当我平静下来，一字一句地将R与我会面的情形认真写下来，这感觉太怪异了。就像是一个人坐在自己的床边，悠闲地观察着躺在床上愁眉苦脸的自己一样。

R-13进来的时候，我已经神色如常了。我跟他谈起在祭典上他朗诵的诗歌，还表达了我由衷的敬佩之情。我觉得他写得很成功，那个狂人就是因他的诗的审判而最终走向灭亡的。

“……而且若是我被要求为死刑机做示意图，我一定会毫不犹豫地将你的扬抑格放进去。”我对他说道，同时不经意地瞧了他一眼，结果就见到R暗淡无光的眼睛和发白的嘴唇。

“你怎么啦？”

“什么？啊……我只是觉得腻了。到处都在讲判决书，判决书。我不想再谈这些了。我不想……”说到这里，他皱着眉头，同时揉着后脑勺那个小箱子，小箱子里仍然装着我无法理解的东西。我们都不说话了。过了好一阵儿，他仿佛在小箱子里找到了些什么，急于取出来，他的双眼突然又闪亮了起来，带着笑意。他猛然站了起来：

“我要写诗，为‘积分号’写诗！是的……我要写这样的诗。”一瞬间，R又恢复了过去的样子，他的嘴唇又喷出很多唾沫星子，话又多了起来，小喷泉又翻涌着。

“嗯，你看啊（又喷了些水），古代的与天堂相关的传说，你知道吧。其实现在回想起来，那讲述的就是我们啊，而今我们所处的时代。确实如此，你设想一下。人类有两个乐园：一种是没有自由的幸福，另一种是没有幸福的自由，只有这两种选择，没有其他。而那些愚蠢的古人选择了后者，所以，在接下来的日子里他们一直想得到脚镣手铐的束缚。他们不断思念着，思念着，这便是他们口中的‘世界之大不幸’。这样过了几个世纪，直到我们这个时代，他们才重新认识到，如何能重新获得幸福……不，你仔细听我说！那时上帝与我们坐在同一张桌子前。的确是这样！是我们帮助了上帝，我们制服了那些恶魔，就是那些恶魔们，他们让人类去犯禁，去偷吃禁果，将人类禁锢。他就是那只阴险毒辣的蛇。而我们最终抬起了脚，往它头上使劲儿一踩……好了，他死了。而我们又重获了天堂。我们又回到了亚当、夏娃的时代，我们简单纯洁、无忧无虑。没有了所谓善与恶，美与丑，因为一切都归于单纯，如天堂般纯净的美好生活，如孩童般天真的心灵。全知全能者、死刑机、立方体高台、气钟罩、安全卫士——这一切都是万般美好的，这意味着善，意味着庄严、壮观、纯粹、高尚、崇高和无瑕。因为这一切都让我们不自由——即让我们拥有着美好的幸福。也只有古人才会胡思乱想，不停地争论，什么是道德，什么又是反道德的。……得了，就是这样了，反正，我是想写一部这样的天堂史诗。你觉得如何？对了，总体的风格是庄严的……你听明白了吗？是不是很不错呢？”

当然是很不错的了！我记得，在我听完了他那番陈述之后，想：“虽然他长相不怎么样，甚至看着有点蠢，但其实他的头脑是很理性的，很聪明。”因此，我觉得我非常喜欢他，我是说那个真的我（到现在我仍然觉得，过去的那个我才是真实的我，而眼前的我患了病）。

很明显，R从我的面部表情中看出了我的想法，他搂着我的肩膀，哈哈大笑了起来：“哎，你呀你……亚当！哦，对了，顺便说一下那个夏娃的事吧……”随即，他从在口袋里掏出一个小本子，边翻看边说：“后天……不是，是两天以后，O有一张你的粉红票子。你觉得怎样？还跟以前一样吗？你想让她过来吗？”

“这还用问吗？当然想啦。”

“好，那我转告她。否则，你知道吗，她自己还有些害羞呢……多么有趣啊！我跟你讲，她对我仅仅是按粉红票子行事而已，可是对于你……她又不好意思直说到底是谁插进了我们的三角关系之中。风流鬼，你坦白告诉我，到底谁啊？”

我的心里突然有个帘子掀开了：那丝绸的窸窣声，那绿色的酒瓶，她那温软的嘴唇……突然之间我居然问了句不该问的话（唉，我要是没说那句话该多好啊！）：“告诉我，你尝过尼古丁或者酒的滋味没有？”

R抿着嘴，皱着眉头，瞧着我。我知道他此刻的想法，他一定觉得：“虽说我们是很好的朋友……但……”他还是回答了我：“怎么说呢？我自己其实是没有尝过。但是我知道有个女子……”

“I-330！”我喊了出来。

“怎么？你，难道你也是？”他大笑了起来，笑得气都喘不过来了。

镜子在桌子的另一边，此刻坐在软椅里，只能在镜中看到自己的前额和眉毛。此时，真实的我在镜中见到了一个扭曲的模样，那两道眉的裂痕歪扭着，拧紧着。接着是一声野蛮又刺耳的嚎叫：“‘也’是什么意思？你快说，那个‘也’到底是什么意思？我命令你说！”

R的两片厚嘴唇大张着，而双眼也瞪得圆圆的……终于，那个真实的我制服了那个野蛮人，他扭住了那个野蛮人的衣领，让那个长着毛手的、气喘吁吁的我不能动弹。真实的我对R诚恳地说道：“看在全知全能者的分儿上，请原谅我的冒失。我病了，病得太厉害了，我辗转反侧，无法入眠。我也不知道我到底是怎么回事。”

镶嵌着厚嘴唇的脸上掠过一丝笑意：“是的，是的。我懂的，我懂你！因为这些我非常熟悉……当然，这是理论性的。再见啦！”

走到门口，R又像个黑球似的滚了回来，走到桌子旁，扔下一本书，说：“这是我刚完成的作品……专门送给你的，差点儿忘了这个。再见。”说着，又朝我喷了一阵唾沫，离开了。

只剩下我一个人。或者更准确地应该说，只剩下真实的我和另一个“我”待着。我跷着二郎腿坐在软椅里，很好奇地盯着那个在床上愁眉苦脸的我。

怎么会这样呢？这到底是为什么？三年的时光，我、O和R相处得十分融洽，而今却只是提了一下她的号码而已……难道这就是所谓的爱情，所谓的嫉妒，这些东西果真让人疯狂，不止存在于古人所写的那些可笑的书里面。我头脑中的方程式、公式、数字完全消散了，全部变成了一团乱麻……不行，明天我要去找R，跟他说……不，那是假话，我不可能会去的。明天不会，后天也不会。永远我都不会去了……我不能，我没法去见他。就这样吧！我们稳固的三角关系就这样垮了。

我一个人。傍晚。薄雾。金光灿灿的白色的天幕遮住了天空。如果我能知道高处是什么该多好！如果我能知道，我到底是谁，我是什么人该有多好！

笔记之十二

对无穷大的限制

守护天使

对诗歌的思考

我仍然相信，我会康复的，我会一如从前。最近我睡得很好。不再做梦，也没有了病痛。而亲爱的O明天就要来看我了。一切都将恢复过来，就像一个简单的、规律的、有限的圆圈一样。我并不惧怕“有限”这两个字，因为人最高理性活动的目的，就在于要对无穷大不断的限制，要将无穷大变为灵活而又方便的、容易被人所理解的微分。正是因为这一点，我的工作，即我所热爱的数学有着美感。而她，却恰恰缺乏这种美。当然，这只是我的偶然联想。

我坐在地铁的车厢里，在车轮有节奏的隆隆声中想到了这些。伴着车轮声，我低声地吟诵着R的诗句，手里是他昨天送给我的那本诗集。我突然感觉到，在我背后有个人俯在我的肩头，偷窥我面前打开的书页。我并没有转过头，而是用眼角的余光见到一对粉红色的招风大耳朵，以及那个熟悉的佝偻身影……原来是他！但是我不想惊扰他，仍然装作一无所知的样子。我假装什么都没有发现。心中想着，我进车厢的时候并没有见到他。不知道他什么时候就出现在我身边了。

这虽然是件微不足道的小事，但是却让我振作了起来。这是一种非常好的影响，它让我信心倍增。当你感觉到有双警惕的眼睛在关爱地注视着你的一举一动，以防你出现什么差错，让你一点也不会偏离正轨，这是多么好的事啊。可能你会觉得我有点言过其实，但是在我脑海中总是会出现这类情景，就如古代人所幻想的天使一般，安全卫士对我来说就是那样的存在。而古人们所设想的很多美好的东西，而今都成为了现实。

当我感觉到有一个天使在护卫我的时候，我正在低声诵读那首叫《幸福》的诗篇。我觉得这是一首具有诗意美和思想深度的优美诗篇。开篇是这样的：

二乘二是永恒的相恋；

在四的情绪中不离不分……

人间炽热相恋的爱人们，

正是二乘二的永恒之数。

剩下的诗句也同样地让人激动，充满着睿智的、永恒的、幸福的乘法口诀。

好的诗人都应该是哥伦布。在他发现美洲之前，这块大陆其实已经存在了若干年，但只有哥伦布看出了它的价值，并且让它被世人所知。在R-13出世之前，乘法表就已经存在了，但只有R-13在这个数字的丛林中找到了它的诗意之美。他描述得多么准确生动啊。在这世上，还有比找到这种美好的更美满的幸福吗？钢铁也会生锈。而古代的居民是上帝的杰作，我的意思是说，是上帝创造了那些会犯错误的人。当然，这便意味着上帝也犯了个错。而乘法表则不然，它更加聪慧，也更加准确。因为乘法表绝对不会（请注意我的用词），它绝对不会出错。能生活在乘法表所组成的严整而又永恒规律的数字王国之中，是多么幸福的事。没有犹豫，永不犯错。仅有一个真理，仅有一条正确之路。真理便是二乘二，正确之路便是四。若是这些幸福地、完美地互乘的二们思考起自由来，也就是说，它们想着犯错，这不是太荒唐了吗？R-13抓住了问题的本质、这最……

此时，我的后脑勺又有了感知，那是守护天使呼出的暖暖的鼻息，现在又转到了我的左耳边了。显然，他意识到我已经把书合上了，而我的思想则飘出去老远老远。其实，若他要求我打开脑中的思想，我也很乐意。这样做我会觉得舒适和快乐。如今我甚至记起来，当时我还回头看着他，双眼盯着他流出征询的意思。但是他好像没有理解我的意图，也或许是他不想弄明白什么。最终，他什么也没有问……我的那些素不相识的读者们，而今，我只能将我的心声吐露给你们。你们，在我看来，如今就像当时的他在我身边一样，是那样珍贵，虽远隔万里，却仿佛近在身旁。

我就是这样想的，由个人，比方R-13，联想到整体，比方，我们的国家诗人和作家学院。我思索着：古人怎么没有意识到这一点呢？他们的文学和诗歌创作是那么的荒诞，文学艺术的伟大的能量竟然被他们白白浪费了！任何人可以随便写出自己的想法，爱怎么写就怎么写，这简直太荒诞了！还有更加荒谬的，在那个时代，海洋整天都做着没有任何意义的拍打海岸的动作，那潜藏在波涛中的巨大力量只是用来激发恋人的爱情冲动。而我们，我们却从海浪的拍打中获取了电力。我们将这头发狂的如野兽般奔腾的海浪，变成了温驯的猎物。同样，我们也驯服了那些如夜莺般日夜呜鸣的诗歌。而今，它们成为了国家的工具，为国家服务。

例如，我们著名的《数学诗歌》，如果没有这类诗歌，我们怎么会如此强烈、如此真诚地爱上四则运算呢。《玫瑰花刺》，这是多么经典的诗歌作品啊，安全卫士们就是玫瑰花刺，他们守卫着我们娇嫩的国家之花，来防御粗野的触摸……当听到孩子们齐声诵读：“坏孩子来采玫瑰，花刺尖扎疼了他，坏孩子大声嗷嗷叫，边哭边跑往家逃”的时候，当看到他们像背诵祈祷文一样露出虔诚、认真的神情，你怎么能不为之感动呢？还有那首《致全知全能者之歌》，当我们读到这首诗的时候，怎么会不被那位最英明、神武、伟大的号码自我奉献、全情投入的精神所动容呢？还有那部令人畏惧的《法庭判决之歌》，以及不朽的悲剧《上班迟到的人》，以及人人都记得的通俗之作《性事卫生诗抄》！

我们生活中的所有优美，所有复杂都通过文学语言得到不朽。我们的诗人也不是古时候的天使精灵般地降临人间，他们是与我们有着相同步调的人间的智者，他们和我们一起踩着音乐机器进行曲那严肃、机械的节拍，一丝不苟地大踏步前行。他们所创作的诗歌来源于早晨电牙刷震动的时候，来自全知全能者的死刑机器的火星飞溅时、来自联合国国歌庄严肃穆的歌声中，来自透明的脸盆发出的响声，来自窗帘落下时发出的咔咔声，来自烹饪指南轻松快活的语言中，来自街头小耳朵十分微弱的震颤声……

这些便是我们的神，他们就在这里，在我们身边，与我们在一起。他们身处安全卫士局、身处厨房、身处工厂、身处休息室。众神变得和我们一样了，因此，我们便成为了神。那些素不相识的星球上的读者们，我们很快就要见面了，到时候你们的生活也会变得跟我们一样充满了理性和精确之美……

笔记之十三

雾

尔

荒唐的事

天刚拂晓，我便醒了。睁开眼睛便看到了玫瑰色的天。一切都非常好，既安宁又充满秩序感。晚上O就会过来了。我已经好了。我轻轻笑着，又睡了过去。再次醒来时是起床铃声响起之后。我透过天花板和四壁的玻璃向外看去，天空变了颜色，四周都弥漫着云雾。大雾弥漫，狂乱的浓云越积越多，越积越厚，甚至逐渐逼近。仿佛天地之间的界线也不甚分明，一切都飞快地运动着，不断地融化，坠落……什么都消失不见了，我见不到房子，看不到玻璃墙，它就像晶盐水中溶解了一样。只是影影绰绰地见到黑色的身影，在街上，在屋里。这些人影就像浸在奶液中的颗粒，他们飘浮着，有高有低，一切都在烟雾之中，仿佛在那里起了一场不知名的大火一样。

11点45分，我瞄了一眼表，立刻就记住了那个时间。眼看就要到了体力劳动的时间了。我连忙回到屋里待了一下。这时候，电话响了。电话那头的说话声像一枚细长的针逐渐扎进我心里：

“噢，你真的在家！太好了！请在街口等我。咱们一起去个地方……先这样，去哪儿？哦，见了面我再告诉你。”

“你非常清楚，现在我要去参加体力劳动。”

“你也非常清楚，你会照我说的办的。两分钟后见。”

两分钟后，我在街口处。我之所以在那儿是因为我要告诉她，我要听命于全知全能者，而不是她。居然还说出“按我说的办”这样的话！她居然还那么肯定，那样自信。好吧，我必须要认真地跟她说清楚……

在街上，一件件仿佛由潮雾织成的灰制服匆忙从我身旁走过，又毫无察觉地融化在雾中。我一直盯着表看……仿佛这一刻，我变成了那根颤动着的秒针。10分钟，8分钟，3分钟，2分钟……眼看就要到12点了……不用说，劳动时间已经过了，我仍然在街上。我非常恨她。但是我仍然在等她，我必须要让她知道……

在如牛奶般浓稠的白雾中，我见到了两片血红的嘴唇一闪而过，就像尖刀拉开的口子。

“让你等很久啦。但是，现在已经迟了。你没法过去了！”

我不出声地盯着她的嘴唇。女人在我眼中都是嘴唇，两片嘴唇。那个女人的嘴唇是粉红色的，圆润而有弹性，像个圆圈，将自己与其余的世界阻隔开来，而眼前的这一个，这副嘴唇啊，在一秒钟之前她还不在这里，突然她就来了，像用刀拉开似的，而今还淌着甜腻的血……

她走近了一些，肩膀倚在我身上。我们仿佛融为了一体，我感觉她身上的某种东西似乎流进了我的身体。我觉得就是这样。我的所有神经、所有的头发、所有的既感觉甜蜜又疼痛难忍的心跳都让我深切地知道，对这种“理所当然”，我欣然领命。若是一块铁被一块磁石所吸引，也一样会乐意服从这种必然的、科学的规律。同样的道理，如果一块石头被用力掷向空中，在经过短暂的停顿之后，它会飞速地往大地坠落。它心中也同样欢乐无比。而人在经过了弥留之时，最后呼出那一口气，然后便离开了人世，他也有着不言而喻的快乐。

我记得，想到那里，我便觉得窘了，我微笑着，突兀地说道：“雾……真大啊。”

“尔喜欢雾？”

这个“尔”是很久远的词汇，它是古代统治者用来呼唤奴才的，人们早就不用了。它缓慢地、尖刻地滑进了我的心中……是的，我就是个奴才，这便是需要，我觉得很不错。

“是的，很不错……”我默默地自语，接着便对她说道，“不，我恨雾，我也怕雾。”

“那么就意味着你喜欢它。你惧怕它，是因为它比你强大；你痛恨它，是因为你怕惧它；所以，你是爱它的，因为你无法征服它，人们通常都喜欢他们所无法驾驭的东西。”

“是的。说得非常对。就因为这样……我……”

我们俩就这么走着，仿佛像一个整体。在层层的雾霭中，我见到远远的太阳的微光，四周都充满着活力，周遭都披上了金黄的、玫瑰色的以及红色的光泽……整个世界像一个完整的女性，我们仿佛孕育其中，还没有出生，我们怀着欣喜之情成长着。我很清楚，我特别清楚地意识到：这一切——太阳、雾霭、那玫瑰色的和金黄色的光泽，都因我而存在。我没有疑问，我也不知道我们要去哪里。有什么关系呢？就这样走着，走着，生长着，生长着，这已经让我很快乐了……

“我们到了……”在一个门口处，我们停了下来。“今天值班的正好是他，上次我在古宅里曾说过他。”

我小心谨慎地呵护着体内正在生长的萌芽，看了一眼牌子上的字“医疗部”，我明白了。

……眼前是一间被金色云雾笼罩着的玻璃房间。在玻璃吊顶棚上有各种颜色的玻璃瓶子、玻璃罐子。以及电线，闪着蓝色幽光的管子。屋子的主人是个身材单薄的男性号码，他就像个纸剪的人，不管他怎么转动身子，你看到的只是一个单薄的侧影而已。他的鼻子也像亮闪闪的尖刀一样，而嘴唇则像两片剪刀。

我并没有听见I-330跟他说的话，那时候，我只是目不转睛地盯着她的嘴唇，我看到它们在动，而我也感觉到自己脸上露出那不由自主的幸福的微笑。医生那剪刀似的嘴唇闪动了一下，说道：“噢，是的，我明白了。这病十分危险，我认为没有比这个病更危险的了。”他微笑着，用同样薄纸般的手很快地在纸上写着什么，然后将纸交给了I-330，随即又写了一张，交给了我。

他交给我们的是两张诊断书，证明我们生病了，无法干活。我是个不折不扣的窃贼，我偷盗了联合国的工作时间，我应该受到死刑机的严惩。但是这种想法却离我十分遥远，仿佛那是书里才有的情节，跟我并没有什么关系……我连忙接过了纸条，没有一点犹豫的意思。我，以及我的双眼、双唇、双手都明白，我必须要这样做。

在拐角处空无一人的车库里，我们钻进了飞船。跟上次一样，I负责驾驶，她熟练地按动了起飞键，我们飞离了地面，而且越飞越高，金色的雾以及太阳都被抛到了身后，我想起了医生那尖削的侧影，突然我觉得他是那么的可爱。以前，我知道所有的一切都是围着太阳转的，而今我突然明白过来，其实一切都是围绕着我旋转的。我慢慢地、幸福地阖上了眼睛……

在古宅门口，我们又见到了那个老太太。她的那张嘴那么可爱啊。又皱成了一团，可能，它一直闭合着，而此时又欢快地张开了，她微笑着说：“啊，你这小淘气！你怎么偷跑出来了？……既然来了，那就算了吧！如果有什么事，我一定会赶过来通知你们的。”

我们进入了那扇沉甸甸的不透亮的门，随着沉重的关门声，我的心也疼痛地打开了，愈开愈大，直至完全敞开了……我的嘴唇触碰到了她的嘴唇……我吸吮着，不停地吸吮着。我勉为其难地放开了她，不出声地盯着她那睁大的双眼，接着又……

房间里有着黄昏所有的昏暗……蓝的、杏黄的、墨绿的山羊皮，还有那佛像的灿烂微笑，巨大的木床，发光的镜子……我又来到了这里，跟梦中的场景很像，而今我已经深深明白，一切都有着金灿灿的玫瑰色的琼浆，我自己的身体里也是这样……仿佛，过不了多久，它就要喷涌而出……我深陷其中，我遵循着不可抗拒的规律的支配……这里什么都没有，没有粉红票，没有时间考量，也没有联合国，连我似乎也不存在了。只有那两排紧紧闭合的小利齿，还有望着我的温柔的睁大的双眼，我看着这双眼睛，越陷越深……除了屋角的洗脸池里发出的滴水声之外，我什么都听不到。我觉得这声音似乎来自千里之外，那是某个远方的声音。而我则是宇宙……在水滴声中，我感觉到岁月的流逝，转瞬之间就如同过了几个世纪……

我穿上了制服，向I俯下身去，我要使劲将她看个够，仿佛这是最后的诀别一样。

“我早就知道……我早就知道你……”I轻声地说着。随即，她用手抚了抚脸，转身轻快地走下床，穿上制服，脸上又浮现出她惯常的如刺芒一样的微笑。

“好了，我的堕落天使。这下你可完了。难道你不怕吗？好了，再见。你可以一个人回去吧。如何？”

她打开了镶着镜子的大柜门，转头瞧着我，等待我的反应。我乖乖地走出了房间。刚走出几步，我突然觉得应该再依偎一下她的肩膀，哪怕只一下也好，我只有这一个要求。于是，我急忙转身回去。我想着，也许她还站在镜子前扣制服的纽扣。但是，当我跑进房间的时候，她并不在那里。我清楚地看到柜门上钥匙的圆环仍然在不停地晃动着，但是她却不见了。她没法这样离开的呀，因为房间里只有一扇离开的门。但是她就是不在那！我将每个角落都找了个遍，我甚至还打开了柜子，将那些五颜六色的古代衣裙都翻了一遍，但是，并没有人……

亲爱的素不相识的读者们，将这段离奇的经历讲给你们听，我也觉得实在是太荒诞了。但是这都是我的真实经历，所以，我只能据实以告。从一早醒来开始，这一整天都充满着不可思议的荒诞冒险，这就跟古代的那种叫作梦的疾病十分相像。既然如此，我讲的这个听起来有些荒诞的事就没有什么大不了的了。此外，我坚信，迟早我会找到答案，能解释清楚这些荒诞不经的事。这么想，我便多少有些欣慰，希望你们也不要因此而感到疑惑。

……我仍然有些许不安！希望你们能够明白，此刻我的心情！

笔记之十四

“我的”

不准许

冰冷刺骨的地板

下面要说的仍然是昨天发生的事。因为，昨晚临睡前我有很多事情要做，所以短短的私人时间里，我没法把所有的事情都写完。但是，每件事却像印刻在我脑海中一样，挥之不去。我甚至永远也没法忘记，我至今仍然清楚地记得那冰冷刺骨的地板……

晚上，O会准时来我这里，因为这是她约定好的时间。我下楼去值班控制员那里，准备领取许可证。

“你怎么啦？”值班员问我，“你今天有点儿……”

“我……我生病了。”

确实是这样，我真的是病了。因为发生在我身上的一切都是病态的。想到这，我想起了那个病例证明，是啊，我有医生开的证明啊！我连忙将手放入口袋里去摸：它依然在那儿，还簌簌作响。这么看来，所有的事都是真实的，都发生过！

我将纸条交给了值班员。我发觉我的两颊滚烫。我没敢朝她看，但是，我仍然能感觉到从她的眼睛里射过来的奇怪的眼神……21点30分。左边房间的窗帘拉了下来。而右边的屋子里，我看见他正在读书，我见到书上方的那个秃头的邻居，他的头上有不少疙瘩，而他的额头很像一个黄色抛物线。我有些苦恼，我不停地在屋子里走来走去。出了那么多事，我该怎么对O说呢？我明显地意识到右边的邻居向我投来的目光，他在朝我这边看，那额头的皱纹清晰可见，我还发现他额头上有些模糊不清的线条，我甚至觉得这些线条是跟我有关的。

21点45分。一阵快活的粉红色旋风刮了进来，两只红润的胳膊紧紧地圈住了我的脖颈。随后，我发觉那团围住我的圈越来越松……越来越松……甚至，断了。她的双手垂了下来……

“你变了，你不是以前的那个……你不是我的了！”

“‘我的’，多么古老的用法啊。我不隶属于……”我有些急迫地辩解道，突然我意识到，确实，过去我不隶属于任何人，但是而今……而今，我已经不是生活在我们的理性世界中了，而是跑到了古代，那个野蛮的充斥着-1的平方根的世界里去了。

窗帘在慢慢往下放。那个邻居的一本书突然从桌上掉了下去。在窗帘快到触碰到地板的时候，通过那个窄窄的细缝，我看见一只蜡黄的手拾起了书，我想着，如果能一把攥住这只手就好了！

“我本来……我本来希望能在散步的时候碰到你……我有很多话……我有许多话要对你说……”

可爱又无辜的O！她那粉红色的嘴，犹如下弯的月牙儿般耷拉着。但是，我没法跟她说，我没法将所发生的事告诉她。确实是这样，我不能让她成为我的同谋犯啊。因为我非常清楚，她不会去安全卫士局告发我的，因此，我没法……

“亲爱的O，我病了。我觉得很累，今天我又去了医疗部。不过，这些都没什么，一切都会好起来的。所以，我们别谈这些了，让我们忘了吧。”

O温顺地躺在床上。我轻柔地吻着她，我轻吻着她手腕上那条孩子般的胖胖的肉褶。她美丽的蓝眼睛闭着，粉红色的半月嘴渐渐地绽露出微笑，那笑容似花朵般开放着。我吻着她的身体。

突然，我意识到自己已经成为了空壳，我的精力已然耗尽，什么都不剩。我没法，我没法。我明白，我应该……但是，我没法……不，这都不可能了。我的嘴唇突然变冷，与此同时，粉红色的月牙儿颤抖着，仿佛就在一瞬间，色泽全无，紧紧地关闭了。O将罩单扯了过去，盖在身上，而脸则深陷在枕头里……

我则坐在床旁的地板上。冰冷刺骨的寒意袭来。我一声不响地坐着。那逼人的寒气不断地袭了上来。也许，在那蓝色的沉默的星河之中，也同此时我身处的环境一样沉寂又刺骨吧。

“请理解我，亲爱的，我并不愿意……”我语无伦次地解释着，“我确实……”

这是实话，我，其实那个真正的我，并不愿意……但是，我怎么解释给她听呢？我怎么才能让她明白：铁块并不情愿，但是规律却是无法拒绝的，是一定会发生的。

O缓缓地抬起头，闭着双眼说：“你走吧。”因为她是带着哭腔说出的话，“走”听起来就像在说“抖”。这个有点可笑的细节一直在脑海中挥之不去。

我浑身冰冷，四肢麻木地离开了房间转到了走廊。我的头使劲靠在玻璃上，窗外是一层淡淡的薄雾，仿佛越飘越远。可能到了深夜，又会浓雾弥漫了，我心里想着，“这将是一个多么可悲的深夜啊！”

O飞快地从我身旁走了过去，奔向电梯，门被重重地关上了。

“等等。”我使劲地喊了一声。

但是，我只能听到电梯往下落的声音，它在不断下降，下降……

“我的R，我的O，都被她夺走了，但是……但是，我仍然……”

笔记之十五

气钟罩

明净如镜的海面

我应该永生承受烈焰燃烧之苦

我刚来到“积分号”制造台，副设计师便迎面走了过来。他长着一张又圆又白的脸庞，活像个白瓷盘子，每当他说话的时候，你就像面对着一盘美食一样。

“你居然生病了。这里缺了你，差一点就出事了。”

“出事？怎么回事？”

“是啊！昨天下班铃响了，所有人的工作都完成了。大家正要离开飞船站。居然在清场的时候，发现了一个人。这是一个没有号码的男人。我简直想不明白，他是怎么进来的。不过，他被带到审讯部去了。相信，要不了多久，我们就会知道答案了。他会开口说出诸如‘他为什么来，又怎么进来的……’”说着，他露出了一个大大的笑脸。

在审讯局工作的人都是非常富有经验的物理学家，全知全能者直接管理这个部门。审讯局拥有很多富有创造力的设备，而那些设备中，最高级的还要数气钟罩。它类似于古代学校里用作实验的某种仪器：古人们将白老鼠放在玻璃罩中，用空气泵将罩中的空气不断地抽出来，里面的空气会越来越少……当然，你会猜到最后的结果是什么。

但是，我们所设计的气钟罩要完备得多，里面的气体也丰富多样。而且，我们也不会将它残忍地用在可怜的小动物身上，它有着更为高尚的责任，即保卫联合国的安全，也就是说，用它来保障数百万人的幸福。

大概在五百年前，当时审讯局才刚刚成立，有些头脑简单的人居然将审讯局和古代的宗教裁判混为一谈。这太可笑了。可笑到简直将实施气管切开术的医生与抢劫的强盗当成了一种人。当然，他们手上都有刀，也许用的还是同一种刀。虽然动作都是切开活人的喉咙。但是最终他们的目的却是不同的，一个是救死扶伤的人，而另一个则是谋财害命的罪犯。一个应该是带正号的人，而另一个则是带有负号的人……这两者的区别再明显不过了，只要稍稍有点逻辑性，就不会混淆。而我只需一秒钟，逻辑推理之齿轮就会准确无误地钩住了负号，将它翻转过来。

但是，头脑中又出现了另一个场景：那个柜子上不断晃动的钥匙圆环。很明显，门刚被关上，但是，I却不在那里，她不见了。哪里都没有。此时，我的逻辑推理的齿轮就不管用了。是梦境吗？但是，就在此时，我仍然能感觉到右肩那难以言传的甜蜜的疼痛，那是来自I的，在大雾弥漫的街头，她曾紧紧倚靠在我的右肩上，我们并肩前行。“尔喜欢大雾吗？”是的，我喜欢雾，我爱大雾……一切都是那么富有生机、新奇而又美妙。一切都那么好……

“都那么好！”话居然脱口而出了。

“那么好？”那一双圆溜溜的、陶瓷般的眼睛，盯着我。“你在说什么？这有什么好的？若是那个没有号码的男人真的得逞……很有可能，还有其他的同伙，四周都有这样的人，时时刻刻都存在着，他们一直在这里，在‘积分号’附近，那么……”

“其他的同伙？他们又是些什么人？”

“我怎么会知道呢？但是，我能感觉得到他们的存在，你知道这种感觉吗？”

“你听说过那个手术没有？好像是一种能够切除幻想的手术？”（我确实也听到了这种说法。）

“嗯，听到过。这又怎么了？”

“当然有关系了，若是我处于你的职位，我肯定会要求给我做这个手术的。”

那张瓷盘的脸上立即显现出仿佛吃了柠檬的表情，那么可怜的酸楚的神情。对于他来说，哪怕有人无意中暗示他富有想象力，他也会非常不开心。其实，这又算得了什么呢？但是，在一星期之前，我也会因此而不开心的。而如今，我不会了。因为我知道想象力确实存在，我也明白，我的病根就在这里。我还非常清楚，我并不想治愈它。至于为什么，我说不出来，但是我就是不乐意那么做。

我们共同走上了玻璃台阶；我们越来越高，而脚下的世界则越来越小。

我的那些素不相识的读者们，不论你们是谁，我可以肯定的是，你们一定生活在太阳之下。若你们也生过病，就如同现在的我一样，你们一定会知道清晨的微弱晨光是什么样的，那是一种粉红的、透明的、暖融融的金灿灿的光亮。甚至空气也带着那微微的粉红的颜色，一切都浸染了太阳柔和的血液之中。一切都是生机勃勃的，连石块也是有生命力的，柔软的，而铁也是温暖的、活生生的。人们也是如此，生机勃勃，面露笑容。但是，仅仅一小时之后，这一切就会消失不见。太阳的粉红色的鲜血会枯竭——但是此时，我眼前的都是生命。我发现在“积分号”的躯体内有玻璃血液在流动着，它们有着生命之光。我眼看着“积分号”，想象着它此刻正在思索着自己的未来，那未来是壮阔的，又是势不可挡的。它将给宇宙带来的沉重——那是一种永无尽头的幸福。我的那些素不相识的读者们，这就是你们一直苦苦追寻，而无法得到的幸福。你们一定会找到的，你们一定会成为幸福的人，这点毋庸置疑。

“积分号”船体已经基本竣工。它是一个椭圆形的长长的船体，这让它显得精致而高贵，通体是玻璃的，这种材质既永久又坚韧。我看着那些为“积分号”忙碌的人们，有的人正忙于架构玻璃船舱内的横梁和纵柱，位于尾部的是装载着巨型火箭发动机的基座。若发射进宇宙之后，每隔三秒钟，尾部就会喷射出火焰和气体。这样它就会越飞越高，像一个喷射幸福的飞船一样，疾驰进茫茫太空……

再往下看，就见到深受泰罗工作法影响的人们，正在一丝不苟地工作着，他们犹如一架大机器上的每个操纵杆，规律地、精确地、富有节奏地弯腰、直腰、转身。他们拿着闪亮的玻璃工具，喷着火在切割和焊接玻璃板、弯管接头和托板。那巨大的玻璃起重机轻易地就碾过玻璃轨道，如同人们一样准确，它转动、弯曲，将物体准确无误地送入“积分号”的船体内部。一切仿佛都如出一辙，像人化的机器，又像机器化的人。这是多么震撼的美、和谐之音，多么辉煌！

快，奔入他们的行列之中去。我奔下了楼梯，融入人群，成为他们中的一员。所有人都有着钢铁般的节奏，这让他欣喜若狂，我见到大家丰润的脸颊，如镜子般明净清透的额头，他们都富有节律地工作着。而我自己则像在这明镜般的海洋中浮游，我身心舒展开来……突然之间，有一张纯真无邪的脸转向我，问道：

“今天怎么样啦？好些了吗？”

“什么？”

“昨天，你没有过来。大家以为你患了重病了……”他明亮的额头朝向我，微笑着说。那神情纯粹得像个孩子。

一瞬间，血便往我的脸上涌。我没法，我没法对这样的一双眼睛撒谎。我没有回答，心却越收越紧……此时，那张白瓷圆盘又出现在舱门口，他冲着我喊道：“D-503，请过来看一下，悬臂架的中心力矩怎么不太对，而且……”

他并没有说完，我已经向他奔去了——我非常不光彩地逃掉了。在跑的时候，我也不敢抬眼看，我只觉得脚下的玻璃台阶闪闪发光，弄得我头晕目眩。每往上走一步，我就觉得越发的绝望。我是个罪人，我中了很深的毒，我不配待在这里。以后，我没法跟这里准确划一的、机械的旋律融合在一起，不能跟什么都没有发生一样，在这平静如镜的海面上浮游。我应该永生承受烈焰燃烧之苦，四处流浪只为了找到一个可以不让别人看到我的地方。当然，若是我有决心……我将会选择……一根尖利的冰刀刺穿了我的心，我感觉寒冷刺骨。我自己倒是没什么，怎样都可以。但是她，如果她被告发的话……可能会……

我终于从舱口爬了上去，来到了制造台上，但我并不知道我该去哪里，我只是无谓地站着。我抬头便能看到太阳，正午的太阳正有些暗淡无光，在它的下面是一动不动的“积分号”——这个巨大的，缺乏生命力的玻璃体。它的粉红色的鲜血已经流干。当然，这只是我自己的设想而已。其实，它跟之前一模一样，但是，我仍然……

“你出了什么事？D-503，你幻听了吗？我叫了你半天了……你到底是怎么啦？”副设计师的声音终于传到了我的耳朵里，此刻，他简直是在大喊大叫了，看来他这么大声地喊了很久了。

我到底是怎么了？我没有了方向，虽然马达照样轰轰地响着，飞船也做好了起飞的准备，但是，却没有了方向。我也不知道该往哪里飞，若是往下飞，就会撞到地上去，那么就往上飞吧，冲着太阳飞，冲着那一片火海飞去……

笔记之十六

黄色

影子

无药可救的灵魂

过了好些日子了，这期间我都没有写笔记。我也记不清确切的天数了，因为期间的生活都是平静似水的。它们都是单调、统一的黄色，如同在沙漠中被晒热的沙子，没有蔽荫，也没有一滴水，眼前只有望不到尽头的漫漫黄沙。我不能失去她，自从在古宅我们分别之后，她就消失得无影无踪了。我知道，没有她我无法活下去……

从那次她莫名其妙地消失之后，我只见过她一次，那是某次散步，大概是二三天前的事，或者是四天以前？我的记忆模糊了，因为眼前所经历的日子，都是一模一样的。她只是与我擦肩而过，在那一瞬间将我那如黄沙般空洞的内心填满了。与她并肩前行的是那个佝偻的S，他的头只能够到她的肩膀，在她另一边是那个单薄的如纸片般的医生，而与他们并行的第四个号码，我没有记住他的脸，但是对他的手指却印象深刻，他有一双细长又苍白的手指，那手就像一道光，从制服中射了出来。I见到我，朝我招了一下手，接着她便越过S的脑袋，伸长脖子对那个手指如光束般的人说话。我隐约听到“积分号”几个字，这时，四个人的目光齐刷刷地朝我射过来，不一会儿，他们的身影便消失在灰蓝色的人群中，而我眼前仍然是一片枯黄。

那天晚上，我收到了她的一张粉红票子。我站在联络机前，爱恨交织地祈求着，希望早点看到她的号码出现，因此我不断盯着屏幕，想着I-330这几个数字。每当电梯门响，我就奔向大厅，见到一个个号码走出来，高的、矮的、苍白的、粉红的……周围的很多窗帘都纷纷地拉下去了。可是她仍然没有出现。她没有来。

此时是22点整，可能此时此刻，她正依偎在某个号码的身上，对那个号码温存软语地说着：“你爱我吗？”的话。她会对谁发问呢？那个人到底是谁呢？是那个有着如光束般手指的人吗？还是喜欢喷口水的R，再不然是那个佝偻身形的S吗？

S……怎么最近我总能听到他跟在我身后发出的噼啪的脚步声，那声音就像脚踩在了水洼上。为什么最近他一直像个影子似的伴我左右呢？总有那个灰蓝色的扁平的影子出现在我的前面、后面、左面或者右面。其他的号码不停地踏着它，或是迈过它，但是，它一直在我身边，距离我不远也不近的。我们之间好像有一条纽带将我们紧紧相连。可能，这根无形的纽带就是I-330。我也不清楚，也许，安全卫士们已经知道了我……

若是有人跟你说，你的影子在观察你的一举一动，它什么都看得清清楚楚，你相信吗？突然之间，你会有一种奇怪的感觉：你的双手好像并不是你自己的了，它们不听你的话。我突然意识到，我的双手动作十分可笑，它们和脚步一点也不同步。我都忍不住想回头看个究竟了，但是我却做不到，怎么做都不行，脖子僵硬地挺直着，简直没法转动。我只得使劲跑、越跑越快。虽然我没法回头，但是我的后背仍然能感到，那影子也快速地追赶着我，我没法躲开它，简直没处躲……

我终于到了我屋里。现在总算就我自己了。但是，屋里电话，这样新的问题又出现了。我不假思索地拿起话筒：“喂，请拨I-330。”话筒里传来一阵轻微的响声，我能听到人走动的脚步声，那声音穿过走廊，进入了她的房门。接着便没了声响……我扔下话筒，我不能再等了，我必须，我必须要去找她！

这事发生在昨天。我匆忙地赶去找她。来到她的住所外面，从16点到17点，我一直在附近徘徊着，整整一个小时。号码们列队整齐地从我身旁走过，那几千只脚踏着相同的节拍走着，仿佛一直长有万足的巨兽般经过。只有我是孤零零的，我像来到了荒无人烟的小岛上。我仍然在找寻，在灰蓝色的海洋中寻找她的身影……

很快，很快就会看到的。那个有着两道嘲讽的眉毛和一双黑亮而深邃的眼睛，眼睛后面是熊熊烈火，人影幢幢……我要直接冲过去，冲到烈火的后面，对她说“尔”，是的，“尔”，我要对她说：“我不能没有你。我没法独自生活下去。”但是，她并没有出现。

突然，我觉得周遭一片寂静，原来音乐机器的乐声已经停止了。我醒悟过来，已经17点了，人们都走光了，只剩下我一个人。这时候要转身回家，已经太晚了。四周都是抹着黄色阳光的玻璃的荒漠。玻璃墙面闪着光亮，它底部朝上地悬着，看着它颠倒的样子，我觉得自己也是倒着的，那形象居然如此可笑。

我要赶紧走，我必须得离开这里。赶到医疗局去，弄一张证明，否则……也许，还有一个办法。我就待在这，静静地待着，等安全卫士们来发现我，将我带到审讯局去，这样，所有的问题都结束了。所有的罪恶也都一笔勾销了。

一阵轻微的声响，身形佝偻的S出现在我面前。我没有直视他，但是我已经感觉到，他的一双锐利的小刚钻已经钻进了我的心里。我勉强笑了笑，说（此时此刻我必须得说点什么）：“我……我必须得去医疗局。”

“没有人阻拦你啊？你为什么还站在这儿？”

我没有答话，我仍然感觉自己可笑地颠倒着，大头朝下而脚朝上。

“跟我走。”S厉声地说。

我听话地跟着他走，毫无目的性地甩着那两只不听使唤的胳膊。

我没法抬眼看上去，因此感觉仿佛走在了一个上下颠倒的世界里：机器的基座朝上立着，而人们也似机器一样脚贴在天花板上站着；再往下瞧，就见到了凝固在马路玻璃面里的天空。我到现在还记得，当时的所思所想，我想着，也许是自己最后一眼看世界了。但是居然如此荒谬，世界不是它本来的样子，而是倒立着呈现在我眼前的。因为，我没法抬起头来。

我们停了下来。我跟前是台阶。我跨了一步……过一会儿，我就会见到那些穿着白大褂的医生了，还有那巨大的气钟罩。

我使出了浑身的力气，努力抬起了头，猛然间，“医疗局”三个字映入了我的眼帘。怎么他会把我带到这儿来呢，而不是审讯局？他怎么会放过我了呢？其实，我根本还没有想到这些。我只是使劲向上一蹿，蹦过台阶，用力地将大门紧紧关上。直到这时，我才喘了一口气，好像从早晨到刚才我都没有喘过气一样，心脏仿佛也没有跳过，直到这时候，我的胸中的闸门才被打开了……

屋里有两个人。一个是矮墩墩的男性，他很结实，双眼像牛角一样，仿佛要随时将病人挑起来似的；而另一个则很消瘦，两片嘴唇很薄，似闪闪发光的剪刀，鼻子也似尖刀……是他，就是他。我径直朝他奔了过去，就像见到了老朋友一样，差点碰到他的鼻子，我不断说着关于失眠、我奇怪的梦境、那些影子，以及黄沙的内容。他的两片剪刀似的嘴张开着，似在微笑。

“你的情况太糟了。身体里有了一个灵魂了。”

灵魂？这是多么奇怪的说法啊，这应该是个被人们弃之不用很久的词了……

“这……非常危险吗？”我低声地问道。

“无药可救。”剪刀片子说得非常肯定。

“但是……这个病到底是怎么个情况呢？我……我不明白。”

“这个嘛……我怎么解释呢？……你是个数学家吧？”

“是的。”

“那么，这样说吧。比方说，有个平面，就像镜面一样。我们两人都站在这个平面上，对不对？这里的阳光炫目，我们歪着头，以免被太阳烤到。再比方说，有一架飞机刚刚飞过，它在镜子的表面留下一道阴影。这一切都发生在瞬间，随即便消失不见了。现在，请试着想象一下，若是这层坚硬的表面，被火灼烤，就会变软，甚至它的表面会坍陷了，不再平滑。而所有经过它的东西也会凹陷进入，落入到镜子的世界中去。而此时，我们便像孩子一般怀着好奇的心往里面看。你要明白，其实孩子们可并不像我们想象的那么傻。这样，平面就成为了另一个世界，它有了容积。而在镜子的内部——在你的身体里，也有了太阳、飞机螺旋桨的旋风，以及你颤抖的嘴唇，甚至还有别人的。你会清楚这一点区别，即冰冷的镜子起着反射的作用，而这一个镜子的世界却具有吸收的作用，万事万物在此处皆有痕迹。比方说，你偶尔在某个人的脸上看到了一道难以辨别的皱纹，此后，这个印象就会永远留存在你的记忆中。再比方说，有一天，你听到了水滴落的声音，也许你如今仍然记得那个余音……”

“是啊，就是这样的。”我使劲抓住他的手。我确实曾想起水龙头滴答的滴水的声音。我对它太熟悉了，以至终生难忘。

“但是，我怎么就突然有了灵魂了呢？为什么以前没有，而如今却……为什么没听说别人有，而我却……”我更加用力地捏住了他的手，害怕就此失去了线索。

“为什么？哦，为什么呢？人类没有羽毛也没有翅膀，而我们却有翅膀底下的肩胛骨呢？因为我们有飞行器，翅膀对于我们没有任何用处，它只会碍事。翅膀是用来飞翔的，但是，我们还能飞往何处呢，我们已经飞到了目的地了。你明白我的意思吗？”

我似懂非懂地点了点头。他瞧了我一眼，随之便尖厉地笑了起来，声音像手术刀一样锋利。另一个医生被我们的谈话所吸引，粗壮的短腿走出了自己的办公室，朝我们这边走了过来。他用牛角般的眼睛挑了那位医生一下，又挑了挑我。

“怎么回事？灵魂？你们居然谈起了灵魂？该死！这样下去我们可能要得这种传染病了。我曾经说过（他又挑了剪刀嘴大夫一眼），我认为最好是摘除掉所有人的幻想……这很容易，只需要做个外科手术就可以了，只有手术能够解决……”

他戴上了一副很大的X光眼镜。仔细观察了我好一阵子，透过颅骨检查着我的大脑，边说边在本上记录。

“奇特，十分奇特！你听我说，你想做摘除手术吗？你若这样做了，将会对联合国有很大的贡献。这样会避免传染病的发生……若是你没有特别的理由，或许……”

如果换过以前，我会毫不迟疑地说：“我非常乐意。”但是，如今，我并没有回答他的话，而是目光盯着纸片医生，恳切地看着他。

“你还不清楚吧，号码D-503是‘积分号’的设计师。若是我们做了摘除手术，肯定会破坏……”

“唉。”短腿医生有些遗憾地慨叹了一声，回到了自己屋里去了。

只剩下我们两个。他那薄纸似的手轻轻地搭在我手上，露出剪影般的侧脸，低声对我说：“我只跟你说，你不是唯一的那个。我的同事说这病会传染，并不是危言耸听。你仔细想想，难道你没有注意到有人也发生了跟你类似的情况？症状也很相像……”

他目不转睛地瞧着我。他是什么意思？他指的又是谁呢？难道……

“我跟你说……”我立马从椅子上站了起来。但是，他反而提高了嗓门说道：“……至于你说自己患了失眠症和经常做梦，我的建议是你应该多散步。长途跋涉对你会很有帮助的。明天早上你就可以试试……比方说，你可以一直走到古宅那里去。”

他的眼光又转向我，像要看透了我一样，脸上露着微笑。我察觉到，那个微笑里藏着的字母——是那个名字，那个对我来说非常特别的名字……这会不会是我的幻想呢？我迫不及待地等他写好了证明书，是今天和明天两天的病假证明。接着，我便又一次紧紧握住了他的手，便快速地跑到了外面。

我觉得轻松无比，像飞船一样越飞越高……我知道，明天会有很美好的事发生。它又会是什么呢？

笔记之十七

透过绿墙玻璃

我死了

走廊

我有些迷惘了。就在昨天，我还以为一切问题都将豁然开朗，所有X都已经有了答案，但是，在我的方程式里又出现了新的未知数。这个未知数的坐标原点在古宅那里。从这个原点延伸开去，x轴，y轴，z轴都无限延长，而由它们所构筑的世界已经侵入了我的生活。

此刻我正沿着x轴（第59号大街），朝原点方向走去。昨天所发生的一切仍然像五颜六色的风暴一样在我脑中翻卷着：那颠倒的房子和人，我那两条不听使唤的胳膊，以及发光的剪刀嘴，还有水龙头滴答的滴水声……这一切都曾存在过，它们就深陷在烤软的玻璃表层的里面，就是那个“灵魂”在的地方，在那里飞速地旋转着。

我遵照医嘱，特别选了这条路线，这不是一条斜边，而沿着直角边所走的路线。此刻我已经来到了直角上了第二道边线上，就是绿墙边上的坡路上。绿墙之外是无边的绿色海洋，那里有树根、树枝、花朵和树叶，它们所组成的气浪铺天盖地地朝我袭来，我就要被吞没了，我将从一个最精细、最精密的机器变成……

但非常庆幸的是，在我和那野蛮的绿色海洋之间有玻璃绿墙的阻隔。啊，绿墙，这是多么伟大、英明的存在啊！这是人类最伟大的发明。当绿墙被筑起时，人类终于要脱离野蛮。当我们这座绿墙竣工之时，世界终于被隔绝开来，一端是由树木、鸟兽所组成的野蛮而混乱的世界，而另一端则是机械的、完美的理性世界。从此以后，人类不再是野人。

在墙的另一边，我隐约看到了一头野兽，它隔着玻璃正傻傻地看着我，那黄色的眼睛似乎在表达某种我无法理解的东西。我们俩对看了好一阵，就像是平面世界和立体世界相互对望的两个黑洞。我甚至突然意识到：“这个黄眼睛的脏兮兮的家伙虽然身处混乱的绿色海洋之中，也许它的生活比我们还倒快乐呢？”我举手挥了一下，黄眼睛眨巴眨巴，就转身离开了，很快就消失不见了。可怜的小家伙！我怎么会想到它比我们要幸福呢？我简直疯了！不过，也许它真的比我幸福，至少，我是个例外吧，我病了啊。

我意识到我快要走到古代房子了。因为，眼前就是古宅的朱红色院墙了，还有那个老太太合拢成一团的嘴。我飞速地朝她奔去：

“她在这儿吗？”

合成一团的嘴慢慢张开：

“她？是谁？”

“啊，还有谁？当然是I-330啦。那一次，我和她一起过来的。”

“哦，对，对。”

她瘪嘴的条条皱纹，还有眼睛周围的皱纹越来越深……她瞧着我说：“告诉你吧，她在这儿，刚进去。”

“她在这里。”这时候，我发现，在老太太的脚旁长着一丛银白色的苦艾（因为这里是史前风格博物馆，所以一切都尽量保持原貌），艾叶的枝条爬在老太太手上，她拍了拍枝条，一道金黄的阳光洒了下来。那一瞬间，我、太阳、老太太、苦艾、黄眼睛……似乎我们突然成为了一个整体，就像有某种涌动的血液让我们紧紧相连似的，那是相同的、令人热血沸腾的感觉……

写到此处，我都有些惭愧了。但是我曾保证过，无论如何，我都会袒露心迹，不做隐瞒的。那么，好吧。是的，这时候，我低下头吻了吻老太太的嘴，那张毛茸茸的，揪成一团的软嘴。她用手擦了擦嘴，露出微笑。

我快速地踩上了楼梯，经过了那些个熟悉的、昏暗的房间。我也不知道为什么我直奔卧室而去。我快速地奔到卧室门口，手已经碰到了门把手，但是，我突然意识到：“若是不止她一个人该怎么办？”于是，我停下脚步，倾听了一会儿。但是除了我的心跳声，什么也没有听到。此刻，心已经不在我的体内了，它跑到了旁边的某个地方突突跳着。

我走了进去。看到那张大床，显然没有被动过。一面镜子，另一面镶在柜子上，锁眼里还插着那个带圆环的钥匙。屋里面并没有人。我轻声呼唤着：“I-330，你在这儿吗？”一声又一声，声音非常低，我屏住呼吸，闭上双眼，如同我正跪在了她面前般呼唤：“I，亲爱的！”仍然没有任何声响，除了水龙头滴水的声音，这声音让我非常不舒服，我也不知道是为什么。连忙跑过去拧紧了水龙头。显而易见，她不在这儿。那么，她是否在别处呢？

我从昏暗的楼梯上走下来。走到每扇门前，我都会伸手拉一下，第一扇门、第二扇、第三扇门……每扇门都紧紧锁着。除了刚才我进入的那个“套间”之外。但是那里也没有人啊。我只得转身走了回去，我自己也不知道，我为什么要这样做。我走得很慢，脚底下似有千斤重，就像有两个铁块粘在了鞋底上。至今我仍然清楚地记得，当时我这样想着：“地心引力不变的说法是错误的。这么看来，我的那些公式……”

我的思绪被突如其来的响声打断了，这声音来自低层的那扇门，它像被用力撞开了一样。砰的一声，接着便是人飞快踩着石板跑的声音。我突然振奋了起来，身体也突然间轻快了。我连忙跑到了栏杆旁，俯下身看过去，说了一声“是你吧”，所有要说的话都包含在这里面了。

突然之间，我愣住了。在楼下的方窗格的阴影里出现的是S的脑袋和他那两只粉红色的招风耳。瞬间的一闪念，我便得出了结论：“决不能让他看见我。”这个结论毫无逻辑可言，也没有任何前提基础（到现在，我也不知道我怎么会那样想）。我踮起脚，轻轻地贴着墙走，想赶紧躲到那间没有上锁的房间里去。

我刚到门口，一秒钟后，S已经上了楼，正朝这边走来。希望门别有声响！我默默祈祷，但是木头门还是吱扭地叫了一声，真是惊心动魄！绿的、红的和黄澄澄的佛像从我身边一闪而过，我飞快地跑到柜子的玻璃镜前：一眼便看到自己苍白的脸……我的耳朵仍然听着，我感觉到浑身血液沸腾……门吱扭被打开了，是他，他迈过了门槛！

我猛然抓住了柜门上的钥匙，看到那晃动的圆环，我突然想起那次与I……脑子随即便闪现出一个决定，这是一个局促的决定，它甚至是没头没尾的闪念。我猛然间打开了柜门钻了进去，随后，又紧紧地关上了门。柜子里面黑漆漆的。我迈了一步，接着脚下一晃，突然觉得自己开始慢慢地往下飘落，眼前全黑了，我要死了！

现在，当我回忆起这段奇妙的经历时，我苦苦思索，认真回忆当时的景象，我也找了一些书来找寻问题的答案。而今，我终于明白了，那是一种暂时的死亡现象。古代人都非常清楚它，但是对于我们来说，这是全然陌生的领域，我们对此一无所知。

我不清楚这种状态持续了多久，可能有5至10秒钟。反正没过多久，我就活了过来。我迅速地睁开眼。四周仍然是一片漆黑，我仍然感觉自己在下沉、不断地往下沉……我伸出手想抓住点什么。但是我碰到了粗糙的墙面，它在飞速上升，因此我的手指流血了。很明显，这一切都是真实的，并不是我的胡思乱想而已。这是怎么一回事？

我听到自己的呼吸声，那声音在颤抖（写出这一点，我并不觉得难为情，因为这一切来得太快了，我还不清楚状况呢）。一分钟，两分钟，三分钟，我仍然在往下沉。最后，我感觉下落的地面突然停住了，它不再坠落了。当仍然一片漆黑，我试着摸索着，摸到了一个把手，我用力一推，门开了。一道昏暗的光线射了进来。同时，我身后的小平台迅速往上升去。我想抓住它，但是已经太迟了。我被落在这儿了……而“这里”是什么地方，我并不知道。

眼前是一条走廊。四周一片寂静。走廊的圆形拱顶下是一串发亮的小灯，构成了一道没有尽头的小亮点儿。这里很像某种地下隧道，不同的时候，这里要狭窄很多，也不是用玻璃建造的，而是一种很古代的材料。我突然想道：也许是某种过去遗留下来的地下通道，相传就在200年大战的时候，很多人在这种地方避难。我没法想太多，只能朝前走去。

大约走了20分钟，向右一拐，眼前便开阔了些，因为走廊变宽了，灯也变亮了。我还听到了嗡嗡的声响。但听不出是机器声，还是人的说话声。我停在了一扇沉重的不透明的门前，声音就来自这里。我轻轻地敲门。随后又使劲敲了一下。门后突然安静了。就听到“当”的一声，沉重的门慢慢地打开了。

出现在我面前的是那个消瘦的、长着剪刀嘴的医生！我不清楚，我们谁更加惊讶。

“怎么是你？”他那剪刀似的嘴随之闭合上了。我目瞪口呆地望着他，不发一言。我好像并没有听到他的话，可能他的意思是，尽快离开吧。不要待在这里。因为我发觉他在用自己扁扁的薄纸肚皮挤着我，将我挤到走廊的亮处去，还使劲推我的背。

“请问……我只是……我想见见她，I-330……但是好像有人在我后面……”

“待在这儿，别动。”医生大声地说，转身离开了……

我终于离她很近了。她可能就在附近，她会来到我身旁，来到这里。那么，现在我身在何处又有什么关系呢？我的眼前又浮现了熟知的杏黄的丝绸，她迷人的微笑，垂着窗帘的眼睛……我的嘴唇、我的双手、我的膝盖都不住地发颤，我的脑子居然胡乱地想：“振动会产生声波，那么，颤抖也是有声的。但是，我怎么听不到呢？”

她瞪大了眼睛瞧着我。我深深地看着她，看到那双眼睛里面去了……

“我没法……你刚才在哪里……怎么会……”

我目不转睛地盯着她看，眼睛根本没法离开她。我语无伦次地胡乱说着，就像得了神经病一样，也可能这些话只是我的想法，我并没有说出口：“有个影子……他一直在我身后……我死了……从柜子里……因为那个医生，他用剪刀嘴告诉我说，我有了灵魂……无法救药……我得出去散步……”

“无药可救的灵魂！可怜的家伙！”I放声大笑，清脆的笑声将我全身都融化掉了，我突然清醒了过来。发觉周身都是或长或短的笑声的音波，闪着亮光。这实在太美了。

拐角处又出现了医生的身影。啊，多么可爱、多么伟大的纸片医生。

“怎么啦？”他来到她旁边。

“没事，没事！回头我再解释给你听。他只是偶然来到这里的。你跟他们说，我很快就过去……十五分钟左右……”

医生又转身离开了。只剩下我和她，门也重重地被关上了。I像一根尖针一样，慢慢地、逐渐扎进了我的心田，我感觉说不出的甜蜜滋味，她的肩膀、她的手，甚至她的整个身体都紧紧地依偎着我。我们如同连体人一般走着。

我已经记不清，我们在哪儿拐进了黑暗中。我也看不清她，只能随着她走着，我们沿着台阶往上走，不停地走啊走。我们都不说话，闭着眼睛，头微微朝后仰着，抿着嘴唇在静听音乐，那音乐是来自我身体的轻微颤抖。

等我终于清醒了，我才意识到自己在古宅庭院的一个隐蔽的角落里，这里还有一道围墙，在墙的上面有一些残乱的光石条，以及大小不一的黄色砖块。她慢慢睁开眼，说道：“后天16点。”说完便离开了。

这所有的事情是否是真实的？我不得而知。也许，只有到了后天，我才能知道答案。而只有一个印记是明确的：那就是我右手的几个手指尖上的蹭破的皮。但是，今天在“积分号”飞船上，副设计师明确地对我说，他亲眼所见，我不停地用砂轮蹭着了这几个手指。可能确实如此。也许吧，那么，我也不知道了。

笔记之十八

逻辑的迷宫

伤口与膏药

不会再来

昨晚我一入睡，便陷入了梦境中，我自己犹如一艘超载的船般沉没了。我的周围是寂静无声的绿色海洋，波涛淹没了我，我慢慢地从水底浮了出来。突然，我睁开眼：看到我仍在自己的房间里！天色还早，这是一个昏暗的早晨。太阳的一丝光亮从玻璃镜柜门上映射到我眼睛里，这光亮让我无法入睡，我没能完成守时戒律表规定的睡眠任务。如果我能将柜门拉开就好了。但是我像陷入了蜘蛛网里似的，没法动。连眼睛也蒙上了蛛网。

最后我费尽了力气，终于挣脱了蛛网。用力拉开柜门；突然，在柜门后面那些挂满衣服的地方，钻出来了I-330！我并没有太多惊讶，因为最近见到的奇事已经太多了。我记得当时我并没有露出吃惊的神情，也没有问什么话。而是连忙跳进了柜子，用力将门关上。随后，我气喘吁吁、用手乱摸着，急迫地搂住I。至今我还记得，当时从门缝中，我见到一道刺目的阳光，它犹如闪电一般，刺进黑暗之中，它一曲一折地映射着地板、柜壁，一直往上——直到这道光之刃落在了I洁白的脖子上……我突然觉得恐惧，惊慌地叫出了声——我又睁开了眼睛。仍然在我的房间里。

依然是那个昏暗的早晨。柜门上映着一道太阳光。而我则好端端地躺在床上。是梦！但是为什么我的心仍然悸动着，它在战栗，它在抽搐；而我的手指尖和膝盖也隐隐作痛。这是真的。此刻，我已经分不清，哪个是梦，哪个是现实了。在我看来，那些充满理性，没有任何疑问的三维空间中，冒出了无数个无理数，那些牢不可破的光滑表面，如今变得粗糙、毛糙、伤痕累累……

起床铃还没有响起。我静静地躺着思索，想找出这些奇特的逻辑链条之间的关系。无论是曲线，还是任何别的形状，在平面的世界里，都有与之对应的公式。但是，我们却并不清楚这些公式所对应的是什么物体。我们甚至不曾见过它们……但是，最不可思议的是，这些无形的物体是真实存在的。虽然我们看不见，但是它们却存在着。在数学的世界里，我们总是看到那些长相奇特的、带钩刺的身影，它们是无理数公式。数学从不会出错，这点它跟死亡一样。所以说，若是在我们的平面世界中，无法找到这些物体，这便意味着，它们存在于非平面空间，即更加巨大的世界中……

我已经等不及起床铃响了，连忙下了床，在屋里来回踱步。到目前为止，在我最近摇晃起伏的生活中，数学是我唯一安全坚实的岛屿，但是如今，它也离开了河床，开始了浮动，还不断地打着旋。所谓的“灵魂”，到底是什么？它是不是也是如我的制服、我的靴子（它们此刻都安安静静地在玻璃镜柜里待着）一样真实的存在呢？若靴子没有病，那么，为什么说“灵魂”就是病呢？我使劲想着，怎么也没法摆脱这荒唐的逻辑迷宫。它就像绿墙之外的某种存在一样，如一座可怕的森林，如一些奇形怪状的、不可言喻的生灵。仿佛，我透过厚厚的玻璃墙，瞧见了它。它是无限大的，但同时又是无限小的，它是那个-1的平方根，又是一个长着毒刺的蝎子。是的，它不是别的什么，它就是我的“灵魂”。它也是古代神话中的那只蝎子，使出浑身力量拼命蜇着自己……

起床铃声响起。新的一天开始了。我所感知的一切都不会消失，也不会死亡，只是被白天的日光照射着而已，就如同我们所亲眼见到的其他东西，随着深夜的来临，它们也不会消失，仅仅是被罩上了夜的黑色而已。我的头脑中升起了某种轻雾。透过这层雾气，我见到一条条长玻璃桌，还有一个个圆脑袋，大家正在整齐划一地咀嚼食物。远处，通过节拍机传来滴答声。在这习惯的、亲切的音乐中，所有人一齐机械地数数——50。这是联合国法律规定的咀嚼一块食物的次数。随后，我跟着熟悉的节拍走下楼，同所有人一样在登记离场本子上签上自己的号码。但是，我却觉得自己同所有的人隔绝着，我仿佛只身一人；被一堵隔音的软墙隔着，墙里面才是我的世界。

但是，若这个世界只属于我，我又何必记录下这一切呢？何必写下那些关于柜子、走廊之类的荒唐的“梦”呢？我觉得很糟糕，我并没有完成一部颂扬联合国的诗韵严谨的长诗，而是写成了一部幻想小说。唉，若它仅仅是一部小说也好啊，至少不是我当下所经历的生活，那些充满着未知的X，以及-1的平方根的堕落生活。不过，可能也没有那么糟！我的那些素不相识的读者们，同我们相比，你们仅仅是儿童而已。我们毕竟是由联合国哺育长大的，而我们也已达到了人类所能达到的最高水平。而你们毕竟是儿童，你们一定非常乐意吞下这丸被幻想小说外衣所包裹的苦药。

同一天傍晚

你们有过这样的经历吗？乘坐着飞船在天空中盘旋上升；舷窗开着，风呼呼地刮进来，掠过你的脸颊。此刻，你离大地越来越远。你甚至忘记了它的存在，因为大地像土星、木星和金星一样遥不可及。此刻我就是这样的感觉：狂风朝我袭来，我不记得有大地，不记得有可爱的O。但是，大地还在，虽然暂时离它远去，但是早晚我会回来。我只能闭上眼睛，不去看登记表上O-90该出现的日期。

今天晚上，遥远的大地向我证明它确实存在。遵照医嘱（我非常乐意，并且真心实意地希望自己康复），我独自一人沿着空荡荡的玻璃大街上散步了整整两个小时，按守时戒律表的规定，所有人都在礼堂里，除了我……实际上，这是一种反常的现象。设想一下吧，若是一根手指，远离了其他手指，它被从一只手上割了下来。它只得孤零零地沿着玻璃人行道，弯着腰，独自奔跑。这多么奇怪、多么反常啊。而我就是这根手指。但是，更为反常的是，这根手指竟然不想跟其他的手指待在一起。它宁愿孤独，或者……是的，我确实这样想，或者跟她待在一起，挨着她的肩膀，握紧她的手指，将自己的整个身心融入其间。

天色已黄昏，我才返回家中。此时，晚霞的余晖笼罩着玻璃房上，也笼罩着电塔的金色尖顶，以及那些说笑的号码脸上。这太奇怪了！晚霞的余光与早晨初升的阳光的照射角度完全一致，但却产生出完全不同的效果，晚霞总是让人心生宁静，甚至有些苦涩，而晨光——则是充满生机的。

当我来到楼下前厅时，控制员U从一堆映着霞光的信件里，找出了一封信，交给了我。我再次重申一下，U是一位令人尊敬的女性，我确信，她对我只怀有诚挚的感情。但是，每当我见到她如鱼鳃般的脸颊，我就觉得不是很痛快。

U伸出瘦干的手将信交给我，同时，她轻轻叹了口气。这一声叹息，只是微微拂动了一下我与世隔绝的窗帘，我的整个身心都集中在这封信上，我甚至捏着它手指发抖。我相信这一定是I写给我的。

接着，我又听到了一声更重的叹息。这次，它引起了我的注意，我抬起头来，将目光盯在了鱼鳃脸颊和那因羞涩而低垂的眼睑上，她露出一个温柔、有点哀伤的微笑，随后说道：

“可怜，真可怜啊！”随后又是一声加重的叹息，随后，她似不经意间朝信瞥了一眼（按照规定，她当然已经看过了信的内容了）。

“什么？……你怎么会这么说？”

“不是的，亲爱的，其实，比起你自己，我更加了解你。我早就注意你了。其实，你需要一个比你更有生活经验的人，这样的人才能更好地陪伴你。”

她又一次微笑，这微笑像一贴膏药一样贴满我的全身，而那创伤自然来自我手上的信。随后，她害羞地低声说：“我再想想，亲爱的，容我再考虑一下。相信我，如果我有足够的勇气……”

伟大的全知全能者啊！她刚才到底在说什么？……莫不是她想要……

我有些头晕目眩，眼前好像有成千上百根正弦曲线，我的手颤抖个不停。我连忙走到墙旁的亮处。阳光越来越暗，有些悲伤地洒在我身上、地板上、手上以及信笺上。我飞快地拆开信，迅速扫了一眼签名：我的心裂开了一个口子：信不是I的，而是来自O。在信页的右下角有一滴已经化开的墨水渍，墨水渍，这又是一个伤口。我顶厌恶墨水渍了，不管是墨水渍还是其他别的什么，我都无法忍受。如果是以前，这样的墨渍最多让我感觉不快。但是，如今，这个灰色的墨水渍却像一块乌云一样，逐渐弥散开，越来越浓，越来越黑，这到底是怎么了？难道又是“灵魂”在起作用？

信的内容是这样的：

你懂得……或者，你并不明白……我向来不大会写信。但是，我也顾不得这些了。现在你懂了吧，没了你，我没法再活下去了，我不再有光明，不再有春天了，因为R，他其实……当然，这跟你也许无关了，虽然是这样，我还是对他感激不尽。最近这些时日，若没有他，我真不知道该如何是好……最近这些日子，我觉得仿佛过了十年，不，可能是二十年。我的房间也变了样，它不再是四方形的了，而是变成了圆形——没有尽头，我一遍遍地转圈，转了一个又一个，总没有个头，一扇门都没有，我甚至找不到出口。

我不能失去你，因为我爱你。我知道，我没法再跟你在一起了。我深知，现在世上你只需要那个女人。所以，就是因为我爱你，我不能再……

大概需要两三天的时间，我才能将那个破碎的我缝合起来，能恢复一些过去的О-90的样子。到时候，我会亲自提出申请，将你从我的名单上剔除。这样你就会觉得舒服一些。你也会得到你想要的幸福。我不会再来了。

永不再见了。

不会再来。这当然很好，她说得没错。但是她为什么要这样呢？为什么呢？

笔记之十九

第三级的无限小

鼓额头的人

越过栏杆

她说“后天见”。她是在哪里说的这句话。是在那个走廊里吗？那个亮着一串小灯的昏暗的走廊里……好像不是那里。应该是……对，在古宅院子里，那个隐蔽的角落里，她说的那句话。那么，“后天”，也就是今天。我眼前的一切都插上了翅膀，时间仿佛也在飞，“积分号”也插上了翅膀，推进器已经安装完毕，今天我们还对它进行了无负载的试验。那轰鸣声是多么震撼啊！又是多么美妙动听啊！在我看来，那每一声轰鸣都是对她的敬礼，对那个我心中的唯一的敬礼。

在进行首次喷发实验时，有12名工作人员站在那儿，当轰鸣声音响起时，他们便化为了焦灰。仅有的一些残屑证明他们曾存在过。这时候，我非常骄傲地宣布：这个意外事件并没有影响我们的工作情绪，没有人因此而退缩。机器仍然在照常运转，没有任何偏差，仿佛一切都不曾发生一样。12个号码，只是占据了联合国10亿分之一的份额。这个数字，若应用在数学领域，仅仅是三级数的无限小而已。所谓的怜悯之心只有古代人才会有，他们之所以会这样，完全是出于对数学概念的无知和轻视。这当然十分可笑！

同样地，我也觉得自己很可笑：就在昨天，我竟然因为一团微不足道的污渍而耿耿于怀，这太荒谬了！这都是镜面软化的表现，所谓镜面就应该像墙面一样坚韧，如钢铁般坚硬才对。写到此处，我立即想到了一句古代谚语：“用鸡蛋来碰石头”。

16点钟。我没有去散步，因为，她可能会出现。我并不想因此而错过与她会面的机会。而此时的太阳光也很刺眼。

我，应该是玻璃大楼里唯一的一个人。透过洒满阳光的玻璃墙，我朝外望出去，我的上下左右，全是一个个空房间，它们长得也一样。放眼望去，如同一面面镜子一般，互相照射着。只有在浅蓝色阴影投射下的灰暗楼梯上，有一个身影，她是灰色的，瘦弱的，此刻正在往上走着。我甚至听到了脚步声。透过门，我看出去：一贴膏药似的微笑渐渐靠近了。而过一会儿，这个影子转到了另一条楼梯上，走了下去。联络机突然响了。我连忙奔了过去，那白色的显示屏上出现了一个我不认识的男性号码！

电梯门打开了，首先映入眼帘的是额头——他的额头突出，身材高大，歪戴着一顶帽子，而眼睛……长得有些奇怪，令人望而生畏。仿佛它们在说话。

“她给你的信（这声音是从突出的额头下传上来的）……她要求你必须……按照信上的话去做。”

说完，他转头看了一眼周围。没有别人，“快点接信呐！”

他将信塞给我，转身走了。

只剩我一个人。不，不是的。还有她。信封里有一张粉红票，我甚至闻到了她身上的味道，那淡淡的香气。快看信，看看她说了什么。我迫不及待地开始看信，怎么可能呢？我又看了一遍，上面只有短短的三行字：“粉红票子……请你务必要放下窗帘，就像我真的在你那里……一定要让他们这么认为……非常对不起……”

我将信撕碎了。我见到了镜子里那个我，他皱着眉，眉毛都要拧成几段了。我拿起粉红票子，想也撕碎了。但是，我的脑海中突然听到了那句话：“她要求你必须……按照信上的话去做。”我的手松开了，胳膊耷拉着，票子依然好端端地在。不得不承认，她比我强大，我只能照她说的做。但是……也未必吧。再等等吧，反正时间还早。

票子仍然待在桌子上。我看到镜子中的自己，那纠结地拧成几段的眉毛。我怎么没想到去开一个医生证明呢。我真想出去散散步，沿着那绿墙使劲走，使劲走。等走到筋疲力尽了，我就回去瘫倒在床上——一动不动，就这样睡去也好……但是，我必须赶到13号礼堂去。我必须控制住自己，默默地坐上两个小时！我只能一动不动地坐着，但是，我心中想做的是吼叫和用力跺脚！

讲课开始了，太奇怪了，今天的机器演讲者的声音变了，不再是金属般富有节奏的声音，而是软绵绵的、毛茸茸的，还有点苍老的声音。哦，这是个女人的声音，她的形象在我的脑中一闪而过，她弯着腰，瘪着嘴，满脸皱纹，就像古宅门口的那个老太太。

古宅……一想到它，我就热血沸腾，思绪一下子充斥着我的头脑，如喷泉一般。我一定要控制住自己，以免我会喊叫起来。那软绵绵、有点苍老的声音充斥着我的耳膜。我只听到儿童和儿童学的话。我就像照相感光板一样，将眼前的景象，精确无比地印刻了下来：金色的镰刀（应该是扩音机上的反光），还有个孩子，作为实物……他正向扬声器的方位挪过去。嘴里咬着制服的衣角，小拳头握着，大拇指按着，胖乎乎的手上有肉褶。我仍然精确无误地印刻下这一切：那孩子的一条腿露了出来，伸到了桌子的外边，五个脚趾像小扇子一样张开着……眼看，他就要摔下来了！

此时，我听到了一声尖叫。这是一个女性号码的声音，像扇动着翅膀一样，她飞到了台上，护住了孩子，嘴唇吻到了孩子手腕上的肉褶，孩子被挪到了桌子中间，她便转身走下了台。以下的场景也同样印刻在了我的脑海中：那粉红的、如新月般的嘴唇，还有泪汪汪的蓝眼睛。原来是O。我很轻松地找到了这个因果公式的答案，觉得这实在是件太无关紧要的小事。

她坐在我左手边，位置稍稍靠后一些。我回头看了她一眼。她不声不响地将眼光从孩子的身上移开，转向了我，目不转睛地看着我。因此，她、我与台上的桌子又形成了三个点，我迅速将三点连成三条直线，觉得这是某种未知的事件的映射。

我走在幽暗的、暮色浓重的街道上，走向通往回家的路，路灯仿佛是一只只眼睛，不断地盯着我瞧。而我则化身为钟表，不停地滴答作响。我感觉我身上的指针，就要脱离钟摆的控制，再这样走下去，我将没有任何退路了。她要让某个人认为她跟我在一起。而我只要她，至于她需要些什么，又跟我有什么关系呢？我不想一个人待在窗帘后面——我不乐意，就是这样。

身后传来了熟悉的踩水洼的声音。我用不着回头，一定是S。他没准会一直跟着我走到大门口，然后可能就在人行道上盯着看，想着用他钻头般的眼睛钻进我的屋里来，直到我放下窗帘。

他是我的守护天使吗？不是的。我已经想好了。我进了房间，打开灯。我以为我看错了，我实在不敢相信：居然O赫然站在我的桌子旁，“站”似乎不准确，应该说是“挂”。她就像一件衣服那样挂在那儿。衣服里面仿佛没有了肉体，只有单薄的衣服架子，她的手脚都没有了弹性，直挺挺地站在那里。

“我过来是想问问，你收到我的信了吗？你收到了吧！我需要知道你的答复，今天必须要给我答复。”

我耸了耸肩。我很喜欢看她充满泪水的蓝眼睛，仿佛是她做错了事。我犹豫着，不知道该说什么好。后来，我挑衅地说道：“答复？要什么答复？……你信里说的，都是对的。”

“那，好吧……（她笑了一下，想用这个笑来掩饰她的颤抖，但是被我发现了。）好！我马上……马上就走。”

她并没有走，而是靠着桌子挂在那儿。眼睛、手和腿都耷拉了下来。桌上还有I的粉红票子。我连忙将《我们》的手稿打开，盖住了粉红票子。我这么做，只是不想让自己看到它，并不是因为O。

“看，我仍然在写着。已经完成101页了……里面还有一些意外的事……”

她默默地接着说道：“你记得吗？……在第7页上……我还洒了些墨渍……”

她的蓝眼睛里已经盛满了泪水，它们急匆匆地迅速滑落到了脸颊上，接着，快速的语句也跟着泪水溢了出来：

“我无法忍受了，我立刻就走……我以后不会再来了……但是，我仍然希望，我一定要有你的孩子。我必须要！你给我留下一个孩子，这样，我不会再来！”

我看到了她的身体在颤抖，制服也随之抖动着，我突然感到，我也要……我将手背到身后，笑着说：

“怎么？难道你想尝尝死刑机的滋味吗？”

她的话如决堤的洪水般涌了过来。

“我不在乎。我只是想感觉，感觉到他在我的腹中，哪怕就几天也好……只要能看到，只有一次也好，看到他手上的小褶子，就像今天在礼堂看到的那个孩子。哪怕只有一天，我也乐意！”

三个点：她、我，还有桌上那带肉褶的小拳头……我想起了我的小时候，有一次，我们被带去参观电塔。当塔的顶端，我探身往下看，看到下面的人都成了小点点儿。那时候，我的心里突然发紧，但是又很激动，我想着：“如果我跳下呢？”但是，手却抓得更紧了。而如今，我却真的要跳下去了。“你真的想这样吗？你要清楚……”

好像怕被阳光照到，她闭上了眼睛，而脸上却洋溢出欣喜的微笑。

“是的！我想这样做！”

我迅速地从手稿下抽出那张粉红票子，这是另一个女人的票子。我飞快地跑到了值班控制室。此时O抓住我的手，喊了一声，可我并没有听清楚，直到我返回来才意识到，她说了什么。

她坐在床边上，两只手紧紧地夹在膝盖中间。

“这……这是她的票子吗？”

“这有什么所谓？嗯，是她的。”

有个声音咔嚓一响。可能是O身子挪动的声音。她依然坐着，双手夹在膝盖中间。

“怎么了？赶紧地……”我粗暴地使劲捏了她的手腕，在如孩子般胖乎乎的肉褶旁，出现了一道红印子，大概明天就会变成青紫色……这是我最后的记忆片段……我按下了窗帘开关，思想也随之消失，一片漆黑，只有少许飞溅的火星，我从栏墙上跳了下去……

笔记之二十

放电

思想的材料

零度悬崖

放电，用这个词来形容此刻的我，再合适不过了。我觉得最近自己确实像经历了放电一样，这些日子我的脉搏变得越加干燥，感到频繁的紧张，阴阳两极越加靠近，已经出现了干裂之声，若再移近一毫米，就会爆炸——随之，便安静下来。

此刻，我的内心很平静，我仿佛待在一个空荡荡，没有一人的空间里。只有我，静静躺在病床上，我能够清晰地听到思想断裂的咔嚓声。

可能，通过这次“放电”，我的“灵魂病”被彻底治愈了。我又变得跟大家一样了，至少目前，当我想到若此刻O站在立方体高台之上，或坐在气钟罩之下时，我没有丝毫的难过。若她告发了我，我也觉得无所谓。在我生命的最后时刻，我一定会虔诚地、带着感恩之心泪流满面地亲吻全知全能者的惩罚之手。在联合国，每个接受惩罚的号码都有这个权利。我会好好享受这项权利。任何一个号码都不会，也不愿意拒绝这唯一属于我们自己的特权，他们都备感珍惜。

……正负极的思想依然在脑海中冲突着，我仍然能听到犹如金属般的咔嚓声。我仿佛被飞船载着飞往抽象思维的蓝色高空。这里空气稀薄，在这纯净的空间中，我感觉自己“有效权利”的观念，如轮胎一样破裂了，“啪”的一声脆响。我知道，这应该是一种返祖现象，受这种现象的传染，我才会思考起“权利”来。

有的思想是黏土质的，而有的思想则是金子的，或者是由十分宝贵的玻璃雕凿而成的，它们会永存于世。若想知道某种思想的材质，只要在上面滴一滴强酸溶液就可以了。古人将这种酸液称为脱氧剂。但是他们惧怕它，他们不敢这样做。因此，他们宁愿要黏土质的思想，将它认作是人间天堂，而这其实就是孩子们的玩具罢了。而我们（要感谢全知全能者），我们是成年人，我们不玩玩具。那么，我们就来做测试吧，连那些古人当中的最有头脑者也明白：权利来自力量，只有力量才会产生权利。我们眼前有一架托盘天平：一个盘中是一克的重量，而另一个盘子里则放了一吨的重量；一克相对一吨，正如这个托盘中是“我”，而另一个则是我们，即联合国。结果很明显了，觉得“我”有某种权利，就意味着一克与一吨相等。因此，结论也就不言自明了：若要给一吨以权利，就要给一克以义务。只有这样，才能从渺小到伟大，因此，必须要忘记自己是一克，而要牢记一克只是百万分之一吨……

你们这些面色红润、身材魁梧的金星人啊，还有这些脸皮黝黑，如铁匠般的天王星人！在这片蓝色寂静中，我感觉到了你们的满腹牢骚。可是，你们不要忘记：一切伟大都源于简单至极；在所有的原理中，只有四则运算是坚固的和永恒的。因而，只有在此基础之上的道德，才是伟大的、亘古不变的。这真理是几百年来人们艰难跋涉、不畏困苦奋力攀登的金字塔的顶峰后才得到的。身处于这样的高峰之巅，你才会意识到人类内心中残存的祖先的野性，他们仍然像蛆虫一样缓慢蠕动着；身处这样的高峰之巅，你会看到O的母性、谋杀，还有亵渎全知全能者的那个狂妄的诗人，这都是犯罪，他们都犯了死罪。这才是最公正的审判，那些住在石头屋子中的古人曾抱着天真的幻想，想要的所谓公正的宣判，在这里已经出现了。在历史的某个最初阶段，这种审判曾经出现过，那就是他们的上帝将诽谤神圣教会的人处以极刑之时。

你们这些神情严肃的、有着黑皮肤的天王星人，你们很聪明，就如同古代的西班牙人一样，他们发明了火刑，你们此刻不说话，但是我知道你们与我同在。什么？肤色白皙的金星人，你们在议论，你们在说着刑讯、惩罚和回到野蛮时代的话。亲爱的星球人！我怜悯你们，因为你们远离了数学的哲理。

要知道人类历史的进程，如飞船般盘旋上升。然而圆周与圆周又有着区别：有的金色的，而有的则是血红的。但是相同的是，它们都旋转360度。从0度开始旋转，10度，20度，200度直至360度，最后又回到0度。是的，我们又回到了原点。但是对于有着数学逻辑的头脑来说，这个零已经不是之前的那个零了。这是全新的开始，我们从零开始向右出发，却从零的左边回来，负零已经取代了正零。你们懂我的意思吗？

这个零出现在我眼前，它像一条狭长的、静默的巨大的悬岩，它尖如利刃般矗立着。在黑暗的夜色之中，我们屏住呼吸，离开了零度悬岩黑夜的这一边。经历了几百年，我们这些哥伦布们不断地远航……我们环绕了整个地球，最终，我们得胜凯旋！众人爬上了桅杆，喜悦地看着眼前这个全新的零度悬岩。它笼罩在联合国的北极光中，这里漂浮着浅蓝色的浮冰，有彩虹，也有太阳，闪着光，明亮刺眼。仿佛有几百个太阳，几亿道彩虹……

仅仅一把刀子的厚度，就将我们与零度悬岩的黑暗隔开，这是怎么回事呢？刀刃是人类的杰作，它是最坚固、最不朽、最充满灵性的天才之物。刀是断头台的主角，刀是斩断困境的极致工具，刀刃切开的是谬误邪说，而无畏的思想之路正如同刀刃一般……

笔记之二十一

作者的责任

膨胀的冰

难捉摸的爱

昨天是她应该出现的日子，但是，她依然没有出现，又派人送了一张纸条给我，上面潦草地写了几个字，含糊不清。但是我内心却十分平静，没有一点波澜。我依然照她信中吩咐的去做，将她的粉红票交给了值班员，获得准许之后，便放下窗帘，独自一人待在屋里。我之所以这么做，并不是因为我没法忤逆她的意。仅仅是因为，窗帘能将一切隔绝开来，这一切包括那如膏药般的微笑，敷衍的话语。只有这样，我才能安静地完成我的笔记。当然，还有一个原因是，我不想失去解谜的钥匙，即I-330，只有从她那里，我才能找到答案，像柜子之谜，以及我的短暂死亡等等。因为这是我的责任，作为笔记的书写者，我必须要将这些未知数解开。况且，人并不喜欢未知数。所谓智人，只有当他的语言符号中，不存在问号，只有惊叹号、逗号和句号的时候，人才是完美的智慧化身。

我觉得身为记事作者，我有责任解开谜团。因此，在今天16点的时候，我坐上了飞船，前往古宅。当时风很大，也很急，飞船非常艰难地前行着，就像眼前是一座密林，很多的树枝不停抽打着船身，让它寸步难行。而下方的城市，却像被蓝色的坚冰垒筑而成的。突然，眼前出现了云，飞掠而来，将城市遮挡住。接着，冰层膨胀，变成了如铅块般沉重的存在。就像春天，你站在岸边看河面的冰层，眼看着它就要断裂、破碎了。可是，一分钟之后，它仍然毫无动静。接着，又过了一分钟，它还没有动，但是你的心却怦怦跳，一直跳个不停，而且越跳越快……不过，我为什么要这样写呢？怎么会有这么奇怪的感受呢？事实上，我们所生活的世界是那么坚固、透明，又恒久不变的，怎么会有破碎呢？

古宅门口并没有人，我沿着房子的四周走了一圈，终于，在绿墙附近找到了看门的老太太。她支着手掌来挡日光，朝上看着。在墙的边缘，有几只小鸟盘旋着，它们长得像尖三角似的，边叫边俯冲过去，胸脯冲撞到了无形的电压网，它们跌了回去，不断抽搐着。

在她深深的布满皱纹的脸上，我见到瞬间闪现的阴影，她飞快地看了我一眼，便说道：

“谁也没有，谁都不在那！所以，你不必来。是的……”

我不必来？这种说法多么奇怪啊，为什么就认定我是某个号码的影子呢？应该是你们所有人都是我的影子才对！难道不对吗？我将你们所有人都写进了记事本里。你们住进了那个过去是一页页四方形的空白纸上。若是缺了我，那些由我引路在一页页文字小路中行走的人们，能遇见你们吗？当然，这些话我并没有说出来。经验告诉我，最痛苦的是让人怀疑自己是否真实存在。因此，我便板着面孔告诉她，她的任务只是给来人开门。于是，我顺利地进了院子。

院子里空无一物，没有一点儿声息。墙外的风声犹在，但似乎已经远去了，就像那天的情形一样。我仍然记得那天，我们从走廊里出来，两人肩并肩，合二为一的情况——如果那确实存在的话。我来到了石砌的拱门下面，脚步声通过潮湿的拱顶回荡着，接着又落到了我身后。我觉得似乎有人跟着我。眼前是露着红色小砖头的斑驳的墙壁，通过墙面上的眼睛，也就是它的方形窗户，它观察着我的一举一动。看着我打开吱扭作响的谷仓门，看我左顾右盼地研究那些角落，以及各处的通道……我仔细看了看围墙上的门，门外是一片荒地——这里有二百年大战的纪念碑，地上还有东倒西歪的砖石斜脊，墙基上还有裸露的黄砖，以及古代炉灶，上头还有个烟囱，看起来就像一艘永恒的舰艇化石，停泊在此处。

这些黄砖，我记得在哪里见过它们，但是我实在想不起来了。此刻我就像透过水层，看到了水底的东西一样。我开始四处搜寻：我跌进坑里，摔倒了，脚下是绊住我的石块，生锈的铁条钩住了我的衣服，我汗流浃背，咸涩的汗水进入了我的眼睛。

没有，我没有发现从地下走廊到地面的出口——什么也没有。不过，可能这样更好一些，这至少表明，所有的一切都是我的荒唐的“梦境”。

我已经没有力气了，我直起身来，带着满身的蛛网、尘垢，疲惫地推开了围墙门，准备回到大院里去。突然，我听到了身后轻轻的脚步声，还有类似踩水般的声音。S出现在了我的面前，依然露出他那粉红色的招风耳和佝偻的身形。

他眯起眼，小钻头直接钻进我的眼中，问道：

“你在散步？”

我没有应声。我的双手真够重的。

“怎么样，你觉得好些了吗？”

“是的，谢谢你。我快要健康如常了。”

他不再问了，而是抬眼往上望去，头仰着，第一次，我见到了他的喉结。

在不远处的上空，大概离我们头顶五十米的地方，有飞船。它们飞得不高，也很慢，每架飞船上都有一支长筒观察镜。我看出这是安全卫士局的飞船。与往常不同的是，今天数量很多，足有10架到12架之多（非常抱歉，我只能说个约数）。

“怎么会有这么多？”我大着胆子问了一句。

“怎么？嗯……通常好医生都是在病人还没有患病的时候，就开始准备治疗了；而事实上，可能病人要明天、后天，或者一星期后才会生病。这是有效的预防！”

他点了一下头，便啪嗒啪嗒踩着院中的石板离开了。临走前，他转过头来，侧着身子说道：“小心！”

剩下我一个，一切又安静了下来，我感觉到空洞。绿墙之外，鸟儿依然在盘旋，凉风阵阵。他为什么这么说？我乘坐飞船，在空中飞行。云彩的阴影投射过来。底下是蓝色的屋顶，还有如冰层般的玻璃立方体，慢慢地，它们又变成了铅色，日益膨胀……

傍晚

我再次拿起笔，我想将那快要来临的伟大的一致日记录下来，写写我的想法，我觉得这些想法对你们，即我的读者们是非常有好处的。但是当我静静地坐下来书写的时候，我发觉，我没法写它。此刻，我只是静静地倾听风的拍打玻璃墙的声音，我忍不住四处张望了一番，似乎在等着什么。等着什么呢？连我自己也说不清楚。只是，当我见到红棕色的鱼鳃来到我屋里的时候，我非常高兴。这是真的，我很庆幸此刻她过来了。她坐了下来，认真仔细地将制服的褶皱扯平，随即给了我一个熨帖的微笑，这微笑迅速蔓延我的全身，我觉得很舒服，就像古代的婴儿一样，被牢牢地粘紧在襁褓里。

“你知道吗，今天，当我走进教室（她工作的地方是儿童教育工厂）的时候，就看到墙上的漫画。我没有说谎，他们居然把我画得像条鱼。可能，我确实……”

“不不，不是这样的。”我连忙对她说。（其实，如果仔细看她的话，你会觉得并没有什么地方长得像鱼鳃。这点是确定无疑的，至于我以前在笔记中提到的鱼鳃之类的话，是不严谨的。）

“嗯，其实说到底也没有什么大不了的。但是，你要知道，这样的行为，的确很不好。因此，我就报告给了安全卫士们。我很爱孩子，我认为，最伟大的，也是最难能可贵的爱就是严酷。你明白吗？”

当然。她说的话跟我的想法非常相似。我忍不住将记事二十章中的内容读给她听，这段开头的那句是：“思想依然在脑海中冲突着，我仍然能听到犹如金属般的咔嚓声……”我感觉到她红棕色的脸颊正在发颤，她离我越来越近，愈来愈向我凑近过来，此刻，她瘦削的甚至有些扎人的手指正放在我的手里：“交给我，请将这个交给我！我要抄下这些话，让孩子们背下来。跟那些外星人相比，我们更加需要它。此刻需要，今天、明天、后天都需要。”

她环顾四周，随后压低声音说道：“你知道吗？听说，在一致日那天……”

我猛地站了起来：“什么？听说了什么？一致日会怎样？”

那道舒适的围墙消失了，我自己仿佛被猛然抛到了外面，狂风在肆虐着，乌云越压越低……

U沉稳而决然地搂住了我的肩，我意识到她的手指也在微微颤抖，她被我的激动情绪所感染了。

“先坐下来，亲爱的，别激动。什么话没有呢？我们未必都要相信啊。再者，只要你愿意，那天我会陪着你的，我会和你在一起的。亲爱的，其实，你也是个孩子啊，只要你需要……”

“不不，”我连忙摆着手说，“不必这样！千万不要这样。你真的觉得我只是个孩子，认为我没法一个人……不是的！”（必须说实话，那天我还有别的打算。）

她笑着，那笑容的意思好像在说：“呵，多固执的孩子！”她又坐下了，耷拉着眼睛。手又开始不住地摆弄制服裙上的褶皱。又用出乎意料的语调说道：

“我想，我已经决定了……为了你……但是，请你，请你，不要催促我，我还得再想想……”

我并没有催促她。虽然我心里面清楚，我可能是幸运的，也深知若能让别人在晚年感觉幸福，我也会非常荣幸的。

……做了一夜的梦。那个奇怪的翅膀不断拍打着我，我用手护着头，躲着它。接着又梦到一把椅子，它居然能蹦，像马一样。它长得怪模怪样的，类似古代的木椅。我骑着这把椅子跑啊跑，最后跑到了床上。我很喜欢这把椅子，虽然坐在上面并不舒服。

太奇怪了，就不能想出什么办法来消除梦境吗？或者哪怕让它变得理性一些，至少要让它对健康发挥些作用吧。

笔记之二十二

凝固的波浪

一切都在完善之中

我是个细菌

若你此时站在岸边，阵阵波浪带着节拍向你扑来，退去、扑来……突然，波浪静止了，它不再涌动，而是凝固住了，这是多么反常啊。若是某一天我们正依照守时戒律表的规定散步，突然散了队形，乱了阵脚，被迫终止，使得一切都显得混乱而失控。上一次发生类似的事件是在119年以前：一块巨形陨石从天而降，它咝咝燃烧着滑进了队列之中。昨天就差点出现这样的情况。我们跟平常一样，步伐整齐地在散步。那情形跟亚述古迹上雕刻的战士们相类似，1000个脑袋，仿佛是一个人一般，甩动着速率统一的两条腿和频率相同的两只手。在街道的尽头，蓄电发出令人畏惧的轰鸣声。从那里走过来一个四方队形：队列的四周都是卫兵，在方块的中间有三个穿制服的号码。但他们的胸章已经被摘掉了。我们十分清楚发生了什么。高塔顶端有一只巨大的钟，它高耸入云，从底下望上去就像一张脸，一分一秒地向下吐出时间来，傲然地等着。此时是13点06分，四方形队列有些骚动。迎面走来的人靠得很近，我能看得十分真切。我一下便记住了那个青年的细长脖颈，还有太阳穴上鼓起的血管，它们就如同一个神秘世界的河流分支。而这个神秘莫测的世界，就是这个青年。他好像看见了我们队列中的某个人，只见他踮起脚，伸着脖子张望。一个卫兵用电鞭子抽打着他，他的后背上闪出蓝色的火花，他便如小狗一般尖叫了起来。接着，每相隔两秒钟就能听到清脆的抽打声，随着而来的是一声尖利的叫喊。如此循环……我们依然一板一眼地步伐整齐地散步。我看见火花迸射时闪现的优美曲线，心想着：“人类社会在不断前行，永无止境。古代人所用的鞭子多么难看啊……而我们的却如此地美……”

突然，如同一个脱离了轨道的螺母，从我们的队列中跑出一个女人，她瘦弱的身形结结实实地扑过去，并喊道：“住手！不要再打了！”她径直冲向了四方形队列。如同119年前的那枚陨石一般；散步的队列被迫停了下来，凝固了，就如蓝色海浪被寒流冻住了一样。我和其他人怀着同样的心情看着她。她此时已经不是号码了，而是一个人，她此时所做的是对联合国的侮辱。但是，她突然转过身，将腿向左边扭了一下。这个动作使我一下子认出了她。是她，是那个我再熟悉不过的身体，如鞭子般柔韧，我的眼、我的唇，我的手都触碰过它。当时我非常肯定就是她。

两个卫兵朝她奔了过去，他们试图抓住她。在如镜面般明亮通透的马路上，他们就要抓住她了。她就要被他们抓住了。我的心猛地一跳。我已经来不及思考什么了：这样做是对还是不对，是合理还是不合理——我直接冲了过去……

几千双惊恐万分的眼睛直直地盯着我看，但这一举动只是让那个野性的、汗毛浓重的充满原始野性的我，更奋不顾身地冲了过去。他占据了我的全部身体，而且越跑越快，只差两步就要追上她了，突然她一转身……

一张雀斑点点的脸，颤抖而扭曲着，还有棕红的眉毛……不是！天哪，不是I-330！

我兴奋极了，这兴奋来自内心压抑不住的快乐。我想喊：“不要，不要放过她！”但是，我仅仅听到自己喉咙发出了几声低语。而此时，一只手已经重重地压在了我的肩头。我被抓住了，并且被押解着朝前走。我连忙解释：

“你们得听我说啊，你们不知道，我本来以为……”

但是我也没法解释清楚，我为什么要这样做。也弄不明白我的病症的因由，因此，我垂着头，一言不发。任凭他们押着我走……就像一阵疾风刮落了树叶，默默地卑微地坠落着，不断飘落的时候，它仍然想抓住每一根靠近它的熟悉的枝条。我就是这片树叶，想抓住每一个身旁的物体，那些球形的脑袋，那屋墙的透明玻璃，还有那蓄电塔上的蓝色指针。

而今，当厚重的帷幕要将我与世界隔绝开来的时候，我突然见到了一个熟悉的身影。他正沿着镜面般的人行道快速走过来，那个有着大脑袋和一对粉红色招风耳的人。他用我所熟悉的、扁平的声音说道：

“我有义务在此证明，号码D-503有病，他不能控制自己的情绪。而且，我确信，他只是因为不满……”

“对的，就是这样。”我连忙接着说，“我当时还喊了‘抓住她！’”背后有人说道：“你什么都没说。”

“但是我确实是想喊的，我可以向全知全能者起誓。”

一根黑色冰冷的尖锥钻进了我身体里，足有一秒钟。我也不知道他是不是相信我说的话，可能，他觉得我说的（差不多）是真话，或者他还有其他的原因，想先放过我一次。反正，最后写了张条子，交给了那个卫兵。因此，我自由了。也就是说，我又被那些整齐划一的、不见首尾的亚述人队列所包裹了。

而那个四方阵，和它们所押解的雀斑脸和太阳穴，拐过街口了，就消失不见了。我们的队列继续整齐划一地走着。这是一个有着百万个脑袋的身躯，它的每一个细胞都有着充满理性之美的快乐。它体内的号码们就跟分子、原子或者细胞一样，为成为它的一分子而欣喜若狂。

古时候的基督徒，想必也有跟我们相类似的感受。他们是我们唯一的祖先，虽然他们非常不完美，当他们仍然懂得：顺从即为美，骄傲自满则是罪，“我们”为上帝所造，而“我”则来自于魔鬼。

如今，我也和大家一样步伐整齐，但又有些不一样。经历了刚才的情感，我还在不断发抖，就像一列古代火车刚通过的大桥，余颤不断。我感觉到了自己。但是，我过去仅在被风迷了眼睛、手指感染和患牙痛的时候才会感觉到自己，意识到个性的存在。所以，这就十分清楚明白了，有了个性的人就得了病。

也许，我再也不是一个认真地、平静地吞食细菌（有蓝色太阳穴和雀斑脸的细菌）的吞噬细胞。我也成为了细菌。也可能在我们的身边，已经有了成千上万个细菌了。可能，也跟我一样，他们假装是吞噬细胞而已……

若今天发生的事，并不是很严重的话，那么，这可能仅仅是一个开始，是第一块陨石，在它后面还有很多如石头般沉重的燃烧着的巨石，如果它们就这样不断涌来，那将会怎样呢？

笔记之二十三

鲜花

晶体的融化

只要（？）

据说，有的花百年才会开一回。那么，为何就不存在千年一开的花呢？其实我并不了解这些，但是今天我却感受了一次千年一开花的情形。

我乐颠颠地沉浸在幸福之中。从房间走到值班控制员那里去。我看到了很多千年一开的花，她们争奇斗艳地绽放着。周围的一切都吐着花蕊：椅子、鞋子、金色号码牌、电灯泡、某个人的长睫毛黑眼睛、玻璃栏杆、遗失在台阶上的头巾、值班员的小桌子，还有坐在桌旁的U的浅棕色的有点雀斑的脸颊，所有的一切都变了。它们全是新的，鲜亮的，滋润的。

U接过我手中的粉红票子。在她头部的上方，我见到玻璃墙外高悬的月亮，它像挂在枝头上，发着微微泛蓝的光。我兴奋地指着月亮说：“月亮，你看到了吗？”

U抬眼看了看我，接着又瞧了瞧票上的号码，随即用她那熟悉的纯洁的动作，将裙褶弄平。

“亲爱的，你脸色很不好。看起来像是生病了，但是生病和不正常是一样的。你在作践自己，没有人会这么告诫你，没有人。”

这个“没有人”显然指的是票子上的号码。I-330。可爱的U，善良的U，你说得很对。我生病了，我还有了灵魂，我甚至成为了细菌。但是开花，开花不就是某种疾病吗？花蕾绽开的时候，它不会觉得疼痛吗？你难道不认为，精子是最可怕的微生物吗？

我重新走到楼上，回到自己的房间里。I静静地坐在宽大的软椅里。而我则双手抱着她的两条腿，头枕在她的膝盖上，我们都没有说话。一切都是静悄悄的，只能听到脉搏的跳动声……我就像一个晶状体，在她，在I的身上融化开来。我明显地意识到，那几面将我限制在空间中的光滑切面慢慢溶解、消失。我越变越小；但同时，我又不断膨胀、越来越大，大到没有边际。因为她已经不是I，而是整个宇宙。此刻，我与这充满快乐的床边的软椅融为一体。还有，古宅门口那个亲切含笑的老太太，绿墙外的荒野的丛林，古怪的银黑色的瓦砾堆（它就像那个老太太一样打着瞌睡），还有那一扇在远处发出砰然响声的门——这一切都包容在我身上，进入我的体内，倾听我的心跳，在这美妙的一瞬间悄悄流逝。

我语无伦次地说个没完没了，我想告诉她，我是个晶体，在我身上有扇门，我觉得在这把软椅上我非常快乐——但是我说得颠三倒四，又乱七八糟。最终我只是说了一些毫无意义的废话，我只好闭上嘴，感到非常惭愧。我怎么会突然说这些话呢？

“亲爱的I，请原谅我！我不知道是怎么啦，说了这么多蠢话！”

“怎么你会觉得这是些蠢话呢？这难道不好吗？如果我们像教人们智慧一样费尽心机地花费千百年来教人们愚蠢，也许早就已经培养出了某种极其珍贵的东西了。”

“是的……”（我觉得她是对的，此时她说什么话都是真理！）

“……因为你的蠢话，还因为你昨天散步时做的事，我更加爱你了。”

“那么，你为什么要折磨我呢？你为什么不来呢？你为什么给我送来票子，为什么又让我……”

“也许，我是想要考验考验你。又或者，我要确认，你是不是会按照我要求的那样做，完全属于我。”

“是的，我完全属于你！”

她用手捧住我的脸，试图抬起我的头。

“那么，每个诚实号码的义务呢？啊？”

她微笑着，露出那甜蜜的、锋利的满口小白牙。她坐在宽敞的软椅里，就像一只蜜蜂，既有尖刺，又有蜜汁。

是啊，义务……我在脑海中翻阅着我的笔记：的确，记事里哪儿也没写，甚至我连想都不曾想过，而其实，我有义务……

我没有回答。我只是快乐地同时情绪激动地微笑着（可能那个样子非常傻）。我盯着她的眼睛，从这个瞳孔看到那个瞳孔，在两只眼睛里，我都看到了我自己：我很小很小，被缩放在那仅有一毫米高的小小的彩虹房子里。接着，我又享受到了她的嘴唇和花朵绽开时甜蜜的疼痛。

联合国的每个号码体内，都有一个看不见的、轻声作响的节拍器默默跳着，因此，我们不看表，就能精确地知道时间，误差不超过五分钟。但是，现在我的节拍器停了。我不知道过了多久，我战战兢兢地从枕头下抽出带表的胸牌……

感谢全知全能者，我还有二十分钟！但是这接下来的一分一秒又是多么微不足道！它们转瞬即逝！可是我还有多少话要对她说，我要把自己的一切都告诉她。我要告诉她O写的信，还有那个我给了她一个孩子的可怕晚上；不知怎么了，我还想聊聊我的童年，讲讲我的数学老师，还有-1的平方根的问题；以及我首次参加一致日的事，那次我居然伤心地哭了，在这么神圣的节日，我居然因为制服上的墨水渍而难受。

I将自己的脑袋枕着胳膊，嘴角两边是又深又长的两道线，挑起的深色眉毛弯成了弓形，露出一个未知的X。

“也许到那一天……”她微微皱着眉头，停顿了一下，随即抓住我的手，紧紧捏着，说，“告诉我，你不会忘记我，你永远记得我的！”

“你为什么要这么问？出了什么事了？I，亲爱的？”

她没有回答，而是沉默着，也没看着我，她的目光穿过我望向更远的地方去。突然我听到，风从外面用巨大的翅膀扑打着玻璃墙面（当然，外面一直在刮风，只是我刚才没有注意到而已）。不知怎么地我突然想起了绿墙上那些乱飞的飞鸟。

I仿佛要甩掉什么东西似的甩了一下头。她整个人又一次紧贴着我，随后离开，短短的一秒钟，就像一架飞船着陆前的那一秒钟飞快地全力回弹时一样。

“好了，把长袜给我！快！”

她的长袜在桌子上，正好在摊开到第124页手稿旁边。匆忙之中我蹭着了手稿，稿纸散落了一地，想要将它们重新按顺序放好估计是件困难的事。最要命的是，即使我照原样弄好了，它也不可能恢复真正的秩序了。随它去吧，反正有着重重阻碍使我难以做到这个，一些尚不知晓的未知数X就横在那里。

“我不能忍受这种情况，”我说道，“你在这里，现在就在我身边，但好像你和我隔着那不透亮的古墙。透过那道墙，我能听到墙里的沙沙声，还有说话声，但是我听不清说的是什么，我也没法知道那儿有些什么。我没法再忍受下去了。你好像有什么事情瞒着我；你从来没告诉过我，那次在古宅我究竟到了什么地方，那些长廊通往何处？那医生怎么会在那里？也许这一切从来都没有发生过？”

I-330将手搭在我的肩上，慢慢地、深深地看进我的眼睛：

“你想知道这一切吗？”

“是的，我想，我很想知道。”

“你什么地方都敢跟我走？任我把你带到哪里去？”

“是的，天涯海角也可以！”

“好吧。我可以答应你，等过了节日，只要……哦，还有你的‘积分号’呢。这事我总忘了问：它快要完成了吗？”

“没有，你说‘只要’什么？”

她已经到了门口，说：“以后你就清楚了……”

只剩我一个人。她留下的只有一股淡淡的香气，闻起来很像绿墙后面的阵阵甜蜜的、干燥的黄色花粉香；此外，她还给我留下了许多的问号，这些问号就像古代人用来钓鱼的鱼钩（在史前博物馆里我看到过）。

……为什么她突然问起“积分号”呢？

笔记之二十四

函数的极限

复活节

全部划掉

我就像一台超速运转的马达，轴承已经很烫了，再过一分钟，融化的金属就会滴答滴答淌下来，整台机器就要彻底坏掉了。快浇些冷水，给我一丝逻辑吧！我一桶一桶地往上浇，但是逻辑只是在火热的金属表面发出咝咝的响声，很快就升腾成白色蒸汽，在空中消失不见了。

这十分清楚，为了给函数确立真正的意义，应该考虑设定函数的值域。非常确定的是，昨天荒唐的“在宇宙中的融化”过程的值域就是死亡。因为死亡正是自我在宇宙中最完美的溶化。因此，如果用公式表达就是，L代表爱情，C则代表死亡，那么就是L＝f（C），即爱情是死亡的函数。

是啊，就是这样。就是因为这个，我才害怕I，我和她斗争着，我不情愿……但是，为什么在我的思想里，“我不愿意”和“我不由自主地愿意”总是同时存在呢？最可怕的正是这一点：我不断地思念着昨天幸福的死亡。虽然我已经推算出逻辑函数，而且清楚地知道它毕竟引向死亡。但是我的手、我的胸膛、我的嘴唇，以及我肉体的每一毫米都在思念着它……

明天是一致日了。她肯定会出现的。那样，我就能见到她了，但只能在远处看她。隔着距离，那会让我十分痛苦，因为我更希望靠近她，我多么渴望能和她在一起，触摸她的手、她的肩膀、她的头发……即使是这种痛苦，我都十分憧憬，我愿意……让它赶快来吧……伟大的全知全能者啊！我在胡说些什么，我居然想要痛苦。这太不可思议了。谁都清楚，痛苦是负值，加在一起的负值会减少我们的幸福，这会……唉，到了现在什么都没有了……只有空虚，只有无能为力。

傍晚。

从大楼房间的玻璃门望出去，我看到一场激动人心的日落，尽管风还在刮着。我把软椅转过来，以躲避这片粉红色的霞光。我翻笔记，我发现自己居然忘了：写这些笔记不是为了我自己，而是为了你们，我的那些素不相识的读者们，我热爱你们，我也怜悯你们，因为你们至今还生活在几个世纪之前的时代。

因此，我有必要解释一下明天即将到来的伟大日子。我觉得这节日对我们来说，有点像古代人的复活节对于他们的意义。我记得，在节日前夕，我总会准备一份标着小时的时间表；每过一小时，我就认真地划掉一小时——这样就离节日越来越近了，只差一小时了，不到一小时了……此刻，我仍然十分确信的是，若没有别人看到的话，我还会随身带上这么一张时间表，随时关注离明天还差多久。

（有人来了，我的思路被打断了：刚刚缝纫工厂送来了做好的新制服——按照惯例，在一致日前夕，每个号码都会得到新制服。走廊里喧哗了起来，到处都是脚步声，还有兴高采烈的欢呼声。）

我继续往下写着。到了明天，我仍然会看到每年都会出现的动人场景。每回看到这一景象，我都会想第一次见到它时的欣喜，那是万众一心、同心同德的景象，所有人都齐刷刷地举起胳膊。明天是每年选举全知全能者的节日。明天我们又将向全知全能者敬献上我们幸福坚固的玻璃王国的钥匙。当然了，这跟古代人那些乱糟糟的，没有秩序可言的选举完全两样。说来可笑，古代人在选举之前居然对选举结果一无所知。这太荒谬了！更荒谬的是，他们竟毫无预见，凭偶然性盲目地建设国家。但是，要让他们明白这些道理，恐怕至少要经历几百年的时间。

不用多说，我们在这件事上，就像所有发生的其他事情一样，根本不需要偶然性的出现，也不可能发生任何意外。选举本身具有的是一种象征意义。这表明我们是一个统一的、强大的由百万个细胞构成的机体，用古人《福音书》的话说：我们是统一的教会。在联合国历史上这个神圣的日子里，没有任何声音敢破坏这庄严肃穆的齐声合唱——一个也没有。

听说，古代人习惯像小偷一样，秘密地，偷偷地投选票。历史学家还指出：他们甚至会改换姓名、躲躲闪闪地参加选举，甚至还要精心化装一番。现在就来想象一下吧，这是一幅多么荒诞阴森的图景啊：深夜，在广场上，沿着墙根有一些身着黑色披肩的影子，他们蹑手蹑脚地走着，火把的红色火舌被风吹得时明时灭……为什么要这么偷偷摸摸？对于这问题，至今也没有合理的解释。也许，是因为选举总是和某种神秘主义的、迷信的，甚至可能是犯罪的仪式有关吧。而我们可没有什么需要掩饰的，我们也不觉得有什么值得羞愧的事：我们在光天化日之下进行选举，选举是公开的，坦诚的。我看着所有号码都投了全知全能者的票，所有的号码也都看着我投了全知全能者的票。难道还有什么别的可能性吗？既然“大家”和“我”，都是统一的“我们”，那就不会投给别人。与古代人的那种怯懦、猥琐的贼头贼脑的选举相比，我们的选举要更加地光明正大、更加地高尚。此外，这种选举也合理得多。为了预防那绝不可能出现的事，即在常规的单音和声里响起某个不谐和音，那些隐身的安全卫士总是散落其中，在人群中，在各个角落里。在我们队伍里，他们寻找着那些有可能犯错误的号码，将他们导向正轨，以防止他们进一步犯错。联合国是众号码们的！最后，还有……

透过墙壁，我看到左边有一个女性号码正站在柜门的镜子前；她匆忙地解开制服纽扣，有一秒钟的时间，我隐约见到她的眼睛、她的嘴唇，还有她高耸的粉红色的胸膛……窗帘落了下来。接着，我脑子里又出现了昨天的情景，那一切又再度觉醒。我不知道“最后，还有”后面要接什么话。我没法写下去了。是的，我只想要她，对，我只想要I-330。我希望她时时刻刻总和我在一起——只和我在一起，不和别人在一起。而我所写下的关于一致日的内容，都是废话，刚才我写下的话，我真想划掉它，或者把它们撕成碎片，扔掉。因为我明白（就算我所说的是违背天理的话，但这也是我的心里话），只有与她同在，只有当我们俩肩并肩在一起时，才是我的喜庆节日。如果没有她，在我的眼中，明天的太阳也就是个白铁皮的圆圈罢了，而天空也只是一片涂了蓝色的大铁片，而我自己仅仅是……

我连忙抓起了话筒：

“I，你在吗？”

“是的，我在，你怎么这么晚打电话？”

“可能还不晚。我想请求你……我希望你明天和我待在一处。亲爱的……”

我压低声音说出“亲爱的”这三个字，不知怎么地，今天早晨，在我看到操作台之后，脑子突然一闪：人们似乎在开玩笑，将一块表放在百吨级汽锤之下……汽锤猛地一砸，百吨的重量轻轻地、绵软地接触到了脆性的表……

电话那头沉默着，我好像听到电话那边有人在同I窃窃私语，后来她说话了：

“不行，我不能这样。你也知道，我已经有了安排……不，这不可能，我做不到。至于‘为什么’，明天你就会明白了。”

长夜漫漫。

笔记之二十五

自天而降

历史上最大的灾祸

已知的到此结束

清晨，所有号码都起床了，赞美歌如一幅庄严肃穆的幕布，悄悄笼罩着我们，音乐机器想起，几百支铜管和几百万人齐声高唱国歌，歌声震天。顿时，我忘记了一切：忘记了I说过的话，那有关今天节日的暗示性的警告，仿佛连I这个人我也忘记了。现在，我又恢复成了从前的模样，那个当年在一致日上因为一滴制服上的小墨水渍而哭泣的小男孩。虽然周围人并没有看出我身上那洗不掉的黑墨斑。但我自己心里清楚，我是个有罪的人，不是吗？我知道在这些坦荡无私的人群中，像我这样一个罪犯是不该有位置的。唉，如果我能够站起来，尽我所能大喊着冲出去，招认我的所有罪过，那多美好！虽然我会遭殃，但那又如何，随它来吧！至少，我会有一秒钟觉得自己是天真和纯洁无瑕的，如同纯净的蓝天一般。

所有的眼睛都朝上看：清晨纯净的天空湛蓝而明澈，还闪烁着小小的夜露。但很快，它就渐渐变大了，此刻，它正沐浴在阳光之中。这是他——新耶和华，他乘着飞船而来。他和古代耶和华一样睿智，神圣又冷酷。时间一分一秒地过去，他离我们越来越近。成百万颗心一起向他扑去。他已经可以看见我们了。我觉得自己和他仿佛在同一个高度鸟瞰着这一切：那圆形的观众台上围着一圈圈蓝点的同心圆，在上面有一些细小光点（那些都是号码牌），如同蜘蛛网上的一道道丝。在蛛网的中央，有一个白色的睿智的蜘蛛，他就是全知全能者，他就要入席了。他用幸福的有益健康的蜘蛛网将我们的手脚束缚住。

壮观的全知全能者自天而降仪式结束了。管乐的颂歌暂时停止了，全体坐下。这时我立刻领悟到：确实如此，所有的一切就如同一张薄薄的蜘蛛网，它紧绷着，细细地、颤抖着伸展着，好像马上就会抻断，发生一件不可思议的意外似的……

我坐直身子，朝四周看了一遍。我看到许多双亲切的眼睛，它们带着充满敬爱而又惶恐的神情，一张脸一张脸地看过去。我看到有一个人举起了手，手指微微地、几乎难以觉察地向另一个人打手势。对方也同样打手势回答，以及……我懂了，他们是安全卫士。我知道，他们紧张不安，可能他们看出了问题。蜘蛛网绷得很紧，在颤动。我的心仿佛也被调到了同一波段，和它一起颤抖着。

讲台上，一位诗人正在朗诵颂诗，这是选举前的程序。可是我一个字也没听见，我只听到诗歌韵律富有节奏地颤动着，随着摆锤的每一次颤动，我都觉得某一个时刻越来越逼近了。我不断地在人群中搜寻熟悉的脸庞，我一张一张的脸看过去，如同翻阅一页一页的书页。但是，我一直没有找到我想见的那个唯一的脸庞。我必须马上找到她，因为随着诗歌节律的颤动，马上就……

突然，我看到了他。他，在下面，主席台前闪闪发光的玻璃上，我见到一对粉红色的招风耳朵一闪而过。玻璃地面上映出一个佝偻的S形体。他正急匆匆地朝观众台奔去，仿佛一个绳套，正要套中某个号码。

S和I之间，依我看来应该有着某种联系。我一直觉得有一条线将他们连着，虽然到目前为止我也不清楚这到底是什么，但早晚我会弄明白的。我眼睛紧紧盯住了他。他往远处跑去，身后牵着一团线。好，现在他停下来了……那里，我仿佛被雷电击穿了，我浑身僵直，目瞪口呆。在我这圆形横排离我仅有40度角的位置，S站住了，他弯下了腰。我看到了I-330。她旁边坐着微笑的有着厚嘴唇的R-13。

我脑海中闪现的第一个念头是，冲过去，向她质问道：“你为什么要和他在一起？为什么不想和我……”但是，那张无形的有益的蛛网将我的手脚牢牢缠住。我咬着牙，如铁人一般沉沉地坐在那儿，一动不动，而眼睛却死死盯着他们。我感到疼痛，这疼痛来自我的心里，如针扎般。我记得当时想着：“由于非肉体原因引起的肉体上的疼痛，显然是……”

很可惜，我并没有得出什么结论。只记得一时间脑海中闪现的都是关于“心”的想法：还有一句古代熟语叫“心惊胆战”。诗歌朗诵结束了，我战战兢兢地一动不动：这下就要开始了吧，但到底是什么呢？

按照规定，在选举前所有号码有5分钟的休息时间。这时通常总是静默的时间。但是，今天的静默显然有些不同，它不是平常的那种真正虔诚的、肃穆的平静，反而更像是古代暴风雨来临前的宁静。在古代，他们还没有发明先进的电塔，因此，天空还是会偶尔发脾气的，时常雷雨交加，狂风大作。

此刻空气像是由透明的铸铁蒸腾出的蒸汽制成。你必须大口大口地吸气。我的耳朵紧张得发疼，记录着周遭的一切声响：听到远处传来如耗子般偷偷摸摸的窃窃私语。我垂下眼睛，不用看，我就知道那两个人，I和R，他们正并肩地坐在一起，我膝盖上的两只手不断地颤抖着，那不是我的手，那么令人厌恶、那么毛茸茸的……

每个人都看着自己的胸牌，计算着时间，一分，两分，三分……五分……台上终于传来了一个铸铁般凝重的声音：

“赞成的，请举手。”

但愿我能有勇气如从前一般直视他的双眼！我能忠诚地用心呼唤：“我的一切都在这儿。一切都在这儿。我会毫无保留地献给你！请允许我投上一票吧！”但是，此刻我没有勇气。我只能极其艰难地举起手，就像所有的关节都被锈住了一样。

几百万只手簌簌响着举了起来。有人低低感叹“啊！”我觉得出事了，但是我不明白到底出了什么事，我甚至没有勇气抬眼去看看……

“反对的人请举手。”

以往，这是节日中最伟大庄严的时刻。所有人都肃穆端坐着，在这个众号码之王提供的有益枷锁下快乐地低垂着脑袋，喜不自胜。但是，此时，我却惊恐地听到一阵簌簌的响声，这声音就如同一声喘息般轻微，但却比演奏的《联合国颂歌》的铜管乐还要响亮。那声音仿佛是一个人在生命终结时吐出的最后一口气，他周围的人都脸色苍白地看着他，额头上布满了冷汗……我抬起眼睛，看到……

只有百分之一秒就能看清楚：在这一瞬间，我愕然地看到成千上万只“反对”的手整齐地高举着，又整齐地落下。我看见了I那张打着未知数X的苍白脸颊，和她举起的手。我眼前一黑。

又是一个百分之一秒，这是死一般的沉默，只有脉搏声隐约响起。然后，就像是全场都听从一个疯子的指挥似的，看台上霎时发出了各种声响，有咔嚓声、有喊叫声，有无数制服在奔跑，如旋风一般，还有安全卫士的身影，他们惊慌失措地到处乱跑；我见到有人的一双双的鞋底在我眼前乱晃，还有使劲张着嘴，发出撕裂的喊叫声，就像正在上演的一幕幕恐怖的电影——不知为什么这个片段像刀刻般印刻在我的记忆中。

同样也像一幕电影似的，在下边远处，一瞬间，我瞥见了O，看到她面无血色的嘴唇。她紧贴着通道的墙站着，双手护住腹部。不过一眨眼，她就消失不见了，像是被浪头冲走了，或者是我干脆忘了，因为……

以下发生的事不是电影中的情节，而是确实发生在我身边，它发生在我脑子里，在我抽紧的心里，在我疯狂地跳动不停的太阳穴中。在我的左上方，R-13突然从长凳上跳了起来，他满嘴唾沫，脸色通红，如同疯子一般。他手上搂着I-330，她同样地脸色惨白，她的制服被撕裂了，从肩头到胸口，露出白皙的皮肤，皮肤上还淌着鲜红的血。她紧紧勾住了R的颈脖。而他跨着大步从一条长凳跳到另一条长凳，如同大猩猩一般灵活，他们一同跑开。

就像古代大火灾中一样，我四周一片通红。我的心里仅有一个念头：冲过去，跟着他们，抓住他们。现在我也解释不清楚，我哪来的力气，像个冲锤似的冲开人群，踩着人们的肩膀，跳过一条条长凳，很快地，我赶了过去，我用尽力气抓住了R的衣领：

“放开她，你放开她！你敢！你听见没有，立即……”

幸运的是，没有人能听到我在喊些什么。因为所有的人都在喊叫，都在狂奔。

“谁？怎么回事？这是怎么啦？”R-13回过头来，喷着吐沫的嘴唇在发抖。他大概猜测是安全卫士逮住了他。

“我不愿意……我不乐意……马上放下她来。”

但是他只是愤愤地口吐飞沫，摇摇头，又使劲往前跑去。于是，下面我要写的事真让我惭愧，但是我必须如实记录下所发生的一切。你们，我的那些素不相识的读者们，只有这样，你们才能对我的病史做全面的研究。于是，我使出浑身力气，将拳头朝他的脑袋使劲儿挥了过去。你们懂吗，我打了他！这一点我记得十分清楚。我还记得，这一拳下去之后，我居然有种超脱的感觉，全身觉得轻松无比。

I-330一下子从他的手中挣脱了出去。

“你走吧，”她对R大声喊道，“你看不出来，他……走吧，R，走吧！”

R龇着黑人般的白牙，冲我口吐飞沫地喷出一句话，转身就消失不见了。我抱起I，将她紧紧贴在身上，抱着她走了。

我的心使劲地狂跳，心脏膨胀变大，每跳一下，都涌出一股炽热的、快乐的波浪！尽管天塌地陷，我仿佛什么都顾不得了！一个念头在我脑中闪现：“让他们骚乱拥挤吧，就算有什么东西崩溃，有什么东西粉碎，又有什么要紧！只要这样抱着她走就可以了，只要抱着她走……”

同一天深夜，22点。

我几乎握不动笔了。今天早上发生了这么多令人头晕目眩的事情，我觉得十分疲惫。联合国保障我们安全的、坚不可摧的大墙难道就这样轰然坍塌了吗？难道我们又将再次变成头无片瓦的人，难道我们还将回到远祖那样野蛮的生活状态？难道我们将永远失去了全知全能者？反对票……在一致日居然出现了反对票？我觉得他们应该感到羞愧、他们应该惭愧自己的举动。但是，“他们”是谁？而我又是谁呢？“他们”，还是“我们”……我清楚吗？

我将她抱上了最高一级的看台。此刻，她正坐在晒得发烫的玻璃长凳上。她从右肩一直到那美妙的、难以计算的弧线部位都裸露着，一道纤细的鲜血流在上面。她似乎对这些都不在意，这道血迹以及裸露着的胸……不，不应该这样说。她其实注意到了这一切，但她觉得这样正合适，若她穿着整齐的制服的话，她没准会将它撕开，可能……

“等到明天，”她使劲咬紧牙，透过齿缝深深地吸着气说，“明天，没人会知道发生了什么。你懂吗，不仅我不知道，其他人也不知道，因为它是未知的！你知道吗？这是多么值得高兴的事。我们已知的一切坚不可摧的事都已经结束了，将来……将是全新的无法揣测的，难以预测的。”

下面，人海还在沸腾，飞溅着浪花，吼叫着。但这一切都离我们远去了，而且愈来愈远，因为她正看着我，将我慢慢地拉进她的瞳孔的窗户里去。我们就这样互相看着，我们沉默地看着，坐着。不知怎么地，我突然想起，有一天，我隔着绿墙，也朝外看到一双莫名其妙的眼睛，那双奇怪的黄色眼睛，当时，在大墙上还有飞鸟在盘旋着（大概鸟是另一次看到的吧）。

“听着，如果明天没有什么意外发生的话，我会带你到那去，你懂我的意思吗？”

不，我不懂。但我仍然默默地点头。我已经溶化了，成了一个无限的小点，只是一个点……

但是，说到点，归根到底还有点逻辑性，一种适用于今天的逻辑：点，包含最多的未知数，只要这个点移动或微微晃动一下，它就可以变成成千上万条曲线，也可以形成几百个主体形态。

现在，我害怕移动。一旦移动，我不知道我会变成什么？我觉得，所有号码都和我一样，不敢动。

比如，此刻当我写这篇记事的时候，所有的号码都关在自己的玻璃斗室里，看事态的发展。平时的这个时间，走廊里会传来嗡嗡的电梯声、笑声和脚步声。而如今，这些声音都不见了。偶尔还能听到两个两个的号码在走廊里走着，踮着脚尖，悄悄说话，不住张望……

明天会发生什么事？明天我又会变成什么样呢？

笔记之二十六

世界是存在的

斑疹

41度体温

清晨来临。透过玻璃天花板，我看到天空依然跟往常一样，那么结实，那么圆，就像红红的脸颊。我觉得我看到这块正常的天空，比看到天上有个四方形的太阳，或者看到的是披着各种颜色兽皮的人们，而四周的墙都是不透亮的砖墙都更加惊奇。这样看来，世界——我们的世界，是确实存在的。也许世界之所以存在，仅仅是因为惯性的作用，难道发动机已经关闭，而它的齿轮还在继续转动，还要再转上两圈、三圈，直到最后，它才会停下来？

你有过这种奇特的体验吗？你半夜醒来，睁开眼，发现周围一片漆黑，你发觉自己失去了方向，你只能四处搜寻，你想要寻找你所熟悉的和牢靠的东西。就是怀着这样的心情，我看到了《联合国报》，我在上面寻找，我快速地找着……找到了：

“大家翘首以待的一致日庆典昨天举行了。无数次证明自己英明智慧的我们的全知全能者获得了一致通过，连续第48次全票当选。选举庆典中出现了某些骚乱。这些骚乱分子都是反对幸福的敌人，他们破坏了庆典的美好气氛。幸运的是，他们人数很少，因为他们的行为，他们丧失了保持作为联合国新任政权基础的普通一分子的权利。众所周知，他们的选票全部作废。就像音乐大厅里正演奏一曲雄壮的英雄交响乐时，大厅里几个病人发出的咳嗽声，我们是不会将这当成是交响曲的一部分的……”

啊，伟大的全知全能者！这么说，我们最终还是得救了！对这段充满着透彻逻辑性的三段推理，谁还能提出异议呢？下面还有几行字：

“今天12点钟，行政局、卫生局和安全卫士局将召开联合会议。近日将制定一项重要的国家法令。”

哦，绿墙仍然屹然挺立。它们还在！我能感觉到它们的存在。至于那种失落无措的感觉，那种不知道自己身在何方的感觉，已经消失不见了。当我看见蓝色的天空和圆圆的太阳的时候，我再也不觉得有什么奇怪了，大家都像往常一样去工作了……

我走在街上，迈着坚实有力的步伐。我觉得，身边所有的号码跟我一样，他们也迈着坚定的步伐走着。走到了十字路口，正要转弯的时候，我发现有点奇怪。每个人都绕着拐角上的那幢楼房走，就像那栋房子的墙边有条管子裂开了，水正朝外洒出来一样，人们便不得不绕着它走。

我往前走了约五步到十步的距离，我也感到有一股凉水朝我劈头盖脸浇来，也不由自主地躲到了一旁：在大约二米左右高的墙上，贴着一张四方形的纸，上面用毒汁似的绿墨水写着两个潦草的大字：

魔菲[1]

纸的下面站着一个S身形的佝偻身影，背朝着我，他的两只透明的招风耳朵由于愤怒，或者是由于激动在发颤。他伸出了右胳膊使劲扯着那张纸，而左胳膊像一只受伤的翅膀一般耷拉着。他又蹦又跳，想方设法想扯下那张纸来。但是他怎么也够不着纸，大约差半米左右。

可能，每个过路人都这么想着：“这里有这么多人，如果我上去帮忙的话，他可能会以为是我干的。我做贼心虚，所以……”

说实话，我也是这样想的。但是，当我想到，有那么多次，他都充当过我的真正的护佑神，还救过我，于是我便鼓足勇气伸出了援助之手，将那张纸撕了下来。S转过身来，无数根芒刺迅疾地朝我飞了来，钻进我的心里，在那里找到了些什么。随后，他朝墙上之前贴着“魔菲”的地方眨眨眼，微笑着，那神情仿佛很高兴似的。奇怪，这让我有点受惊了。不过这有什么可奇怪的呢？医生总是想让病人出斑疹，体温烧到40度，而不愿病人在潜伏期令人心焦地慢慢地上升体温。这样才能更快地确认病情，我终于明白他为什么发笑了。

我下了地下铁道，脚下干净的玻璃梯级上又贴着一张“魔菲”的白纸。隧道口的墙上，车里的长椅上还有车厢的镜子上，到处都贴着这些白色的斑疹点。看起来是匆忙贴上去的，所以还歪歪扭扭的。

我不得不承认，在这种充满着离奇的、令人不寒而栗的事情过了几天之后，我才真正懂得了S微笑的含义。

人们都沉默着，车轮的嗡嗡声在寂静中显得分外响，就像被传染的血液在悲鸣一般。有个号码被人无意间碰了一下肩膀，他一哆嗦，手里拿的报纸也掉了下来。我左边的一个号码正在读报纸，只见他的眼睛死死盯着一行字看个没完没了，他手上的报纸还在微微颤抖着。我感觉到周遭的所有一切（车轮，手，报纸，甚至眼睫毛）都在跳动着，而且越跳越快……没准儿今天我和I-330到那儿的时候，温度会升高到39度，40度，甚至是41度，或者更高些……

在制造台，也同样的寂静，只能听到远处我们看不见的螺旋桨的嗡嗡声。车床好像也陷入了阴沉的沉思中，默默无语。只有起重机悄悄地、蹑手蹑脚地滑动着，不时弯腰，用它们的大爪子抱起一团团冷缩的空气，装进“积分号”的货舱里去。第一次试航的准备工作已经就绪了。

“怎么样，一周之内能送她上天吗？”我问副设计师。他的脸像一个瓷盘，画着可爱的蓝色和娇嫩的粉花（那是眼睛和他的嘴唇），但是，今天这些小花好像都凋谢了，褪色了似的。我们大声数着数。突然，我在一个词上停住了，张着大嘴愣在那儿：在苍穹之上，装载着蓝色空气团的大起重机上面，隐隐约约地有一块小小的正方形白纸。我不由地颤抖了起来，大概是因为笑得太厉害了。真的，我居然感觉到了自己在笑着（你曾亲耳听过自己的笑声吗？）。

“听着，想象你坐在一架古代飞机上，高度有5000千米，突然一只机翼折断了，你头朝下栽了下去……但在坠落的过程中，你居然还在忙着计算‘明天12点到2点钟该做什么事……2点到6点该做什么事……5点钟是吃饭的时间！’这是不是很可笑呢？我们现在不正是如此吗？”我对副设计师说。

蓝花转动了起来，他瞪大了眼睛看着。幸好我不是个玻璃人，他没法看到我体内的变化。幸好他也不知道三四小时以后会发生什么……

[1] 魔菲：《浮士德》中的魔鬼魔菲斯特的简称。

笔记之二十七

没有提要了

我一个人待在无止境的走廊里。这条走廊我曾经来过……就我一个人，头顶上是黯黑的天空，仿佛是水泥浇灌而成的。不知从哪里来的水滴答滴答地落在石头上。我的前面是那扇熟悉的、沉重的、不透亮的大门……门后传出了低沉的嘈杂声。

她说过的：16点的时候出来见我。但是现在已经过了5分钟了，10分钟，甚至15分钟。她仍然没有出现。突然之间，只有一瞬间的感觉，我发觉我又变成了原来的我。一想到这扇门会被打开，就感到害怕。

“再等最后5分钟，如果她再不出来，我就……”

不知从哪里来的水滴滴答滴答滴在石头上。仍然没有人出现。我又喜又悲，觉得自己得救了。我慢慢地转过身，沿着长廊往回走。天花板上成串的盏盏小灯在颤抖，灯光越来越暗淡。突然，我后面的门响了一声，随之是匆匆忙忙的脚步声。声音撞到廊顶和四壁，又轻轻折回空中。是她，她像一只鸟一样轻灵地飞奔而来，张着嘴微喘着说：

“我知道你会在这里，你肯定会来的！我就知道，你……”

覆盖着浓密睫毛的眼睛，不断忽闪着，像是让我进去的意思……她的嘴唇印在了我的嘴唇上，这种古代的那种荒唐的，但是却令人心碎不已的礼仪。怎么来形容此刻我心灵的感觉呢？如一股狂风般席卷了一切，除了她，什么都没有留下。的确，她确实就在我心里，我说的正是我的灵魂，你们要笑就笑个够吧。

她费力地缓缓抬起眼睑，一字一顿地说道：

“好了，现在我们得走了。”

门开了。眼前呈现的是一排古老、破损的台阶。还有嘈杂的声音简直让人难以忍受，还有尖哨声，亮光……

自此以后，一昼夜已经过去了。我的心里已经平静了下来。不过，我仍然难以用言语做出准确的描绘，哪怕大致描绘我的所见所闻也无能为力。我脑袋里仿佛有一枚炸弹瞬间爆炸了一样……那一张张大嘴、翅膀、喊叫声、树叶、说话声、石块……它们都纷纷涌到了我身旁，让我应接不暇……

我记得，我的第一个反应是：我得赶紧回来。因为我发觉，当我在长廊里等待的时候，他们想必已经炸毁了破坏了绿墙。墙外的乱七八糟的东西都涌了进去，在过去，我们的城市里是见不到这些低级世界的脏物的。可能是我对I说了这类话，她居然笑了起来：

“不不！事实上是我们已经离开了绿墙，走了出来。”

我努力睁开了眼睛。果然如此，现在我面对面地、清醒地看到了我们号码们谁也不曾见过的事物，过去我们只是透过绿墙，模模糊糊地看着这些东西，它们那时被缩小了1000倍。

太阳……不再是我们那个均匀地洒照在马路玻璃面上的太阳。这些光点像是活生生的有着生命的碎片，它不停地跳动着放射出令人头晕目眩的道道亮光。而那些树木，它们直窜天空，像一根根笔直的蜡烛，有的还像是趴在地上的蜘蛛，用笨拙的瓜子支撑着身体，又像是无声无息的绿色喷泉……所有的一切都在运动、跳跃、沙沙作响。一个毛糙的小圆球在我的脚下，它滚动着过去了……我仿佛像被钉住了一般，一动不动——因为我脚下没有任何平坦的平面，你明白吗，而是讨厌的、软绵绵的、弯弯曲曲的、有柔韧的活生生的生物。

我被吓到了。简直喘不过气来——对，喘不过气来。这个词来形容我此时的处境最恰如其分。我站在那儿，双手紧紧抓住了一根晃晃悠悠的树枝。

“不要紧，没关系的！因为你头一次来，这一切都是正常的。勇敢一点！”

和I一起站在那跳动得令人头晕的绿色网上的，是某个纸剪的薄薄的侧影……不，不该说是“某个”，我认识这个人。我想起来了，他是那位医生。我恍然大悟，我发觉他们抓着我的胳膊，笑着拉着我往前走。我的脚磕磕绊绊，在地上打着滑……四周都是可怕的声音、乌鸦哑哑的叫声，青苔和坑洼，老鹰，还有树枝、树干、翅膀、树叶……

树林分开，眼前是一片明亮的空地。空地上站着很多人，或者更准确的说法是，很多生灵。现在我该讲述最难以叙述的部分了，因为这已超出了我的一切可能的想象。现在我终于知道，为什么在此之前，I避而不谈这些。即使说了，我也不会相信的，连她自己也一样。也许到了明天，我自己也不会相信了，我会觉得在这里我所写的事全部是胡说八道。

在空地上，有一块像头盖骨似的光秃秃的石头，在石头旁边有大概三四百人……人，是的，暂时称他们为“人”吧，真不知该用什么词来描述他们才好。就像在人头攒动的石头高台周围，放眼望去，你只能辨认熟悉的脸颊；在此处，我首先看见的是身着灰蓝色制服的人。不过，很快地，我就从制服群中辨认出黑色、红棕、金黄、深褐、灰色和白色的人们——看来，他们都是人。

他们不曾穿衣服，披着亮晶晶的短毛，如同史前博物馆的马类标本一样。但是这里的女性的脸和我们的女性一样，几乎没有什么差别，粉嫩、娇艳、光滑而无毛，她们的胸部也具有几何曲线的美感。而那些男性，只有脸部没有毛，就如同我们的祖先一样。

这一切太不可思议了，简直令人难以置信。以至于我只能呆立着，看看周围，我就像一架天平秤，因为一个称盘里放了太多的重量，任凭另一端你再放多少，再放多重的东西，指针都一动不动……

突然，我发觉只剩我独自一人了。I-330不在我身旁。我不知道她怎么就消失不见了，也不知道她去了哪里。我的周围全是那些披着毛皮的人，在阳光下他们身上的毛像晶亮的缎子闪闪发亮。我抓住了其中一个热乎乎、结实的黑色肩膀：

“请听我说，看在全知全能者的分儿上，能告诉我她去哪儿了吗？她刚才还在这里，怎么突然就……”

两条毛茸茸的、紧蹙的眉毛转向我：

“嘘——！别出声！”他朝林中空地中央那块头盖骨似的黄石头扬了扬眉。

我越过所有脑袋看到了她。太阳光明晃晃地从对面直射进眼睛，而她站在蓝色天幕上，太阳从她的背后射过来，因而，我只能看到她的黑色轮廓。如黑炭似的黑色身影，在距离她的头顶不远处的天空中飘浮着云彩。又不像是云，更像是石头在移动着，而她仿佛就站在那石头之上，后面是人群，空地像一艘船一样静悄悄地漂动着，脚下的大地轻轻地飘向远方……

“弟兄们……”她说着，“弟兄们！你们都清楚，在绿墙里，他们正在建造‘积分号’。你们也知道，摧毁绿墙以及所有的墙的日子已经快到了。到那时，绿色的风会毫无障碍地吹向全世界。但是，‘积分号’却要将那些墙带上太空，传到成千上万别的世界去，这些星球深夜都在黑色的树叶孔隙闪闪烁烁地向我们低语……”

人的浪潮，水花，还有风向岩石涌过去。

“打倒‘积分号’！打倒它！”

“不，弟兄们，不必打倒它。‘积分号’必将为我们所用，成为我们的武器。当它第一次离开地球驶向太空的时候，我们将一起登上它。因为‘积分号’的设计师和我们在一起。他走出了高墙，和我站在了一起，他加入了我们的阵营。设计师万岁！”

霎时间，我飘了起来。我的下方是无数个脑袋，一个个的脑袋……还有呼喊着的张大的嘴，不断举起又放下的手臂……这情景让人沉醉，迷迷糊糊，我觉得我高出了所有的人。我是我，一个单独的个体，一个独立的世界，我不再是整体的一部分，而今，我成了一个组织……

我又落回到了石头旁边。就像刚刚经历过恋人的热情拥抱一样，我浑身兴奋地颤抖着，软绵而无力。太阳照耀着我，周围传来各种声音，还有I的迷人微笑。我身旁有个金发女人，她的全身像缎子般晶亮，身上有着药草的香味，她手里拿着一只木制的杯子。她的嘴唇殷红，她轻轻地喝了一小口，随后将杯子递给了我。我闭上眼睛，激动地喝着这甘美、亮晶晶的辛辣液体，想用它来浇灭我胸中焦灼的火焰。

但是，很快地我浑身的血液和整个世界都以1000倍的速度流动和旋转起来，大地仿佛在轻快地飞旋，如黎明一般轻盈。我感到身上轻松，简单，明快。直到现在，我才注意到石块上有两个我曾见过的硕大的字“魔菲”。不知为什么，在这里见到它们，我觉得并不吃惊，甚至是理所当然的。它们像一条简单的、牢固的线将一切都串联起来。在岩石上还有一幅十分粗糙的画：这是一个粗线勾勒的青年人体图像，他长着翅膀，全身透明，而只有心脏处是一块夺目的、燃烧着的红彤彤的煤块。我又看明白了这块煤块的意义……也许不应该这样说，应该说我是感觉到了它的意义。I-330仍在说着话，但我却听不清楚她说的每一个字；我感觉到大家都步调一致地呼吸着，就像它们很快就要变成鸟一样，飞往自己想去的任何地方……

突然，从我身后，从一片乱糟糟的人群中传出一个响亮的声音：

“可是，这是发疯！”

这时，仿佛是我，是的，我想就是我，我喊了起来，而且我还跳上了岩石，站在岩石上，我看到了太阳，众人的脑袋，还有黑色背景前的一排排绿色的海洋，我喊道：

“没错，说得一点都没错！我们必须要发疯，我们必须让所有人都发疯！要尽快这样！我知道，这是必须的。”

I就在我身旁，她微笑着，嘴角朝上扬起两道深色的沟印……我胸中有一块燃着的煤块，这感觉仅仅一瞬，我觉得轻松无比，但又有些疼痛，这十分美妙……过后，在我心里只剩下残余的碎片在刺痛着我。

一只鸟慢慢地飞翔着。我发现，它同我一样，也是有生命的存在，它跟人一样，一会儿看看左边，一会儿看看右边，圆溜溜的黑眼珠向我投来锥子般的目光……

接着，我又看见一个人的背部，长着亮闪闪的古代象牙色的皮毛。一只翅膀透明的黑色小飞虫在背上面爬着，他抖动了一下，想把那虫子赶走，接着又抖动了一下……

我还见到一个从树林间投射下的影子，是个交织的网状的影子。在暗影里有些人躺着，嚼着一些古怪的食物，那些食物像传说中的古代食品。是一个长条状的黄色果物还有一块黑色的食品。有个女人还给了我一块，我感觉可笑极了。不知道该不该尝尝。

……还有一个个脑袋、胳膊、腿脚和嘴巴。这些人的脸有时很快抬起来，随后又低下不见了——就如同气泡一样瞬间破了，消失不见。突然，可能是我的幻觉吧，我好像看到了那对透明的、忽闪着而过的招风耳，他一晃而过，一秒钟就消失不见了。

我使劲捏住了I的手臂。她转过头来，看着我说：

“你怎么啦？”

“他在这儿……我觉得……”

“谁在这？”

“他，S，就在刚才……在人群中一晃而过……”

细细的乌黑的眉毛向上一挑——一个尖利的三角形出现了——她笑了。我不知道她怎么会笑呢？她这样笑又意味着什么呢？

“你知道的，I，对不对？若是他，或者他们中的那帮人，有谁来到这儿，这究竟意味着什么？”

“你真可笑！墙里的人怎么会知道我们在这里呢？你可以好好回想一下，就拿你来说吧，以前难道你曾想过，这是可能的吗？这些人正在全城搜捕我们呢……让他们忙去吧。你真是疯了！”

她愉快地笑了起来，那轻松的笑容也感染了我。我也跟着笑了。整个大地也随之陶醉了，它快活地、兴高采烈地飘荡着……

笔记之二十八

她俩

熵[1] 和能

不透明的身体

若是你们的世界和我们古代的世界相似，你们应该很容易想象这种感觉：就像你们无意中突然发现了第六或第七块新大陆一样，类似于亚特兰蒂斯之类的地方，在那里，还会发现我们闻所未闻的城市，类似于古希腊神话中的迷宫。还有那些可以借助翅或者飞船，在天空中自由飞翔的人们，还有仅仅凭目力就可以举起的石块。反正，那些东西，都是你连做梦都没有想到的事情。这就是我此时的感觉，我昨天遇到的就是这类情况。自200年大战之后，从未有任何人走出绿墙之外——这一点我曾告诉过你们。

我的那些素不相识的朋友们，我深知我有义务向你们详尽地描述我昨天的所见所闻，在那个新奇又不可思议的世界里，我所经历的一切。但是，到目前为止，我还不想再谈论这个话题。因为这些新的事件都太离奇了，它们一件接一件地发生，就如同暴雨般倾泻而来，我还没有能力全盘接受。我使出浑身力气扯起了制服的衣襟去接纳，伸开双手去捧，但是整桶整桶的雨水泼洒过来。我只能抓住能接到的点滴，将它们记录在纸上……

起初，我听到我背后的房间门外有人在大声吵闹，我听出了I的声音，那声音清脆而悦耳，而另一个声音，则沉闷而显得死气沉沉的，像把木尺一样，这应该是U的声音。接着，我的房门被推开了，她俩同时出现在了我的面前，用“弹射”来形容她们的速度更为恰当。

I将手放在我的椅背上，向右侧着头看着U，露出一丝笑意。这样的笑容，如果是面对着，我一定会神魂颠倒了。

“在我看来，”I对我说，“这个女人好像是觉得她有责任，把你像个孩子似的保护起来，不让你接触我。这得到了你的允许了吗？”

还没等我答话，U脸上的鱼鳃直颤，她说道：“是的，他的确是一个孩子。就是这样！所以他没有发现，你这样对待他只是为了……这一切不过是场不公平的游戏。就是这样！而我的责任……”

有那么一会儿，我见到镜子里闪现出我那折断了的、颤抖着的眉毛。我很快就站了起来，使劲克制住另一个我，那个有着毛茸茸拳头的人。我费力地从牙缝里挤出话来，看着她的鱼鳃似的脸颊，说道：

“马上出去！出去！马上滚出去！”

鱼鳃脸先是涨成了猪肝色，接着又鼓了起来，变成了灰色。她张大了嘴想说些什么，但是什么也没说，而是掉头走开了。

我扑向了I：

“这件事我永远，永远无法原谅自己，她怎么赶这样来阻拦你……但你不会这样想吧，她……我明白，因为她想登记我，但是我……”

“幸好，她来不及登记了，不过，像她这样的人，即便有1000个，我也不在乎。我知道，你不会去相信她们的话的，因为你只相信我一个。昨天的事情发生以后，我的整个人都完全地属于你了。我已经是你的人了。你随时都可以去……”

随时可以去……什么？我立即就明白了她的意思。血顿时涌上我的耳朵和脸颊。我喊道：“别这么说，千万不要这么说！难道你不知道，那是另一个我，从前的我或许会，但是如今……”

“谁知道呢？一个人就像一本小说，没有看到最后一页，谁都猜不出结局。但是，正因为这样他才值得一读啊。”

她抚摸着我的头。我无法看到她的脸，但是从她的声音里我可以感觉到，她正凝望着远处，眼睛可能正看着一片云彩，默默地想着它会飘向何处。

突然，她温柔而又毅然地将我推开。

“听我说，我之所以过来，是想要告诉你……这可能是我们最后的日子了……你明白吗，今晚以后，所有的礼堂都要关闭。”

“关闭？”

“是的。刚才我路过的时候，看见里面正在准备着，里面一张张桌子，还有穿白大褂的医生。”

“这又是什么意思呢？”

“不清楚。现在谁都不知道是怎么一回事。这是最糟糕的。我只感觉到，他们要行动了，这是暴风雨前的宁静，不是今天就是明天……但是，可能他们已经来不及准备了。”

我早已不再考虑，他们是谁，我们又是谁。我也搞不清楚，我希望的是什么。到底是希望来得及还是来不及呢？我只知道一点：I-330此刻已经走在悬崖边缘，马上就要……

“但是这太不明智了！”我说，“你和联合国对抗，这无异于用手去捂住枪口，指望能将子弹挡过去……这实在太蠢！”

I笑了。

“‘我们全部都必须发疯，要尽快发疯！’你还记得吗？昨天有人说过的话……”

是啊，这句话已经清楚地记录在了我的笔记里。这是千真万确的。所以，这一切都是真实的。我默不作声地看着她的脸，此刻她脸上那深色的X分外明显。

“I，亲爱的，此刻还为时不晚……要是你愿意的话，我可以舍掉一切，忘记过去，我和你走出绿墙，我们和他们在一起……虽然我到目前还不清楚他们到底是谁。”

她摇着头。透过她眼睛的两扇窗户，我看到她体内已经燃起的熊熊烈火，炉火正旺，火苗直往上蹿，上面还有一堆干柴。我明白了：已经晚了，多说无益……

她站起来，要离开了。可能这已是最后的日子，可能是最后的几分钟……我紧紧握住她的手。

“不！求你多待一会儿，看在……看在……”

她拿起我毛茸茸的手，将它举到亮处。我最不喜欢这双手，想要将它抽出来，但她抓得更紧了。

“你的手……你当然不清楚，很少有人清楚这一点，从这城里去的女人常常会爱上那些男人。很可能，你的体内也流淌着几滴太阳和森林的血。可能这就是我爱上你的原因……”

随即，她沉默了。真奇怪，因为这阵沉默，因为这突如其来的空寂和一无所有——我的心狂跳个不停，我喊道：

“啊！你还不能走！你不能走！你必须要跟我说说，说说他们……因为，因为你爱他们……但我连他们是谁都不知道，他们来自何方？……”

“他们是谁？他们是我们丢失的那一半，H2 和O本来是两个部分，但是为了获得水、小溪、大海、瀑布、浪涛和暴风雨，他们结合到了一起，成为了H2 O……”

当时她的每个动作我都记得清清楚楚。我记得，她从桌上拿起一块玻璃三角尺。一边说话，一边用尺子的边棱抵住自己的脸颊，上面有一道白色的印记，很快就平复了，接着变成了粉红色，最后又消失不见了。很奇怪，我并没有记住她说了些什么，特别是开头说的话，我只记住了她说的一些个别的意象和颜色。

我记得，起初她谈到了200年大战。先是提到了红色，接着是绿色的草地，上面是殷红的鲜血，还有黑色的土地、蓝色的雪地上……随处可见那些永不干涸的红色水洼。接着，她提到了黄色；这是一片片被太阳晒得焦枯的黄草地，还有黄皮肤的人们，他们赤身裸体、面容憔悴、蓬首垢面，他们躺着，旁边还有毛发蓬乱的死狗，以及被饿死的人的尸体……当然这一切都发生在绿墙之外，因为城市已经取得了胜利，它已经制造出了我们今天的汽油食物。深夜……有黑沉沉的片片烟雾，它们在树林和村庄的上空飘浮着，还有缓缓移动的烟柱。人们发出的低沉的号哭声，看不到尽头的黑压压的人流，被驱赶进城市，被武力胁迫着，被鞭笞着进入幸福。

“这一切你应该都清楚吧？”

“是的，差不多都清楚。”

“但是有一点你并不知道，当然，也只有很少的人知道：当初有一小部分人活了下来，他们勇敢地留在了绿墙之外。他们赤身裸体，只能躲进森林。在那里他们向树林、野兽、飞禽、花草和太阳学习。不久，他们身上有了长长的毛发，而在那毛发之下仍然有一颗鲜红的心，可以说，他们从未改变过。但是，你们却糟糕多了。你们的身上到处都是号码，这些号码像虱子一样爬到你们的身上各处。你们应该将这些东西撕下来，扒得光光的，然后跑到森林里去。这样，你们就会懂得什么是恐惧，什么是喜悦，什么是激怒，什么是因寒冷而发颤！你们应该向火祷告，而我们魔菲，我们想要……”

“等一下，‘魔菲’？‘魔菲’是什么意思？”

“魔菲吗？这是过去的一个人名，他就是……你还记得在绿墙外边刻在一块大石头上的青年人形吗？……不，我还是用你们的语言解释给你听吧。这样你能更好地明白它。这世界上有两种力量：熵和力，前者会带来舒适的平静和幸福的平衡，而后者则会导致平衡的破坏，导向不安定，甚至动荡的状态。我们的祖先，更确切地说，你们的祖先基督徒们崇尚熵。但我们不是基督徒，我们……”

正在这时，我听到了极轻的叩门声，随即，一个人飞快地冲了进来。就是那个帽子压到眼睛上、鼻子扁平的人，他曾经不止一次地给我传过I的便条。他迅速地跑到我们跟前，如空气泵一般大口大口地喘着气，连一句话也说不出来。铁定他是一路狂奔过来的。

“快说呀！出了什么事了？”I用力抓住他的手问道。

“他们向这边来了……”空气泵总算缓了一口气，“安全卫士们来了……还有那个……怎么说呢……像驼背模样的人……”

“S？”

“是啊！就是他，他们已经过来了，进到楼里来了。快点儿，快点儿！”

“别着急！来得及……”I微笑着，眼睛里闪烁着快活的火花。她这种表现，要么就是荒唐又不理智的勇气，要么就是还有什么我不知道的事情。

“I，亲爱的，看在全知全能者的分儿上！你要清楚，这确实是……”

“看在全知全能者的分儿上。”她又笑了，脸上露出一个尖锐的三角形。

“好吧，好吧……看我的分儿上……我请求你。”

“噢，好吧，我本来还有件事情要和你谈一下……算了，下次吧。没关系，明天见。”

她愉快地（确实是十分愉快地）朝我点点头，那个人也从前额的帽檐下露了露脸，朝我点了点头。他们便一起离开了。只剩下我一个人了。

快些坐到书桌旁去！我匆忙地打开笔记，拿起了笔。这样他们就会看到我正忙于做一件对联合国非常有益的事情。突然，我的头发一根根地活了，我竟然想道：“如果他们突然看到了我最近写的那几篇内容呢？哪怕只读上一页，就惨了！”

想到这，我呆住了。我一动不动地坐在书桌旁，我四周的墙壁都在旋转着，手里的笔也在发抖，眼前的字似乎都挤到了一起。将笔记藏起来吧，但是藏到哪里去呢？四周都是玻璃的。那么烧了它们呢？也不行，从走廊和隔壁的房间里就会看到火光。而且，我也实在没法狠心将这些承载着我的痛苦、欢乐和激动心情，令我倍感珍贵的文件烧毁，它们成为了我身心的一部分了……

远处走廊里已经传来了说话声和脚步声。我所能做的就是将一摞稿页塞在屁股下面，然后一动不动地坐在椅子上，就像焊在了椅子上似的。我似乎能感觉到椅子上每个最小的粒子都在颤动，而我脚下的地板晃悠得像船上的甲板上下颠簸着……我自己缩成一小团，仿佛那个躲在帽檐下的信使一样，从蹙紧的眉头下偷偷地观察着别人的一举一动：他们挨着房间搜查过来，从走廊的右边的房间查起，越来越近……我看到有些号码坐在房间里一动不动，跟我一样，也有些号码立马站起身来欢迎他们，将大门大敞四开。他们真幸福！如果我跟他们一样，那么……

“全知全能者是人类不可或缺的最佳、最优质的消毒剂。因此，联合国的机体内不允许任何害虫捣鬼……”我使劲捏住不断抖动的笔，写下这些纯属废话的语言，而我的头则越趴越低，身体里有一股疯狂的情绪在酝酿着……甚至连我的后背都凝神听着动静……我听见了门把咔嚓拧动的声音……一阵风吹了进来……我坐着的椅子晃动着……

此时，我才恋恋不舍地离开了笔记，朝进屋的人转过脸去（演一场滑稽戏可真不容易……是啊，今天有人对我说起过类似的事）。首先映入眼帘的是S，他站在这些人最前面，他绷着脸，不说话，目光像锥子似的深深钻进我的心里，钻进我的椅子以及我手中的稿纸。然后，在我门口闪过了几张我所熟悉的、每天都见到的面孔；这些脸孔中，有一张脸显得与众不同，那脸上鼓着棕红色的鱼鳃……

我突然想起了半小时之前所发生的一切，所以我很清楚，此刻为什么他们要来到这里了……

我的全身有些发抖，而心也狂跳不已（幸好那部分是不透明的），我用稿页遮着它。U站在S身后，她小心翼翼地拉了一下他的袖子，低声说：“这是D-503，‘积分号’的设计师。你大概听说过吧！他总是这样，坐在他的书桌旁努力干活……从来不放松自己！”

……天哪，我真无颜以对了！……这是一个多么亲切，好心的女人啊！……S不声不响地溜到我背后，俯身往桌上看去。我正用胳膊肘挡住刚刚写下的话。他厉声命令道：

“请马上向我们出示你写的内容！”

我有些惭愧地将那页纸交给他。他看了一遍，我发现他眼角里流露出一丝笑意，这笑意悄悄爬到他的脸上，摇晃着小尾巴，又转移到了他嘴唇的右角上，“语言有点含混不清，但是还不错……嗯，你可以继续写下去，我们不再打扰了。”

他啪嗒啪嗒地走了出去，那声音就像在水面上的蹚水似的。他渐渐走远，每走一步，我就觉得我的腿、我的胳膊，还有我的手指，都逐渐回到了我身上，我的灵魂又均匀地布满了全身，我又可以呼吸了……

最后，U最后一个走出了我的房间，她临走之前，来到我跟前，弯下腰凑到我耳边低声说：“这是你运气，我……”

她为什么说这些，我不清楚。后来，再也没有人提起那天的事。但是我仍然听说，他们带走了三个号码。所有人都对这件事缄口不言，因为我们都受过教育，我们知道隐藏在我们之中的安全卫士，他们无时无刻不在认真工作。因此，号码们谈论的主要是天气的变化以及温度计气温骤然下降的事。

[1] 熵：是热力学的第二定律。物理学上指热能除以温度所得的商，标志热量转化为功的程度。

笔记之二十九

脸上的线条

萌芽

一种不自然的压缩

天气真奇怪，气压计的水银柱不断下降，但是却没有风。非常平静。但是在头顶的上空，却已经开始刮起了风暴，乌云正飞速地翻卷成形，只是目前还不够多，仅仅是一些分散的、零碎的碎片；就好像上空有座城市被摧毁了，而大墙和塔楼的残垣断壁正迅速地往下坠落，它们下降的速度是惊人的，但是它们要想穿过那蓝色的无限空间，掉落在位于最底层的我们身上，仍然需要花费几天的时间，因为距离太远了。

地面上，眼下仍然是一片平静。空中飘浮着一些细细的、难以觉察的几乎看不见的细条，不知到底是什么。每到秋季来临，它们就会从绿墙外飘过来。它们慢慢悠悠地飘荡着，突然之间，你会觉得脸上有什么东西粘上了，你想弄掉它，但是不行，任凭你怎么挥也挥之不去。不行，没有任何办法。若是在绿墙附近，早晨，当你沿着绿墙边走时，这样的线条就更多了。I与我约好在古宅碰面，因此，早上我便来到了这里。

当我走进锈红色、不透明的古宅大院的时候，突然听到了身后传来的急促的小碎步，还有短促的呼吸声。我扭头看了一眼，发现居然是O-90，她正努力地追赶我。她浑身上下变得和以前不同了，更加地圆润，更加地富有弹性。我非常熟悉她的一切，她的双手、她的胸部，还有她的身体，此刻都被制服紧绷着，好像她的身躯很快就要将薄薄的制服撑破了，不由得使我想到了春天绿色的草丛，那些幼芽就是这样，用顽强的力量顶出地面，只是为了伸展枝条，开出花朵。

她沉默了几秒钟，随后，蓝色的眼睛眼波流转地望着我。

“一致日那天，我看到你了。”

“我也看见你了。”我立即想起来了：她当时站在狭窄的过道里，紧紧贴着墙，双手护着腹部。想到这里，我便不由自主地看了看她的腹部，它隆起着，显得圆滚滚的。她显然也意识到了我的目光，随即脸色变得圆润又粉红，娇媚地微笑了起来：

“我非常幸福，非常幸福……我觉得很美满，你懂吗？我觉得太幸福了。当我走路的时候，我什么都看不见，什么都听不见……我只是听到我身体里边的动静，感觉我身体里面……”

我默不作声。脸上有种难以形容的陌生感觉。突然，她的蓝色眼睛里有着光彩，她的眼睛显得更蓝了。她使劲抓住我的手……我能够感觉到她印在我手上的吻……这是一种我非常陌生的古代礼节……我生平第一次感受到，我觉得太丢脸了，并且觉得有一阵心疼。因此，我迅速地甚至有些粗暴地抽出了自己的手。

“听着，你是不是疯了？这的确是……你怎么会觉得幸福呢？难道你不知道未来等待着你的将是什么吗？即使现在还没事，但是不代表你能逃过一个月或两个月之后……”

她脸上的光彩消失了。圆圆的身体开始变得瘪起来了。我心中一阵难过，同时又觉得十分不快，我甚至能感觉到心脏病态地收缩着。（心脏应该是一个完美的气泵。如果在气泵的运转过程中出现了收缩的现象，只能说明这是一件技术上十分荒谬的事。所以，所有有关于“爱情”“怜悯”之类的话，这些凡是能引起心脏收缩的感情，就其本质而言，都是荒谬的，甚至是可悲的。）

我们都没有说话，在我们的左侧是绿墙朦胧的绿色玻璃。而我的前面是朱红色的古宅。这两种颜色共处一个空间，让我有了一个非常好的想法。

“等一等！我想到了！我有办法救你了！我一定要救你，让你躲过这可怕的命运……只要能看一眼自己的孩子，然后就离开人世。不能这样，你应该抚养他长大成人，你懂吗？要让他在你的怀里长大，变得茁壮丰满，就像果实……”

她抖动着，使劲抓住了我。

“你还记得她吗？很久以前，我们在散步的时候见过的那个女人。I-330，此刻，她就在这里，这座古宅里面。我们这就去找她，我敢保证，我会很快将这一切安排好的。”

我好像已经看见，我和I，我们带领着O在长廊里走……随后，她被带到那边有花草和绿叶的世界里去……但是她没有跟我走，反而向后退了一步，粉红色的半月形的嘴角颤动起来，她撇着嘴。

“就是她吗？”她问。

“是的……”不知怎的，我居然有点难为情，“是的，就是她。”

“你想让我去她那里，让我去求她……求她……请你以后再也不要提这件事了！”

她踉跄着，走开了……突然，她好像又想起了什么，转过头来，大声喊道：

“死有什么关系！我不在乎……这也和你无关，也不是你该在乎的！”

我不知道该说什么好。在我们的头顶上，天空中，蓝色的大墙和塔楼的残砖碎瓦不停坠落着，速度非常快……也许，它们还要在无限的空间飞行几个小时，甚至更久……空气中有很多看不见的细丝，它们粘在我的脸上，不管我怎么弄，它们也不离开我。简直拿它们毫无办法。

我慢慢地一步一步地走向古宅，我的心脏仍然在收缩着，荒唐地、痛苦地收缩着，那感觉越来越强烈……

笔记之三十

最后一个数字

伽利略的错误

这样不是更好吗？

以下所记载的就是昨天我和I在古宅里的谈话。在交谈的过程中，周围出现的各种色彩不断干扰着我：红的、绿的、黄铜色的、白的、橙黄的……这些杂乱的色彩让我无法进行逻辑思考……还有那个有着翘鼻子的古代诗人，他总是笑着居高临下地看着我们的一举一动。

我想一字不落地将我们的谈话内容记录下来，因为我觉得，这些内容会对联合国的命运产生重大的、决定性的意义。不仅是这样，甚至连宇宙的命运也会受到左右。此外，你们，我的那些素不相识的读者们，没准可以为我找到几句开脱的话……

I-330将所有的计划一股脑地告诉了我：“我知道，后天就是‘积分号’首次试飞的日子。到时候，我们会把它夺过来。”

“什么？后天？”

“是的。你坐下，别慌。我们一分钟也不能浪费。昨天，安全卫士局逮捕了几百个涉嫌分子，里面有20个魔菲。再过两三天，他们就活不成了。”

我默不作声。

“在试飞开始之前，他们会派去电气师、技师、医生和气象学家……到12点钟，你一定要记住这个时间点，当午饭铃打响之后，大家去食堂的时候，我们就偷偷留在通道里，把其他的人都锁在食堂里——这样‘积分号’就是我们的了……你明白吗？我们必须要做到这一点。

“我们一旦有了‘积分号’，我们就有了武器。它能痛快地解决一切问题。至于他们的飞船……那算得了什么！它们只不过是渺小的蚊子罢了，哪儿能和苍鹰相比呢？到时候，如果是无法避免的话，我们可以将发动机的筒口拨向地面，就靠这点就可以……”

我忍不住跳了起来。

“这太不可思议了！简直荒唐至极！难道你不明白，现在你在搞革命吗？”

“是的，革命！你怎么会觉得这荒唐呢？”

“因为革命是不可能实现的。因为，我们的，我的意思是，我的和你的，就是上次我们所做的革命是最后一次了——以后不会，也不可能再有革命发生了。这是谁都明白的道理……”

她露出了一个尖刻的讥讽的吊梢眉三角形：

“亲爱的，你是个数学家，哦，对。你不仅是数学家，还是个哲学家。好吧，那请你告诉我最后的数字。”

“什么？我……我不明白，什么最后的数字？”

“就是那最后的、最高的、最大的数字啊。”

“可是，I-330，这是荒唐的。数是无穷尽的，怎么可能有什么最大的数呢？”

“那么你所说的最后一次革命又是什么呢？……怎么会有最后的革命呢？革命是无穷尽、永无止境的。所谓的‘最后一次’的革命只是哄孩子的玩意罢了。无穷尽会吓到孩子，他们因此会晚上睡不着觉的，所以，我们就编造一个谎话来骗他们……”

“看在全知全能者的分儿上，你为什么要做这些呢？我们已经拥有了幸福，做这些又有什么意义呢？”

“好吧，就算像你所说的那样吧。那么，以后呢？”

“多可笑啊！这简直是孩子所问的问题啊。你跟孩子说得清清楚楚，最后，他们还会问：‘那然后呢？’其实根本就没有什么‘然后’。在这个世界上，随处都均匀地分布。”

“嗬，‘随处’‘均匀地！’这就是问题所在，这是心理上的熵。身为一名数学家，难道你不清楚吗？生命之所以存在就因为有差异，温度的差异，热的差异。所以说，要是整个世界到处都分布着均匀的温度，或者均匀的寒冷……那我们就必须改变它！让它迸发火花，爆炸，随之燃烧，从而推动它们发生质的变化！”

“但是，I，你得想想，我们祖先在200年大战期间已经做过这些了……”

“噢，他们是对的，一千个对。但是，有一点他们做错了：后来他们竟认定自己是最后一个数字，其实这样的数字在自然中并不存在。这个错误就跟伽利略的错误一样，他认为地球围绕太阳转，这是对的。但是他却不知道，整个太阳系又围绕着另一个中心旋转，他不知道地球真正的轨道并不是一个简单的圆形……”

“那你们呢？”

“我们，至少到目前为止，我们知道没有所谓的最后的数字。也许，多年以后，我们也会忘了这一点。是的，当我们老了以后，我们很可能会忘记这个。世间万物不可避免地都会变老，这是避无可避的。正如秋天的落叶，季节到了它就会落下来，就像你们后天……不不，亲爱的，我并不是说你。你和我们同在，你和我们在一起！”

我从来没有见过她这个样子。此刻她就像团炽烈的熊熊燃烧的烈火，像疾速的狂风，像飞速运转的火星。她疯狂地拥抱着我，我熔化了……

最后，她坚定地、一动不动地望着我的眼睛说：

“记住：12点整。”

我回答：

“好的，记住了。”

她离开了。剩下我独自一人待着，四周的嘈杂声震耳欲聋，各种色彩混杂着：蓝色的、红色的、绿色的、金黄色的、橙色的……

是的，12点整……突然，我感觉脸上被什么东西粘住了，怎么弄也弄不掉。接着我的脑海中浮现起了昨天早晨的情景，U冲着I喊叫的情形……怎么会想到这个？太荒唐了！

我匆匆忙忙地往外走，想赶快回家去……

我身后传来了鸟儿清脆的啼鸣，在我眼前的是落日的余晖，我看到那个整齐的闪闪发亮的红火的圆屋顶，还有巨大的燃烧方块制成的房子，还有那高耸入云的电塔顶上的尖针。眼前的这一切，是这么完美无瑕，难道，我将亲手破坏……难道毫无办法了吗？没有其他的方法了吗？

我路过了一个礼堂（不记得它是第几号礼堂了）。大厅里的长凳都整齐地放在了墙角，中间摆着一些大桌子，桌子上是雪白的玻璃罩布，白单子上有夕阳的余晖……这些都暗示着一个未知数——明天！那无人知晓的、可怕的明天！这是反常的：让一个有思想、有视觉的人去面对没有结果、一切未知的明天。哦，未知，那未知的X。这太让人难受了，就像别人蒙住了你的眼睛，什么都是黑的，你只能凭感觉摸索，磕磕绊绊地往前走，但是你却不知道，分界线就近在咫尺，只要再跨出一步，你就会摔成一块烂泥……此刻，我就是这种感觉。

……如果我什么都不想，彻底栽下去呢？……这或者是唯一的办法了，到时候所有的问题都将迎刃而解了！

笔记之三十一

伟大的手术

我宽恕了一切

列车相撞

在最后一刻，在你感觉到没有任何指望，眼前已经是世界末日的时候，在这最后一刻……我们竟然得救了！

仿佛你已经走向了通往可怕死亡的死刑机台阶，仿佛玻璃气钟罩已哐啷啷响着罩住了你，在你生命的最后时刻，你留恋地看着蓝色的天空……突然，你醒了过来，原来这一切是个噩梦。太阳依然是粉红色的，快快活活的。而那墙，那冷冰冰的墙能够触手可及，是多么幸福！还有那枕头——我能轻松无比地感觉到脑袋正枕着低陷的小坑里……这就是今天早上我读完《联合国报》的感受。过去的一切都是场可怕的噩梦，现在梦已经醒了。而我，曾经是如此地胆小怕事，如此地背信弃义，居然已经想到了身不由己的死亡。现在我再谈起昨天笔记中写的最后几段文字。我觉得羞愧得很。但随它去吧，这已经无关紧要了，就让它们作为一种回忆吧。它曾有过可能，但以后不会再发生……不会发生了。翻开《联合国报》，头版上赫然入目的是：

欢呼雀跃吧！

因为从今以后，我们将是完美的！

从今以后，我们将比我们所创造的机器更加完美！

为什么更完美？

因为发动机所迸溅的每个火花，都是充满了理性之光的火花；活塞的每一次的运动，都是无可指责的完美演绎逻辑。在你们的体内，难道不也同样存在着这种准确无误吗？

起重机、压力机、抽水机的哲理，完美而明晰，如同圆形的圈一样。而我们的哲理呢，难道不如这圆圈完美吗？机械之美，就像钟摆和节律一样，在于永远保持着精确无误。难道我们这些从小受泰勒体系熏陶的人，会比不上钟摆精确吗？

是的，不过还有一点差异，就是：

机械没有幻想。

你们是否见过，某个正在工作的压力泵会迷迷糊糊、心不在焉，甚至浮现出毫无意义的微笑？你们听说过，起重机在深夜休息的时候，不停地辗转反侧，不住叹气？

没有！

但是在你们的脸上（你们真应该感到羞愧！），安全卫士们愈来愈频繁地发现你们脸上有这样的微笑，还有你们的唉声叹气。你们应该感到无比羞愧，联合国的历史学家正申请退休，他们不想再记录这类羞愧可耻的事。

但是，这并不是你们的错，因为你们病了，你们全部都患上了一种叫作幻想的疾病。

幻想是一种虫子，它们会在你们的额头啮咬出一道道黑色的皱纹。幻想是狂热，它逼迫着你们向远方不停地奔跑，而那所谓的“远方”正是幸福消失的地方。幻想是通向幸福之途的最后路障。

欢呼吧，路障已经被炸毁啦。

道路已经畅通无阻通。

王国的伟大科学家们最近发现：幻想的要害是位于大脑中心位置有一个不起眼的脑神经结。如果用X射线对神经结做三次烧灼手术，幻想症就可以治愈，而且永不复发！

你们是如此地完美无缺，你们是如此地机器化，通向百分之百的幸福之路已经通达无阻。你们所有人，不论老少，请立即来接受这项伟大的手术吧，赶快来礼堂吧，在那里接受这伟大的手术。伟大的手术万岁！联合国万岁！全知全能者万岁！

亲爱的读者们，如果你们读到这些话，这真像是一本古代荒诞的小说。如果你们和我一样，手中也拿着这样一份报纸，它正散发着油墨香，捏着它的手在颤抖着……如果你们也和我一样，知道这一切都是不可思议的现实——即使不是今天，也有可能在明天成为现实，那么，你们也一定和我有着同样的感觉：同样地感觉到头晕目眩！同样地感觉到欢欣鼓舞！同样地觉得背部和手上会冒出鸡皮疙瘩，觉得好像有无数根小针扎着它！同样地感觉到那既甜丝丝，又麻酥酥的舒坦！你们会感到自己像是成为了巨人，是大力神！只要你们直起腰来，头就会碰到玻璃天花板啦！

我抓起了电话筒：

“I-330……对，转到I-330号。”我声音急促地喊道，“你在家啊？你看报纸了吗？你正在看吗？天哪，这难道……这难道……不是件激动人心的大好事吗？”

“嗯……”一阵漫长、阴郁的沉默，那头半天不吭声。话筒发出低微的嗡嗡声，像是在思考。

“我今天必须要见你。是的，在我这儿，16点以后，不见不散。”

多可爱！亲爱的，她太可爱了！“不见不散”……我脸上挂着笑，简直没法合上嘴。我觉得自己将带着微笑上街，让它像盏灯似的高高照着我的脑袋。

街上的风扑面而来，呼啸着，打着旋，如鞭子般抽打着肌肤，但我觉得快乐：“任你号吧，任你吼吧，绿墙是不会被摧毁的。”天空沉铁般的飞云倾泻下来，由它去吧！我不会介意，反正太阳是挡不住的！我们就是数不清的约书亚[1] ，我们会用铁索将太阳牢锁在天顶。

在街口，礼堂的旁边，我见到了一群群的约书亚们，他们的额头紧贴在玻璃墙上。呆呆地朝墙里面看过去，里面有一张白得耀眼的桌子，上面躺着一个号码。在白布的掩映下，隐隐约约可以看见他两只向外撇着的黄色脚掌……几个穿大白褂的医生，正俯身在他头部，一只白色的手伸向空中，抓着一个吸了药水的针管。

“你们怎么不进去呀？还在等什么？”我没有具体问哪个人，而是问向大家。

“那你呢？”一个圆脑袋转过来对着我问道。

“我，哦。过一会儿。我要先去……”

我觉得脸有些热，窘迫地走开了。我确实必须要先见见I，至于为什么，我也回答不上来……

制造台上，“积分号”晶蓝如冰地静静躺在那里，机舱里发动机呜呜响着，好像温情地不停地重复着那个我熟悉的词语。我俯下身来，轻轻地拍了拍发动机身上冷丝丝的长管。多可爱啊……简直太可爱了。明天它就会获得生命，明天它机体内会迸溅出灼热的火星，它会因此而首次感到生命的震颤……

如果一切仿如昨日，我会用什么眼光来打量它呢？如果我知道，明天12点过后，我会出卖它……是的，我会出卖它的话……有人轻轻地碰了碰我的臂肘。我转过身来，迎面看到的是副设计师圆盆似的扁平的脸。

“你已经知道了？”他问道。

“什么？手术吗？当然啦。想想看……只要一下子，就都解决了……”

“不，不是这件事。因为手术的缘故，试飞取消了，不在明天，改期到后天了……我们白忙了，白费那么多时间赶出来……”

“因为手术”……他多么可笑啊，又是那么单纯。他只能看到自己脸盘那么点儿事，其他的什么都看不到。如果他知道，要不是因为明天有手术，明天12点，他会被锁在玻璃房里急得团团转，徒劳无功地看着一切发生呢……

12点30分，我进入自己的房间，一进门，就见到U在我屋里。她坐在我的桌子边，坐得笔直，右手托着右颊。可能她已经等了我很久了，因为她见到我，马上就站了起来，能够明显地看到她脸颊上残留的五个手指印。

只需要一秒钟，我的脑海中便闪过了那个不愉快的早晨：也是在这里，她站在I身边，气愤地吵闹着……但这个回忆只有一秒钟时间，一秒钟过后，一切都消散不见了。这情形就像是：天气晴朗，你走进屋里，漫不经心地打开了电灯。灯亮了，但有些不合时宜，顿时你觉得它既有点多余，又有点滑稽可笑……

我毫不犹豫地向她伸出手去，我原谅了她。她抓住我的两只手，使劲捏着，弄得我有点疼。她松垂的两颊激动地颤抖，很像古代人的某种装饰品。她说：

“我一直在等你……只需要一点时间……我过来是想要告诉你：我为你感到高兴，多幸福啊！你明白吗，过了明天，你就会康复了，你会获得新生的……”

我意识到我昨天的笔记，它仍然静静地摊开在桌上，这是我昨天写的最后两页，我收笔时没有合上它。她会不会看到我所写的内容？……不过，这些都无关紧要。这都已经成为了历史。这一切太遥远，简直有些可笑，就像你倒拿着望远镜所看见的远景一样可笑。

“是的，”我说，“告诉你，我刚从街上来，我见到前面有一个人，他的影子映在马路上，你知道吗，他的影子清清楚楚。我觉得，不，我更相信，明天之后不会再有影子了，任何人和任何东西都不会有影子，因为太阳会照透一切……”

她温柔地说：“你真是个幻想家！我可不让我学校的孩子说这样的话……”

她说起她学校的孩子们。她说他们全部被领去做手术了，在那里必须用绳子将他们捆绑起来，还说我们“要爱，就不能手软，不能有怜悯之情”，还有，她可能要最后做出决定了……

她将两膝之间灰蓝色的裙子抚平，默默地用她的微笑将我的全身抚慰个遍，然后离开了。

幸好，今天太阳仍然大大地照耀着大地，16点到了……我敲了敲门……我的心狂跳个不停……

“请进！”

我坐在她软椅旁的地板上，拥抱她的双脚，我仰着头，凝望着她的眼睛。看一下左眼，又看一下右眼，我一直看个不停，在她的眼睛里，我看到了那个拜倒在她石榴裙下的自己……

墙外正风雨交加，黑云压城，随它们去吧！我满脑袋都是激动的话语，语言像瀑布一样急流直下，我大声地说着，像我要和太阳一起飞到某个地方一样……不，此刻我已经知道我们要飞去那里了。在我身后的还有其他的星球，它们喷着火焰，上面开满了唱歌的花朵；还有沉默不语的蓝色的星球，那里理智的石块已经组成了井然有序的社会，还有像我们地球一样的行星，它们已经达到了绝对的幸福巅峰。

突然，I的声音飘过了我的头顶：

“你难道不认为，真正抵达巅峰的是那些有组织的理性的石块？”

她脸上的三角形越来越尖利，越来越阴暗：

“幸福……幸福到底是什么？欲望是令人痛苦的，对吗？所以，幸福就是不存在任何的欲望，连一丝一毫的欲望都不存在。我们直到现在还给幸福打正号，这是多大的错误，多么荒唐的偏见！不，绝对幸福应该打上负号，打上最为神圣的负号！”

我记得，当时我窘迫地说道：

“绝对的负值，-273℃……”

“对，就是-273℃。有些冷，但事实本身不正好说明，我们处于巅峰吗？”

跟很久之前一样，她好像在替我说话，将我的所思所想都说了出来。但是，她说话的语调里却有一种可怕的令人畏惧的东西，我不得不……我必须要打断她，终于，我挤出了一个“不”字。

“不，”我说，“你……你在嘲笑我……”

她笑了起来，笑得很大声——那声音太大了，甚至有些过了头。翻过了某个看不见的最高极限，但只一秒钟，她就猛然停住了……接着，便没有了声音。

她站起来，将两只手搭在我的肩上，久久地、目不转睛地望着我。然后把我拉入她的怀中。顿时，我忘记了一切，沉浸在她火辣辣的双唇中。

“永别了！”

这一声道别仿佛来自很远很远的地方，在我头顶上空飘落了下来，我没有立即听到，而是过了一分钟，或许两分钟才听得到。

“为什么……怎么说‘永别’了呢？”

“你病了，不是吗？因为我，你犯了罪，难道你不觉得痛苦吗？现在好了，你可以做手术了，你会治好因为我而生的病。所以，我说，我们永别了。”

“不！”我喊道。

她白皙的脸上显出一个无情的尖利黑三角：

“怎么？难道你不想得到幸福了吗？”

我的脑袋要裂开了，两列逻辑的火车相撞了，它们撞了个正着，车身断裂，发出轰响，这一切都令人窒息……

“那好吧，由你来做决定：要么你去接受手术去获得百分之百的幸福，要么……”

“我不能没有你……没有你，我还有什么……没有你……”我说道，或许我并没有说，只是心里这样想着。我搞不清，但是显然，I听见了。

“是的，我明白，”她在回答着我。后来，她的手一直放在我的肩头，眼睛一动不动地盯着我，说：“那么——明天见。明天——12点钟，你还记得吗？”

“不行。试航被推迟了，要到后天……”

“那样更好，就后天12点钟。”

我一个人沿着暮色的街道往家走去。风呼啸着，扑打着我旋着圈，推着我朝前走去，我就像一张纸。黑压压的天空上残云疾速地飞驰着……它们还要在无限的天空中飞舞一天、两天……

迎面过来很多穿制服的号码，我们擦肩而过。但我仍然觉得只有我一个人，默默走着。我很清楚，大家都将得救，但是我不能，我不愿意被拯救……

[1] 约书亚：《圣经》中记载的一个希伯来人领袖，是摩西的继任者。他带领以色列人离开旷野进入应许之地，在他的领导下，以色列人在许多战争中获得了辉煌的胜利。

笔记之三十二

我不相信

拖拉机

小人影

你们相信吗？人是会死的。是的，人都难免一死。因为我是一个人，所以……不，我要说的不是这个，这个道理，我们都明白。

我要问的其实是：你们是否真的相信这种说法，而且是深信不疑地，毫无保留地相信，并不是通过理智去相信，而是通过自己的身体去感觉：相信有朝一日，此刻你们拿着这页纸的手指会变得枯黄、变得冰凉……

不，你们肯定不相信，正因为不相信，所以，你们到现在都没有从十层楼往马路上往下跳，所以你们到现在还在吃着饭，看着书，刮着胡子，含着笑，写着文章……

我现在就是这样想的，是的，我正处于这种情况。我知道，钟表上的那根黑色的小指针，会这样一直走下去，它会移向午夜，然后又慢慢开始上升，再越过最后的界限。不可想象的明天就会到来。这些我都十分清楚，但是不知道怎的，我还是不相信这一切。也许，在我看来，24小时就是24年。因此，我还能做很多事，我可以赶到某处去一趟，解答别人的提问，从航梯登上“积分号”。我还可以感受“积分号”在水面上如何摇晃；我还记得，我应该抓住冰冷的玻璃扶手。我还能见到那些透明的起重机，像长颈鹿一样弯着长颈，伸出嘴，爱护地、深情地给“积分号”发动机喂炸药食物。在下边的河面上，我能见到被风吹皱的河水的涟漪……但这一切仿佛又离我很远很远，它们像是互不相干的，单独存在的；它们又像是陌生的、干巴巴的，就像绘图纸上的平面图一样。当副设计师那张扁平的脸出现在我眼前时，我奇怪地看着他，他突然就说起了话来：

“你看，我们要给发动机上多少燃料呢？如果作三小时计算……或者三个半小时……”

在我面前，在投影图纸上方，是我握着计算器的手，上面显示着我按下的数字15。

“15吨。不过最好上……对，最好上1000吨……”

我这么回答，是因为我心中有数，我知道明天……

我注意到，我手里握着的刻度表盘难以察觉地开始颤抖。

“1000吨？为什么要用这么多燃料？这些足够用一个星期的。还不止，还可以更长！”

“以防不测嘛……谁知道会有什么意外……”

我就知道……

风呼啸着，就像空气里充塞着很多看不见的物质，将天空填得满满的，让人无法呼吸。我无比艰难地走着，在街尾的电塔上的钟表的指针也艰难地、缓慢地爬着。塔顶的尖顶直冲云霄，它发着蓝幽幽的黯然的光。它仿佛正在低吟，默默地吸储着云中的电。音乐机器的铜管乐声正吼叫着。

同往常一样，号码们四人一排地走着。但是队伍有些散乱，还不停摇晃着，可能是因为风刮的。人们佝偻着身形，抬不起头来。在路口，队伍好像被什么挡住了，往后退着。人们停了下来，挤到了一起。他们紧张而急促地呼吸着，所有人都像鹅一样伸长了脖子看着。

“看！不，往那里看，快看啊！”

“他们！那些是他们？”

“……啊，要是我，我不会同意的！决不会，我宁可将头颅送进死刑机……”

“小声些！你疯啦……”

在路口的礼堂大门敞开着，从里面走出来一支由五十来个人组成的队伍，他们脚步缓慢又沉重。用“人”来形容他们显得不太恰当。应该说是装着大轮子的钢铁机器人，他们靠着某种看不见的机制驱动着前进。他们并非人，而是人形拖拉机。每个都高举着一面白旗，旗子在风中啪啪作响，旗上绣着金色的太阳，几行字光芒四射：“我们是开创者！我们已经做过了手术！其他人，跟随着我们来吧！”

他们慢慢地、毫不迟疑地穿过人群。不消说，如果挡在他们前面的不是我们，而是一堵墙，或者一排树或房屋，他们也会毫不迟疑踩踏而过的。他们已经到了大路中央。面朝着我们，他们紧紧地，像拧上螺丝一般，挽起了手成为了一条链子。而我们这一堆十分紧张的人群都伸着脑袋，汗毛倒竖，惊恐地等待着。乌云依然在翻滚，狂风依然在呼啸。突然，长链条左右的侧翼两方围拢过来，朝着我们包抄过来。速度越来越快，就像一架从山上滚落下来的沉重机器一样。长列紧缩成圆圈，将圈里的人们往礼堂敞开的门边推过去，推过去……

一个声嘶力竭的呼喊声传了过来：“他们要把我们撵进去！快逃啊！”

瞬间，一切都涌动了起来。紧挨着墙有一扇狭窄的可以出去的缺口，所有人都争着往那里冲去。所有的脑袋都变成了楔子，四处钻着，用臂肘、肋骨、肩膀拱出路来……周围都是散乱的脚步、挥动着的手臂，还有飞起的制服，它们就像扇面似的往四周扩散开来，仿佛是消防水龙带挤压出来的喷水。

突然，有个身影在我眼前一晃而过，是那熟悉的双曲线S，还有那双透明的招风耳朵——但只一晃就不见了。我独自在混乱的手和脚中挣扎着、奔跑着……

我冲到了一栋房子门口，背紧贴在门上使劲地喘着气。突然，像风似的吹进来一个小小的身影，犹如纸片，贴在了我面前的地上。

“我一直……我一直在跟着你……我不想……你知道吗，我不想……我愿意去……”

抚摸着我衣袖的是一双胖乎乎的小手；还有那双圆圆的蓝眼睛。是她，O-90。她倚着墙，慢慢地滑到地板上，最后蜷缩在冰冷的台阶上，成了圆圆的一团。我俯身看着她，轻抚着她的头和脸。我的手是潮湿的。此刻，我觉得自己很强大。而她却很弱小，好像她是我身体的一小部分。这是一种不同于I的感觉。此刻我觉得，我对O，就像是古代人对待他们自己的孩子一样的感觉。

她用双手捂着脸，声音从指缝里漏了出来，低低的，几乎像是在耳语：

“我每天夜里……我不能！我不能忍受他们的手术……每天夜里……我都独自一个，在黑暗中，我想着他，想着将来他是什么样，我会怎样地疼爱他……若是我被治好了，我活下去就没有什么意思了。你懂吗？因此，你应该……你必须……”

多么荒唐的想法啊，但是我确实这样认为：我有责任，我必须要帮助她。之所以说它荒唐，是因为我的这一义务又是我的罪行。白和黑不可能是一回事，责任和罪行同样不是一回事。但是，可能生活中既没有黑，也没有白，而颜色只取决于主要的逻辑前提。如果这个前提是：我非法地让她有了孩子……

“好的。只是你不要这样……”我说，“我很清楚，我一定会把你带到I那儿去，就像我上次说过的那样，只有这样，她……”

“好的。”（她慢慢放下了捂着脸的手，低低地答道。）

我将她搀扶起来，我们沿着暮色沉沉的街道走着，默默想着自己的心事，也许我们想的是同一件事……我们在静静的悄无声息的铅灰色的房屋中走着，狂风怒号，任意抽打着枝条……

透过呼啸的风声，突然，我清晰地听到了背后响起那熟悉的、啪啪踩在水洼里的脚步声。当我拐弯的时候，我扭头看过去：在马路模糊的玻璃上的颠倒地飞翔着的乌云的倒影中，我看见了S。霎时间，我的手有些不听使唤了，甩手的节奏也有些乱了。我开始大声同O讲话，我说，明天……是的，就在明天，“积分号”要进行首次试航，这是真正空前的、伟大的、震撼人心的大事件。

O惊愕地圆瞪着蓝眼睛瞧着我，她露出疑惑的表情地使劲看着我不断晃动的胳膊。我没给她说话的机会，自己不停地说着。同时我的脑子里十分紧张地思考着。一个念头不断地翻腾着，它反复敲击着我的大脑，这个想法只有我一人知道：“不能这样……得想个主意……不能把他引到I那里去……”

本来我应该向左拐的，但我却拐向了右边。大桥像恭顺的奴才拱着背，任凭我们三个踩踏过去：我、O，还有S。对岸幢幢大楼里的无数灯光洒在水面上，碎裂成无数个小块，它们剧烈地跳动着，与水中的白色泡沫融为一体。在我们不远处，风呜呜响着，那声音像极了大提琴的低音鸣响。在低音里仍然时不时传来那个噼噼啪啪的踩水般的脚步声……

我家到了。O在门口站住了。她大声喊出来：

“不！你不是答应过……”

我没让她把话说完，就匆忙地将她推进了门里。我们一起进了大厅。在大厅控制台前，我看见了那熟悉的松弛的脸颊，正激动得颤抖着。桌子四周围着一群号码，好像正在争论着什么。他们都将脑袋探出二楼栏杆，往下看去，接着又一个接一个跑下楼去。但这些以后再说……我连忙将O带到大厅的对面一个无人的角落里。

我朝外看了一眼，我看到墙外人行道上，一个脑袋很大的黑影正来回走动着。我赶紧掏出了记事本。O-90慢慢地、无力地在自己的衣服堆里坐下，就像她自己很快要溶化掉了一样，渐渐地只剩下了一件空空的衣服，还有一个空洞的眼神，好像要将我吸进这蓝色的海洋里一样。她十分疲倦地说：

“为什么带我到这里来？你骗我？”

“嘘……别吱声！你瞧，那里，看到墙外有什么了吗？”

“嗯，有个影子。”

“他一直在跟踪我……我不能，你懂吗？我不能让他……所以，现在我得写个便条，你带着这个条子，自己去找她。我敢肯定，她会守在这里的。”

在制服下面，她的血肉之躯又充满了生机，她的脸上出现了一点淡淡的朝霞之光。我将便条塞给她，我又使劲握了握那冰冷的手，最后一次深深地看了看她的蓝眼睛。

“永别了！可能，以后会……”

她抽出了手，微微弓腰慢慢地离开了。刚迈开两步，又飞快地转过身来，回到了我身边。她的嘴唇嚅动着，用她的眼神和嘴巴重复着我听不清楚的话。那么令人伤痛的笑啊！这是多么难受的场景啊！

后来，她那拱肩驼腰的瘦弱身影走出了门口，走出了墙外，她不曾回头，很快就消失不见了，越走越快……

我来到U的桌子旁。她激动地、懊恼地鼓着鱼鳃一样的腮帮子对我说：

“所有人都疯了！这个人居然一口咬定，他在古宅里看见了全身覆盖着毛发的光身子的人……”

从那群茫然的人里头发出一个声音：

“千真万确！我没有说谎，我确实是看见了！”

“怎么，你喜欢这些是吗？真是胡说八道！”

“简直胡扯！”她说完这几个字。我不禁自问道：“没准，最近发生在我身上的事，还有我周围的事，可能真的是一场梦？”可是，我看了看我那原始人般毛茸茸的手，又想起了她的话：“可能你身上有森林的血液……就因为这个我才爱上了你……”

不，幸好这不是做梦。哦，不对。不幸的是，这不是在做梦。

笔记之三十三

匆忙的最后一篇

这一天到了

我连忙拿起报纸。也许报纸上……我眼巴巴地迅速读着报纸（确实是这样，我觉得眼睛此刻就像钢笔，就像计算机，它成为了一种工具，一种身外之物，你可以拿在手上，并且能够感觉到它们）。报纸首页用大号黑字印着头版内容：

幸福的敌人已经醒来。你们必须要用双手护卫自己的幸福！明日，所有工作都必须停止。全体号码都要参加手术治疗。拒不参加者，必将受到全知全能者死刑机的惩治。

明天！怎么还会有明天呢？

我习惯性地，像每天一样，伸出手（也是一个工具罢了！）到书架上，将今天的报纸和其他的报纸一样，放在金色硬皮夹里。但我的手却停在了半空中：“做这些又有什么用呢？已经无所谓了。我再也不会回来了……我再也不会在夹子里放进报纸了。”就这样，手一松，报纸落到了地板上。

我站在屋里，环顾着整个房间。看着眼前的一切，将那些我舍不得留下的东西，都塞进自己头脑中那个无形的箱子里：桌子、书籍和软椅。哦，I曾经坐过这里，那时候我坐在她脚下地板上……还有我的床……

过了一分钟，两分钟，我呆立着，等待着此刻会有奇迹出现——会不会电话铃响了，会不会她告诉我……但是，没有，什么也没有……

我要离开这里了，我要走向未知。这是我最后的记录。永别了，我的那些素不相识的读者们，我和你们一起分享了我最近的生活，我这个患有灵魂疾病的人，将我的一切毫无保留地告诉给了你们。直到一根磨坏的螺丝钉，直到最后一条破损的发条……我要走了……

笔记之三十四

获释的农奴

阳光明媚的夜

无线电女神

啊，但愿我已经摔成了碎片！但愿我已经和她一起到了绿墙之外，和那些龇着黄牙的野兽待在一起！但愿我永远也不再回到这里来，那该有多好。无论如何，也比此刻要强！至少强上一千倍、百万倍。但是此刻——怎么办呢？让我去扼杀自己的灵魂吗？不行。可这有用吗？不不！D-503，你要冷静。你要将自己放到坚实的逻辑轴线上，尽管可能时间很短暂，至少使出全力压住杠杆，就像古代的奴隶那样，推动三段论的罗盘——直到你能清楚地记录下，并彻底理解之前所发生的一切……

当我登上“积分号”时，大家都各就各位，这巨大的玻璃蜂箱内的所有蜂房都有人在。从甲板上望出去，可以看到到处都是蚂蚁般的小人，他们正忙着发电报，摆弄着发电机、变压器、测高计、整流器、发动机、泵，以及各种导管……在公共大厅里，有一些人正俯身在图表和仪器上，没准是科学局的人。副设计师和他的两位助手也在旁边待着。他们三人的脑袋都像乌龟似的缩在肩膀里，脸色发青，一副没什么精神的样子。

“怎么样？”我问道。

“还好……就是有点紧张。”其中一个笑了笑，脸色依然发青，给人不见阳光的感觉。

“也许我们会降落到某个陌生的地方也说不定。此外，也没人清楚……”

我甚至没什么勇气看他们，因为再过一小时，我就用自己的这双手，将他们从守时戒律表井然有序的数字中彻底勾掉，永远地将他们从联合国伟大母亲的怀抱中扯开。他们使我想起了《三个获释的农奴》中的悲剧形象。这是我们小学时候学到的内容。

故事的主人公是三个号码，他们参加了一项试验，他们被解除了一个月的劳动，在这段时间里，他们想干什么都行。这三个可怜的家伙只能在过去工作的地方晃来晃去，东张西望，不住地看着人们忙碌着。他们甚至会站在广场上不由自主地重复工作时的动作，因为这已经成为了他们的习惯，到了规定的时间不做这些动作，他们的身体会受不了。但此刻，他们只能对着空气拉锯子，推刨子，就像手中握着锤子似的在叮叮当当锤打看不见的铸铁块。终于，挨到了第十天，他们忍无可忍，最后选择手拉手，在《进行曲》的乐声中，走向河水深处，让河水淹没他们的痛苦……

我再重申一遍：我没法看向副设计师他们，我没有勇气，想赶紧离开这里。

“我去检查一下发动机房，我们就出发。”我说着。

他们问了我一些问题，比方说发射点火要用多少电压？船尾液舱需要多重水压载？我身体内部有台留声机，它能将一切问题对答如流，而且精确无误。可是我，我内在的自我，正默默地盘算着自己的事。

狭窄的走廊上，不时地有灰色制服的号码走来走去，迎面都是一张张灰青色的脸。我突然看到一张脸一闪而过，虽然可能只有一秒钟的时间。但我认出了他，那压着低低的头发，那鼓起的额头，还有深陷的眼睛。是他，没错！看到他我立即明白了，他们已经到了。这一切我是躲不开的，我的时间已经非常有限，总共只有几十分钟……我忍不住浑身颤抖起来，虽然十分微弱，但我觉得它不会停止，直到事件结束也不会。好像我化身成了一幢房子，而房子的基座就是一台硕大的马达，它实在太强了，以至于所有的墙壁、隔墙、电缆、房梁、所有的灯……都在发颤。

我还不确定，她是不是也来了。但是现在已经没有时间想这些了。他们已派人来，命令我赶紧上去，前往指挥室。要出发了……又要驶往哪儿去呢？

四周都是灰色的、缺乏光泽的脸。下面，在水面上映着一道道的蓝色的涟漪。天空是沉重的、铸铁般的层层云块。我几乎没有力气，将如铸铁一般的手臂抬起来，我抓起沉重的话筒说道：

“起飞，45度！”

响起了沉闷的爆炸声，机身抽动了一下，飞船尾部掀起了绿白色的烟柱，脚下的甲板动了，它变得软软的，就像橡胶一样。我脚下的一切，我的全部生活，永别了……我离开那里越来越远，那蓝色水晶的城市、那圆顶、那蓄电塔，还有它上面的孤零零的手指——这一切只一秒钟就都深深地坠入了旋涡里，眼前是一团棉花似的云彩。我们穿越了过去……几秒钟，我们就穿过了云层，迎着太阳和蓝天。蓝天颜色越来越深，逐渐变成了黑色，星星像冰冷的银白的汗珠出现在天幕上……

这是一个夜，那么可怕，那么炫目又那么黑，又是个阳光灿烂的星夜。仿佛突然之间，我变聋了，虽然明明能听到铜管正在喷射的声音，可是我却觉得四周悄无声息，太阳也变得无声无息。但这是很自然的事，也在我们的预料之中。很明显，我们已经冲出了大气层。但是，这一切来得太快，太突然了。以至于我们每个人都胆怯了，默默地静寂了下来。而我……却在这充满幻想的、沉默无声的太阳下，变得分外轻松了些。仿佛我已经经历了最后一次阵痛，已经跨过了不可能跨过的边界。我的躯壳已经扔在了下面，而我自己正朝着一个全新的世界飞翔。在这里，一切都会不同，将是全新的旅程……

“继续前进！”我对指挥话筒发出号令。或者，这只是我体内的留声机在机械地下令。我像机器一样，将话筒交给了副设计师。我全身的分子都在微微发颤。我冲下升降扶梯，四处寻找……

这是大厅的门……再过一个小时，这扇门就会哐啷啷地重重地关上……门口站着一个我不认识的号码，他身材矮小，脸孔毫无特征，和成千上万个号码一样，混在人群中难以辨认，但是他的胳膊却很长，简直长到了膝盖。好像一个组装错了的零件，本应该安装在腿上，却被粗心地安装到了肩膀上。

他伸出一只长手挡住了我：

“你去哪儿？”

显然，他不认识我。好吧，我没有其他的办法。随他去吧，也许这样更好。我俯视着他，大声地一本正经地说：“我是‘积分号’的设计师。是我在指挥这次试航，你懂吗？”

胳膊撤走了。

我进入了大厅。在仪器和地图上方，凑着几个灰头发的脑袋，还有黄头发的、秃头的、暗黄的秃脑袋。我迅速地扫视了一遍，随后退了出来，通过走廊，我下了舷梯，来到机舱。这里热极了，轰鸣声不绝于耳，爆炸后管道变得十分灼热；仿佛喝醉酒了，醉醺醺地跳着舞；刻度表盘的指针一秒不停地晃动着……好了，终于找到了。我一眼就看到了那个有着鼓突额头的人，他手中拿着一本笔记，正低头记录着……

“请问（机器轰响，我只得冲着他的耳朵大声喊）……她在这儿吗？她在哪儿？”

帽檐底下露出了微笑：

“她？她在无线电机房……”

我连忙赶了过去。那里一共有三个人。都头戴有耳机的头盔。好像她比平时高出了一头，戴着的耳机似乎闪闪发亮，要飞起来似的。她就像古代的传说中的女神。身上迸发出无线电的蓝色火花……还有那股淡淡的、闪电过后总会出现的新鲜空气的香气。

“我需要人手……嗯，那就你吧。”因为跑步，我气喘吁吁地对她说，“我需要向下面，向地面，向飞船站，发出信号……来吧，由我口授。”

机房旁是一个小得像盒子般的舱房。我们肩并肩坐在桌子旁边。我抓到她的手，使劲捏着。

“你觉得，以后会怎么样呢？”

“不知道。你能体会吗？这一切简直太美妙了：我们在飞行着，却不知道要飞往何处……很快就到12点了，一切皆有可能……等到晚上……晚上，我们又会在哪里呢？没准我们会在草丛里，在干枯的树叶堆里……”

她身上迸发出蓝色的火花，还有闪电的气味。我颤抖得更加厉害了。

“请记下，”我大声地气喘吁吁（因为刚才的奔跑）地说：“时间：11点30分，速度：5800……”

她低下戴着帽盔的头，眼睛看着纸，小声说：“……昨天晚上，她来找我了，带着你的便条……我知道，我全都知道，你别吱声……那孩子是你的吧。我将她送走了，她已经出了绿墙。她会活下去的……”

我又回到了指挥室。眼前又是那黑漆漆的黑夜，还有炫目的阳光。墙上的时钟指针正机械地慢慢地走着，一分一秒都在消逝。周围的一切都沉浸在迷雾之中，几乎难以察觉地颤抖着（只有我一个人知道）。不知怎么地，我突然觉得，要是这一切不发生在这儿，而是发生在下面，发生在离地球更近的地方，可能会更好。

“停止！”我向话筒发出命令。

“积分号”凭借惯性继续向前，但速度逐渐慢了下来。最后，“积分号”在空中停留了一秒钟，就像被一根无形的头发丝缠住了一样，接着那根头发丝断了，“积分号”像块石头似的急速下坠，速度越来越快。时间一分分过去，我甚至能听到脉搏的跳动声。眼看着时钟的指针越来越接近12点钟了。我懂得：若我是块石头，I就是地球。即使被抛向了天空，我仍然急不可耐地要往下坠落，摔到地球上，即使砸个粉碎也心甘情愿……可是……下方出现了蓝色的云海……可是……

我体内的留声机依然准确地、机械地拿起了话筒发出命令：“低速行驶！”石块停止了下降。此刻只有飞船下部的四条管子（两个位于船尾，两个位于船首），在疲惫地喷着气，这样发出的动力，可以维持“积分号”原地不动。“积分号”震颤着，就像抛了锚似的牢牢停住在空中，离地面大约有1000米。

所有人都涌上了甲板（快到12点钟了，马上就要响起开饭的铃声了），他们从玻璃船舷上面探出身子，贪婪地看着眼前陌生的世界。下面有各种色彩：淡黄色、绿色、蓝色。还有秋天的金黄的树林、草原，湛蓝的湖泊。在一个如蓝碟子般的湖边上，有几堆黄色的废墟，还有一根有些吓人的枯黄的手指——可能是古代留下的教堂大塔楼。

“看，那边，看啊，在右边！”

那里，在绿色的荒原上，有一个飞快移动着的棕色块状物体。我下意识地抓起了望远镜看出去：那是一群棕色的马正扬着马尾在草原上飞奔，野草已经淹没了它们的腿，而骑在马背上的，是他们，黑皮肤的、白皮肤的，还有深色皮肤的人……

我听到身后有人说：

“我敢肯定，我看到一张脸。”

“得了吧！对别人瞎说去吧！”

“好吧，给你们望远镜……”

但是马群已经消失不见了。眼前只有一片望不到边际的绿色荒原……突然，在荒原上方响起了刺耳的铃声，这声音响彻了整个荒原，震到了我整个人以及整个飞船上的所有人。午餐时间到了，再过一分钟就是12点整。

我周遭的一切似乎有些乱了。在台阶上，有个人的金色胸章掉到地上。这无所谓吧。我一脚踩了上去，它咔嚓一声碎了。有人大声说着：“我敢肯定，那是一张人脸！”大厅的四方大门敞开着；眼前出现了一副白色细密的小牙齿，还有她含着的微笑……那时候，钟声不断响着，一声接一声，敲得人心惊胆战。

走在最前面的人已经开始朝门口走了……突然，那四方的大门被两只熟悉的，特别长的胳膊拦住了。

“站住！”

她的手指甲深深陷入我的手掌，是I-330。她正站在我的旁边：

“他是谁？你认识他吗？”

“难道……难道他……”

他已经被什么人扛在了肩头。下面是上百张脸，他高踞在众人之上，他那张脸像千百大众的脸一样平淡无奇，可是却又和所有的脸不同。

“我代表安全卫士局，告诉你们，你们每个人都能听到我的声音！告诉你们，我们已经十分清楚。虽然我们还不知道你们的号码，但是，我们已经掌握了除此之外的其他所有信息。‘积分号’不会被你们占领！试航将进行到底，现在不许你们再乱动。你们给我乖乖地执行这次试航。以后……好了，我就说到这里。”

四周静悄悄的。我脚下的玻璃地面变软了，如棉花一般，我的脚也是，软绵无力。我旁边的I，露出苍白而无力的笑容，她迸发出疯狂的蓝色火花。透过牙缝，她对我耳语道：

“啊，你干得真好！你终于‘履行了义务’了！可真不赖啊……”她迅速地抽出自己的手，那长着愤怒翅膀的头盔一下子就赶到了我前面很远的地方。只留下我一个人，目瞪口呆地站着，我只能一言不发地跟着大家去餐厅……

“但是，这跟我没有关系啊。并不是我，并不是我啊！我跟什么人都没有说过啊，除了那些不会说话的白纸……”

我的心无声地、绝望地朝她喊着。她与我隔着一张桌子坐着，她连看都不看我一眼。她旁边是一个年纪大的，肤色暗黄的秃头。我听见有人在说话（是I的声音）：

“‘高尚之举’？但是，亲爱的教授先生，对这个词只要进行一点粗浅的词源学研究，谁都明白，它只是一个迷信，是古代封建时代的残余，而我们……”

我感到自己的脸越来越苍白，别人很快就会注意到的……但是我体内的留声机，仍然对每块食物做着规定的50下咀嚼动作。我自我封闭起来，将自己关在一间不透明的房间里；我用石块将门堵死，然后又挂上了窗帘……

后来，指挥者的话筒又回到了我手上。我们又一次穿过了云层，在寒气逼人的、濒临死亡的忧伤中飞行，又一次见到繁星点点、星光灿烂的夜空。几分钟，几小时，时间不断飞逝……无须赘言，我体内的逻辑马达在全速运转着。因为突然在我的记忆中，出现了我的书桌，还有坐在桌旁的U，她伏在桌上，看向我忘了合上的那页笔记。我终于明白了，不是别人，而是她……一切都清清楚楚了。

我必须要赶到无线电机房……那带翅膀的头盔，那蓝色闪电的气味……我记得，后来我极力同她说话，我还记得，她的目光穿过我不看向我，仿佛我是透明的。她的声音就像来自遥远的外太空：

“我正忙着，我正接收地面发来的信号。请你向她口授吧……”

在盒子般的小机舱里，我思索了一秒钟，毫不迟疑地发出命令：

“时间：14点40分。下降！熄灭发动机。任务完成。”

我又返回到指挥舱。“积分号”的机器心脏已经停止了工作。我们正在下降。我的心没法跟上“积分号”下降的速度，快要跳出了嗓子眼。我们穿过云层……眼前是一片绿色的斑块，越来越近，越来越清楚，像疾风似的扑向我们。“很快就要结束了。”

眼前是副设计师那张不寻常的斜眉歪脸的白瓷脸。大概他狠狠推了我一下，我的头撞上了什么东西。我眼前一阵发黑，迷迷糊糊听见他说：

“开动尾部推进器——全速前进！”

飞船猛烈地向上一冲……其他的我也不记得了。

笔记之三十五

被箍住了

胡萝卜

杀人

我整夜无法入睡，一直在反复想着这件事……

因为昨天的事故，我的头被绷带紧紧缠着。但我感觉，这并不是绷带，而是头箍，是毫不留情的玻璃钢箍。我一直在想一件事：我要杀死U。杀了U之后，我再去找I，然后对她说：“现在你相信我了吧？”最让我厌恶的是，杀人是最肮脏、最原始的勾当。要去砸碎别人的脑袋，一想到这一点，我就觉得嘴里有种奇怪的作呕的甜腻味道。我连口水都没法咽下去，我只能将口水吐到手帕里，这样嘴就更加地干了。

我的壁橱里，有一个沉重的活塞杆，因为在铸造的时候裂开了，我便将它带回来，本想着用显微镜观察一下断裂的情况。我把笔记手稿卷成卷（这次让她彻底看个够），塞在活塞杆的断截里就下楼去了。楼梯像总也走不完一样，台阶又湿又滑，真让人生气，我的嘴里还不断地流出口水来，我不得不用手帕擦着……

终于来到了底层，我的心一沉。我停下脚步，抽出断杆，向控制台走去……但是U不在那，我只看到一张空荡荡的、冰冷的办公桌。我想起来了，今天的工作全部停止，所有的号码都去做手术了。所以，她没必要留下来，因为没人会来登记的。

我来到街上，此刻正刮着风。满天都是一块块飞驰着的沉重的铁块。这景象跟昨天很像：那时，整个世界都碎裂成锋利的、零碎的小片，这些小片急促地掉下来，从我眼前飞过，仅仅停留一秒钟的时间，转眼就消失得无影无踪了。这就像是原本一张写满字的纸，这些原本工工整整的黑色字母，突然间偏离了原来的位置，它们惊慌失措地逃离，到处乱窜，而纸张上一个字也不剩。只有些毫无意义的感叹词，如“嗯、啊、呀”。街上人们也是这样，变得毫无秩序可言，乱七八糟的，有朝前的，有往后的，有斜着走的，甚至还有竖着走的。

这会儿，街上又没有一个人了。我飞速地跑着，突然之间，我停住了：在二层楼一间仿佛吊在空中的小玻璃方格房间里，有一男一女，他们在接吻。她整个身子朝后仰着，心痛地说着：“这是最后一次，永别了。”

在街角处，有一撮人头在摆动，像一丛刺灌木丛似的。他们的脑袋上方飘着一面旗帜，上面写着：“打倒机器！打倒手术！”我默默思考着，“是不是每个人都忍着某种剧烈的痛苦，要想彻底消除它，只能将心一起剜出来不可……这样的话，每个人都必须……否则……”突然，我觉得世界上什么都不存在了，眼前只有我原始的、毛茸茸的手掌，还有这一卷铸铁般沉重的记事稿……

突然，街上出现了一个飞奔的小男孩，他整个身子都朝前探着，下唇像卷起的袖子一样鼓出来，他扭曲着脸，哭喊着，脸都变了样，好像有人在后面追赶他，我听到了后边响起的脚步声……

这孩子使我想起了U。“对了，她现在应该在学校，我必须要赶过去。”我连忙冲进了最近的地铁入口。在门口，有个人正往上跑，嘴里说着：“没有车！今天火车不开！那里正……”我冲下台阶去，那里简直是一个梦的世界。许许多多的水晶玻璃像太阳一样闪着亮光，一眼望去，月台上全是脑袋，黑压压一片，火车是空的，迟钝地停在轨道上。

静默中，突然我听到了一个声音。那是她，虽然我看不见她，但是我确信这是我所熟悉的那个清脆、柔韧的、活力充沛的、如鞭子般抽打出来的声音，我好像已经看到了那个眉梢高挑的尖三角……我喊道：

“让开，让我过去！让我到那边去！……”

但是我的手和肩膀不知被谁使劲拉住，无法脱身。我只能在这片静默中倾听：

“……不，你们快去吧。到他们那去！他们会治好你们的病，用发酵的幸福喂饱你们。这样，你们就会安安静静地入睡，秩序井然、节奏统一地打鼾——难道你们还听不到这伟大的鼾声交响曲吗？愚蠢的人们啊！他们正打算把你们从那些折磨着的问号中解放出来。从此以后，你们就会远离那些弯弯扭扭像蛆虫一样的问号。你们怎么还站在这里？快上去啊，去接受这伟大的手术！我一个人待在这里，和你们又有什么关系呢？你们别管了，我要战斗，一个人绝望地战斗下去！若是我所争取的是无法实现的东西……”

另一个沉重而缓慢的声音响起：

“啊哈！争取无法实现的东西？这就是说，你要追求那些愚蠢的幻想，那些幻想在你面前耍花招？不，我们要抓住它，让它们不再捣鬼，然后……”

“然后，吃掉它们，再倒头就睡，鼾声大作。然后又会出现一个新的幻想。据说古时候有一种动物叫驴。为了让它们不停地向前走，人们就在前面车辕上，吊一根胡萝卜，勾引着它，让它吃不到，但是始终能看到……如果它真咬到了，那么……”

钳制突然不见了，我急忙朝她讲话的地方冲过去。但是，这个时候你推我挤地一团乱，我身后有人喊道：“他们来这儿啦！他们来啦！”灯光闪了一下就灭了，是有人切断了电缆。到处都是如潮的人流、呼喊声、呻吟声、脑袋、手掌……

我不知道，在地铁里这样乱哄哄的环境中，我待了多久。我只记得我摸到了台阶，看到了昏暗的光线，渐渐变得越来越亮。于是，我们来到了街上，像扇形似的四散跑开……

又剩下我一个了。仍然刮着风，灰暗的暮霭低垂下来，微弱的月光若隐若现。在人行道潮湿的玻璃板底下很深的地方，倒映着灯光、房墙和移动着脚步的人影。我手里的稿纸分外沉重，它把我使劲往下拖。

我来到了楼下大厅里，U依然不在，她的房里也黑着灯，并没有人。我上楼回到了自己的房间，打开灯。太阳穴仍然在突突跳着。我不停地在屋子里踱步：桌子、桌子上的白色稿纸、床、门……我左边的房间里垂着窗帘。右边房间那个满是疙瘩的秃脑袋，正在看书，他的额头像一个巨大的抛物线，额上的皱纹像一行行难以辨认的黄字。我们有时目光相遇，这时我会觉得，他额头的皱纹与我相关的。

后来的事情发生在21点整。U突然出现了，我记得我听到了自己粗重的喘息声，简直震到了我的耳朵，我想小点儿声，可是没有用。

她坐下来，把膝盖中间的制服裙扯平。粉红的褐色鱼鳃抖动着。

“啊，亲爱的，你真的受伤了？我刚听说就马上赶来了……”

那个活塞杆就放在我面前的桌子上。我跳起身来，气喘得更厉害了。她也听见了，话说了一半就惊讶地站了起来。我已经瞄准了她的脑壳，感觉嘴里有某种甜得发腻的东西……手帕呢？我找不到，那就把口水吐在地板上。

右边那个额头上写着我的事的黄色皱纹，好像总在看着我。不能让他瞧见，我按下了电钮，我并没有下窗帘的权利，但是现在顾不了那么多了。窗帘落了下来。

她显然意识到了什么，慌忙朝门外奔去。我赶在她前面，用钥匙锁上了门，呼哧呼哧地喘着粗气，死死盯着她的脑壳不放……

“你……你疯了！你怎么敢……”她往后退去，倒在了床上，瑟瑟发抖的手夹在两个膝盖中间。我浑身是劲，眼睛死死盯着她，缓缓地伸出手（只有一只手能动），抓起了活塞杆。

“求求你！只要等一天……一天。明天，明天，我就去……”

她在胡说些什么？我已扬起了手……好像，她就要死了。是的，我的那些素不相识的读者们，你们可以叫我杀人犯。我知道，我的活塞杆马上就要砸中她的脑袋了，但是，她突然大声尖叫道：

“看在……看在……我答应你……我……等我一下……”她颤抖地扯开制服，一个苍黄的、肌肉松弛的、肥大的躯体倒在了床上……

我突然明白过来：她以为我放下窗帘是想要……

这太离谱了，太荒谬了，我忍不住哈哈大笑了起来，这一笑，我体内的那根紧绷着的发条断了，手垂了下来，活塞杆应声落地。

从这段经历中，我明白过来：笑是最可怕的武器。它能毁灭一切，包括杀人。我坐在桌子那边，哈哈大笑。这是绝望的、歇斯底里的笑。我不知道如何摆脱这处境，太荒唐了，如果让事态自然发展下去，我不清楚，会有什么结果。不过，一个新的情况出现了：电话铃响了。

我连忙去接。使劲捏住话筒：可能是她打来的？但是，电话那头是一个陌生的声音：“稍等。”

话筒嗡嗡地没完没了地响着，让人心中慌乱。铸铁般的脚步声由远及近，终于说话了。

“D-503？嗯……我是全知全能者。立即到我这里来！”

叮当一声，电话挂上了，这声音就像钥匙插进了锁眼。

U还躺在床上，闭着眼睛，鱼鳃向两边撑开了，像在笑。我从地板上捡起她的衣服，扔到她身上，从牙缝中挤出话来：

“喂！快点儿，快点儿！”

她用胳膊肘微微撑起身体，乳房垂到了一边，眼睛睁得圆圆的，像一尊蜡像。

“你说什么？”

“让你穿上衣服！”

她的脸扭曲着，紧紧地抓住衣服，声音瘪瘪地说：“转过身去……”

我转过身，额头靠在玻璃上。我看到灯火、人影、火花都在黑色的潮湿的镜子中颤动。不，这是我，这就是我……他为什么要见我？难道他知道了一切，关于我，关于她的一切？

U已经穿好了衣服，站在门口。我朝她跨前两步，使劲捏住她的手，就像要挤出所有的答案似的。

“听着……她的名字你是知道的，你明白我的意思……你必须要告诉我实话……我不在乎会发生什么事，你报告了她的名字了吗？”

“没有。”

“没有？为什么呢，既然你……”

她下唇像我见到的那个小男孩一样，噘了起来。她的两腮淌下了泪水……

“因为我……我怕要是这样做了……你将再也不会爱我……哦，我不能，我做不到！”

我明白了，这是真话。荒唐而又可笑，但是是符合人性的真话！我打开了门。

笔记之三十六

空白页

基督教的上帝

我的母亲

奇怪，在这一页内容上，我只能留下空白了。究竟我是怎么走到那儿的，怎么等待着（我知道我肯定等过一会儿），我都记不清了。关于这部分，没有留下任何的声音、面容和动作。就像我和世界的所有的联系被切断了一样。

等我头脑清醒的时候，我发觉我已经站在他面前了，瑟缩着低着头，我只能见到他那两只放在膝盖上的铸铁般的巨掌。这双手那么重，似乎要将他的膝盖压弯了。他慢慢地动了动手指。他的脸高高在上，好像要高入云端了。因此声音是从这么高的地方传过来的，所以并不似巨雷那般震耳欲聋，反而像一个普通人的声音。

“这么说，连你也是。你是‘积分号’的设计师！你十分有幸地会成为最伟大的征服者！你的名字本应该在联合国历史上揭开灿烂的光辉篇章！连你也……”

热血涌上了我的脑袋和面颊——关于这部分内容，我的脑海又是一片空白。我只能感觉到太阳穴怦怦地跳，至于上面洪亮的声音所表达的内容，我一个字也没听到。只是当他说完以后，我才清醒过来。我看见他那千斤重的手慢慢移动起来，伸出一根手指指着我说：

“怎么？你为什么不说话？我是刽子手？这是真的，还是假的？”

“是的。”我顺从地答道。突然我又能听清楚他的话了。

“很好！那又如何？你以为我害怕这个词吗？难道你不曾去撕下这个词的外壳，看一看它究竟意味着什么吗？让我来告诉你……你记得这个场景吧：在黄昏时分，一座小山上，竖着一个十字架，还有一群人。他们浑身是血，正忙着将一个人钉在十字架上，而山下的另一些人，正泪流满面地朝上面看着。你是否觉得，山丘上面的那些人所扮演的角色才是最困难的，最重要的！如果没有他们，那么这幕伟大庄严的悲剧将如何上演呢？愚昧的人群向他们喝倒彩。然而，这场悲剧的创造者，正是上帝本人！他更应该慷慨地犒劳他们。所谓最仁慈的上帝自己，不也是将一切不顺从的异教徒投入地狱之火慢慢烧死吗？难道他就不是刽子手？被基督徒烧死的人难道会比烧死的基督徒更少吗？你要清楚，这位上帝，就是几个世纪以来一直被人们赞颂，称他为仁慈的上帝。这是不是很荒唐？不，这并不荒唐。这就是一个用鲜血写就的证明。它证明人难移的本性，即理智。即使在当人还是野蛮的、满身披毛的时候，他们也意识到：对人类真正的、符合几何原理的爱，必然是反人性的，真理的必然特征就是残酷。正如火的必然特征就是灼烧一样！你能找到一种不会烧人的火吗？好吧，你来论证一下，来反驳我吧！”

我怎么能反驳呢？这些思想曾经也是我的所思所想啊，我哪能反驳呢？只是我从来不会把它们形之于如此辉煌、坚韧的外部形式而已。因此，我只能默不作声……

“如果你的沉默表示赞同的话，那么就让我们往下谈吧。我们要彻底谈谈，就像已经打发了孩子们去睡觉，只剩下成年人那样。首先我要问你个问题：人自出生以后，就开始祈祷，幻想，渴望着的东西是什么呢？他渴望有个人来告诉他什么是幸福，然后用锁链将他和幸福拴在一起。我们现在所做的一切不都是为了这件事吗？古人曾幻想死后能进入天堂……而天堂是什么？天堂里的人没有欲望，没有怜悯，没有爱。他们全部都生活在幸福之中，天使是幸福的，因为他们被摘除了幻想……如今，我们正要进入这种幸福之中，我们正要将它好好抓住了（他紧紧攥住自己的拳头，如果他手里捏着块石头，可能也会从石头里挤出水来），现在我们只差包裹好奖品，将它平分给所有人，可是恰恰在这个时候，你……”

沉重的铸铁般的说话声突然停顿了。我全身像是被铁锤敲击过的红色铁块，满脸涨得通红。锤子又举了起来，我等待着……等待着……突然：

“你几岁？”

“32。”

“年纪不小了，但是你比只有你一半年龄的儿童更加幼稚！听着，难道你真的从来没有想过，他们——虽然我们还不能确定他们的号码，但我相信，从你那儿，我会知道一切的。他们需要你，只因为你是‘积分号’的设计师，只是想利用你……”

“不！不是这样的！”我喊叫了起来。但是，这就像用手挡住了飞过来的子弹，是那样徒劳无力。甚至你还能听见自己那可笑的“不是这样的”，而子弹已经穿过了你，你已经倒地了。

是的，不错，我是“积分号”的设计师……是的，没错……突然，我脑海中又浮现了那天早晨U那张愤怒的、颤抖的鱼鳃腮帮，那会儿她们……

我记得自己傻笑着抬起眼，在我面前坐着一个苏格拉底式的秃头男人，秃头上渗出细细的汗珠。

一切都是那么简单、那么明了！简单得甚至有些荒唐！我笑得喘不过气来。笑得呛住了，我用手掌堵着嘴，疯狂地冲了出来。

一级级的台阶，大风，潮湿的跳动着的灯光，还有不断闪现的人脸……我不顾一切地奔跑着：“不，我必须见她！得再见她一面！”

接下来发生的一切又是一片空白。我只记得一双双脚，看不到人，只见到他们的脚：这些脚混乱地走在人行道上，就像落下一阵沉重的脚步的雨点……我甚至还听到了有人快活地、俏皮地大喊着：“嗨，嗨！来这边，上我们这里来！”像是冲我喊的。

之后，我发觉自己站在空荡荡的广场上，只有我一个人。广场中心是一台乌蒙蒙的、骇人的、沉重的庞然大物——全知全能者的死刑机。看到它，我的脑海中立即出现了这样的场景：雪白的枕头，枕头上面有一个半闭着双眸的、向后仰着头的脸，她露出甜蜜的、尖利的洁白小牙齿……将这一切和死刑机联想到一起，这太荒唐了！太可怕了！我明白我为什么会这样想，但是我不想再想下去了。也不想喊出来：我不愿意！这样不行！

我闭上了双眼，坐在通向死刑机的台阶上。可能是因为正在下雨，我的脸湿漉漉的。远处，隐隐听见沉闷的喊叫声。但是谁也听不见，没有人能听见我的呼喊：救我出去！救救我吧！

如果我像古代人那样，有位母亲，该多好啊！一个只属于我自己的母亲。那样，在她的眼中，我不是“积分号”的设计师，不是号码D-503，不是联合国的一分子，只是一个活生生的人，是她身体里的一部分，是一个被蹂躏、被窒息、被抛弃的一部分……即使我被别人钉在十字架上，或者别人把我钉上十字架（也许这没什么分别），但她总能听到我的呼喊，但愿她用那布满皱纹的、皱成一团的瘪嘴来亲吻我……

笔记之三十七

鞭毛虫

世界末日

她的房间

早晨在食堂里，我左边的人忧心忡忡地低声对我说：

“你吃呀！怎么不吃？他们都看着你哪！”

我用力挤出笑容，觉得这笑就像脸皮裂开了一道口子，我继续笑，这裂口越来越大，我觉得越来越疼……

后来，我用叉子叉起了一块食物举到嘴巴，突然叉子从手中滑落了下来，还敲着了盘子。桌子、墙壁、杯盘，连空气都颤抖了，发出铮铮的响声。外面也是一样，响起了震天巨响，那声音越过我们头顶，越过房屋，慢悠悠地波及到远处，接着逐渐变弱，最后消失不见了，就像水面上泛起的阵阵涟漪，完全不见了。

霎时间，我见到一张张骇人的苍白的脸，那些正使劲咀嚼的嘴，像突然坏掉了一样，停住了，叉子也停留在了半空中。之后，一切都乱了套，脱离了永恒不变的轨道。所有的人都从座位上跳了起来（连颂歌都没有唱完），也不顾节拍，匆忙咽下正在咀嚼的食物，相互抓住对方问道：“怎么了？到底怎么回事？”这台伟大的机器，这台有条不紊的机器，此刻突然散了架子，出现了一堆乱七八糟的碎片……所有人都朝楼下跑去，奔向电梯……到处都是支离破碎的脚步声，还有片语只言，就像信纸的碎片吹上了天……

旁边的房子里的人也都涌了出来。过了一会儿，大街上就像显微镜下的一滴水；封闭在透明的、玻璃一样的滴液里的鞭毛虫，正在四处乱窜，前后左右，动个不停。

“啊！”我听到了一声喊叫。我看见他的后脑勺，还有他的一根手指向上指去。沿着那个方向，所有人朝那方的天空看去。

天空中，乌云好像在逃避无形的侦缉队的追捕。它们彼此碾压、你追我赶朝前飞奔。安全卫士的飞行器正在空中巡查。在远远的西方，有一群……似乎是……刚开始，谁也看不清那到底是什么，我也是。虽然我应该比别人看得明白。那似乎是一大群黑色的飞船，飞得很高，几乎令人难以置信，它们成了一个个飞速移动的小黑点。

它们越飞越近，嘶哑的、嗷嗷的啼鸣慢慢地传到了地面，终于，我们看清了，那是一群飞鸟。天空中布满了这些黑色的、尖声鸣叫着往下降落的三角形；强大的气浪将它们朝下驱赶着，它们着陆在圆屋顶上、房顶上、木杆上，还有阳台上。

“啊！哈！”激动的脖子转了过来，我一眼就看到了那个额头凸鼓的人，但是，他好像换了一个人，喜气洋洋，容光焕发地，在风的呼啸声中，在飞鸟的聒噪声中，他对我大声喊道：

“你明白吗，绿墙，绿墙已经被炸坍了！你明白吗？”

在离街很远的那边，我看到，几个人影闪动。他们伸着脑袋，匆忙地跑到屋里去。而在人行道的另一边，有一大群做过手术的人，正匆促而又缓慢地向西走去……

他的嘴角和眼角都是毛茸茸的……我拽住他的手，问道：

“告诉我，I在哪里？她在绿墙那边吗？还是……我一定要找到她，你懂吗？必须要找到她，我不能……”

“在这里！”他陶醉似的大声叫道，露出黄色的牙齿，“她就在这里，在城里，她在行动。噢……我们干了件大事！”

“我们？”“我”是谁？

他身边有五十来个人，他们都露出相似的表情，都容光焕发，声音洪亮，乐乐呵呵地露出一口坚固的牙齿。他们迎着狂风，手里挥舞着电绳索（他们从哪里弄到的？），他们朝着西边走去，来到48号大街，将那些已经做过手术的人团团围住……

我脚步踉跄，在逆风中奔跑，我朝她的方向跑去。去做什么？我也不清楚。我踉跄着……又是空无一人的大街……城市变了样，它看起来是那么陌生，那么野蛮，到处都是鸟儿欢天喜地的鸣叫声，还有胜利的喧闹声。好像世界已经走到了尽头！

透过许多房子的玻璃，我惊讶地看到在几个房间里，女号码和男号码无耻地做爱，甚至都不放下窗帘，也没有粉红票子，就在大白天……

她住的地方到了，大门茫然地敞开着。在控制台那里，我没有看到人。电梯停在升降井的半中央。我喘着粗气沿着没完没了的楼梯走着，终于冲到了走廊。我飞快地一间间房门看过去，门上的号码就像轮子里的辐条，320，326，330，I-330！

透过玻璃门，我看到屋里的所有东西都散乱着，一片狼藉，一把椅子倒在地上，也许是匆忙中被碰翻了。还有桌子，四脚朝天地翻倒在地上，就像死掉了的畜生。床歪斜地抵在墙边，地板上乱七八糟，全是凌乱的粉红票子。

我弯下腰拾起一张，一张，又一张。每张写的全是我，D-503，都是我，它们是我融化了的、炽热的感情。只剩下这些了……

不知怎的，我觉得不应该将它们就这么洒落在地上。我捡拾起一把，将它们小心地放在桌上，轻轻地捋平，看着它们，然后，我忍不住大笑了起来。我以前从来都不知道，现在我可算知道了，你们也许懂吧，笑可以有很多不同的色彩。它只是你内心爆发的回声：它可能是红色、蓝色、金黄色的节日焰火，也可能是炸飞到空中的血肉之躯……

我注意到有几张票子上，写着一个陌生的号码。我不记得数字子，只记住了字母F。我把桌上的票子都扫到地上，用脚踩着它们，也踩着我自己……然后，转身离开了……

在走廊里，我坐在对面的窗台上，好像在等待着什么。我这样呆坐了很久。突然，走来了一个老人，他的脸上满是皱纹，那张脸就像是扎了窟窿、漏了气的气球；扎破的孔眼里还渗出透明的水滴，正在慢慢地流淌着，这也许是眼泪。老人走远了，我才意识到，并大声地喊道：

“喂，请告诉我，你认识I-330吗？”

老人转过身来，绝望地甩了一下手，一瘸一拐地走远了……

黄昏，我回了家。西边灰蓝色的天空每分每秒都在紧张地抽搐、发颤，还有雷电的咆哮声，屋顶上布满了焦炭似的黑鸟。

我躺下了，噩梦像野兽一样朝我压了过来，我要窒息了……

笔记之三十八

我不知道要怎么写提要

要不就叫被扔掉的香烟吧

我睡醒了。眼睛被一阵刺目的光线刺痛。我眯起眼睛，脑子里迷漫着蓝色的烟雾，一切都似在迷雾中。我默默地回想着：

“可是我没有开灯呀，为什么……”

我惊跳了起来，睁大眼睛一看，桌子后面坐着I，她用手支着下巴，正笑吟吟地看着我。她那会儿就坐在这张桌旁，待了大概十到十五分钟。这短暂的时光已经过去很久了，但是我仍然觉得，好像她刚刚离开。我还能追上她，抓住她的双手——可能她还会笑着对我说……

I就坐在桌子那儿。我朝她奔去。

“是你，是你！真的是你！我一直在找……我进入你的房间，我以为你……”

但是，我只是说了一半的话，她长矛枪似的尖硬的睫毛顶住了我。我止住了脚步。我想起来了，在“积分号”上，她就是用这样冰冷的眼神看着我的。我知道，我必须要把一切都告诉她，在最短的时间内让她了解真相……让她完全信任我，否则她永远也不会……

“听着，I，我必须……我必须把一切都告诉你……不，让我先喝口水……”

嘴里太干了，好像里面贴满了吸墨水纸。我倒了杯水，喝下去，但仍然很干……我把杯子放在桌上，双手紧紧地抓住水瓶……

这时，我才意识到那蓝烟是香烟的烟雾。她将香烟送到嘴边，深深地吸了一口，那贪婪的神气，就像我喝水一样，接着她又吐了一口烟，随后说道：

“不必了。安静点。你还看不出来吗？我还是来了。下面有人在等我……你想要这几分钟吗？这是我们最后的几分钟……”

她用力将香烟扔到地上。身体向后仰，此刻她还倚着软椅的扶手（而想要按住墙上的按钮是十分困难的）……我记得，软椅一晃，椅子两只脚就离开了地面，跷了起来。紧接着窗帘被落了下来。

她凑近我，搂住我。透过衣裙，她慢慢地、温柔地，朝我身躯注入能愈合我所有创伤的毒液。

突然……常常会有这类情形出现：当你陷入甜蜜、温馨的睡梦中时，你猛然地被什么东西刺痛，你心中一惊就睁大了眼睛……现在就是这样：我突然想起来在她房间里的那些踩脏的粉红票子，还有票子上的字母F以及几个数字……此刻我的脑子里搅成了一团。直到现在我也没法说明白这到底是种什么感情，我狠狠地碾压着她，她失声叫了起来……

在这10分钟还是15分钟里，只剩下最后的1分钟。雪白的枕头托着她向后仰着头，她双眼微微闭合着，露出一排整齐的小尖牙……这情景又让我想起了那些令人颤抖的事情，那些荒唐的又无法驱赶走的事情。我越加温柔地也越加残暴地对待她，用手指在她身上留下了更多的青紫色指痕……

她并没睁开眼睛（我注意到了这一点），问道：

“听人说，你昨天去见了全知全能者？是真的吗？”

“是的。”

她的眼睛猛然睁开了，我饶有兴致地看着她的脸，却发觉她的脸色逐渐变白，直到最后毫无血色，仿佛整张脸都隐没了——只剩下一双眼睛。我把一切都告诉了她，只有一件事，我没有说（我也不知道为什么没有说，不对，其实我是知道的），就是全知全能者最后讲的那些话，他们之所以需要我，只是因为我……

她的脸慢慢又显现出来了，就像在显影液里的一张照片：脸颊、洁白的牙齿和嘴唇。她站起身来，走到壁橱的镜子面前。我的嘴又开始干了，我又倒了杯水，却怎么也喝不下去，最后，我将杯子放回桌上，问她：

“你来到这儿，就是因为你想了解这件事？”

她从镜子里望着我。我见到一个尖刻的、嘲讽的三角形。她转过身来，想说些什么，但是她什么也没说。

没必要说了，我明白。

和她告别吧，我挪动着自己的不太灵光的腿，不小心撞到了椅子上。椅子翻了，它趴在地下，四脚朝天，跟她屋里的那把椅子一样。她的嘴唇冰冷……就跟我房间的地板一样冰冷。

她走后，我坐在地板上，低着头，看着那个烟头。

我没法写了，不想写了！

笔记之三十九

结局

所有这一切，就像在饱和液中扔进的一颗盐粒：很快地，它就分解成了针状晶体，硬结了，凝固了，我非常清楚：一切已成定局。我也下了决心，明天早上我就要去安全卫士局，这无异于自杀，但是，只有这样，才能得到重生，因为只有死去后才能重生。

西边的天空每隔一秒钟，就猛烈抽搐一下。我的头发热，太阳穴突突地跳着。我整夜睡不好觉，直到早上七点才睡去，这时黑暗已经退去，天空变成了灰色，停栖着黑鸟的屋顶也逐渐清晰了起来……

等我再次醒来时，已经是十点钟了（看来，今天铃声没有响过），桌上还有昨晚那杯没有喝的水。我口渴极了，很快地喝完了这杯水。然后冲出门：我要赶紧去做这件事，越快越好。

天空依然是空空荡荡，一片蔚蓝，就像被狂风暴雨洗劫了一样。影子的形象尖锐锋利……一切仿佛都是秋天的蓝色的空气裁出来的，稀薄的，不敢用手碰，看起来十分脆弱。我也是这样：我不能想，思考是件危险的事，否则……

我什么都不想，甚至我连看都不看周围一眼，我所看到的可能只是些隐约印象而已。人行道上布满了不知从哪里伸展出的树枝，叶子是绿色的，还有黄色的、深红色的；天空里飞鸟和飞船互相冲撞着。我周围都是人们的脑袋和张开的嘴，还有挥动着树枝的手……可能，周围是一片嘈杂的吵闹声、鸟鸣声……

接着，是一条条空无人烟的街，就像被瘟疫肆虐过一样。我记得，我的脚被一个绵软的东西绊住了，它一动不动躺在地上。我弯腰看了一下，是具尸体。他平躺着，双脚叉开，还有，他的脸……我认出了那厚厚的黑人般的嘴唇，还有他说话时吐沫横飞的样子。

此刻，他仿佛还在冲着我笑。我只停留了一秒钟，就飞快地跨过他，跑了起来……我不能停下……我必须了结所有的事情，否则，我会像超量载重的铣轨一样断裂，坍塌……

幸好，离安全卫士局只有二十来步路了。我已经能看到那金色的招牌了，终于来到了门口，我深深吸了一口气，走了进去。

走廊里站着看不到头的一排号码，他们一个挨着一个排着，手里拿着小张纸，或是厚厚的笔记本。他们慢慢地挪动着，走一点就停住不动了。我在队伍旁来回地窜，脑袋就要炸开了。我拉住他们的衣袖，恳求着，就像一个病人渴望能得到一种良药，即使要忍受疼痛也在所不惜。

有一个身着制服的女人，她腰束皮带，胸部两个半球形明显地撅着。她不停地扭来扭去，好像她的眼睛正长在半球上似的。她冲我笑着，说：

“他肚子疼！将他带到厕所去，在右边第二扇门……”

所有人都哄笑着，这笑声让我的喉咙发痒，好像什么东西堵住了似的。我想要叫起来，再不然……再不然……

突然，背后有人拉我的胳膊。我转过身，看到了一对透明的招风耳朵。它们不是平时的粉红色，今天变得红彤彤的。他说话的时候，喉结上下移动着，好像要蹦出来似的。

“你来干什么？”他问道，尖尖的芒刺使劲钻进来。

我连忙抓住他。

“快啊，求求你……去你的办公室吧！……我要说出一切……立刻！能向你报告，这太好了……但是，要向你本人报告，这有点可怕……但这样也好……也好……”

他也认识她，这会使这件事更让人难以接受。但是，也许他听了我的话会和我一样颤抖……那这件事就是我们两个人的了……我不想一个人面对……

门被“砰”的一声关上了。我还记得，在门底下卡了一张纸。关门的时候，它在地板上蹭着。接着，屋里突然罩上了一种奇特的、令人窒息的沉默。如果，他说上一句话，哪怕是一个无关紧要的字也好，我会马上全部都说出来的。但是他始终一言不发。我非常紧张，紧张得连耳朵都鸣响起来。我对他说（眼睛不敢正视他）：

“我想，我一开始是恨她的……我心里有斗争……不过，不不，不要相信我说的，我本来可以，但我不想拯救我自己。我愿意毁灭，我愿意那样，因为，那对我来说是最珍贵的……也就是说，不是毁灭，是希望她……哪怕是现在，即便我知道了一切，我仍然……你知道，你知道吧，全知全能者召见了我。”

“是的，知道。”

“而他对我说的话……你懂吗，他所说的话，就像是从我脚底下把地板给抽走了，只剩下我，还有桌上所有的东西：稿纸、墨水啦……墨水会泼出来的，洒到所有东西上……”

“还有什么，快点说！快点说！好多人在排队等着呢。”

于是，我磕磕巴巴、颠三倒四地将所有的事，所有本子里写的事都告诉给了他。还说起了那个真正的我，还有那个毛茸茸的我。还说到了她当时谈起我的手……是的，所有的一切就是从那时开始的……我还讲到我如何对自己说谎，她怎么给我弄了假证明，我又怎样一天天地变坏，还有地下长廊以及绿墙外的种种见闻……

我说得乱七八糟、颠三倒四，甚至有时候我还结结巴巴，不知道有些话该怎么讲。他那两片双曲线的嘴唇上，挂着一丝讪笑，就帮我补充上，我说不出来的那些话，我十分感激地点点头……后来（不知怎么地），他已经开始替我讲述了！我只有听着他讲述的份儿，只能点头说：“对，是的……对，就是这样，很对！”

我感觉自己嘴唇周围一片冰凉，就像服用了醚麻剂一样，从脖子根儿开始发凉，我艰难地问道：

“但是，你怎么会得知这一切的呢……”

又一个讥诮的冷笑，他嘴唇的双曲线弯得更厉害。他回答道：

“我看出来了，你还是有隐瞒的部分。比方说，你列举了你在绿墙之外所见到的所有人，但是，你却漏掉了一个。你否认得了吗？你记不记得在那里见过我，只有一秒钟？是的，那就是我。”

我呆住了。

突然，我脑子里像闪电似的一亮，我懂了：我感到无地自容，原来他，跟他们也是一伙的……我突然意识到，我所供出的这些东西——我自己的痛苦，还有我之前之后的所有想法，以及我来到这里的原因，就像我做了一件多么了不起的事一样。而其实，这一切都非常可笑！就像古代笑话里所写的关于亚伯拉罕和以撒的故事[1] 一样。当亚伯拉罕浑身冷汗，要举刀杀死自己的儿子的时候，突然天上传来了声音，大喊：“别当真！我只是在开玩笑……”

我的眼睛紧紧盯着他嘴上的冷笑，我双手紧紧撑住了桌子边沿，慢慢地推开椅子，扭头疯狂地冲了出去，我顾不得别人的喊叫，跳下台阶……许许多多张大张的嘴都从我眼前一晃而过……

我迷迷糊糊地来到了一间公共休息室，这是一个地铁站。在地面上，一切都在毁灭。历史上最伟大、最理智的文化在崩溃；而在这里，一切还是那样美好。四壁发着光，水声轻快地在潺潺流淌，那看不见的透明音乐也像水流一样流淌着……可想一想，这一切都会毁灭！这一切都会被埋没在荒草丛中，只剩下传说……

我痛苦地大声呻吟起来。左边有个人轻轻地拍了拍我的肩膀。他是我的邻居，那个有着巨大的抛物线大额头的人，我再次看到他额头上深浅不一的皱纹。那上面写的都是关于我的事。

“我明白，我非常理解你，”他说道，“但你必须要冷静！你一定要冷静下来！一切都会回来的，必定会回来。大家都必须知道我的发现，这十分重要。现在我要第一个告诉你：我已经计算出来了，没有无穷大！根本就不存在！”

我奇怪地看着他。

“真的，我跟你说，不存在无穷大。如果世界是无限的，那么物质的平均密度应该等于零。但是，既然我们都知道，它不是零，那么宇宙就必然是有限的。它是球形的，它的半径的平方r2 等于平均密度乘以……剩下的就是计算出数值系数，那么……你懂了吗？这意味着一切都是有限的，简单的，是可以计算的……你懂了吗？而你，我尊敬的朋友，你刚才大喊大叫，妨碍了我的演算……”

我不知道是哪件事更令我崩溃：是他的发现呢，还是他对我这个突然醒悟的时刻的描述？但是，这时我才发现，他手上有个笔记本，还有一张对数刻度表。我突然意识到，即使全世界都毁灭了，我也要完成我的笔记。（将它留给我的那些素不相识的读者们。）

我从他那里弄了几张纸。在这些纸上记下了我最后的记事……

我打算结束我的笔记，就像古代人在埋葬死者后，在墓穴上插上十字架一样。突然，铅笔哆嗦了一下，从我的手指缝上掉了下去……

“听着，”我拉着他的衣袖说，“你说的那个有限宇宙的最终极限在哪儿？它的后面又有什么呢？”

他还没来得及回答，上面台阶上就响起了脚步声……

[1] 上帝耶和华想考验亚伯拉罕对他的忠诚度，就吩咐亚伯拉罕将爱子以撒献祭。亚伯拉罕带着以撒上山，将以撒绑起来，举起尖刀要刺穿以撒的时候，上帝阻止了这场玩笑，还由衷地赞美了亚伯拉罕的忠诚。

笔记之四十

事实

气钟罩

我确信

白天。天气晴朗。气压计标注760毫米。有没有可能，这些笔记真的是我写的呢？D-503，真的写过这些内容吗？难道过去我确实这样感受过，或者只是我自以为这些是我的感受？

笔迹确实是我的没错。但是，幸运的是，只是笔迹相同而已，现在，我可不会写什么类似梦呓这类荒唐无比的隐喻了。没有任何的感情流露，我只记录事实。因为我非常健康，我绝对的健康。此刻，我正在微笑呢，我总是忍不住想微笑：因为我脑袋里的那根刺已经被拔除掉了，现在觉得无比轻松，空空如也。准确地说，不是空空如也，也是没有任何陌生的无法掌控的东西侵入，所有那些妨碍我微笑的东西都不存在了。（微笑才是一个人该有的常态。）

以下就是我的真实记录：那天晚上，我，还有那位发现宇宙有限之说的邻居，以及其他和我们在一起的人，都被带到了附近的礼堂。（礼堂的号码是112，不知为什么，我总是觉得这号码很熟悉。）我们被捆在手术台上，接受了伟大的手术。第二天，我，D-503，谒见了全知全能者，将我所知道的一切都和盘托出。怎么以前我会感到难以说出口呢？真有点不可思议！唯一合理的解释就是我生病了，患了灵魂病。

还是在当天晚上，我和全知全能者大人同桌而坐。我有生以来第一次坐在气钟罩室内。她们带来了一个女人。当着我的面，对她进行取证。这女人嘴巴很硬，一直不肯开口，始终冷笑着。我发现她的小牙齿雪白而尖利，还挺好看的。

后来，她被押到气钟罩下。她的脸变得很白很白，还有黑幽幽的大眼睛，真是很好看。当开始从气钟罩里抽出空气时，她的头向后仰去，眼睛闭上了，嘴唇抿着。这个动作仿佛似曾相识。她使劲抓住椅子把手，眼睛一动不动地看着我，直到眼睛完全合上为止。然后，把她拖出来。电极很快使她苏醒过来。接着她又被送进了气钟罩。这样反复了三遍，她仍然一个字也不说。

和这个女人一起押来的人比她要老实多了。很多人只受了一次刑，就招供了。明天他们全都要被送上全知全能者的死刑机，被处以极刑。这事已经不能再拖延了。因为西部街区依然混乱一片，到处都是哭喊声，还有尸体，还有野兽……此外，十分遗憾，还有为数不少的号码背叛了理性。

但是，庆幸的是，在40号横向大街上，已经筑起了一堵临时高压电墙。我希望，我们会取得胜利。不仅如此，我确信，我们终将取得胜利。因为理性必胜。

RECORD ONE

An Announcement

The Wisest of Lines

A Poem

This is merely a copy, word for word, of what was published this morning in the State newspaper:

"In another hundred and twenty days the building of the Integral will be completed. The great historic hour is near, when the first Integral will rise into the limitless space of the universe. One thousand years ago your heroic ancestors subjected the whole earth to the power of the United State. A still more glorious task is before you: the integration of the indefinite equation of the Cosmos by the use of the glass, electric, fire-breathing Integral. Your mission is to subjugate to the grateful yoke of reason the unknown beings who live on other planets, and who are perhaps still in the primitive state of freedom. If they will not understand that we are bringing them a mathematically faultless happiness, our duty will be to force them to be happy. But before we take up arms, we shall try the power of words.

"In the name of the Well-Doer, the following is announced herewith to all Numbers of the United State:

"Whoever feels capable must consider it his duty to write treatises, poems, manifestoes, odes, and other compositions on the greatness and the beauty of the United State.

"This will be the first cargo which the Integral will carry. "Long live the United State! Long live the Numbers!! Long live the Well-Doer!!!"

I feel my cheeks burn as I write this. To integrate the colossal, universal equation! To unbend the wild curve, to straighten it out to a tangent—to a straight line! For the United State is a straight line, a great, divine, precise, wise line, the wisest of lines!

I, D-503, the builder of the Integral, I am only one of the many mathematicians of the United State. My pen, which is accustomed to figures, is unable to express the march and rhythm of consonance; therefore I shall try to record only the things I see, the things I think, or, to be more exact, the things we think. Yes, "we"; that is exactly what I mean, and We, therefore, shall be the title of my records. But this will only be a derivative of our life, of our mathematical, perfect life in the United State. If this be so, will not this derivative be a poem in itself, despite my limitations? It will. I believe it, I know it.

My cheeks still burn as I write this. I feel something similar to what a woman probably feels when for the first time she senses within herself the pulse of a tiny, blind, human being. It is I, and at the same time it is not I. And for many long months it will be necessary to feed it with my life, with my blood, and then with a pain at my heart, to tear it from myself and lay it at the feet of the United State.

Yet I am ready, as everyone, or nearly everyone of us, is. I am ready.

RECORD TWO

Ballet

Square Harmony

SPRING. From behind the Green Wall, from some unknown plains the wind brings to us the yellow honeyed pollen of flowers. One's lips are dry from this sweet dust. Every moment one passes one's tongue over them. Probably all women whom I meet in the street (and certainly men also) have sweet lips today. This somewhat disturbs my logical thinking. But the sky! The sky is blue. Its limpidness is not marred by a single cloud. (How primitive was the taste of the ancients, since their poets were always inspired by these senseless, formless, stupidly rushing accumulations of vapor!) I love, I am sure it will not be an error if I say we love, only such a sky—a sterile, faultless sky. On such days the whole universe seems to be moulded by the same eternal glass, like the Green Wall, and like all our buildings. On such days one sees their wonderful equations, hitherto unknown. One sees these equations in everything, even in the most ordinary, everyday things.

Here is an example: this morning I was on the dock where the Integral is being built, and I saw the lathes; blindly, with abandon, the balls of the regulators were rotating; the cranks were swinging from side to side with a glimmer; the working beam proudly swung its shoulder; and the mechanical chisels were dancing to the melody of unheard tarantellas. I suddenly perceived all the music, all the beauty, of this colossal, this mechanical ballet, illumined by light blue rays of sunshine. Then the thought came: why beautiful? Why is the dance beautiful? Answer: because it is an unfree movement. Because the deep meaning of the dance is contained in its absolute, ecstatic submission, in the ideal non-freedom. If it is true that our ancestors would abandon themselves in dancing at the most inspired moments of their lives (religious mysteries, military parades), then it means only one thing: the instinct of non-freedom has been characteristic of human nature from ancient times, and we in our life of today, we are only consciously—

I was interrupted. The switchboard clicked. I raised my eyes—O-90, of course! In half a minute she will be here to take me for the walk.

Dear O-! She always seems to me to look like her name, O-. She is approximately ten centimeters shorter than the required Maternal Norm. Therefore she appears round all over; the rose-colored O of her lips is open to meet every word of mine. She has a round soft dimple on her wrist. Children have such dimples. As she came in, the logical flywheel was still buzzing in my head, and following its inertia, I began to tell her about my new formula which embraced the machines and the dancers and all of us.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" I asked.

"Yes, wonderful...Spring!" she replied, with a rosy smile.

You see? Spring! She talks about Spring! Females!... I became silent.

We were down in the street. The avenue was crowded. On days when the weather is so beautiful, the afternoon personal hour is usually the hour of the supplementary walk. As always, the big Musical Tower was playing the March of the United State with all its pipes. The Numbers, hundreds, thousands of Numbers in light blue unifs (probably a derivative of the ancient uniform) with golden badges on the chest—the State number of each one, male or female—the Numbers were walking slowly, four abreast, exaltedly keeping step. I, we four, were but one of the innumerable waves of a powerful torrent: to my left, O-90 (if one of my long—haired ancestors were writing this a thousand years ago he would probably call her by that funny word, mine); to my right, two unknown Numbers, a she—Number and a he—Number.

Blue sky, tiny baby suns in each one of our badges; our faces are unclouded by the insanity of thoughts. Rays Do you picture it? Everything seems to be made of a kind of smiling, a ray—like matter. And the brass measures: Tm—ta—ta—tam...Tra—ta—ta—tam...Stamping on the brassy steps that sparkle in the sun, with every step you rise higher and higher into the dizzy blue heights Then, as this morning on the dock, again I saw, as if for the first time in my life, the impeccably straight streets, the glistening glass of the pavement, the divine parallel—epipeds of the transparent dwellings, the square harmony of the grayish-blue rows of Numbers. And it seemed to me that not past generations, but I myself, had won a victory over the old god and the old life, that I myself had created all this. I felt like a tower: I was afraid to move my elbow, lest the walls, the cupola, and the machines should fall to pieces.

Then without warning—a jump through centuries: I remembered (apparently through an association by contrast) a picture in the museum, a picture of an avenue of the twentieth century, a thundering, many-colored confusion of men, wheels, animals, billboards, trees, colors, and birds They say all this once actually existed!

It seemed to me so incredible, so absurd, that I lost control of myself and laughed aloud. A laugh, as if an echo of mine, reached my ear from the right. I turned. I saw white, very white, sharp teeth, and an unfamiliar female face.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "but you looked about you like an inspired mythological god on the seventh day of creation. You look as though you are sure that I, too, was created by you, by no one but you. It is very flattering."

All this without a smile, even with a certain degree of respect (she may know that I am the builder of the Integral). In her eyes, nevertheless, and on her brows, there was a strange irritating X, and I was unable to grasp it, to find an arithmetical expression for it. Somehow I was confused; with a somewhat hazy mind, I tried logically to explain my laughter.

"It was absolutely clear that this contrast, this impassable abyss, between the things of today and of years ago—"

"But why impassable?" (What bright, sharp teeth!) "One might throw a bridge over that abyss. Please imagine: a drum battalion, rows—all this existed before and consequently—"

"Oh, yes, it is clear," I exclaimed.

It was a remarkable intersection of thoughts. She said almost in the same words the things I had written down before the walk! Do you understand? Even the thoughts! It is because nobody is one, but one of. We are all so much alike—

"Are you sure?" I noticed her brows that rose to the temples in an acute angle—like the sharp corners of an X. Again I was confused, casting a glance to the right, then to the left. To my right—she, slender, abrupt, resistant flexible like a whip, 1—330 (I saw her number now). To my left, O—, totally different, all made of circles with a childlike dimple on her wrist; and at the very end of our row, an unknown he—Number, double—curved like the letter S. We were all so different from one another...

The one to my right, I—330, apparently caught the confusion in my eye, for she said with a sigh, "Yes, alas!"

I don't deny that this exclamation was quite in place, but again there was something in her face or in her voice...

With an abruptness unusual for me, I said, "Why, 'alas'? Science is developing and if not now, then within fifty or one hundred years—"

"Even the noses will—"

"Yes, noses!" This time I almost shouted, "Since there is still a reason, no matter what, for envy... Since my nose is button—like and someone else's is—"

"Well, your nose is rather classic, as they would have said in ancient days, although your hands— No, no, show me your hands!"

I hate to have anyone look at my hands; they are covered with long hair—a stupid atavism. I stretched out my hand and said as indifferently as I could, "Apelike."

She glanced at my hand, then at my face.

"No, a very curious harmony."

She weighed me with her eyes as though with scales. The little horns again appeared at the corners of her brows.

"He is registered in my name," exclaimed O—90 with a rosy smile.

I made a grimace. Strictly speaking, she was out of order. This dear O—, how shall I say it? The speed of her tongue is not correctly calculated; the speed per second of her tongue should be slightly less than the speed per second of her thoughts—at any rate not the reverse.

At the end of the avenue the big bell of the Accumulating Tower resounded seventeen. The personal hour was at an end. I—330 was leaving us with that S—like he—Number. He has such a respectable, and I noticed then, such a familiar, face. I must have met him some— where, but where I could not remember. Upon leaving me I—330 said with the same X—like smile:

"Drop in day after tomorrow at auditorium 112."

I shrugged my shoulders: "If I am assigned to the anditorium you just named—"

She, with a peculiar, incomprehensible certainty: "You will be."

The woman had a disagreeable effect upon me, like an irrational component of an equation which you can— not eliminate. I was glad to remain alone with dear O—, at least for a short while. Hand in hand with her, I passed four lines of avenues; at the next corner she went to the right, I to the left. O—timidly raised her round blue crystalline eyes.

"I would like so much to come to you today and pull down the curtains, especially today, right now "

How funny she is. But what could I say to her? She was with me only yesterday and she knows as well as I that our next sexual day is day after tomorrow. It is merely another case in which her thoughts are too far ahead. It sometimes happens that the spark comes too early to the motor.

At parting I kissed her twice—no, I shall be exact, three times, on her wonderful blue eyes, such clear, unclouded eyes.

RECORD THREE

A Coat

A Wall

The Tables

I looked over all that I wrote down yesterday and I find that my descriptions are not sufficiently clear. That is, everything would undoubtedly be clear to one of us, but who knows to whom my Integral will someday bring these records? Perhaps you, like our ancestors, have read the great book of civilization only up to the page of nine hundred years ago. Perhaps you don't know even such elementary things as the Hour Tables, Personal Hours, Maternal Norm, Green Wall, Well-Doer. It seems droll to me, and at the same time it is very difficult to explain these things. It is as though, let us say, a writer of the twentieth century should start to explain in his novel such words as coat, apartment, wife. Yet if his novel had been translated for primitive races, how could he have avoided explaining what a coat meant? I am sure that the primitive man would look at a coat and think, "What is this for? It is only a burden, an unnecessary burden." I am sure that you will feel the same, if I tell you that not one of us has ever stepped beyond the Green Wall since the Two Hundred Years' War.

But, dear readers, you must think, at least a little. It helps.

It is clear that the history of mankind, as far as our knowledge goes, is a history of the transition from nomadic forms to more sedentary ones. Does it not follow that the most sedentary form of life (ours) is at the same time the most perfect one? There was a time when people rushed from one end of the earth to another, but this was the prehistoric time when such things as nations, wars, commerce, different discoveries of different Americas still existed. Who has need of these things now?

I admit that humanity acquired this habit of a sedentary form of life not without difficulty and not all at once. When the Two Hundred Years' War had destroyed all the roads, which later were overgrown with grass, it was probably very difficult at first. It must have seemed uncomfortable to live in cities which were cut off from each other by green debris. But what of it? Man soon after he lost his tail probably did not learn at once how to chase away flies without its help. I am almost sure that at first he was even lonesome without his tail; but now, can you imagine yourself with a tail? Or can you imagine yourself walking in the street naked, without clothes? (It is possible you go without clothes still.) Here we have the same case. I cannot imagine a city which is not surrounded by a Green Wall; I cannot imagine a life which is not surrounded by the figures of our Tables.

Tables...Now even, purple figures look at me austerely yet kindly from the golden background of the wall. Involuntarily I am reminded of the thing which was called by the ancients "Sainted Image," and I feel a desire to compose verses, or prayers, which are the same. Oh, why am I not a poet, so as to be able to glorify the Tables properly, the heart and pulse of the United State!

All of us and perhaps all of you read in childhood, while in school, that greatest of all monuments of ancient literature, the Official Railroad Guide. But if you compare this with the Tables, you will see side by side graphite and diamonds. Both are the same, carbon. But how eternal, transparent, how shining the diamond! Who does not lose his breath when he runs through the pages of the Guide? The Tables transformed each one of us, actually, into a six—wheeled steel hero of a great poem. Every morning, with six—wheeled precision, at the same hour, at the same minute, we wake up, millions of us at once. At the very same hour, millions like one, we begin our work, and millions like one, we finish it. United into a single body with a million hands, at the very same sec— ond, designated by the Tables, we carry the spoons to our mouths; at the same second we all go out to walk, go to the auditorium, to the halls for the Taylor exercises, and then to bed.

I shall be quite frank: even we have not attained the absolute, exact solution of the problem of happiness. Twice a day, from sixteen to seventeen o'clock and from twenty—one to twenty—two, our powerful united organism dissolves into separate cells; these are the personal hours designated by the Tables. During these hours you would see the curtains discreetly drawn in the rooms of some; others march slowly over the pavement of the main avenue or sit at their desks as I sit now. But I firmly believe, let them call me an idealist and a dreamer, I believe that sooner or later we shall somehow find a place in the general formula even for these hours. Somehow, all of the 86,400 seconds will be incorporated in the Tables of Hours.

I have had opportunity to read and hear many improbable things about those times when human beings still lived in the state of freedom, that is, in an unorganized primitive state. One thing has always seemed to me most improbable: how could a government, even a primitive has always seemed to me most improbable: how could a government, even a primitive government, permit people to live without anything like our Tables—without compulsory walks, without precise regulation of the time to eat, for instance? They would get up and go to bed whenever they liked. Some historians even say that in those days the streets were lighted all night, and all night people went about the streets.

That I cannot understand. True, their minds were rather limited in those days. Yet they should have understood, should they not, that such a life was actually wholesale murder, although slow murder, day after day? The State (humanitarianism) forbade in those days the murder of one person, but it did not forbid the killing of millions slowly and by inches. To kill one person, that is, to reduce the individual span of human life by fifty years, was considered criminal, but to reduce the general sum of human life by fifty million years was not considered criminal! Isn't it droll? Today this simple mathematical moral problem could easily be solved in half a minute's time by any ten—year—old Number, yet they couldn't do it! All their Immanuel Kants together couldn't do it! It didn't enter the heads of all their Kants to build a system of scientific ethics, that is, ethics based on adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing.

Further, is it not absurd that their State (they called it State!) left sexual life absolutely without control? On the contrary, whenever and as much as they wanted...absolutely unscientific, like beasts! And like beasts they blindly gave birth to children! Is it not strange to understand gardening, chicken farming, fishery (we have definite knowledge that they were familiar with all these things), and not to be able to reach the last step in this logical scale, namely, production of children—not to be able to discover such things as Maternal and Paternal Norms?

It is so droll, so improbable, that while I write this I am afraid lest you, my unknown future readers, should think I am merely a poor jester. I feel almost as if you may think I want simply to mock you and with a very serious face try to relate absolute nonsense to you. But first I am incapable of jesting, for in every joke a lie has its hidden function. And second, the science of the United State contends that the life of the ancients was exactly what I am describing, and the science of the United State does not make mistakes! Yet how could they have State logic, since they lived in a condition of freedom like beasts, like apes, like herds? What could one expect of them, since even in our day one hears from time to time, coming from the bottom, the primitive depths, the echo of the apes?

Fortunately it happens only from time to time, very seldom. Happily, it is only a case of small parts breaking; these may easily be repaired without stopping the eternal great march of the whole machine. And in order to eliminate a broken peg we have the skillful heavy hand of the Well-Doer, we have the experienced eyes of the Guardians...

By the way, I just thought of that Number whom I met yesterday, the double—curved one like the letter S; I think I have seen him several times coming out of the Bureau of Guardians. Now I understand why I felt such an instinctive respect for him and a kind of awkwardness when I saw that strange I—330 at his side...I must confess that, that I...they ring the bell, time to sleep, it is twenty-two-thirty. Till tomorrow, then.

RECORD FOUR

The Wild Man with a Barometer

Epilepsy

Until today everything in life seemed to me clear (that is why, I think, I always had a sort of partiality toward the word "clear"), but today...I don't understand. First, I really was assigned to auditorium 112, as she said, although the probability was 500 to 10,000,000 or 1:20,000. (Five hundred is the number of auditoriums and there are 10,000,000 Numbers.) And second...But let me relate things in proper order.

The auditorium: an enormous half-globe of glass with the sun piercing through. The circular rows of noble, globelike, closely shaven heads. With joy in my heart I looked around. I believe I was looking in the hope of seeing the rose-colored scythe, the dear lips of O- somewhere among the blue waves of the unifs. Then I saw extraordinarily white, sharp teeth like the...But no! Tonight at twenty—one o'clock O— was to come to me; therefore my desire to see her was quite natural. The bell. We stood up, sang the Hymn of the United State, and our clever phono-lecturer appeared on the platform with a sparkling golden loud-speaker.

"Respected Numbers, not so long ago our archaeologists dug up a book written in the twentieth century. In this book the ironical author tells about a Wild Man and a barometer. The Wild Man noticed that every time the barometer's hand stopped on the word 'rain,' it actually rained. And as the Wild Man craved rain, he let out as much mercury as was necessary to put it at the level of the word 'rain' (on the screen a Wild Man with feathers, letting out the mercury. Laughter).

"You are laughing at him, but don't you think the 'European' of that age deserves more to be laughed at? He, like the Wild Man, wanted rain—rain with a little 'r,' an algebraic rain; but he remained standing before the barometer like a wet hen. The Wild Man at least had more courage and energy and logic, although primitive logic. The Wild Man showed the ability to establish a connection between cause and effect: by letting out the mercury he made the first step on the path which.... "

Here (I repeat, I am not concealing anything, I am setting down everything) I suddenly became impermeable to the quickening currents coming from the loud-speaker. I suddenly felt I had come here in vain (why in vain and how could I not have come here, since I was assigned to come here?). Everything seemed to me empty like a shell. I succeeded with difficulty in turning my attention in again when the phono-lecturer came to the main theme of the evening—to our music as a mathematical composition (mathematics is the cause, music the effect). The phono-lecturer began the description of the recently invented musicometer.

"...By merely rotating this handle anyone is enabled to produce about three sonatas per hour. What difficulties our predecessors had in making music! They were able to compose only by bringing themselves to attacks of inspiration, an extinct form of epilepsy. Here you have an amusing illustration of their achievements: the music of Scriabin, twentieth century. This black box"—a curtain parted on the platform, and we saw an ancient instrument—"this box they called the 'Royal Grand.' They attached to this idea of regality, which also goes to prove how their music... "

And I don't remember anything further. Very possibly because...I'll tell you frankly, because she, I—330, came to the "Royal" box. Probably I was simply startled by her unexpected appearance on the platform.

She was dressed in a fantastic dress of the ancient time, a black dress closely fitting the body, sharply delimiting the white of her shoulders and breasts, and that warm shadow waving with her breath between...And the dazzling, almost angry teeth. A smile, a bite, directed downward. She took her seat; she began to play something wild, convulsive, loud like all their life then—not a shadow of rational mechanism. Of course all those around me were right; they were laughing. Only a few...But why is it that I, too, I....?

Yes, epilepsy, a mental disease, a pain. A slow, sweet pain, bite, and it goes deeper and becomes sharper. And then, slowly, sunshine—not our sunshine, not crystalline, bluish, and soft, coming through the glass bricks. No, a wild sunshine, rushing and burning, tearing everything into small bits...

The Number at my left glanced at me and chuckled. I don't know why but I remember exactly how a microscopic saliva bubble appeared on his lips and burst. That bubble brought me back to myself. I was again I.

Like all the other Numbers I heard now only the senseless, disorderly crackling of the chords. I laughed; I felt so light and simple. The gifted phono-lecturer represented to us only too well that wild epoch. And that was all.

With what a joy I listened afterward to our contemporary music. It was demonstrated to us at the end of the lecture for the sake of contrast. Crystalline, chromatic scales converging and diverging into endless series; and synthetic harmony of the formulae of Taylor and McLauren, wholesome, square, and massive like the "trousers of Pythagoras." Sad melodies dying away in waving movements. The beautiful texture of the spectrum of planets, dissected by Frauenhofer lines...what magnificent, what perfect regularity! How pitiful the willful music of the ancients, not limited except by the scope of their wild imaginations!

As usual, in good order, four abreast, all of us left the auditorium. The familiar double-curved figure passed swiftly by, I respectfully bowed.

Dear O- was to come in an hour. I felt agitated, agreeably and usefully. Home at last! I rushed to the house office, handed over to the controller on duty my pink ticket, and received a certificate permitting the use of the curtains. This right exists in our State only for the sexual days. Normally we live surrounded by transparent walls which seem to be knitted of sparkling air; we live beneath the eyes of everyone, always bathed in light. We have nothing to conceal from one another; besides, this mode of living makes the difficult and exalted task of the Guardians much easier. Without it many bad things might happen. It is possible that the strange opaque dwellings of the ancients were responsible for their pitiful cellish psychology, "My (sic!) home is my fortress" How did they manage to think such things?

At twenty-two o'clock I lowered the curtain and at the same second O— came in smiling, slightly out of breath. She extended to me her rosy lips and her pink ticket. I tore off the stub but I could not tear myself away from the rosy lips up to the last moment, twenty—two—fifteen.

Then I showed her my diary and I talked; I think I talked very well on the beauty of a square, a cube, a straight line. At first she listened so charmingly, she was so rosy; then suddenly a tear appeared in her blue eyes, then another, and a third fell straight on the open page (page 7). The ink blurred; well, I shall have to copy it again.

"My dear O-, if only you, if... "

"What if? If what?"

Again the old lament about a child or perhaps something new regarding, regarding., the other one? Although it seems as though some... But that would be too absurd!

RECORD FIVE

The Square

The Rulers of the World

An Agreeable and Useful Function

Again with you, my unknown reader; I talk to you as though you were, let us say, my old comrade, R-13, the poet with the lips of a Negro—well, everyone knows him. Yet you are somewhere on the moon, or on Venus, or on Mars. Who knows you? Where and who are you?

Imagine a square, a living, beautiful square. Imagine that this square is obliged to tell you about itself, about its life. You realize that this square would hardly think it necessary to mention the fact that all its four angles are equal. It knows this too well. This is such an ordinary, obvious thing. I am in exactly the same square position. Take the pink checks, for instance, and all that goes with them: for me they are as natural as the equality of the four angles of the square. But for you they are perhaps more mysterious and hard to understand than Newton's binomial theorem. Let me explain: an ancient sage once said a clever thing (accidentally, beyond doubt). He said, "Love and Hunger rule the world." Consequently, to dominate the world, man had to win a victory over hunger after paying a very high price. I refer to the great Two Hundred Years' War, the war between the city and the land. Probably on account of religious prejudices, the primitive peasants stubbornly held on to their "bread.''[1]

This word came down to us for use only as a poetic form, for the chemical constitution of this substance is unknown to us.

In the thirty-fifth year before the foundation of the United State our contemporary petroleum food was invented. True, only about two tenths of the population of the globe did not die out. But how beautifully shining the face of the earth became when it was cleared of its impurities!

Accordingly the 0.2 which survived have enjoyed the greatest happiness in the bosom of the United State. But is it not clear that supreme bliss and envy are only the numerator and the denominator, respectively, of the same fraction, happiness? What sense would the innumerable sacrifices of the Two Hundred Years' War have for us if a reason were left in our life for jealousy? Yet such a reason persisted because there remained buttonlike noses and classical noses (cf: our conversation during the promenade). For there were some whose love was sought by everyone, and others whose love was sought by no one.

Naturally, having conquered hunger (that is, algebraically speaking, having achieved the total of bodily welfare), the United State directed its attack against the second ruler of the world, against love. At last this element also was conquered, that is, organized and put into a mathematical formula. It is already three hundred years since our great historic Lex Sexualis was promulgated: "A Number may obtain a license to use any other Number as a sexual product."

The rest is only a matter of technique. You are carefully examined in the laboratory of the Sexual Department where they find the content of the sexual hormones in your blood, and they accordingly make out for you a Table of sexual days. Then you file an application to enjoy the services of Number so and so, or Numbers so and so. You get for that purpose a checkbook (pink). That is all.

It is clear that under such circumstances there is no reason for envy or jealousy. The denominator of the fraction of happiness is reduced to zero and the whole fraction is thus converted into a magnificent infiniteness. The thing which was for the ancients a source of innumerable stupid tragedies has been converted in our time into a harmonious, agreeable, and useful function of the organism, a function like sleep, physical labor, the taking of food, digestion, etc., Hence you see how the great power of logic purifies everything it happens to touch. Oh, if only you unknown readers can conceive this divine power! If you will only learn to follow it to the end!

It is very strange. While I was writing today of the loftiest summit of human history, all the while I breathed the purest mountain air of thought, but within me it was and remains cloudy, cobwebby, and there is a kind of cross—like, four—pawed X. Or perhaps it is my paws and I feel like that only because they are always before my eyes, my hairy paws. I don't like to talk about them. I dislike them. They are a trace of a primitive epoch. Is it possible that there is in me...?

I wanted to strike out all this because it trespasses on the limits of my synopsis. But then I decided: no, I shall not! Let this diary give the curve of the most impercep— tible vibrations of my brain, like a precise seismograph, for at times such vibrations serve as forewarnings... Certainly this is absurd! This certainly should be stricken out; we have conquered all the elements; catastrophes are not possible any more.

Now everything is clear to me. The peculiar feeling inside is a result of that very same square situation of which I spoke in the beginning. There is no X in me. There can be none. I am simply afraid lest some X will be left in you, my unknown readers. I believe you will understand that it is harder for me to write than it ever was for any author throughout human history. Some of them wrote for contemporaries, some for future generations, but none of them ever wrote for their ancestors, or for beings like their primitive, distant ancestors.

[1] This word came down to us for use only as a poetic form, for the chemical constitution of this substance is unknown to us.

RECORD SIX

An Accident

The Cursed "It's Clear"

Twenty-four Hours

I must repeat, I have made it my duty to write concealing nothing. Therefore I must point out now that, sad as it may be, the process of the hardening and crystallization of life has evidently not been completed even here in our State. A few steps more and we will be within reach of our ideal. The ideal (it's clear) is to be found where nothing happens, but here I will give you an example: in the State paper I read that in two days the holiday of justice will be celebrated on the Plaza of the Cube. This means that again some Number has impeded the smooth running of the great State machine. Again something that was not foreseen, or forecalculated, happened.

Besides, something happened to me. True, it occurred during the personal hour, that is during the time specifically assigned to unforeseen circumstances, yet...

At about sixteen (to be exact, ten minutes to sixteen), I was at home. Suddenly the telephone:

"D-503 ?"—a woman's voice.

"Yes."

"Are you free?"

"Yes."

"It is I, I-330. I shall run over to you immediately. We shall go together to the Ancient House. Agreed?"

I-330!... This I-irritates me, repels me. She almost frightens me; but just because of that I answered, "Yes."

In five minutes we were in an aero. Blue sky of May. The bright sun in its own golden aero buzzed behind us without catching up and without lagging behind. Ahead of us a white cataract of a cloud. Yes, a white cataract of a cloud, nonsensically fluffy like the cheeks of an ancient cupid. That cloud was disturbing. The front window was open; it was windy; lips were dry. Against one's will one passed the tongue constantly over them and thought about lips.

Already we saw in the distance the hazy green spots on the other side of the Wall. Then a slight involuntary sinking of the heart, down—down—down, as if from a steep mountain, and we were at the Ancient House.

That strange, delicate, blind establishment is covered all around with a glass shell, otherwise it would undoubtedly have fallen to pieces long ago. At the glass door we found an old woman all wrinkles, especially her mouth, which was all made up of folds and pleats. Her lips had disappeared, having folded inward; her mouth seemed grown together. It seemed incredible that she should be able to talk, and yet she did.

"Well, dear, come again to see my little house?"

Her wrinkles shone, that is, her wrinkles diverged like rays, which created the impression of shining.

"Yes" Grandmother," answered I-330.

The wrinkles continued to shine.

"And the sun, eh, do you see it, you rogue, you! I know, I know. It's all right. Go all by yourselves—I shall remain here in the sunshine.

Hmm....Apparently my companion, was a frequent guest here. Something disturbed me, probably that unpleasant optical impression, the cloud on the smooth blue surface of the sky. While we were ascending the wide, dark stairs, I-330 said, "I love her, that old woman."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps for her mouth—or perhaps for nothing, just so."

I shrugged my shoulders. She continued walking up-stairs with a faint smile, or perhaps without a smile at all.

I felt very guilty. It is clear that there must not be "love, just so," but "love because of." For all elements of nature should be,..

"It's clear..."I began, but I stopped at that word and cast a furtive look at I-330. Did she notice it or not? She looked somewhere, down; her eyes were closed like curtains.

It struck me suddenly: evening about twenty-two; you walk on the avenue and among the brightly lighted, transparent, cubic cells are dark spaces, lowered curtains, and there behind the curtains... What has she behind her curtains? Why did she phone me today? Why did she bring me here? and all this.

She opened a heavy, squeaking, opaque door and we found ourselves in a somber disorderly space (they called it an "apartment"). The same strange "royal" musical instrument and a wild, unorganized, crazy loudness of colors and forms like their ancient music. A white plane above, dark blue walls, red, green, orange bindings of ancient books, yellow bronze candelabra, a statue of Buddha, furniture with lines distorted by epilepsy, impossible to reduce to any clear equation.

I could hardly bear that chaos. But my companion apparently possessed a stronger constitution.

"This is my most beloved" she suddenly caught herself (again a smile, bite, and white sharp teeth)—'to be more exact, the most nonsensical of all "apartments."

"Or, to be most exact, of all the States. Thousands of microscopic States, fighting eternal wars, pitiless like—"

"Oh, yes, it's clear," said I-330 with apparent sincerity.

We passed through a room where we found a few small children's beds (children in those days were also private property). Then more rooms, glimmering mirrors, somber closets, unbearably loud—colored divans, an enormous "fireplace," a large mahogany bed. Our contemporary beautiful, transparent, eternal glass was represented here only by pitiful, delicate, tiny squares of windows.

"And to think; here there was love 'just so'; they burned and tortured themselves." (Again the curtain of the eyes was lowered.) "What a stupid, uneconomical spending of human energy. Am I not right?"

She spoke as though reading my thoughts, but in her smile there remained always that irritating X. There behind the curtains something was going on, I don't know what, but something that made me lose my patience. I wanted to quarrel with her, to scream at her (exactly, to scream), but I had to agree. It was impossible not to agree.

We stopped in front of a mirror. At that moment I saw only her eyes. An idea came to me: human beings are built as nonsensically as these stupid "apartments," human heads are opaque, and there are only two very small windows that lead inside, the eyes. She seemed to have guessed my thoughts; she turned around: "Well, here they are, my eyes...Well" (this suddenly, then silence).

There in front of me were two gloomy, dark windows and behind them, inside, such strange hidden life. I saw there only fire, burning like a peculiar "fireplace," and unknown figures resembling...

All this was certainly very natural; I saw in her eyes the reflection of my own face. But my feelings were unnatural and not like me. Evidently the depressing influence of the surroundings was beginning to tell on me. I definitely felt fear. I felt as if I were trapped in a strange cage. I felt that I was caught in the wild hurricane of ancient life.

"Do you know..." said I-330. "Step for a moment into the next room." Her voice came from there, from inside, from behind the dark window eyes, where the fireplace was blazing.

I went in, sat down. From a shelf on the wall there looked straight into my face, somewhat smiling, the snub-nosed, asymmetrical physiognomy of one of the ancient poets; I think it was Pushkin.

"Why do I sit here enduring this smile with such resignation, and what is this all about? Why am I here? And why all these strange sensations, this irritating, repellent female, this strange game?"

The door of the closet slammed; there was the rustle of silk. I felt it difficult to restrain myself from getting up and, and...I don't remember exactly; probably I wanted to tell her a number of disagreeable things. But she had already appeared.

She was dressed in a short, bright-yellowish dress, black hat, black stockings. The dress was of light silk. I saw clearly very long black stockings above the knees, an uncovered neck, and the shadow between

"It's dear that you want to seem original. But is it possible that you—?"

"It is clear," interrupted I-330, "that to be original means to stand out among others; consequently, to be original means to violate the law of equality. What was called in the language of the ancients 'to be common' is with us only the fulfilling of one's duty. For—"

"Yes, yes, exactly," I interrupted impatiently, "and there is no use, no use..."

She came near the bust of the snub-nosed poet, lowered the curtain on the wild fire of her eyes, and said (this time I think she was really in earnest, or perhaps she merely wanted to soften my impatience with her, but she said a very reasonable thing):

"Don't you think it surprising that once people could stand types like this? Not only stand them, but worship them? What a slavish spirit, don't you think so?"

"It's clear...that is...!" I wanted...(damn that cursed "it's clear!").

"Oh, yes, I understand. But in fact these poets were stronger rulers than the crowned ones. Why were they not isolated and exterminated? In our State—"

"Oh, yes, in our State—" I began.

But suddenly she laughed. I saw the laughter in her eyes. I saw the resounding sharp curve of that laughter, flexible, tense like a whip. I remember my whole body shivered. I thought of grasping her..., and I don't know what I had to do something, it mattered little what; automatically I looked at my golden badge, glanced at my watch—ten minutes to seventeen!

"Don't you think it is time to go?" I said in as polite a tone as possible.

"And if I should ask you to stay here with me?"

"What? Do you realize what you are saying? In ten minutes I must be in the auditorium."

"And all the Numbers must take the prescribed courses in art and science," said I-330 with my voice.

Then she lifted the curtain, opened her eyes—through the dark windows the fire was blazing.

"I have a physician in the Medical Bureau, he is registered to me; if I ask him, he will give you a certificate declaring that you are ill. All right?"

Understood! At last I understood where this game was leading.

"Ah, so! But you know that every honest Number as a matter of course must immediately go to the office of the Guardians and—"

"And as a matter not of course?" (Sharp smile-bite.) "I am very curious to know: will you or will you not go to the Guardians?"

"Are you going to remain here?"

I grasped the knob of the door. It was a brass knob, a cold, brass knob, and I heard, cold like brass, her voice:

"just a minute, may I?"

She went to the telephone, called a Number (I was so upset it escaped me), and spoke loudly: "I shall be waiting for you in the Ancient House. Yes, yes, alone."

I turned the cold brass knob.

"May I take the aero?"

"Oh, yes, certainly, please!"

In the sunshine at the gate the old woman was dozing like a plant. Again I was surprised to see her grown-together mouth open, and to hear her say:

"And your lady, did she remain alone?"

"Alone."

The mouth of the old woman grew together again; she shook her head; apparently even her weakening brain understood the stupidity and the danger of that woman's behavior.

At seventeen o'clock exactly I was at the lecture. There I suddenly realized that I did not tell the whole truth to the old woman. I-330 was not there alone now. Possibly this fact, that I involuntarily told the old woman a lie, was torturing me now and distracting my attention. Yes, not alone—that was the point.

After twenty—one—thirty o'clock I had a free hour; I could therefore have gone to the office of the Guardians to make my report. But after that stupid adventure I was so tired; besides, the law provides two days. I shall have time tomorrow; I have another twenty-four hours.

RECORD SEVEN

An Eyelash

Taylor

Henbane and Lily of the Valley

Night. Green, orange, blue. The red royal instrument. The yellow dress. Then a brass Buddha. Suddenly it lifted the brass eyelids and sap began to flow from it, from Buddha. Sap also from the yellow dress. Even in the mirror, drops of sap, and from the large bed and from the children's bed and soon from myself... It is horror, mortally sweet horror!...

I woke up. Soft blue light, the glass of the walls, of the chairs, of the table was glimmering. This calmed me. My heart stopped palpitating. Sap! Buddha! How absurd! I am sick, it is clear; I never saw dreams before. They say that to see dreams was a common normal thing with the ancients. Yes, after all, their life was a whirling carousel: green, orange, Buddha, sap. But we, people of today, we know all too well that dreaming is a serious mental disease. I...Is it possible that my brain, this precise, clean, glittering mechanism, like a chronometer without a speck of dust on it, is...? Yes, it is, now. I really feel there in the brain some foreign body like an eyelash in the eye. One does not feel one's whole body, but this eye with a hair in it; one cannot forget it for a second

The cheerful, crystalline sound of the bell at my head. Seven o'clock. Time to get up. To the right and to the left as in mirrors, to the right and to the left through the glass walls I see others like myself, other rooms like my own, other clothes like my own, movements like mine, duplicated thousands of times. This invigorates me; I see myself as a part of an enormous, vigorous, united body; and what precise beauty! Not a single superfluous gesture, or bow, or turn. Yes, this Taylor was undoubtedly the greatest genius of the ancients. True, he did not come to the idea of applying his method to the whole life, to every step throughout the twenty-four hours of the day; he was unable to integrate his system from one o'clock to twenty-four. I cannot understand the ancients. How could they write whole libraries about some Kant and take only slight notice of Taylor, of this prophet who saw ten centuries ahead?

Breakfast was over. The hymn of the United State had been harmoniously sung; rhythmically, four abreast we walked to the elevators, the motors buzzed faintly, and swiftly we went down—down—down, the heart sinking slightly. Again that stupid dream, or some unknown function of that dream. Oh, yes! Yesterday in the aero, then down—down! Well, it is all over, anyhow. Period. It is very fortunate that I was so firm and brusque with her.

The car of the underground railway carried me swiftly to the place where the motionless, beautiful body of the Integral, not yet spiritualized by fire, was glittering in the docks in the sunshine. With closed eyes I dreamed in formulae. Again I calculated in my mind what was the initial velocity required to tear the Integral away from the earth. Every second the mass of the Integral would change because of the expenditure of the explosive fuel. The equation was very complex, with transcendent figures. As in a dream I felt, right here in the firm calculated world, how someone sat down at my side, barely touching me and saying, "Pardon." I opened my eyes.

At first, apparently because of an association with the Integral, I saw something impetuously flying into the distance—a head; I saw pink wing ears sticking out on the sides of it, then the curve of the overhanging back of the head, the double-curved letter S.

Through the glass walls of my algebraic world again I felt the eyelash in my eye. I felt something disagreeable, I felt that today I must...

"Certainly, please." I smiled at my neighbor and bowed.

I saw Number S-4711 glittering on his golden badge (that is why I associated him with the letter S, from the very first moment: an optical impression which remained unregistered by consciousness). His eyes sparkled, two sharp little drills; they were revolving swiftly, drilling in deeper and deeper. It seemed that in a moment they would drill in to the bottom and would see something that I do not even dare to confess to myself...

That bothersome eyelash became wholly clear to me. S-was one of them, one of the Guardians, and it would be the simplest thing immediately, without deferring, to tell him everything!

"I went yesterday to the Ancient House..." My voice was strange, husky, flat—I tried to cough.

"That is good. It must have given you material for some instructive deductions."

"Yes...but...You see, I was not alone; I was in the company of I-,330, and then..."

"1-330? You are fortunate. She is a very interesting, gifted woman; she has a host of admirers."

But he, too—then during the promenade...Perhaps he is even assigned as her he-Number! No, it is impossible to tell him, unthinkable. This was perfectly clear.

"Yes, yes, certainly, very." I smiled, more and more broadly, more stupidly, and felt as if my smile made me look foolish, naked.

The drills reached the bottom; revolving continually they screwed themselves back into his eyes. S- smiled double-curvedly, nodded, and slid to the exit.

I covered my face with the newspaper (I felt as if everybody were looking at me), and soon I forgot about the eyelash, about the little drills, about everything, I was so upset by what I read in the paper: "According to authentic information, traces of an organization, which still remains out of reach, have again been discovered. This organization aims at liberation from the beneficial yoke of the State."

Liberation! It is remarkable how persistent human criminal instincts are! I use deliberately the word "criminal," for freedom and crime are as closely related as—well, as the movement of an aero and its speed: if the speed of an aero equals zero, the aero is motionless; if human liberty is equal to zero, man does not commit any crime. That is clear. The way to rid man of criminality is to rid him of freedom. No sooner did we rid ourselves of freedom (in the cosmic sense centuries are only a "no sooner") than suddenly some unknown pitiful degenerates...No, I cannot understand why I did not go immediately yesterday to the Bureau of Guardians. Today, after sixteen o'clock, I shall go without fail.

At sixteen-ten I was in the street; at once I noticed O-90 at the corner; she was all rosy with delight at the encounter. She has a simple, round mind. A timely meeting; she would understand and lend me support. Or, no, I did not need any support; my decision was firm.

The pipes of the Musical Tower thundered out harmoniously the March—the same daily March. How wonderful the charm of this dailiness, of this constant repetition and mirror-like smoothness!

"Out for a walk?" Her round blue eyes opened toward me widely, blue windows leading inside; I penetrate there unhindered; there is nothing in there, I mean nothing foreign, nothing superfluous.

"No, not for a walk. I must go." I told her where. And to my astonishment I saw her rosy round mouth form a crescent with the horns downward as if she tasted something sour. This angered me.

"You she—Numbers seem to be incurably eaten up by prejudices. You are absolutely unable to think abstractly. Forgive me the word, but this I call bluntness of mind."

''You?... to the spies? How ugly! And I went to the Botanical Garden and brought you a branch of lily of the valley..."

"Why 'and I'? Why this 'and'? just like a woman!"

Angrily (this I must confess), I snatched the flowers. "Here they are, your lilies of the valley. Well, smell them! Good? Yes? Why not use a little bit of logic? The lilies of the valley smell good; all right! But you cannot say about an odor, about the conception of an odor, that it is good or bad, can you? You can't, can you? There is the smell of lilies of the valley, and there is the disagreeable smell of henbane. Both are odors. The ancient States had their spies; we have ours..., yes, spies! I am not afraid of words. But is it not clear to you that there the spies were henbane; here they are lilies of the valley? Yes, lilies of the valley. Yes!"

The rosy crescent quivered. Now I understand that it was only my impression, but at that moment I was certain she was going to laugh. I shouted still louder:

"Yes, lilies of the valley! And there is nothing funny about it, nothing funny!"

The smooth round globes of heads passing by were turning toward us. O-90 gently took my hand.

"You are so strange today..., are you ill?"

My dream....Yellow color....Buddha....It was at once home clearly upon me that I must go to the Medical Bureau.

"Yes, you are right, I am sick," I said with joy (that seems to me an inexplicable contradiction; there was nothing to be joyful about).

"You must go at once to the doctor. You understand that; you are obliged to be healthy; it seems strange to have to prove it to you."

"My dear O-, of course you are fight..Absolutely fight."

I did not go to the Bureau of Guardians; I could not; I had to go to the Medical Bureau; they kept me there until seventeen o'clock.

In the evening (incidentally, the Bureau of Guardians is closed evenings)—in the evening O- came to see me. The curtains were not lowered. We busied ourselves with the arithmetical problems of an ancient textbook. This occupation always calms and purifies our thoughts. O- sat over her notebook, her head slightly inclined to the left; she was so assiduous that she poked out her left cheek with the tongue from within. She looked so child-like, so charming....I felt everything in me was pleasant, precise, and simple.

She left. I remained alone. I breathed deeply two times (it is very good exercise before retiring for the night). Suddenly—an unexpected odor reminiscent of something very disagreeable! I soon found out what was the matter: a branch of lily of the valley was hidden in my bed. Immediately everything was aroused again, came up from the bottom. Decidedly, it was tactless on her part to put these lilies of the valley there surreptitiously. Well, true I did not go; I didn't, but was it my fault that I had felt indisposed?

RECORD EIGHT

An Irrational Root

R—13

The Triangle

It was long ago, during my school days, when I first encountered the square root of minus one. I remember it all very clearly: a bright globelike class hall, about a hundred round heads of children, and Plappa—our mathematician. We nicknamed him Plappa; it was a very much used-up mathematician, loosely screwed together; as the member of the class who was on duty that day would put the plug into the socket behind, we would hear at first from the loud-speaker, "Plap—plap—plap—plap—tshshsh...." Only then the lesson would follow. One day Plappa told us about irrational numbers, and I remember I wept and banged the table with my fist and cried, "I do not want that square root of minus one; take that square root of minus one away!" This irrational root grew into me as something strange, foreign, terrible; it tortured me; it could not be thought out. It could not be defeated because it was beyond reason.

Now, that square root of minus one is here again. I read over what I have written and I see clearly that I was insincere with myself, that I lied to myself in order to avoid seeing that square root of minus one. My sickness is all nonsense! I could go there. I feel sure that if such a thing had happened a week ago I should have gone without hesitating. Why, then, am I unable to go now?...Why?

Today, for instance, at exactly sixteen-ten I stood before the glittering Glass Wall. Above was the shining, golden, sun-like sign: "Bureau of Guardians." Inside, a long queue of bluish-gray unifs awaiting their turns, faces shining like the oil lamps in an ancient temple. They had come to accomplish a great thing: they had come to put on the altar of the United State their beloved ones, their friends, their own selves. My whole being craved to join them, yet...I could not; my feet were as though melted into the glass plates of the sidewalk. I simply stood there looking foolish.

"Hey, mathematician! Dreaming?"

I shivered. Black eyes varnished with laughter looked at me—thick Negro lips! It was my old friend the poet, R-13, and with him rosy O-. I turned around angrily (I still believe that if they had not appeared I should have entered the Bureau and have torn the square root of minus one out of my flesh).

"Not dreaming at all. If you will, 'standing in adoration,'" I retorted quite brusquely.

"Oh, certainly, certainly! You, my friend, should never have become a mathematician; you should have become a poet, a great poet! Yes, come over to our trade, to the poets. Eh? If you will, I can arrange it in a jiffy. Eh?'

R-13 usually talks very fast. His words run in torrents, his thick lips sprinkle. Every "p" is a fountain, every "poets" a fountain.

"So far I have served knowledge, and I shall continue to serve knowledge."

I frowned. I do not like, I do not understand jokes, and R-13 has the bad habit of joking.

"Oh, to the deuce with knowledge. Your much-heralded knowledge is but a form of cowardice. It is a fact! Yes, you want to encircle the infinite with a wall, and you fear to cast a glance behind the wall. Yes, sir! And if ever you should glance beyond the wall, you would be dazzled and close your eyes—yes—"

"Walls are the foundation of every human," I began.

R-13 sprinkled his fountain. O- laughed rosily and roundly. I waved my hand. "Well, you may laugh, I don't care." I was busy with something else. I had to find a way of eating up, of crushing down, that square root of minus one. "Suppose," I offered, "we go to my place and do some arithmetical problems." (The quiet hour of yesterday afternoon came to my memory; perhaps today also ....)

O- glanced at R-, then serenely and roundly at me; the soft, endearing color of our pink checks came to her cheeks.

"But today I am... I have a check to him today." (A glance at R-.) "And tonight he is busy, so..."

The moist, varnished lips whispered good-naturedly: "Half an hour is plenty for us, is it not, O-? I am not a great lover of your problems; let us simply go over to my place and chat."

I was afraid to remain alone with myself or, to be more correct, with that strange new self who by some curious coincidence bore my number, D-503. So I went with R-. True, he is not precise, not rhythmic, his logic is jocular and turned inside out, yet we are... Three years ago we both chose our dear, rosy O-. This tied our friendship more firmly together than our school days did. In R-'s room everything seems like mine: the Tables, the glass of the chairs, the table, the closet, the bed. But as we entered, R- moved one chair out of place, then another—the room became confused, everything lost the established order and seemed to violate every rule of Euclid's geometry, R- remained the same as always; in Taylor and in mathematics he always lagged at the tail of the class.

We recalled Plappa, how we boys used to paste the whole surface of his glass legs with paper notes expressing our thanks (we all loved Plappa). We recalled our priest (it goes without saying that we were not taught the "law" of ancient religion but the law of the United State). Our priest had a very powerful voice; a real hurricane would come out of the loud-speaker. And we childen would yell the prescribed texts after him with all our lung power. We recalled how our scapegrace, R-13, used to stuff the priest with chewed paper; every word was thus accompanied by a paper wad shot out. Naturally, R- was punished, for what he did was undoubtedly wrong, but now we laughed heartily—by we I mean our triangle, R-, O-, and I. I must confess, I, too.

"And what if he had been a living one? Like the ancient ones, eh? We'd have b...b..."a fountain running from the fat bubbling lips. The sun was shining through the ceiling, the sun above, the sun from the sides, its reflection from below. O- on R-13's lap and minute drops of sunlight in O-'S blue eyes. Somehow my heart warmed up. The square root of minus one became silent and motionless

"Well, how is your Integral? Will you soon hop off to enlighten the inhabitants of the planets? You'd better hurry up, my boy, or we poets will have produced such a devilish lot that even your Integral will be unable to lift the cargo. 'Every day from eight to eleven'..." R- wagged his head and scratched the back of it. The back of his head is square; it looks like a little valise (I recalled for some reason an ancient painting "In the Cab"). I felt more lively.

"You, too, are writing for the Integral? Tell me about it. What are you writing about? What did you write today, for instance?"

"Today I did not write; today I was busy with something else." ("B-b-busy" sprinkled straight into my face.)

"What else?"

R- frowned. "What? What? Well, if you insist I'll tell you. I was busy with the Death Sentence. I was putting the Death Sentence into verse. An idiot—and to be frank, one of our poets For two years we all lived side by side with him and nothing seemed wrong. Suddenly he went crazy. 'I,' said he, 'am a genius! and I am above the law.' All that sort of nonsense....But it is not a thing to talk about."

The fat lips hung down. The varnish disappeared from the eyes. He jumped up, turned around, and stared through the wall. I looked at his tightly closed little "valise" and thought, "What is he handling in his little valise now?"

A moment of awkward, asymmetric silence. I could not see clearly what was the matter, but I was certain there was something

"Fortunately the antediluvian time of those Shakespeares and Dostoevskys (or what were their names?) is past," I said in a voice deliberately loud.

R- turned his face to me. Words sprinkled and bubbled out of him as before, but I thought I noticed there was no more joyful varnish to his eyes.

"Yes, dear mathematician, fortunately, fortunately. We are the happpy arithmetical mean.As you would put it, the integration from zero to infinity, from imbeciles to Shakespeare. Do I put it right?"

I do not know why (it seemed to me absolutely un— called for) I recalled suddenly the other one, her tone. A thin, invisible thread stretched between her and R— (what thread?). The square root of minus one began to bother me again. I glanced at my badge; sixteen—twenty— five o'clock! They had only thirty—five minutes for the use of the pink check.

"Well, I must go." I kissed O—, shook hands with R—, and went to the elevator.

As I crossed the avenue I turned around. Here and there in the huge mass of glass penetrated by sunshine there were grayish—blue squares, the opaque squares of lowered curtains, the squares of rhythmic, Taylorized happiness. On the seventh floor I found R—13's square. The curtains were already lowered.

Dear O-....Dear R-....He also has (I do not know why I write this "also," but I write as it comes from my pen), he, too, has something which is not entirely dear in him. Yet I, he, and O-, we are a triangle; I confess, not an isosceles triangle, but a triangle nevertheless. We, to speak in the language of our ancestors (perhaps to you, my planetary readers, this is the more comprehensible language), we are a family. And one feels so good at times, when one is able for a short while, at least, to close oneself within a firm triangle, to close oneself away from anything that...

RECORD NINE

Liturgy

Iambus

The Cast—iron Hand

A solemn, bright day. On such days one forgets one's weaknesses, inexactitudes, illnesses, and everything is crystalline and imperturbable like our new glass

The Plaza of the Cube. Sixty-six imposing concentric circles-stands. Sixty-six rows of quiet, serene faces. Eyes reflecting the shining of the sky, or perhaps it is the shining of the United State. Red like blood are the flowers—the lips of the women. Like soft garlands the faces of the children in the first rows, nearest the place of action. Profound, austere, Gothic silence.

To judge by the descriptions that reach us from the ancients, they felt somewhat like this during their "church services." But they served their nonsensical, unknown god; we serve our rational god, whom we know most thoroughly. Their god gave them nothing but eternal, torturing seeking; our god gives us absolute truth— that is, he has rid us of any kind of doubt. Their god did not invent anything cleverer than sacrificing oneself, nobody knows what for; we bring to our god, the United State, a quiet, rational, carefully thought-out sacrifice.

Yes, it was a solemn liturgy for the United State, a reminiscence of the great days, years, of the Two Hundred Years' War—a magnificent celebration of the victory of all over one, of the sum over the individual!

That one stood on the steps of the Cube which was filled with sunlight. A white, no not even white but already colorless, glass face, lips of glass. And only the eyes—thirsty, swallowing black holes leading into that dreadful world from which he was only a few minutes away. The golden badge with the number already had been taken off. His hands were tied with a red ribbon. (A symbol of ancient custom. The explanation of it is that in the old days, when this sort of thing was not done in the name of the United State, the convicted naturally considered that they had the right to resist, hence their hands were usually bound with chains.)

On the top of the Cube, next to the Machine, the motionless, metallic figure of him whom we call the Well-Doer. One could not see his face from below. All one could see was that it was bounded by austere, magnificent, square lines. And his hands....Did you ever notice how sometimes in a photograph the hands, if they were too near the camera, appear to be enormous? They then compel your attention, overshadow everything else. Those hands of his, heavy hands, quiet for the time being, were stony hands—it seemed the knees on which they rested must have ached in bearing their weight.

Suddenly one of those hands rose slowly. A slow, cast-iron gesture; obeying the will of the lifted hand, a Number came out on the platform. It was one of the State poets, whose fortunate lot it was to crown our celebration with his verses.

Divine, iambic brass verses thundered over the many stands. They dealt with the man who, his reason lost and lips like glass, stood on the steps and waited for the logical consequences of his own insane deeds.

...A blaze....Buildings were swaying in those iambic lines, and sprinkling upward their liquefied golden substance, they broke and fell. The green trees were scorched, their sap slowly ran out and they remained standing like black crosses, like skeletons. Then appeared Prometheus (that meant us):

"...he harnessed fire

With machines and steel

And fettered chaos with Law..."

The world was renovated; it became like steel—a sun of steel, trees of steel, men of steel. Suddenly an insane man "unchained the fire and set it free," and again the world had perished......Unfortunately I have a bad memory for poetry, but one thing I am sure of: one could not choose more instructive or more beautiful parables.

Another slow, heavy gesture of the cast-iron hand and another poet appeared on the steps of the Cube. I stood up. Impossible! But...thick Negro lips—it was he. Why didn't he tell me that he was to be invested with such high... His lips trembled; they were gray. Oh, I certainly understood; to be face to face with the Well-Doer, face to face with the hosts of Guardians! Yet one should not allow oneself to be so upset.

Swift, sharp verses like an ax....They told about an unheard-of crime, about sacrilegious poems in which the Well-Doer was called....But no, I do not dare to repeat....

R-13 was pale when he finished, and looking at no one (I did not expect such bashfulness of him) he descended and sat down. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second I saw right beside him somebody's face—a sharp, black triangle—and instantly I lost it; my eyes, thousands of eyes, were directed upward toward the Machine. Then—again the superhuman, cast-iron, gesture of the hand.

Swayed by an unknown wind, the criminal moved; one step...one more...then the last step in his life. His face was turned to the sky, his head thrown back—he was on his last....Heavy, stony like fate, the Well-Doer went around the machine, put his enormous hand on the lever....Not a whisper, not a breath around;all eyes were upon that hand....What crushing, scorching power one must feel to be the tool, to be the resultant of hundreds of thousands of wills! How great his lot!

Another second. The hand moved down, switching in the current. The lightning-sharp blade of the electric ray....A faint crack like a shiver, in the tubes of the Machine....The prone body, covered with a light phosphorescent smoke; then, suddenly, under the eyes of all, it began to melt—to melt, to dissolve with terrible speed. And then nothing; just a pool of chemically pure water which only a moment ago had been so red and had pulsated in his heart....

All this was simple; all of us were familiar with the phenomenon, dissociation of matter—yes, the splitting of the atoms of the human body! Yet every time we witnessed it, it seemed a miracle; it was a symbol of the superhuman power of the Well-Doer.

Above, in front of Him, the burning faces of the female Numbers, mouths half-open from emotion, flowers swaying in the wind.[1] According to custom, ten

women were covering with flowers the unif of the Well-Doer, which was still wet with spray. With the magnificent step of a supreme priest He slowly descended, slowly passed between the rows of stands. Like tender white branches there rose toward Him the arms of the women; and, millions like one, our tempestuous cheers! Then cheers in honor of the Guardians, who all unseen were present among us....Who knows, perhaps the fancy of the ancient man foresaw them centuries ahead, when he created the gentle and formidable "Guardian Angels" assigned to each person from the day Of his birth?

Yes, there was in our celebration something of the ancient religions, something purifying like a storm....You whose lot it may be to read this, are you familiar with such emotions? I am sorry for you if you are not.

[1] These flowers naturally were brought from the Botanical Museum. I, personally, am unable to see anything beautiful in flowers, or in anything else that belongs to the lower kingdom which now exists only beyond the Green Wall. Only rational and useful things are beautiful: machines, boots, formulae, food, etc.

RECORD TEN

A Letter

A Membrane

Hairy I

Yesterday was for me ,like the filter paper that chemists use for filtering their solutions (all suspended and superfluous particles remain on the paper). This morning I went downstairs all purified and distilled, transparent.

Downstairs in the hall the controller sat at a small table, constantly looking at her watch and recording the Numbers who were leaving. Her name is U—....well, I prefer not to give her Number, for I fear I may not write kindly about her—although, as a matter of fact, she is a very respectable, mature woman. The only thing I do not like in her is that her cheeks fold down a little like the gills of a fish (although I don't see anything wrong in this appearance). She, scratched with her pen and I saw on page "D-503" —and suddenly, splash! an ink blot. No sooner did I open my mouth to call her attention to that than she raised her head and blotted me with an inky smile. "There is a letter for you. You will receive it, dear. Yes, yes, you will."

I knew a letter, after she had read it, must go through the Bureau of Guardians (I think it is unnecessary to explain in detail this natural order of things); I would receive it not later than twelve o'clock. But that tiny smile confused me; the drop of ink clouded the transparency of the distilled solution. At the Integral's dock I could not concentrate; I even made a mistake in my calculations, something that had never happened to me before.

At twelve o'clock, again the rosy-brown fish gills' smile, and at last the letter was in my hands. I cannot say why I did not read it right there; instead, I put it in my pocket and ran into my room. I opened it, scanned it quickly, and...sat down. It was an official notice to the effect that Number I-330 had had me assigned to her, and that today at twenty-one o'clock I was to go to her. Her address was given.

No! After all that had happened! After I had shown her frankly my attitude toward her! Besides, how could she know that I did not go to the Bureau of Guardians? She had no way of knowing that I have been ill and could not....And despite all this..."

A dynamo was whirling and buzzing in my head. Buddha....yellow....lilies of the valley...rosy crescent....Besides-besides, O- wanted to come to see me today! I was sure she would not believe (how could one believe?) that I had absolutely nothing to do with the matter, that... I was also sure that we (O- and I) would have a difficult, foolish, and absolutely illogical conversation. No, anything but that! Let the situation solve itself mechanically; I would send her a copy of the official communication.

While I was hastily putting the paper in my pocket, I noticed my terrible ape-like hand. I remembered how that day, during our walk, she had taken my hand and looked at it. Is it possible that she really...that she...

A quarter to twenty-one. A white northern night. Everything was glass, greenish. But it was a different kind of glass, not like ours, not genuine but very breakable, a thin glass shell, and within that shell things were flying, whirling, buzzing. I wouldn't have been surprised if suddenly the cupola of the auditorium had risen in slow, rolling clouds of smoke; or if the ripe moon had sent an inky smile, like that one at the little table this morning; or if in every house suddenly all the curtains had been lowered, and behind the curtains...

I felt something peculiar; my ribs were like iron bars that interfered, decidedly interfered, with my heart, giving it too little space. I stood at a glass door on which were the golden letters I-330. I-330 sat at the table with her back to me; she was writing something. I stepped in.

"Here"—I held out the pink check—"I received the notice this noon and here I am!"

"How punctual you are! Just a minute, please, may I? Sit down. I shall finish in a minute."

She lowered her eyes to the letter. What had she there, behind her lowered curtains? What would she say? What would she do in a second? How to learn it? How to calculate it, since she comes from beyond, from the wild, ancient land of dreams? I looked at her in silence. My ribs were iron bars. The space for the heart was too small....When she speaks, her face is like a swiftly revolving, glittering wheel; you cannot see the separate bars. But at that moment the wheel was motionless. I saw a strange combination: dark eyebrows running fight to the temples—a sharp, mocking triangle; and still another dark triangle with its apex upward—two deep wrinkles from the nose to the angles of the mouth. And these two triangles somehow contradicted each other. They gave the whole face that disagreeable, irritating X, or cross—a face marked obliquely by a cross.

The wheel started to turn; its bars blurred.

"So you did not go to the Bureau of Guardians, after all?"

"I did... I did not feel well...I could not."

"Yes? I thought so; something must have prevented you, it matters little what"—sharp teeth—a smile. "But now you are in my hands. You remember: 'Any Number who within forty-eight hours fails to report to the Bureau is considered...'"

My heart banged so forcibly that the iron bars bent. If I were not sitting...like a little boy, how stupid! I was caught like a little boy, and stupidly I kept silent. I felt I was in a net; neither my legs nor my arms...

She stood up and stretched herself lazily. She pressed the button, and the curtains on all four walls fell with a slight rustle. I was cut off from the rest of the world, alone with her.

She was somewhere behind me, near the closet door. The unif was rustling, falling. I was listening, all listening. I remembered—no, it glistened in my mind for one hundredth of a second—I once had to calculate the curve of a new type of street membrane. (These membranes are handsomely decorated and are placed over all the avenues, registering all street conversations for the Bureau of Guardians.) I remembered a rosy, concave, trembling membrane, a strange being consisting of one organ only, an ear. I was at that moment such a membrane.

Now the "click" of the snap at her collar, at her breast, and...lower. The glassy silk rustled over her shoulders and knees, over the floor. I heard—and it was clearer than actually seeing—I heard how one foot stepped out of the grayish-blue heap of silk, then the other....Soon I'd hear the creak of the bed, and...

The tensely stretched membrane trembled and registered the silence—no, the sharp, hammerlike blows of the heart against the iron bars, and endless pauses between beats. And I heard, saw, how she, behind me, hesitated for a second, thinking. The door of the closet....It slammed; again silk...silk...

"Well, all right."

I turned around. She was dressed in a saffron-yellow dress of an ancient style. This was a thousand times worse than if she had not been dressed at all. Two sharp points glowing with rosiness through the thin tissue; two burning embers piercing through ashes; two tender, round knees...

She was sitting in a low armchair. In front of her on a small square table I noticed a bottle filled with something poisonously green, and two small glasses with thin stems. In the corner of her mouth she had a very thin paper tube; she was ejecting smoke formed by the burning of that ancient smoking substance whose name I do not now remember,

The membrane was still vibrating. Within, the sledge hammer was pounding the red-hot iron bars of my chest. I heard distinctly every blow of the hammer, and...What if she, too, heard it?

But she continued to produce smoke very calmly; calmly she looked at me; and nonchalantly she flicked ashes on the pink check!

With as much self-control as possible I asked, "If you still feel that way, why did you have me assigned to you? And why did you make me come here?"

As if she had not heard at all, she poured some of the green liquid from the bottle into one of the small glasses, and sipped it.

"Wonderful liqueur! Want some?"

Then I understood: alcohol! Like lightning there came to memory what I had seen yesterday: the stony hand of the Well-Doer, the unbearable blade of the electric ray; there on the Cube, the head thrown back, the stretched-out body! I shivered.

"Please listen," I said. "You know, do you not, that anyone who poisons himself with nicotine, and more particularly with alcohol, is severely treated by the United State?"

Dark brows raised high to the temples, the sharp mocking triangle.

"'It is more reasonable to annihilate a few than to allow many to poison themselves....And degeneration,'...etc....This is true to the point of indecency."

"Indecency?"

"Yes. To let out into the street such a group of bald-headed, naked little truths. Only imagine, please. Imagine, say, that persistent admirer of mine—S—, well, you know him. Then imagine: if he should discard the deception of clothes and appear in public in his true form....Oh!" She laughed. But I clearly saw her lower, sorrowful triangle: two deep grooves from the nose to the mouth. And for some reason these grooves made me think: that double-curved being, half-hunched, with winglike ears—he embraced her? Her, such...Oh!

Naturally, I try now merely to express my abnormal feelings of that moment. Now, as I write, I understand perfectly that all this is as it should be; that he, S-4711, like any other honest Number, has a perfect right to the joys of life, and that it would be unjust....But I think the point is quite clear.

I-330 laughed a long, strange laugh. Then she cast a look at me, into me.

"The most curious thing is that I am not in the least afraid of you. You are such a dear, I am sure of it! You would never think of going to the Bureau and reporting that I drink liqueurs and smoke. You will be sick or busy, or I don't know what...Furthermore, I am sure you will drink this charming poison with me."

What an impertinent, mocking tone! I felt definitely that in a moment I would hate her. (Why in a moment? In fact, I hated her all the time.)

I-330 tilted the little glass of green poison straight into her mouth. Then she stood up, and all rosy through the translucent saffron-yellow tissue, she made a few steps and stopped behind my chair...Suddenly her arms were about my neck...her lips grew into mine, no, even somewhere much deeper, much more terribly....I swear all this was very unexpected for me. That is why perhaps...for I could not—at this moment I see clearly— I could not myself have the desire to...

Unbearably sweet lips. (I suppose it was the taste of the liqueur.) It was as though burning poison were be— ing poured into me, and more, and more

I tore away from the earth and began revolving as an independent planet, down, down, following an incalculable curve

What happened next I am able to describe only in an approximate way, only by way of more or less suitable analogies.

It never occurred to me before but it is true: we who live on the earth, we are always walking over a seething red sea of fire which is hidden in the womb of the earth. We never think of it. But imagine the ground under our feet suddenly transformed into a thin glass shell; suddenly we should behold...!

I became glass-like and saw within myself. There were two selves in me. One, the former D-503, Number D-503; and the other...Before, that other used only to show his hairy paws from time to time, but now that whole other self left his shell. That shell was breaking, and in a moment...

Grasping the last straw (the arms of the chair) with all my strength, I asked loudly (so as to hear my first self), 'Where, where did you get this poison?"

"Oh, this? A physician, one of my..."

"'One of my7 one of my' what?" And my other self jumped up suddenly and yelled: "I won't allow it! I want no one but me...I shall kill anyone who...Because I...You..."I saw my other self grasp her rudely with his hairy paws, tear the silk, and put his teeth in her flesh!...I remember exactly, his teeth!...

I do not remember how, but I-330 slipped away and I saw her straighten, her head raised high, her eyes overlaid by that cursed, impenetrable curtain. She stood leaning with her back against the closet door and listening to me.

I remember I was on the floor; I embraced her limbs, kissed her knees, and cried supplicatingly, "At once, fight away, fight away."

Sharp teeth...The sharp, mocking triangle of the brows...She bent over and in silence unbuttoned my badge.

"Yes, yes, dear——dear."

I began hastily to remove my unif. But I-330, silent as before, lifted my badge to my eyes, showing me the clock upon it. It was twenty-two—twenty-five.

I became cold. I knew what it meant to be out in the street after twenty-two-thirty. My insanity disappeared at once. I was again I. I saw clearly one thing: I hated her, hated her, hated... Without saying good-by, without looking back, I ran out of the room. Hurriedly trying to fasten the badge back in its place, I ran down the stairs (I was afraid lest someone notice me in the elevator), and tore out into a deserted street.

Everything was in its place; life so simple, ordinary, orderly. Glittering glass houses, pale glass sky, a greenish, motionless night. But under that cool glass something wild, something red and hairy, was silently seething. I was gasping for breath, but I continued to run so as not to be late.

Suddenly I felt that my badge which I had hurriedly pinned on was detaching itself; it came off and fell to the sidewalk. I bent over to pick it up and in the momentary silence I heard somebody's steps. I turned. Someone small and hunched was disappearing around the corner. At least so it seemed, I started to run as fast as I could. The wind whistled in my ears. At the entrance to my house I stopped and looked at the clock; one minute to twenty-two-thirty! I listened; nobody behind. It was my foolish imagination, the effect of the poison.

The night was full of torture. My bed seemed to lift itself under me, then to fall again, then up again! I used autosuggestion: "At night all the Numbers must sleep; sleeping at night is a duty just like working during the day. To sleep at night is necessary for the next day's work. Not to sleep at night is criminal." Yet I could not sleep—I could not. I was perishing! I was unable to fulfill my duties to the United State! I...

RECORD ELEVEN

No, I Can't; Let It Be without Headings!

Evening. It is somewhat foggy. The sky is covered with a milky-golden tissue, and one cannot see what is there, beyond, on the heights. The ancients "knew" that the greatest, bored skeptic-their god-lived there. We know that crystalline, blue, naked, indecent .Nothing is there. I no longer know what is there. I have learned too many things of late. Knowledge, self-confident knowledge, which is sure that it is faultless, is faith. I had firm faith in myself; I believed that I knew all about myself. But then...I look in the mirror. And for the first time in my life, yes,for the first time in my life I see clearly, precisely, consciously and with surprise, I see myself as some "him"! I am "he." Frowning, black, straight brows; between them, like a scar, there is a vertical wrinkle. (Was that wrinkle there before?) Steel-gray eyes encircled by the shadow of a sleepless night. And behind that steel...I understand; I never knew before what there was behind that steel. From there (this "there" is at once so near and so infinitely distant!) I look at myself—at "him." And I know surely that "he" with his straight brows is a stranger, that I meet him here for the first time in my life. The real I is not he.

No. Period. All this is nonsense. And all these foolish emotions are only delirium, the result of last night's poisoning....Poisoning with what? With a sip of that green poison, or with her? It matters little. I write all this merely in order to demonstrate how strangely confused our precise and sharp human reason may become. This reason, strong enough to make infinity, which the ancients feared so much, understandable by means of....The switch buzzes. "Number R-13." Well, I am even glad; alone I should...

Twenty minutes later:

On the plane of this paper, in a world of two dimensions, these lines follow each other, but in another world they....I am losing the sense for figures...Twenty minutes! Perhaps two hundred or two hundred thousand!...

It seems so strange, quietly, deliberately, measuring every word, to write down my adventure with R-. Imagine yourself sitting down at your own bed, crossing your legs, watching curiously how you yourself shrivel in the very same bed. My mental state is similar to that.

When R-13 came in , I was perfectly quiet and normal. With sincere admiration I began to tell him how wonderfully he succeeded in versifying the death sentence of that insane man, and that his poem, more than anything else, had smothered and annihilated the transgressor of the law.

"More than that," I said, "if I were ordered to prepare a mathematical draft of the Machine of the Well-Doer, I should undoubtedly, undoubtedly, put on that draft some of your verses!" Suddenly I saw R-'s eyes becoming more and more opaque, his lips acquiring a gray tint.

"What's the matter?"

"What? Well...Merely that I am dead sick of it. Everybody keeps on: 'The death sentence, the death sentence!' I want to hear no more of it! You understand? I do not want..." He became serious, rubbing his neck—that little valise filled with luggage which I cannot understand. A silence. There! He found something in that little valise of his, removed it, unwrapped it, spread it out; his eyes became covered with the varnish of laughter. He began:

"I am writing something for your Integral. Yes....I am! " He was himself again: bubbling, sprinkling lips, words splashing like a fountain.

"You see, it is the ancient legend of paradise." ("p" like a fountain.) "That legend referred to us of today, did it not? Yes. Only think of it, think of it a moment! There were two in paradise and the choice was offered to them: happiness without freedom, or freedom without happiness. No other choice. Tertium, non datur. They, fools that they were, chose freedom. Naturally, for centuries afterward they longed for fetters, for the fetters of yore. This was the meaning of their world weariness, Welts-chmerz. For centuries! And only we found a way to regain happiness....No, listen, follow me! The ancient god and we, side by side at the same table! Yes, we helped god to defeat the devil definitely and finally. It was he, the devil, who led people to transgression, to taste pernicious freedom—he, the cunning serpent. And we came along, planted a boot on his head, and ...squash! Done with him! Paradise again! We returned to the simple- mindedness and innocence of Adam and Eve. No more meddling with good and evil and all that; everything is simple again, heavenly, childishly simple! The Well-Doer, the Machine, the Cube, the giant Gas Bell, the Guardians—all these are good. All this is magnificent, beautiful, noble, lofty, crystalline, pure. For all this preserves our non-freedom, that is, our happiness. In our place those ancients would indulge in discussions, deliberations, etc. They would break their heads trying to make out what was moral or unmoral. But we ...Well, in short, these are the highlights of my little paradise poem. What do you think of it? And above all the style is most solemn, pious. Understand me? Nice little idea, is it not? Do you understand?"

Of course I understood. I remember my thoughts at that moment: "His appearance is nonsensical and lacking in symmetry, yet what an orderly-working mind he has!" This made him dear to me, that is to the real me. (I still insist that that I of before is the real one; my I of late is, certainly, only an illness.)

Apparently R-read my thought in my face; he put his hand on my shoulders and laughed: "Oh, you!...Adam. By the way, about Eve..." He searched for something in his pockets, took out a little book, turned over a few leaves, and said, "For the day after tomorrow—oh, no, two days from now—O-90 has a pink check on you. How about it? ...As before? ... You want her to?"

"Of course, of course.

"All fight then, I'll tell her. You see she herself is very bashful ...What a funny story! You see, for me she has only a pink-check affection, but for you ...And you, you did not even come to tell us how a fourth member sneaked into our triangle! Who is it? Repent, sinner! Come on!"

A curtain arose inside me; rustle of silk, green bottle, lips ... For no reason whatsoever I exclaimed (oh, why didn't I restrain myself at that moment?), "Tell me, R-, did you ever have an opportunity to try nicotine or alcohol?'

R- sucked in his lips, looked at me from under his brows. I distinctly heard his thoughts: "Friend though he is, yet..."And he answered:

"What shall I say? Strictly speaking, no. But I know a woman ..."

"I-330?" I cried.

"What! You? You, also?" R- was full of laughter; he chuckled, ready to splash over.

My mirror was hanging in such a way that in order to see R- clearly I had to turn and look across the table. From my armchair I could see now only my own forehead and eyebrows. Then I, the real I, suddenly saw in the mirror a broken, quivering line of brow; I, the real I, heard suddenly a wild, disgusting cry: "What? What does that 'also' mean? What does that 'also' mean? I demand..."

Widely parted Negro lips...Eyes bulging, I (the real I) grasped my other wild, hairy, heavily breathing self forcibly. I (the real I) said to him, to R-, "In the name of the Well-Doer, please forgive me. I am very sick; I don't sleep; I do not know what is the matter with me."

A swiftly passing smile appeared on the thick lips.

"Yes, yes, I understand, I understand. I am familiar with all this—theoretically, of course. Good-by."

At the door he turned around like a little black ball, came back to the table and put a book upon it. "This is my latest book. I came to bring it to you. Almost forgot. Good-by." ("b" like a splash.) The little ball rolled out.

I am alone. Or, to be more exact, I am tete-a-tete with that other self. I sit in the armchair and, having crossed my legs, I watch curiously from some indefinite "there" how I, myself, am shriveling in my bed!

Why, oh, why is it, that for three years R-, O-, and I were so friendly together and now suddenly—one word only about that other female, about I-330, and...Is it possible that that insanity called love and jealousy does What seems most strange is that I, I! ... Equations, formulae, figures, and suddenly this! I can't understand it, I can't! Tomorrow I shall go to R- and tell him... No, it isn't true; I shall not go; neither tomorrow nor day after tomorrow, nor ever... I can't, I do not want to see him. This is the end. Our triangle is broken up.

I am alone. It is evening. There is a light fog. The sky is covered by a thin, milky-golden tissue. If I only knew what is there—higher. If I only knew who I am. Which I am I?

RECORD TWELVE

The Delimitation of the Infinite

Angel

Meditations on Poetry

I continue to believe that I shall recover, that I may recover. I slept very well. No dreams or any other symptoms of disease. Dear O-90 will come tomorrow. Everything will again be simple, regular, and limited like a circle. I am not afraid of this word "limited." The work of the highest faculty of man, judgment, is always directed toward the constant limiting of the infinite, toward the breaking up of the infinite into comfortably digestible portions, differentials. This is what gives divine beauty to my vocation, mathematics. And it is exactly this beauty that that other female lacks. But this last thought of mine is only an accidental mental association.

These thoughts swarmed in my mind while I was listening to the regular, rhythmic sounds of the underground railway. Silently I followed the rhythm of its wheels and recited to myself R-’s verses (from the book which he gave me yesterday), and I felt that behind me someone was leaning over my shoulder and looking at the open pages. I did not turn around but with the corner of my eye I noticed.pink ears, spread like wings, the double-curved... like me letter....It was he, but I did not want to disturb him. I feigned not to have noticed him. How he came in, I do not know. I did not see him when I got into the car.

This incident, insignificant in itself, had an especially good effect upon me; it invigorated me, I should say. It is pleasant to feel that somebody's penetrating eye is watching you from behind your shoulder, lovingly guarding you from making the most minute mistake, from the most minute incorrect step. It may seem to you too sentimental, but I do see in all this the materialization of the dream of the ancients about a Guardian Angel. How many things, of which the ancients had only dreams, are materialized in our life!

At the moment when I became aware of the presence of the Guardian Angel behind me, I was enjoying a poem entitled "Happiness." I think I am not mistaken when I say that it is a piece of rare beauty and depth of thought. These are the first four lines:

Two times two—eternal lovers;

Inseparable in passion four...

Most flaming lovers in the world,

Eternally welded, two times two.

And the rest is in the same vein: on the wisdom and the eternal happiness of the multiplication table. Every poet is inevitably a Columbus. America existed before Columbus for ages, but only Columbus found it. The multiplication table existed before R-13 for ages, but only R-13 could find in the virginal forest of figures a new Eldorado. Is it not true? Is there any happiness more wise and cloudless in this wonderful world? Steel may rust. The ancient god created ancient man, i.e., the man capable of mistakes;ergo, the ancient god himself made a mistake. The multiplication table is more wise and more absolute than the ancient god, for the multiplication table never (do you understand—never) makes mistakes! There are no more fortunate and happy people than those who live according to the correct, eternal laws of the multiplication table. No hesitation! No errors! There is but one truth, and there is but one path to it; and that truth is: four, and that path is: two times two. Would it not seem preposterous for these happily multiplied twos suddenly to begin thinking of some foolish kind of freedom?—i.e. (is it not clear?), of a mistake? It seems undeniable, axiomatic, that R-13 knows how to grasp the most fundamental, the most....

At that moment again I felt (first near the back of my head, then on my left ear) the warm, tender breath of the Guardian Angel. He apparently noticed that the book on my lap had long been closed and that my thoughts were somewhere very far....Well, I am ready this minute to spread before him the pages of my brain. This gives one such a feeling of tranquillity and joy. I remember I even turned around and gazed long and questioningly into his eyes; but either he did not understand, or he did not want to understand me. He did not ask me anything....The only thing left for me is to relate everything to you, my unknown readers. You are to me now as dear and as near and as far out of reach as he was at that moment.

This was my way of thinking: from the part to the whole—R-13 is the part, the whole is our Institution of State Poets and Authors. I thought: how was it that the ancients did not notice the utter absurdity of their prose and poetry? The gigantic, magnificent power of the artistic word was spent by them in vain. It is really funny; anybody wrote whatever happened to come into his head! It was as foolish as the fact that in the days of the ancients the ocean blindly splashed on the shore for twenty-four hours a day, without interruption or use. The millions of kilogram meters of energy which were hidden in the waves were used only for the stimulation of sweethearts! We obtained electricity from the amorous whisper of the waves! We made a domestic animal out of that sparkling, foaming, rabid one! And in the same manner, we domesticated and harnessed the wild element of poetry. Now poetry is no longer the unpardonable whistling of nightingales, but a State Service! Poetry is a commodity.

Our famous "Mathematical Norms"! Without them in our schools, how could we love so sincerely and dearly our four rules of arithmetic? And "Thorns"! This is a classical image: the Guardians are thorns about a rose, thorns that guard our tender State Flower from coarse hands. Whose heart could resist, could remain indifferent, when seeing and hearing the lips of our children recite like a prayer: "A bad boy caught the rose with his hand, but the thorn of steel pricked him like a needle; the bad boy cried and ran home," etc., etc. And the "Daily Odes to the Well-Doer!" Who, having read them, will not bow piously before the unselfish service of that Number of all Numbers? And the dreadful red "Flowers of Court Sentences!" And the immortal tragedy, "Those Who Come Late to Work!" And the popular book, Stanzas on Sex Hygiene!

Our whole life in all its complexity and beauty is thus stamped forever in the gold of words. Our poets do not soar any longer in the unknown; they have descended to earth and they march with us, keeping step to the accompaniment of our austere and mechanical March of the musical State Tower. Their lyre is the morning rubbing sound of the electric toothbrushes, and the threatening crack of the electric sparks coming from the Machine of the Well-Doer, and the magnificent echo of the Hymn of the United State, and the intimate ringing of the crystalline, shining washbasins, and the stimulating rustle of the falling curtains, and the joyous voices of the newest cookbooks, and the almost imperceptible whisper of the street membranes....

Our gods are here, below. They are with us in the Bureau, in the kitchen, in the shops, in the rest rooms. The gods have become like us, ergo we have become like gods. And we shall come to you, my unknown readers on another planet, we shall come to you to make your life as godlike, as rational, and as correct as our own...

RECORD THIRTEEN

Fog

Thou

A Decidedly Absurd Adventure

I awoke at dawn. The rose-colored firmament looked into my eyes. Everything was beautiful, round. "O-90 is to come tonight. Surely I am healthy again." I smiled and fell asleep. The Morning Bell! I got up; everything looked different. Through the glass of the ceiling, through the walls, nothing could be seen but fog—fog everywhere, strange clouds, becoming heavier and nearer; the boundary between earth and sky disappeared. Everything seemed to be floating and thawing and falling...Not a thing to hold on to. No houses to be seen; they were all dissolved in the fog like crystals of salt in water. On the sidewalks and inside the houses dark figures, like suspended particles in a strange milky solution, were hanging, below, above, up to the tenth floor. Everything seemed to be covered with smoke, as though a fire were raging somewhere noiselessly.

At eleven-forty-five exactly (I looked at the clock particularly at that time to catch the figures, to save at least the figures), at eleven-forty-five, just before leaving, according to our Table of Hours, to go and occupy myself with physical labor, I dropped into my room for a moment. Suddenly the telephone rang. A voice—a long needle slowly penetrating my heart:

"Oh, you are at home? I am very glad! Wait for me at the corner. We shall go together Where? Well, you'll see.

"You know perfectly well that I am going to work now."

"You know perfectly well that you'll do as I say! Au revoir. In two minutes!..."

I stood at the corner. I had to wait to try to make clear to her that only the United State directs me, not she. "You'll do as I say!" How sure she is! One hears it in her voice. And what if... ?

Unifs, dull gray as if woven of damp fog, would appear for a second at my side and then soundlessly redis-solve. I was unable to turn my eyes away from the clock ...I seemed myself to have become that sharp, quivering hand that marked the seconds. Ten, eight minutes ...three ...two minutes to twelve....Of course! I was late! Oh, how I hated her. Yet I had to wait to prove that I...

A red line in the milky whiteness of the fog-like blood, like a wound made by a sharp knife—her lips.

"I made you wait, I think. And now you are late for your work anyway?"

"How...? Well, yes, it is too late now."

I glanced at her lips in silence. All women are lips, lips only. Some are rosy lips, tense and round, a ring, a tender fence separating one from the world. But these! A second ago they were not here, and suddenly... the slash of a knife! I seemed even to see the sweet, dripping blood

She came nearer. She leaned gently against my shoulder; we became one. Something streamed from her into me. I felt, I knew, it should be so. Every fiber of my nervous system told me this, every hair on my head, every painfully sweet heartbeat. And what a joy it was to submit to what should be. A fragment of iron ore probably feels the same joy of submission to precise, inevitable law when it clings to a lodestone. The same joy is in a stone which, thrown aloft, hesitates a little at the height of its flight and then rushes down to the ground. It is the same with a man when in his final convulsion he takes a last deep breath and dies.

I remember I smiled vaguely and said for no reason at all, "Fog ...very."

"Thou lovest fog, dost thou?"

This ancient, long-forgotten thou—the thou of a master to his slave—penetrated me slowly, sharply....Yes, I was a slave....This, too, was inevitable, was good.

"yes, good..." I said aloud to myself, and then to her, "I hate fog. I am afraid of fog."

Then you love it. For if you fear it because it is stronger than you, hate it because you fear it, you love it. For you cannot subject it to yourself. One loves only the things one cannot conquer."

"Yes, that is so. That is why...that is precisely why I..."

We were walking—as one. Somewhere beyond the fog the sun was singing in a faint tone, gradually swelling, filling the air with tension and with pearl and gold and rose and red....The whole world seemed to be one unembraceable woman, and we who were in her body were not yet born; we were ripening in joy. It was clear to me, absolutely clear, that everything existed only for me: the sun, the fog, the gold—for me. I did not ask where we were going; what did it matter? It was a pleasure to walk, to ripen, to become stronger and more tense....

"Here ..." I-330 stopped at a door. "It so happens that today there is someone on duty who... I told you about him in the Ancient House."

Carefully guarding the forces ripening within me, I read the sign: "Medical Bureau." Only automatically I understood.

...A glass room, filled with golden fog; shelves of glass, colored bottles, jars, electric wires, bluish sparks in tubes; and a male Number—a very thin flattened man. He might have been cut out of a sheet of paper. Wherever he was, whichever way he turned, he showed only a profile, a sharply pointed, glittering blade of a nose, and lips like scissors.

I could not hear what I-330 told him. I merely saw her lips when she was talking, and I felt that I was smiling, irrepressibly, blissfully. The scissors-like lips glittered and the doctor said, "Yes, yes, I see. A most dangerous disease. I know of nothing more dangerous." And he laughed. With his thin, flat, papery hand he wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to I-330; he wrote on another piece of paper and handed it over to me. He had given us certificates, testifying that we were ill, that we were unable to go to work. Thus I stole my work from the United State; I was a thief; I deserved to be put beneath the Machine of the Well-Doer. Yet I was indifferent to this thought; it was as distant from me as though it were written in a novel. I took the certificate without an instant's hesitation. I, all my being, my eyes, my lips, my hands, knew it was as it should be.

At the corner, from a half-empty garage, we took an aero. I-330 took the wheel as she had done before, pressed the starter, and we tore away from the earth. We soared. Behind us the golden haze, the sun. The thin, blade-like profile of the doctor seemed to me suddenly so dear, so beloved. Formerly I knew everything revolves around the sun. Now I knew everything was revolving around me. Slowly, blissfully, with half-closed eyes....

At the gate of the Ancient House we found the same old woman. What a dear mouth, with lips grown together and raylike wrinkles around it! Probably those lips have remained grown together all these days; but now they parted and smiled.

"Ah! you mischievous girl, you! Work is too much for you? Well, all right, all right. If anything happens, I'll run up and warn you. "

A heavy, squeaky, opaque door. It closed behind us, and at once my heart, opened painfully, widely, still wider.... My lips ...hers....I drank and drank from them. I tore myself away; in silence I looked into her widely open eyes, and then again....

The room in half dusk....Blue and saffron-yellow lights, dark green morocco leather, the golden smile of Buddha, a wide mahogany bed, a glimmer of mirrors ....And my dream of a few days before became so comprehensible, so clear to me; everything seemed saturated with the golden prime juice of life, and it seemed that I was overflowing with it—one second more and it would splash out....Like iron ore to a lodestone, in sweet submission to the precise and unchangeable law, inevitably, I clung to her.... There was no pink check, no counting, no United State; I was myself no more. Only, drawn together, the tenderly sharp teeth were there, only her golden, widely open eyes, and through them I saw deeper within....And silence...Only somewhere in a corner, thousands of miles away it seemed, drops of water were dripping from the faucet of the washstand. I was the Universe! ...And between drops whole epochs, eras, were elapsing....

I put on my unif and bent over I-330 to draw her into me with my eyes—for the last time.

"I knew it....I knew you," said I-330 in a very low voice. She passed her hand over her face as though brushing something away; then she arose brusquely, put on her unif and her usual sharp, bite-like smile.

"Well, my fallen angel, you perished just now, do you know that? No? You are not afraid? Well, au revoir. You shall go home alone. Well?"

She opened the mirror door of the cupboard and, looking at me over her shoulder, she waited. I left the room obediently. Yet no sooner had I left the room than I felt it was urgent that she touch me with her shoulder— only for one second with her shoulder, nothing more. I ran back into the room, where, I presumed, she was standing before the mirror, busily buttoning up her unif; I rushed in, and stopped abruptly. I saw—I remember it clearly—I saw the key in the keyhole of the closet, and the ancient ring upon it was still swinging, but I-330 was not there. She could not have left the room as there was but one exit....Yet I-330 was not there! I looked around everywhere. I even opened the cupboard and felt of the different ancient dresses, nobody....

I feel somewhat ridiculous, my dear planetary readers, relating to you this most improbable adventure. But what else can I do since it all happened exactly as I relate it? Was not the whole day, from early morning, full of improbable adventures? Does it not all resemble the ancient disease of dream seeing? If this be so, what does it matter if I relate one absurdity more, or one less? Moreover, I am convinced that sooner or later I shall be able to include all these absurdities in some kind of logical sequence. This thought comforts me as I hope it will comfort you.

... How overwhelmed I am! If only you knew how overwhelmed!

RECORD FOURTEEN

"Mine"

Impossible

A Cold Floor

I shall continue to relate my adventures of yesterday. I was busy during the personal hour before retiring to bed, and thus I was unable to record everything last night. But everything is graven in me; especially, for some reason, and apparently forever, I shall remember that unbearably cold floor....

I was expecting O-90 last evening, as it was her regular day. I went downstairs to the controller on duty to get a permit for the lowering of my curtains.

"What is the matter with you?" asked the controller. "You seem so peculiar tonight."

"I...I am sick."

Strictly speaking, I told her the truth. I certainly am sick. All this is an illness. Presently I remembered; of course, my certificate! I touched it in my pocket. Yes, there it was, rustling. Then all this did happen! It did actually happen!

I held out the paper to the controller. As I did so, I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks. Without looking directly at her, I noticed with what an expression of surprise she gazed at me.

Then at twenty-one-thirty o'clock....In the room to the left the curtains were lowered, and in the room to the right my neighbor was sitting over a book. His head is bald and covered with bulging lumps. His forehead is enormous—a yellow parabola. I was walking up and down the room suffering. How could I meet her, after all that happened? O-90, I mean. I felt plainly, to my right, how the eyes of my neighbor were staring at me. I clearly saw the wrinkles on his forehead like a row of yellow, illegible lines; and for some reason I was certain that those lines dealt with me.

A quarter of an hour before twenty-two the cheerful, rosy whirlwind was in my room; the firm ring of her rosy arms closed about my neck. Then I felt how that ring grew weaker and weaker; and then it broke and her arms dropped....

"You are not the same, not the same man! You are no longer mine!"

"What curious terminology: 'mine,' I never belonged—" I faltered. It suddenly occurred to me: true, I had belonged to no one before, but now...Is it not clear that now I no longer live in our rational world but in the ancient delirious world, in a world of the square root of minus one?

The curtains fell. There to my right my neighbor let his book drop at that moment from the table to the floor. And through the last narrow space between the curtain and the floor I saw a yellow hand pick up the book. Within I felt: "Only to seize that hand with an my power. "

I thought...I wanted to meet you during the hour for the walk, I wanted... I must talk to you about so many things, so many...

Poor, dear O-90. Her rosy mouth was a crescent with its horns downward. But I could not tell her everything, could I, if for no other reason than that it would make her an accomplice to my crimes? I knew that she would not have the courage to report me to the Bureau of Guardians, consequently...

"My dear O-, I am sick, I am exhausted. I went again today to the Medical Bureau; but it is nothing, it will pass. But let us not talk about it; let us forget it."

O-90 was lying down. I kissed her gently. I kissed that childish, fluffy fold at her wrist. Her blue eyes were closed. The pink crescent of her lips was slowly blooming, more and more like a flower. I kissed her....

Suddenly I clearly realized how empty I was, how I had given away...No, I could not—impossible! I knew I must ...but no—impossible! I ought...but no—impossible! My lips cooled at once. The rosy crescent trembled, darkened, drew together. O-90 covered herself with the bedspread, her face hidden in the pillow.

I was sitting near the bed, on the floor. What a desperately cold floor! I sat there in silence. The terrible cold from the floor rose higher and higher. There in the blue, silent space among the planets, there probably it is as cold.

"Please understand, dear; I did not mean..." I muttered, "With all my heart, I... "

It was the truth. I, my real self, did not mean....Yet how could I express it in words? How could I explain to her that the piece of iron did not want to? ....But that the law is precise, inevitable!

O-90 lifted her face from the pillow and without opening her eyes she said, "Go away." But because she was crying she pronounced it "Oo aaa-ay." For some reason this absurd detail will not leave my memory.

Penetrated by the cold, and torpid, I went out into the ball. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Outside a thin, almost imperceptible film of haze was spread. "Toward night," I thought, "it will descend again and drown the world. How sad a night it will be!"

O-90 passed swiftly by, going toward the elevator. The door slammed.

"Wait a minute!" I screamed. I was frightened.

But the elevator was already groaning, going down, down, down....

"She robbed me of R-, she robbed me of O-90, yet, yet.... nevertheless..."

RECORD FIFTEEN

The Bell

The Mirror—like Sea

I Am to Bum Eternally

I was walking on the dock where the Integral is being built, when the Second Builder came to meet me. His face, as usual, was round and white, a porcelain plate. When he speaks it seems as if he serves you a plate of something unbearably tasty.

"You chose to be ill, and without the Chief we had sort of an accident yesterday."

"An accident?"

"Yes, sir. We finished the bell and started to let it down, and imagine; the men caught a male without a number. How he got in I can't make out. They took him to the Operation Department. Oh, they'll get the answers out of the fellow there; 'why' and 'how,' etc....He smiled delightedly.

Our best and most experienced physicians work in the Operation Department under the direct supervision of the Well-Doer himself. They have all kinds of instruments, but the best of all is the Gas Bell. The procedure is taken from an ancient experiment of elementary physics: they used to put a rat under a gas bell and gradually pump out the air; the air becomes more and more rarefied, and... you know the rest.

But our Gas Bell is certainly a more perfect apparatus, and it is used in combination with different gases. Furthermore, we don't torture a defenseless animal as the ancients did. We use it for a higher purpose: to guard the security of the United State—in other words, the happiness of millions. About five centuries ago, when the work of the Operation Department was only beginning, there were yet to be found some fools who compared our Operation Department with the ancient Inquisition. But this is as absurd as to compare a surgeon performing a tracheotomy with a highway cutthroat. Both use a knife, perhaps the same kind of knife, both do the same thing, viz., cut the throat of a living man; yet one is a well-doer, the other is a murderer; one is marked plus, the other minus....All this becomes perfectly clear in one second, in one turn of our wheel of logic, the teeth of which engage that minus, turn it upward, and thus change its aspect.

One other matter is somewhat different: the ring in the door was still oscillating, apparently the door had just closed, yet she, I-330, had disappeared, she was not there! The wheel of logic could not turn this fact. A dream? But even now I still feel in my right shoulder that incomprehensibly sweet pain of I-330 near me in the fog, pressing herself against me. "Thou lovest fog?" Yes, I love the fog, too. I love everything, and everything appears to me wonderful, new, tense; everything is so good!...

"So good," I said aloud.

"Good?" The porcelain eyes bulged out. "What good do you find in that? If that man without a number contrived to sneak in, it means that there are others around here, everywhere, all the time, here around the Integral, they—"

"Whom do you mean by 'they'?"

"How do I know who? But I sense them, all the time."

"Have you heard about the new operation which has been invented? I mean the surgical removal of fancy?" (There really were rumors of late about something of the sort.)

"No, I haven't. What has that to do with it?"

"Merely this: if I were you, I should go and ask to have this operation performed upon me. "

The plate distinctly expressed something lemonlike, sour. Poor fellow! He took offense if one even hinted that he might possess imagination. Well, a week ago I, too, would have taken offense at such a hint. Not now though, for I know that I have imagination; that is what my illness consists of. And more than that: I know that it is a wonderful illness—one does not want to be cured, simply does not want to!

We ascended the glass steps; the world spread itself below us like the palm of a hand.

You, readers of these records, whoever you may be, you have the sun above you. And if you ever were ill, as I am now, then you know what kind of sun there is or may be in the morning; you know that pinkish, lucid, warm gold; the air itself looks a little pinkish; everything seems permeated by the tender blood of the sun; everything is alive; the stones seem soft and living, iron living and warm, people full of life and smiles. Perhaps in a short while all this will disappear, in an hour the pinkish blood of the sun will be drained out; but in the meantime everything is alive. And I see how something flows and pulsates in the sides of the Integral; I see the Integral; I think of its great and lofty future, of the heavy cargo of inevitable happiness which it is to carry up there into the heights, to you, unseen ones, to you who seek eternally and who never find. You shall find! You shall be happy! You must be happy, and now you have not very long to wait!

The body of the Integral is almost ready; it is an exquisite, oblong ellipsoid, made of our glass, which is everlasting like gold and flexible like steel. I watched them within, fixing its transverse ribs and its longitudinal stringers; in the stem they were erecting the base of the gigantic motor. Every three seconds the powerful tail of the Integral will eject flame and gases into universal space, and the Integral will soar higher and higher, like a flaming Tamerlane of happiness! I watched how the workers, true to the Taylor system, would bend down, then unbend and turn around swiftly and rhythmically like levers of an enormous engine. In their hands they held glittering glass pipes which emitted bluish streaks of flame; the glass walls were being cut into with flame; with flame were being welded the angles, the ribs, the bars. I watched the monstrous glass cranes easily roiling over the glass rails; like the workers themselves, they would obediently turn, bend down, and bring their loads inward into the bowels of the Integral. All seemed one: humanized machine and mechanized humans. It was the most magnificent, most stirring beauty, harmony, music!

Quick! Down! To them and with them! And I descended and mingled with them, fused with their mass, caught in the rhythm of steel and glass. Their movements were measured, tense and round. Their cheeks were colored with health, their mirrorlike foreheads unclouded by the insanity of thinking. I was floating upon a mirror-like sea. I was resting....Suddenly one of them turned his carefree face toward me.

"Well, better today?"

"What, better?"

"You were not here yesterday. And we thought something serious..." His forehead was shining—a childish and innocent smile.

My blood rushed to my face. No, I could not lie, facing those eyes. I remained silent; I was drowning....Above, a shiny, round, white porcelain face appeared in the hatchway.

"Hey! D-503! Come up here! Something is wrong with a frame and brackets here, and..."

Not waiting until he had finished, I rushed to him, upstairs; I was shamefully saving myself by flight. I had not the power to raise my eyes. I was dazed by the sparkling glass steps under my feet, and with every step I felt more and more hopeless. I, a corrupted man, a criminal, was out of place here. No, I shall probably never again be able to fuse myself into this mechanical rhythm, nor float over this mirror-like, untroubled sea. I am to burn eternally from now on, running from place to place, seeking a nook where I may hide my eyes, eternally, until I...A spark cold as ice pierced me. "I myself, I matter little, but is it necessary that she also....? I must see that she..."

I crawled through the hatchway to the deck and stood there; where was I to go now? I did not know what I had come for! I looked aloft. The midday sun, exhausted by its march, was fuming dimly. Below was the Integral, a gray mass of glass—dead. The pink blood was drained out! It was obvious to me that all this was my imagination and that everything was the same as before; yet it was also clear to me that...

"What is the matter with you, D-503? Are you deaf ? I call and call you. What is the matter with you?" It was the Second Builder yelling directly into my ear; he must have been yelling that way for quite a while.

What was the matter with me? I had lost my rudder; the motor was groaning as before, the aero was quivering and rushing on, but it had no rudder. I did not even know where I was rushing, down to the earth or up to the sun, to its flame....

RECORD SIXTEEN

Yellow

A Two-dimensional Shadow

An Incurable Soul

I have not written for several days; I don't know how many. All my days are alike. All are of one color, yellow, like dry, overheated sand. Not a patch of shade, not a drop of water, only an infinity of yellow sand. I cannot live without her, but she, since she disappeared that day so mysteriously in the Ancient House...

Since that time I have seen her only once, during the hour for the Walk, two, three, four days ago, I do not remember exactly. All my days are alike. She only passed swiftly by and for a second idled up my yellow, empty world. With her, arm in arm, reaching not higher than her shoulder, were the double-curved S- and the thin papery doctor, and a fourth person whose fingers only I remember well; they streamed out, those fingers, from the sleeve of the unif like a bundle of rays, uncommonly thin, white, long. I-330 raised her hand and waved to me, then she bent toward the one with the raylike fingers, over the head of S-. I overheard the word Integral. All four turned around to look at me, and then they disappeared in the bluish-gray sea, and my road was once more dry and yellow.

That same evening she had a pink check on me. I stood before the switchboard and with hatred and tenderness I implored it to click and soon show the number I-330. I would rush out into the hall at every sound of the elevator. The door of the latter would open heavily. Pale, tall, blond, and dark they would come out of the elevator, and here and there curtains were falling....But she was not there. She did not come. And it is quite possible that now, at this minute, as I write these lines, at twenty-two o'clock exactly, with her eyes closed she is pressing her shoulder against somebody else in the same way, and in the same way she may be asking someone: "Do you love me?" Whom? Who is he? That one with raylike fingers, or that thick-lipped, sprinkling R-? Or S-? S-! Why is it that I have heard his steps splashing behind me as though in a ditch all these days? Why has he been following me all these days like a shadow? Ahead of me, to my side, behind me, a grayish-blue, two-dimensional shadow; people cross it, people step on it, but it remains nearby, attached to me by unseen ties. Perhaps that tie is I-330. I do not know. Or perhaps they, the Guardians I mean, already know that I...

If someone should tell you your shadow sees you, sees you all the time, would you understand? All at once peculiar sensations arise in you; your arms seem to belong to someone else; they are in the way. That is how I feel; very frequently now I notice how absurdly I wave my hands without any rhythm. I have an irresistible desire to glance behind me, but I am unable to do so; my neck might as well be forged of iron. I flee, I run faster and faster, and even with my back I feel that shadow following me as fast as I can run; and there is no place to hide myself—no place!

At length I reach my room. Alone at last! But here I find another thing, the telephone. I pick up the receiver. "Yes, I-330, please." And again I hear a light noise through the receiver; someone's step in the hall there, passing the door of her room, and—silence....I drop the receiver.I cannot, cannot bear it any longer, and I run to see her!

This happened yesterday. I ran there and for a whole hour from sixteen to seventeen I wandered near the house in which she lives. Numbers were passing by in rows. Thousands of feet were beating the time like a behemoth with a million legs passing by. I was alone, thrown out by a storm on an uninhabited island, and my eyes were seeking and seeking among the grayish-blue waves. 'There, soon," I thought, "will appear from somewhere the sharp mocking angles of the brows lifted to the temples, and the dark window eyes, and there behind them a flaming fireplace and someone's shadow....And I will rush straight in behind those windows and say to her, "Thou"—yes, "thou" without fail. "Thou knowest I cannot live without thee any longer, then why...?" But silence reigned.

Suddenly I heard the silence; suddenly I heard the Musical Tower silenced, and I understood! It was after seventeen already; everyone had already left. I was alone. It was too late to return home. Around me—a desert made of glass and bathed with yellow sunshine. I saw, as if in water, the reflection of the walls in the glass smoothness of the street, sparkling walls, hanging upside down. Myself also upside down, hanging absurdly in the glass.

"I must go at once, this very second, to the Medical Bureau, or else...Or perhaps this would be best: to remain here, to wait quietly until they see me and come and take me into the Operation Department and put an end to everything at once, redeem everything...." A slight rustle—and the double-curved S- was before me. Without looking I felt his two gray steel-drill eyes bore quickly into me. I plucked up all my strength to show a smile and to say (I had to say Something), "I...I must go to the Medical Bureau."

"Who is detaining you? What are you standing here for?"

I was silent, absurdly hanging upside down.

"Follow me," said S- austerely.

I followed obediently, waving my unnecessary foreign arms. I could not raise my eyes. I walked through a strange world turned upside down, where people had their feet pasted to the ceilings, and where engines stood with their bases upward, and where, still lower, the sky merged in the heavy glass of the pavement. I remember what pained me most was the fact that looking at the world for the last time in my life I should see it upside down rather than in its natural state; but I could not raise my eyes.

We stopped. Steps. One step...and I should see the figures of the doctors in their white aprons, and the enormous, dumb Bell.

With force, with some sort of an inner twist, I succeeded at last in tearing my eyes away from the glass beneath my feet, and I noticed the golden letters, "Medical Bureau." Why did he bring me here rather than to the Operation Department? Why did he spare me? About this I did not even think at the moment. I made all the steps in one jump, f irmly closed the door behind me, and took a very deep breath—as if I had not breathed since morning, as if my heart had not beaten for the same length of time, as if only now I started to breathe and only now a sluice opened in my chest....

Inside there were two of them, one a short specimen with heavy legs, his eyes like the horns of a bull tossing the patients up, the other extremely thin with lips like sparkling scissors, a nose like a blade—it was the same man who...I ran to him as to a dear friend, straight over close to the blade, and muttered something about insomnia, dreams, shadows, yellow sand. The scissors lips sparkled and smiled.

"Yes, it is too bad. Apparently a soul has formed in you.

A soul? That strange, ancient word that was forgotten long ago

"Is it...v-very dangerous?" I stuttered.

"Incurable," was the cut of the scissors.

"But more specifically, what is it? Somehow I cannot imagine—"

"You see...how shall I put it? Are you a mathematician?"

"Yes."

"Then you see...imagine a plane, let us say this mirror. You and I are on its surface. You see? There we are, squinting our eyes to protect ourselves from the sunlight, or here is the bluish electric spark in that tube, there the shadow of that aero that just passed. All this is on the surface, is momentary only. Now imagine this very same surface softened by a flame so that nothing can glide over it any longer, so everything will instead penetrate into that mirror world which excites such curiosity in children. I assure you, children are not so foolish as we think they are! The surface becomes a volume, a body, a world. And inside the mirror—within you—there is the sunshine, and the whirlwind caused by the aero propeller, and your trembling lips and someone else's lips also. You see, the cold mirror reflects, throws out, while this one absorbs; it keeps forever a trace of everything that touches it. Once you saw an imperceptible wrinkle on someone’s face, and this wrinkle is forever preserved within you. You may happen to hear in the silence a drop of water falling—and you will hear it forever!"

"Yes, yes, that is it!" I grasped his hand. I could hear drops of water dripping in the silence from the faucet of a washstand, and I knew at once it was forever.

"But tell me please, why suddenly...suddenly, a soul? There was none, yet suddenly.... Why is it that no one has it, yet I ..." I pressed the thin hand; I was afraid to loosen the safety belt.

"Why? Well, why don't we grow feathers or wings but have only shoulder blades, bases for wings? We have aeros; wings would only be in the way. Wings are needed in order to fly, but we don't need to fly anywhere. We have arrived at the terminus. We have found what we wanted. Is that not so?"

I nodded vaguely. He glanced at me and laughed a scalpel-like, metallic laugh. The other doctor overheard us and stamped out of his room on his heavy legs. He picked up the thin doctor with his horn eyes, then picked me up.

"What is the matter—a soul? You say a soul? Oh, damn it! We may soon retrogress even to the cholera epidemics. I told you"—he tossed the thin one on the horns—"I told you the only thing to do is to operate on them all, wholesale! Simply extirpate the center for fancy. Only surgery can help here, only surgery." He put on a pair of enormous X-ray spectacles and remained thus for a long while, looking into my skull, through the bones into my brain, and making notes.

"Very, very curious! Listen." He looked firmly into my eyes."Wouldn't you consent to have me perform an extirpation on you? It would be invaluable to the United State; it might help us prevent an epidemic. If you have no special reasons, of course..."

Some time ago I should probably have said without hesitation, "I am willing," but now—I was silent. I caught the profile of the thin doctor; I implored him!

"You see," he said at last, "Number D-503 is building the Integral, and I am sure the operation would interfere "

"Ah-h!" grumbled the other, and stamped back into his room.

We remained alone. The paper-like hand was put lightly and caressingly upon mine, the profile-like face came nearer, and he said in a very low voice: "I shall tell you a secret. You are not the only one. My colleague is right when he speaks of an epidemic. Try to remember, haven't you noticed yourself, someone with something similar, very similar, identical?"

He looked at me closely. What was he alluding to? To whom?...Is it possible? ...

"Listen." I jumped up from my seat. But he had already changed the subject. In a loud, metallic tone:

"...As for the insomnia and the dreams you complain of, I advise you to walk a great deal. Tomorrow morning you must begin taking long walks... say, as far as the Ancient House."

Again he pierced me with his eyes and he smiled thinly. It seemed to me that I saw enveloped in the tender tissue of that smile a word, a letter, a name, the only name... Or was it only my imagination? I waited impatiently while he wrote a certificate of illness for today and tomorrow. Once more I gently and firmly pressed his hand; then I ran out.

My heart now feels light and swift like an aero; it carries me higher and higher....I know joy will come tomorrow. What joy? ...

RECORD SEVENTEEN

Through Glass

I Died

The Corridor

I am puzzled. Yesterday, at the very moment when I thought everything was untangled, and that all the X's were at last found, new unknowns appeared in my equation. The origin of the coordinates of the whole story is of course the Ancient House. From this center the axes of all the X's, Y's, and Z's radiate, and recently they have entered into the formation of my whole life.

I walked along the X—axis (Avenue 59) toward the center. The whirlwind of yesterday still raged within me: houses and people upside down; my own hands torturingly foreign to me; glimmering scissors; the sharp sound of drops dripping from the faucet; all this existed, all this existed once! All these things were revolving wildly, tearing my flesh, rotating wildly beneath the molten surface, there where the "soul" is located.

In order to follow the instructions of the doctor I chose the road that followed not the hypotenuse but the two legs of a triangle. Soon I reached the road running along the Green Wall. From beyond the Wall, from the infinite ocean of green, there arose toward me an immense wave of roots, branches, flowers, leaves. It rose higher and higher; it seemed as though it would splash over me and that from a man, from the finest and most precise mechanism which I am, I would be transformed into... But fortunately there was the Green Wall between me and that wild green sea. Oh, how great and divinely limiting is the wisdom of walls and bars! This Green Wall is, I think, the greatest invention ever conceived. Man ceased to be a wild animal the day he built the first wall; man ceased to be a wild man only on the day when the Green Wall was completed, when by this wall we isolated our machine-like, perfect world from the irrational, ugly world of trees, birds, and beasts

The blunt snout of some unknown beast was to be seen dimly through the glass of the Wall; its yellow eyes kept repeating the same thought which remained incomprehensible to me. We looked into each other's eyes for a long while. Eyes are shafts which lead from the superficial world into a world which is beneath the surface. A thought awoke in me: "What if that yellow—eyed one, sit— ting there on that absurd dirty heap of leaves, is happier than I, in his life which cannot be calculated in figures!" I waved my hand. The yellow eyes twinkled, moved back, and disappeared in the foliage. What a pitiful being! How absurd the idea that he might be happier! Happier than I he may be, but I am an exception, am I not? I am sick.

I noticed that I was approaching the dark red walls of the Ancient House, and I saw the grown-together lips of the old woman. I ran to her as fast as I could.

"Is she here?"

The grown-together lips opened slowly.

"Who is 'she'?"

"Who? I-330, of course. You remember we came together, she and I, in an aero the other day."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes—yes."

Ray wrinkles around the lips, artful rays radiating from the eyes. They were making their way deeper and deeper into me.

"Well, she is here, all right. Came in a while ago."

"Here!" I noticed at the feet of the old woman a bush of silver-bitter wormwood. (The court of the Ancient House, being a part of the museum, is carefully kept in its prehistoric state.) A branch of the bush touched the old woman, she caressed that branch; upon her knees lay stripes of sunshine. For a second, I, the sun, the old woman, the wormwood, those yellow eyes, all seemed to be one; we were firmly united by common veins, and one common blood—boisterous, magnificent blood—was running through those veins.

I am ashamed now to write down all this, but I promised to be frank to the end of these records: yes, I bent over and kissed that soft, grown-together mouth of the old woman. She wiped it with her hand and laughed.

Running, I passed through familiar, half-dark, echoing rooms, and for some reason I ran straight to the bedroom. When I had reached the door, a thought flashed: "And if she is in there... not alone?" I stopped and listened. But all I heard was the tick-tock of my heart, not within me, but somewhere near, outside me.

I entered. The large bed—untouched. A mirror...another mirror in the door of the cupboard, and in the key-hole an ancient key upon an ancient ring. No one was there. I called softly: "I-330, are you here?" And then in a still lower voice, with dosed eyes, holding my breath— in a voice as though I were kneeling before her, "I-, dear." Silence. Only the water was dripping fast into the white basin of the washstand. I cannot now explain why, but I disliked that sound. I turned the faucet hard and went out. She was not there, so much was clear. She must be in another "apartment."

I ran down a wide, somber stairway, pulled one door, another, a third-locked. Every room was locked save that of "our" apartment. And she was not there. I went back again to the same apartment, without knowing why. I walked slowly, with difficulty; my shoe soles suddenly became as heavy as cast iron. I remember distinctly my thought, "It is a mistake that the force of gravity is a constant; consequently all my formulae..."

Suddenly—an explosion! A door slammed down below; someone stamped quickly over the flagstones. I became lightfooted again, extremely light! I dashed to the railing to bend over, and in one word, one exclamation, expressed everything: "You!"

I became cold. Below, in the square shadow of the window frame, flapping its pink wing ears, the head of S- passed by!

Like lightning I saw only the naked conclusion. Without any premises (I don't recall any premises even now) the conclusion: he must not see me here! And on the tips of my toes, pressing myself against the wall, I sneaked upstairs into the unlocked apartment.

I stopped for a second at the door. He was stamping upward, here. If only the door... I prayed to the door, but it was a wooden one; it squeaked, it squealed. Like a wind something red passed my eyes, something green, and the yellow Buddha. In front of the mirror door of the cupboard my pale face; my ears still following those steps, my lips...Now he was .already passing the green and yellow, now he was passing Buddha. Now at the door-sill of the bedroom...

I grasped the key of the cupboard; the ring oscillated. This oscillation reminded me of something. Again a conclusion, a naked conclusion without premises; a conclusion, or, to be more exact, a fragment of one: "Now, I-330 is..." I brusquely opened the cupboard and, when inside in the darkness, shut the door firmly. One step!...The floor shook under my feet. Slowly and softly I floated somewhere downward; my eyes were dimmed—I died!

Later, when I sat down to describe all these adventures, I sought in my memory and consulted some books; and now I understand, of course! I was in a state of temporary death. This state was known to the ancients, but as far as I am informed it is unknown to us. I have no conception of how long I was dead, probably not longer than five or ten seconds, but after a while I arose from the dead and opened my eyes. It was dark. But I felt I was falling down, down, down. I stretched out my hand to attach myself to something, but the rough wall scratched my fingers; it was running away from me, upward. I felt blood on my fingers. It was clear that all this was not merely a play of my sick imagination. But what was it? What?

I heard my own frequent, trembling breaths. (I am not ashamed to confess this, it was all unexpected and incomprehensible.) A minute, two, three passed; I was still going down. Then a soft bump. The thing that had been falling away from under my feet was motionless. I found in the darkness a knob, and turned it; a door opened; there was a dim light. I now noticed behind me a square platform, traveling upward. I tried to run back to it but it was too late. "I am cut off here," I thought. Where "here" might be I did not know.

A corridor. A heavy silence. The small lamps on the vaulted ceiling resembled an endless, twinkling, dotted line. The corridor was similar to the "tube" of our underground railways but it was much narrower, and made not of our glass but of some other, very ancient material. For a moment I thought of the underground caves where they say many tried to save themselves during the ‘Two Hundred Years’War. There was nothing to do but to walk ahead.

I walked, I think, for about twenty minutes. A turn to the right, the corridor became wider, the small lamps brighter. There was a dim droning somewhere ...Was it a machine or voices? I did not know. I stood before a heavy, opaque door from behind which came the noise. I knocked. Then I knocked again, louder. Now there was silence behind the door. Something clanked; the door opened slowly and heavily.

I don't know which of us was the more dumfounded; the thin, blade-like doctor stood before me!

"You here!" His scissors opened and remained open.

And I, as if I did not know a human word, stood silent, merely stared, without comprehending that he was talking to me. He must have told me to leave, for with his thin paper stomach he slowly pressed me to the side, to the more brightly lighted end of the corridor, and poked me in the back.

"Beg your pardon...I wanted...I thought that she, I-330...but behind me..."

"Stay where you are," said the doctor brusquely, and he disappeared.

At last! At last she was nearby, here, and what did it matter where "here" was? I saw the familiar saffron-yel-low silk, the smile bite, the eyes with their curtains drawn....My lips quivered, so did my hands and knees, and I had a most stupid thought: "Vibrations make sounds. Shivering must make a sound. Why, then, don't I hear it?"

Her eyes opened for me widely. I entered into them.

"I could not...any longer! ...Where have you been? ...Why? ..."

I was unable to tear my eyes away from her for a second, and I talked as if in a delirium, fast and incoherently, or perhaps I only thought without speaking out: "A shadow...behind me. I died. And from the cup-board...Because that doctor of yours...speaks with his scissors...I have a soul...incurable...and I must walk..."

"An incurable soul? My poor boy!" I-330 laughed. She covered me with the sparkles of her laughter; my delirium left me. Everywhere around her little laughs were sparkling! How good it was!

The doctor reappeared from around the turn, the wonderful, magnificent, thinnest doctor.

'Well?" He was already beside her.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. I shall tell you later. He got here by accident. Tell them that I shall be back in about a quarter of an hour."

The doctor slid around the corner. She lingered. The door closed with a heavy thud. Then slowly, very slowly, piercing my heart with a sharp sweet needle, I-330 pressed against me with her shoulder and then with her arm, with her whole body, and we walked away as if fused into one.

I do not remember now where we turned into darkness; in the darkness we walked up some endless stair-way in silence. I did not see but I knew, I knew that she walked as I did, with closed eyes, blind, her head thrown a little backward, biting her lips and listening to the music—that is to say, to my almost audible tremor.

I returned to consciousness in one of the innumerable nooks in the courtyard of the Ancient House. There was a fence of earth with naked stone ribs and yellow teeth of walls half fallen to pieces. She opened her eyes and said, "Day after tomorrow at sixteen." She was gone.

Did all this really happen? I do not know. I shall learn day after tomorrow. One real sign remains: on my right hand the skin has been rubbed from the tips of three fingers. But today, on the Integral, the Second Builder assured me that he saw me touch the polishing wheel with those very same fingers. Perhaps I did. It is quite probable. I don't know. I don't know anything.

RECORD EIGHTEEN

Debris of Logic

Wounds and Plaster

Never Again

Last night, as soon as I had gone to bed, I fell momentarily to the bottom of the ocean of sleep like an overloaded ship that has been wrecked. The heavy mass of wavy green water enveloped me. Then, slowly, I floated from the bottom upward, and somewhere in the middle of that course I opened my eyes—my room! The morning was still green and motionless. A fragment of sunshine coming from the mirror on my closet door shone into my eyes. This fragment did not permit me to sleep, being thus an obstacle in the way of fulfilling exactly the rules of the Tables, which prescribe so many hours of sleep. I should have opened the closet but I felt as though I were in a spider web, and cobweb covered my eyes; I had no power to sit up.

Yet I got up and opened the closet door; suddenly, there behind that door, making her way through the mass of garments that hung there, was I-330! I have become so accustomed of late to most improbable things that as far as I remember I was not even surprised; I did not even ask a question. I jumped into the closet, slammed the mirror door behind me, and breathlessly, brusquely, blindly, avidly I clung to her. I remember clearly even now: through the narrow crack of the door a sharp sun ray like lightning broke into the darkness and played on the floor and walls of the closet, and a little higher the cruel ray blade fell upon the naked neck of I-330, and this for some reason seemed to me so terrible that I could not bear it, and I screamed—and again I opened my eyes. My room!

The morning was still green and motionless. On the door of my closet was a fragment of the sunshine. I was in bed. A dream? Yet my heart was still wildly beating, quivering and twitching; there was a dull pain in the tips of my fingers and in my knees. This undoubtedly did happen! And now I am no longer able to distinguish what is dream from what is actuality; irrational numbers grow through my solid, habitual, tridimensional life; and instead of firm, polished surfaces, there is something shaggy and rough.

I waited long for the Bell to ring. I was lying thinking, untangling a very strange logical chain. In our superficial life, every formula, every equation, corresponds to a curve or a solid. We have never seen any curve or solid corresponding to my square root of minus one. The horrifying part of the situation is that there exist such curves or solids. Unseen by us they do exist, they must, inevitably; for in mathematics, as on a screen, strange, sharp shadows appear before us. One must remember that mathematics, like death, never makes mistakes, never plays tricks. If we are unable to see those irrational curves or solids, it means only that they inevitably possess a whole immense world somewhere beneath the surface of our life.

I jumped up without waiting for the waking Bell and began to pace up and down the room. My mathematics, the only firm and immovable island of my shaken life, this, too, was torn from its anchor and was floating, whirling. Then it means that that absurd thing, the "soul," is as real as my unif, as my boots, although I do not see them since they are behind the door of the closet. If boots are not a sickness, why should the "soul" be one? I sought, but I could not find, a way out of the logical confusion. It looked to me like that strange and sad debris beyond the Green Wall; my debris of logic, too, is filled with extraordinary, incomprehensible, wordless, but speaking beings. It occurred to me for a moment that through some strange, thick glass I saw it; I saw it at once infinitely large and infinitely small, scorpion-like, with hidden but ever perceptible sting; I saw the square root of minus one. Perhaps it was nothing else but my "soul," which, like the legendary scorpion of the ancients, was voluntarily stinging itself with...

The Bell! The day began. All I saw and felt neither died nor disappeared; it merely became covered with daylight, as our visible world does not die or disappear at the end of the day but merely becomes covered with the darkness of night. My head was filled with a light, a thin haze. Through that haze I perceived the long glass tables and the globe-like heads busy chewing—slowly, silently, in unison. At a distance, through the haze, the metronome was slowly beating its tick-tock, and to the accompaniment of this customary and caressing music I joined with the others in counting automatically to fifty: fifty is the number of chewing movements required by the law of the State for every piece of food. And auto-maritally then, keeping time, I went downstairs and put my name down in the book for the outgoing Numbers, as everyone did. But I felt I lived separately from everybody; I lived by myself separated by a soft wall which absorbed noises; beyond that wall there was my own world.

Here a thought occurred to me. If that world is only my own, why should I tell about it in these records? Why should I recount all these absurd "dreams" about closets, endless corridors? With great sorrow I notice that! instead of a correct and strictly mathematical poem in honor of the United State I am writing a fantastic novel, Oh! if only it were a novel and not my actual life, full of X's, square roots of minus one, and downfalls! Yet all may be.for the best. Probably you., my unknown readers, are children still as compared with us. We are brought up by the united State; consequently we have reached the highest summits attainable by man. And you, being children, may swallow without crying all the bitter things I am to give you only if they be coated with the syrup of adventures.

The Same Evening

Are you familiar with the following sensation? You are in an aero and you dash upward along a blue spiral line; the window is open and the wind rushes past your face, whistling, There is no earth. The earth is forgotten. The earth is as far from you as Venus, Saturn, or Jupiter. That is how I live now. A hurricane wind beats into my face; I forget the earth, forget rosy, dear O-90, Yet the earth does exist, and sooner or later I must plane down to that earth; only I close my eyes to avoid seeing the date at which the name O-90 is written on my Tables.

This evening the distant earth reminded me of itself. In order to fulfill the recommendation of the doctor (I desire sincerely, most sincerely I desire, to be cured), I wandered for two hours and eight minutes over the straight lines of the deserted avenues. Everybody was in the auditoriums, in accordance with the Table. Only I, cut off from the rest, I was alone. Strictly speaking, it was a very unnatural situation. Imagine a finger cut off from the whole, from the hand; a separate human finger, somewhat hunched, running over the glass sidewalk. I was such a finger. What seemed most strange and unnatural was that the finger had no desire to be with its hand, with its fellows. I want either to be alone or with her; to transfuse my whole being into hers through a contact with her shoulder or through our interwoven fingers.

I came home as the sun was setting. The pink dust of evening was covering the glass of the walls, the golden peak of the Accumulating Tower, the voices and smiles of the Numbers. Isn't it strange: the passing rays of the evening sun fall to the earth at the same angle as the awakening rays of the morning, yet they make everything seem so different; the pink tinge is different. At sunset it is so quiet, somewhat melancholy; at sunrise it is resounding, boisterous.

When I entered the hall downstairs I saw U-, the controller. She took a letter from the heaps of envelopes covered with pink dust and handed it to me. I repeat: she is a very respectable woman, and I am sure she has only the very best feelings toward me. Yet, every time I see those cheeks hanging down, which look like the gills of a fish, I ...

Holding out her dry hand with the letter, U- sighed. But that sigh only very slightly moved in me the curtains which separate me from the rest of the world. I was completely engrossed by the envelope which trembled in my hand. I had no doubt that it was a letter from I-330.

At that moment I heard another sigh, such a deliberate one, underscored with two lines, that I raised my eyes from the envelope and saw a tender, cloudy smile coming from between the gills, through the bashful blinds of lowered eyes. And then:

"You poor, poor dear!" A sigh underscored with three lines, and a glance at the letter, an imperceptible glance. (What was in the letter she naturally knew, ex officio.)

"No, really? ...Why?"

"No, no, dear, I know better than you. For a long time I have watched you, and I see that you need someone with years of experience of life to accompany you.

I felt all pasted around by her smile. It was like a plaster upon the wounds which were to be inflicted upon me by the letter I held in my hand. Finally, through the bashful blinds of her eyes, she said in a very low voice: "I shall think about it, dear. I shall think it over. And be sure that if I feel myself strong enough..."

"Great Well-Doer! Is it possible that is my lot? ... Is it possible that she means to say, that she?... "

My eyes were dimmed and filled with thousands of sinusoids; the letter was trembling. I went near the light to the wall. There the light of the sun was going out; from the sun the dark, sad, pink dust was falling thicker and thicker, covering the floor, my hands, the letter. I opened the envelope and found the signature as fast as I could— the first wound! It was not I-330; it was O-90! And another wound: in the right-hand corner a slovenly splash, a blot! I cannot bear blots. It matters little whether they are made by ink or by...Well, it doesn't matter by what. Heretofore, such a blot would have had only a disagreeable effect, disagreeable to the eyes; but now—why did that small gray blot seem like a cloud, and seem to spread about me a leaden, bluish darkness? Or was it again the "soul" at work? Here is a transcript of the letter:

You know, or perhaps you don't...I cannot write well. Little it matters! Now you know that without you there is for me not a single day, a single morning, a single spring, for R- is only ...Well, that is of no importance to you. At any rate, I am very grateful to him, for without him, alone all these days, I don't know what would...During these last few days and nights I have lived through ten years, or perhaps twenty years. My room seemed to me not square but round; I walk around without end, round after round, always the same thing, not a door to escape through. I cannot live without you because I love you; and I should not, I cannot be with you any more because I love you! Because I see and I understand that you need no one now, no one in the world save that other, and you must realize that it is precisely because I love you that I must...

I need another two or three days in order to paste together the fragments of myself and thus restore at least something similar to the O-90 of old. Then I shall go myself, and I myself shall state that I take your name from my list, and this will be better for you; you must feel happy now. I shall never again... Good-by, O-.

Never again. Yes, that is better. She is right. But why, then? ...Why, then?...

RECORD NINETEEN

The Infinitesimal of the Third Order

From Under the Forehead

Over the Railing

There in the strange corridor lighted by the dotted line of dim little electric lamps...or no, no, later, when we had already reached one of the nooks in the courtyard of the Ancient House, she had said, "Day after tomorrow." That "day after tomorrow" is today...And everything seems to have wings and to fly; the day flies; and our Integral, too, already has wings. We finished placing the motor.and tried it out today, without switching it in. What magnificent, powerful salvos! To me each of them sounded like a salute in honor of her, the only one—in honor of today!

At the time of the first explosion about a dozen loaf— ing Numbers from the docks stood near the main tube— and nothing was left of them save a few crumbs and a little soot. With pride I now write that this occurrence did not disturb the rhythm of our work for even a sec— ond. Not a man shrank. We and our lathes continued our rectilinear or curved motions with the same sparkling and polished precision as before, as if nothing had happened. As a matter of fact, what did happen? A dozen Numbers represent scarcely one hundred millionth part of the United State. For practical consideration, that is but an infinitesimal of the third order. Pity, a result of arithmeti— cal ignorance, was known to the ancients; to us it seems absurd.

It also seems droll to me, that yesterday I was think— ing, even relating in these pages about a gray blot! All that was only the "softening of the surface" which is nor— mally as hard as diamond, like our walls. (There is an an— cient saying: "Shooting beans at a stone wall... ")

Sixteen o'clock. I did not go for the supplementary walk; who knows, she might come now, when the sun is so noisily bright?

I am almost the only one in this room. Through the walls full of sunshine I see for a distance to the right and to the left, and below strings of other rooms, repeating each other as if in a mirror, hanging in the air and empty. Only on the bluish stairway, striped by the golden ink of the sun, a thin, gray shadow is seen rising. Already I hear steps, and I see through the door, and I feel a smile pasted to my face like a plaster. But it passed to another stairway and down. The click of the switchboard! I threw myself to that little white slit and.., an unfamiliar male Number! (A consonant means a male Number.)

The elevator groaned and stopped. A big, slovenly, slanting forehead stood before me, and the eyes...They impressed me strangely; it seemed as if the man talked with his eyes which were deep under the forehead.

"Here is a letter from her, for you." (From under the awning of that forehead.) "She asked that everything...as requested in the letter...without fail." This, too, from under the forehead, from under the awning, and he turned, looked about.

"No, there is nobody, nobody. Quickly! the letter!"

He put the letter in my hand and went out without a word.

A pink check fell out of the envelope. It was hers, her check! Her tender perfume! I felt like running to catch up with that wonderful under-the-forehead one. A tiny note followed the check from the envelope; three lines: "The check...Lower the curtains without fail, as if I were actually with you. It is necessary that they should think that I...I am very, very sorry."

I tore the note into small bits. A glance at the mirror revealed my distorted, broken eyebrows. I took the check and was ready to do with it as I had done with the note. "She asked that everything...as requested in the letter...without fail." My arms weakened and the hands loosened. The check was back on the table. She is stronger than I, stronger than I. It seemed as if I were going to act as she wished. Besides...However, it is a long time before evening.

The check remained on the table. In the mirror—my distorted, broken eyebrows. Oh, why did I not have a doctor's certificate for today? I should like to go and walk, walk without end around the Green Wall and then to fall on my bed...to the bottom of...Yet I had to go to Auditorium No.13, and I should have to get hold of myself, so as to bear up for two hours! Two hours without motion, at a time when I wanted to scream and stamp my feet!

The lecture was on. It was very strange to hear from the sparkling tube of the phono-lecturer not the usual metallic voice but a soft, velvety, mossy one. It was a woman's voice, and I seemed to have a vision of the woman: a little, hooklike old woman, like the one at the Ancient House.

The Ancient House! Suddenly from within me a powerful fountain of ...I had to use all my strength to control myself, so as not to fill the auditorium with screams. The soft, mossy words were piercing me, yet only empty words about children and child production reached my ear. I was like a photographic plate: everything was making its imprint with a strange, senseless precision on me; the golden scythe which was nothing more than the reflection of light from the loud-speaker of the lecture apparatus: under the loud-speaker a child, a living illustration. It was leaning toward the loud-speaker, a fold of its infinitesimal unif in its mouth, its little fist clenched firmly, its thumb squeezed into the fist, a light fluffy pleat of skin at the wrist. Like a photographic plate I was taking in the impression of all this. Now I saw how its naked leg hung over the edge of the platform, the pink fan of its finger waved in the air....One minute more, one second, and the child would be on the floor!

A females scream, a wave of translucent wings, her unif on the platform! She caught the child, her lips clung to the fluffy pleat of the baby's wrist; she moved the child to the middle of the table and left the platform. The imprints were registering in me: a pink crescent of a mouth, the horns downward! Eyes like small blue saucers filled with liquid! It was O-90. And as if reading a consequential formula, I suddenly felt the necessity, the naturalness of that insignificant occurrence.

She sat down behind me, somewhat to my left. I looked back. She quietly removed her gaze from the table and the child and looked straight into me. Within again: she, I, the table on the platform—three points. And through those three points lines were drawn, a projection of some as-yet-unforeseen events!

Later I went home through the green dusky street, which seemed many-eyed because of the electric lights. I heard myself tick-tocking like a clock. And the hands of that clock seemed to be about to pass a figure: I was going to do something, something that would cut off every avenue of retreat. She wants somebody, whom I do not know, to think she is with me. I want her; what do I care what she wants? I do not want to be alone behind the curtains, and that is all there is to it!

From behind came sounds of a familiar gait, like splashing in a ditch. I did not need to look back, I knew it was S-. He would follow me to the very door, probably. Then he would stay below on the sidewalk, and he would try to drill upward into my room with his boring eyes, until the curtains would fall, concealing something criminal.

Was he my Guardian Angel? No! My decision was made.

When I came into my room and turned on the light, I could not believe my eyes! O-90 stood at my table, or, to be more exact, she was hanging like a creased empty dress. She seemed to have no tensity, no spring beneath the dress; her arms and legs were springless, her voice was hanging and springless.

"About my letter, did you receive it? Yes? I must know your answer, I must—today."

I shrugged my shoulders. I enjoyed looking into her blue eyes which were filled with tears as if she were the guilty one, I lingered over my answer. With pleasure I pricked her:

"Answer? Well... You are right. Undoubtedly. In everything."

"Then..."(She tried to cover the minute tremor with a smile, but it did not escape me.) "Well, all right. I shall... I shall leave you at once."

Yet she remained drooping over the table. Drooping eyelids, drooping arms and legs. The pink check of the other was still on the table. I quickly opened this manuscript, We, and with its pages I covered the check, trying to hide it from myself, rather than from O-.

"See, here, I am still busy writing. Already 101 pages! Something quite unexpected comes out in this writing."

In a voice, in a shadow of a voice, "And do you remember ... how the other day I ...on the seventh page... and it dropped "

The tiny blue saucers filled to the borders; silently and rapidly the tears ran down her cheeks. And suddenly, like the dropping of the tears, rushing forth, words:

"I cannot...I shall leave you in a moment. I shall never again...and I don't care...Only I want, I must have a child! From you! Give me a child and I will leave. I will!"

I saw she was trembling all over beneath her unif, and I felt...I, too, would soon ...would ...I put my hands behind my back and smiled.

"What? You desire to go under the Machine of the Well-Doer?"

Like a stream her words ran over the dam.

"I don't care. I shall feel it for a while within me. I want to see, to see only once the little fold of skin here at the wrist, like that one on the table in the Auditorium. Only for one day!"

Three points: she, I, and a little fist with a fluffy fold of skin there on the table!

I remember how once when I was a child they took me up on the Accumulating Tower. At the very top I bent over the glass railing of an opening in the Tower. Below, people seemed like dots; my heart contracted sweetly. "What if..." On that occasion I only clenched my hands around the railing; now I jumped over.

"So you desire ...being perfectly aware that ... "

Her eyes were closed as if the sun were beating straight into her face. A wet, shining smile!

"Yes, yes! I want it!"

Quickly I took out the pink check of the other from under the manuscript and down I went to the controller on duty. O-90 caught my hand, screamed out something, but what it was I understood only later, when I returned.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands firmly clasped about the knees.

"Is it, is it her cheek?"

"what does it matter? Well, it is hers, yes."

Something cracked. It must have been the springs of the bed, for O-90 made a slight motion only. She remained sitting, her hands upon her knees.

"Well, quick..." I roughly pressed her hand. A red spot was left on her wrist (tomorrow it will become purple), where the fluffy, infantile fold ...I turned the switch; my thoughts went out with the light. Darkness, a spark, and I had jumped over the railing, down ...

RECORD TWENTY

Discharge

The Material of an Idea

The Zero Rock

Discharge is the best word for it. Now I see that it was actually like an electric discharge. The pulse of my last few days had been becoming dryer and dryer, more and more rapid, more intense. The opposite poles had been drawing nearer and nearer, and already I could hear the dry crackling; one millimeter more, and—an explosion! Then silence.

Within me there is quiet now, and emptiness like that of a house after everybody has left, when one lies ill, all alone, and hears so dearly the distinct, metallic tick-tock of thoughts.

Perhaps that "discharge" cured me at last of my torturing "soul." Again I am like all of us. At least at this moment as I write I can see, as it were, without any pain in my mental eye, how O-90 is brought to the steps of the Cube; or I see her in the Gas Bell. And if there in the Operation Department she should give my name, I do not care. Piously and gratefully I would kiss the punishing hand of the Well-Doer at the last moment. I have this right with regard to the United State: to receive my punishment. And I shall not give up this right. No Number ought, or dares, to refuse this one personal, and therefore most precious, privilege.

...Quietly, metallically, distinctly, do the thoughts rap in the head. An invisible aero carries me into the blue height of my beloved abstractions. And I see how there in the height, in the purest rarefied air, my judgment about the only "right" bursts with a crack, like a pneumatic fire. I see clearly that only an atavism, the absurd superstition of the ancients, gives me this idea of "right."

There are ideas of moulded day and ideas moulded of gold, or of our precious glass. In order to know the material of which an idea is made, one needs only to let fall upon it a drop of strong acid. One of these acids was known to the ancients under the name of reductio ad absurdum. This was the name for it, I think. But they were afraid of this poison; they preferred to believe that they saw heaven, even though it was a toy made of clay, rather than confess to themselves that it was only a blue nothing. We, on the other hand (glory to the Well-Doer!), we are adults, and we have no need of toys. Now if we put a drop of acid on the idea of"right". Even the ancients (the most mature of them) knew that the source of right was—might! Right is a function of might. Here we have our scale: on the one side an ounce, on the other a ton. On one side "I," on the other "we," the United State. Is it not dear? To assume that I may have any "right" as far as the State is concerned is like assuming that an ounce may equilibrate a ton in a scale! Hence the natural distribution: tons—rights, grams—duties. And the natural road from nothingness to greatness is to forget that one is a gram and to feel that one is one millionth of a ton!

You ripe-bodied, bright Venerians; you sooty, black-smith-like Uranians, I almost hear your protests in this silence. But only think, everything that is great is simple. Remember, only the four rules of arithmetic are unshakable and eternal And only that mortality will be unshakable and eternal which is built upon those four rules. This is the superior wisdom, this is the summit of that pyramid around which people, red with sweat, fought and battled for centuries trying to crawl up!

Looking from this summit down to the bottom, where something is still left swarming like worms, from this summit all that is left over in us from the ancients seems alike. Alike are the unlawful coming motherhood of O-90, a murder, and the insanity of that Number who dared to throw verses into the face of the United State; and alike is the judgment for them—premature death. This is that divine justice of which those stone-housed ancients dreamed, lit by the naive pink rays of the dawn of history. Their "God" punished sacrilege as a capital crime.

You Uranians, morose and as black as the ancient Spaniards, who were wise in knowing so well how to burn at the stake, you are silent; I think you agree with me. But I hear you, pink Venerians, saying something about "tortures, executions, return to barbarism." My dear Venerians, I pity you! You are incapable of philosophical, mathematical thinking. Human history moves upward in circles, like an aero. The circles are at times golden, sometimes they are bloody, but all have 360 degrees. They go from 0°to 10°, 20°, 200°, 360°—and then again 0°. Yes, we have returned to zero. But for a mathematically working mind it is obvious that this zero is different: it is a perfectly new zero. We started from zero to the fight and came to zero on the left. Hence instead of plus zero we are at minus zero. Do you understand?

This zero appears to me now as a silent, immense, narrow rock, sharp as a blade. In cruel darkness, holding our breath, we set sail from the black night side of the zero rock. For centuries we, Columbuses, floated and floated; we made the circuit of the whole world and at last! Hurrah! Salute! We climbed up the masts; before us now was a new side of the zero rock, hitherto unknown, bathed in the polar light of the United State—a blue mass covered with rainbow sparkles! Suns!—a hundred suns! A million rainbows! What does it matter if we are separated from the other black side of the zero rock only by the thickness of a blade? A knife is the most solid, the most immortal, the most inspired invention of man. The knife served on the guillotine. The knife is the universal tool for cutting knots. The way of paradoxes follows its sharp edge, the only way becoming to a fearless mind

RECORD TWENTY-ONE

The Duty of an Author

The Ice Swells

The Most Difficult Love

Yesterday was her day and again she did not come. Again there came her incoherent note, explaining nothing. But I am tranquil, perfectly tranquil. If I act as I am told to in the note, if I go to the controller on duty, produce the pink check, and then, having lowered the curtains, if I sit alone in my room, I do all this not because I have no power to act contrary to her desire. That seems funny? Decidedly not! It is quite simple: separated from all curative, plaster-like smiles I am enabled quietly to write these very lines. This, first. And second: I am afraid to lose in her, in I-330, perhaps the only clue I shall ever have to an understanding of all the unknowns, like the story of the cupboard, or my temporary death, for instance. To understand, to discover these unknowns as the author of these records, I feel to be my simple duty. Moreover, the unknown is naturally the enemy of man. And Homo sapiens only then becomes man in the com— plete sense of the word, when his punctuation includes no question marks, only exclamation points, commas, and periods.

Thus, guided by what seems to me my simple duty as an author, I took an aero today at sixteen o'clock and went to the Ancient House. A strong wind was blowing against me. The aero advanced with difficulty through the thicket of air, its transparent branches whistling and whipping. The city below seemed a heap of blue blocks of ice. Suddenly—a cloud, a swift, oblique shadow. The ice became leaden; it swelled. As in springtime, when you happen to stand at the shore and wait, in one more minute everything will move and pull and crack! But the minute passes and the ice remains motionless; you feel as though you yourself are swelling, your heart beats more restlessly, more frequently.... But why do I write about all this? And whence all these strange sensations? For is there such an iceberg as could ever break the most lucid, solid crystal of our life?

At the entrance of the Ancient House I found no one. I went around it and found the old janitress near the Green Wall. She held her hand above her eyes, looking upward. Beyond the Wall, the sharp black triangles of some birds; they would rush, cawing, in onslaught on the invisible fence of electric waves, and as they felt the electricity against their breasts, they would recoil and soar once more beyond the Wall.

I noticed oblique, swift shadows on the dark, wrinkled face, a quick glance at me.

"Nobody here, nobody, nobody! No! And no use coming here..."

In what respect is it "no use," and what a strange idea, to consider me somebody's shadow. Perhaps all of you are. only my shadows. Did I not populate these pages, which only recently were white quadrangular deserts, with you? Without me could they whom I shall guide over the narrow paths of my fines, could they ever see you?

Of course I did not say all this to the old woman. From experience I know that the most torturing thing is to inoculate someone with a doubt as to the fact that he or she is a three-dimensional reality and not some other reality. I remarked only, quite dryly, that her business was to open the gate, and she let me into the courtyard.

It was empty. Quiet. The wind remained beyond the walls, distant as on that day when shoulder to shoulder, two like one, we came out from beneath, from the corridors—if it ever really happened. I walked under stone arches; my steps resounded against the damp vaults and fell behind me, sounding as though someone were continually following me. The yellow walls with patches of red brick were watching me through their square spectacles, windows—watching me open the squeaky doors of a barn, look into corners, nooks, and hidden places ....A gate in the fence and a lonely spot. The monument of the Two Hundred Years' War. From the ground naked stone ribs were sticking out. The yellow jaws of the Wall. An ancient oven with a chimney like a ship petrified forever among red-brick waves.

It seemed to me that I had seen those yellow teeth once before. I saw them still dimly in my mind, as at the bottom of a barrel, through water. And I began to search. I fell into eaves occasionally; I stumbled over stones; rusty jaws caught my unif a few times; salt drops of sweat ran from my forehead into my eyes.

Nowhere could I find that exit from below, from the corridors—nowhere! There was none. Well, perhaps it was better that it happened so. Probably all that was only one of my absurd "dreams."

Tired out, covered with cobwebs and dust, I opened the gate to return to the main yard, when suddenly...a rustle behind me, splashing steps, and there before me were the pink wing-like ears and the double-curved smile of S-. Half-closing his eyes, he bored his little drills into me and asked:

"Taking a walk?"

I was silent. My arms were heavy.

'Well, do you feel better now?"

"Yes, thank you. I think I am becoming normal again.

He let me go. He lifted his eyes, looked upward, and I noticed his Adam's apple for the first time; it resembles a broken spring sticking out from beneath the upholstery of a couch.

Above us, not very high (about fifty meters), aeros were buzzing. By their low, slow flight and by the observation tubes which hung down I recognized them. They were the aeros of the Guardians. But there were not two or three, as usual, there were about ten or twelve (I regret to have to confine myself to an approximate figure).

"Why are there so many today?" I dared to ask S-.

"Why? Hm... A real physician begins to treat a patient when he is still well but on the way to becoming sick tomorrow, day after tomorrow, or within a week. Prophylaxis! Yes!"

He nodded and went splashing over the stones of the yard. Then he turned his head and said over his shoulder, "Be careful!"

Again I was alone. Silence. Emptiness. Far beyond the Green Wall the birds and the wind. What did he mean? My aero ran very fast with the wind. Light and heavy shadows from the clouds. Below blue cupolas, cubes of glass ice were becoming leaden and swelling

The Same Evening

I took up my pen just now in order to write upon these pages a few thoughts which, it seems to me, will prove useful to you, my readers. These thoughts are concerned with the great Day of Unanimity which is now not far away. But as I sat down, I discovered that I Could not write at present; instead, I sit and listen to the wind beating the glass with its dark wings; all the while I am busy looking about and I am waiting, expecting... What? I do not know. So I was very glad when I saw the brownish-pink gills enter my room, heartily glad, I may say. She sat down and innocently smoothed a fold of her unif that fell between her knees, and very soon she pasted upon me, all over me, a host of smiles, a bit of a smile on each crack of my face, and this gave me pleasant sensations, as if I were tightly bound like an infant of the ancients in a swaddling cloth.

"Imagine! Today, when I entered the classroom"—she works in the Child-Educational Refinery—"I suddenly noticed a caricature upon the blackboard. Indeed! I assure you! They had pictured me in the form of a fish! Perhaps I really—"

"No, no! Why do you say that?" I hastily exclaimed. When one was near her, it was clear indeed that she had nothing resembling gills. No. When I referred to gills in these pages I was certainly irreverent.

"Oh, after all it does not matter. But the act as such, think of it! Of course I called the Guardians at once. I love children very much and I think that the most difficult and the most exalted love is—cruelty. You understand me, of course."

"Certainly!" Her sentence so closely resembled my thoughts! I could not refrain from reading to her a passage from my Record No. 20, beginning "Quietly, metallically, distinctly, do the thoughts"...etc. I felt her brownish-pink cheeks twitching and coming closer and closer to me. Suddenly I felt in my hands her firm, dry, even slightly prickling fingers.

"Give, give this to me, please. I shall have it transcribed and make the children learn it by heart. Not only your Venerians need all this, but we ourselves right now, tomorrow, day after tomorrow."

She glanced around and said in a very low voice:

"Have you heard? They say that on the Day of Unanimity—"

I sprang to my feet.

"What? What do they say? What—on the Day of Unanimity?"

The coziness of my room, its very walls, seemed to have vanished. I felt myself thrown outside, where the tremendous, shaggy wind was tossing about and where the slanting clouds of dusk were descending lower and lower...

U-boldly and firmly grasped me by the shoulders. I even noticed how her fingers, responding to my emotion, trembled slightly.

"Sit down, dear, and don't be upset. They say many things; must we believe them all? Moreover, if only you need me, I shall be near you on that day. I shall leave the school children with someone else and I shall stay with you, for you, dear, you, too, are a child and you need..."

"No, no!" I raised my hands in protest."Not for anything! You really think then that I am a child and that I can not do without a ... Oh, no! Not for anything in the world." (I must confess I had other plans for that day!)

She smiled. The wording of that smile apparently was: "Oh, what a stubborn, what a stubborn boy!" She sat down, eyelids lowered. Her hands modestly busied themselves with fixing the fold of the unif which fell again between her knees, and suddenly, about something entirely different, she said:

"I think I must decide ...for your sake ...But I implore you, do not hurry me. I must think it over."

I did not hurry her, although I realized that I ought to have been delighted, as there is no greater honor than to crown someone's evening years.

... All night strange wings were about. I walked and protected my head with my hands from those wings. And a chair, not like ours, but an ancient chair, came in with a horse-like gait; first the right foreleg and left hind leg, then the left foreleg and right hind leg. It rushed to my bed and crawled into it, and I liked that wooden chair, although it made me uncomfortable and caused me some pain.

It is very strange; is it really impossible to find any cure for this dream sickness, or to make it rational, perhaps even useful?

RECORD TWENTY-TWO

The Benumbed Waves

Everything Is Improving

I Am a Microbe

Please imagine that you stand at the seashore. The waves go rhythmically up, down, up Suddenly, when they have risen, they remain in that position, benumbed, torpid! It was just as weird and unnatural when everything became confused and our regular walk, which is prescribed by the Tables, suddenly came to an end. The last time such a thing happened was one hundred and nineteen years ago, when according to our historians a meteorite fell hissing and fuming into the very midst of the marchers. We were walking yesterday as usual, that is like warriors on the Assyrian monuments, a thousand heads and two composite, integrated legs and two swinging, integrated arms. At the end of the avenue, where the Accumulating Tower was formidably resounding, a quadrangle appeared: on the sides, in front, and behind—guards; in the center—three Numbers. Their unifs were already stripped of the golden State badge; everything was painfully clear. The enormous dial on the top of the Tower looked like a face; it bent down from the clouds and, spitting down its seconds, it waited with indifference. It showed six minutes past thirteen exactly. There was some confusion in the quadrangle. I was very close, and I saw the most minute details. I clearly remember a thin, long neck and on the temple a confused net of small blue veins like rivers on the map of a small unfamiliar world, and that unknown world was apparently still a very young man. He evidently noticed someone in our ranks; he stopped, rose upon his tiptoes, and stretched his neck. One of the guards snapped his back with the bluish spark of the electric whip—he squealed in a thin voice like a puppy. The distinct snaps followed each other at intervals of approximately two seconds; a snap and a squeal, a snap and a squeal....We continued to walk as usual, rhythmically, in our Assyrian manner. I watched the graceful zigzags of the electric sparks and thought: "Human society is constantly improving, as it should. How ugly a tool was the ancient whip and how much beauty there is—"

At that moment, like a nut flying from a wheel revolving at full speed, a female Number, thin, flexible, and tense, tore herself from out rows, and with a cry, "Enough! Don't you dare!" she threw herself straight into the quadrangle. It was like the meteorite of one hundred and nineteen years ago; our march came to a standstill and our rows appeared like the gray crests of waves frozen by sudden cold. For a second I looked at that woman's figure with the eye of a stranger, as all the others did. She was no Number any longer; she was only a human being, and she existed for us only as a substantiation of the insult which she cast upon the United State. But a motion of hers, her bending while twisting to the left upon her hips, revealed to me clearly who she was. I knew, I knew that body, flexible as a whip! My eyes, my lips, my hands knew it; at that moment I was absolutely certain....Two of the guards dashed to catch her. One more moment, and that limpid, mirror-like point on the pavement would have become the point of meeting of their trajectories, and she would have been caught! My heart fell, stopped. Without thinking whether it was permissible or not, whether it was reasonable or absurd, I threw myself straight to that point..

I felt thousands of eyes bulging with horror fixed upon me, but that only added a sort of desperately joyful power to that wild being with hairy paws which arose in me and ran faster and faster. Two more steps—she turned around—

I saw a quivering face covered with freckles, red eye-brows....It was not she! Not I-330!

A rabid, quivering joy took hold of me. I wanted to shout something like: "Catch her! Get her, that—" But I heard only my whisper. A heavy hand was already upon my shoulder; I was caught and led away. I tried to explain to them:

"But listen, you must understand that I thought that..."

But could I explain even to myself all the sickness which I have described in these pages? My light went out; I waited obediently. As a leaf that is torn from its branch by a sudden gust of wind falls humbly, but on its way down turns and tries to catch every little branch, every fork, every knot, so I tried to catch every one of the silent, globe-like heads, or the transparent ice of the walls, or the blue needle of the Accumulating Tower which seemed to pierce the clouds.

At that moment, when a heavy curtain was about to separate me from this beautiful world, I noticed not far away a familiar, enormous head gliding over the mirror surface of the pavement and wagging its winglike ears. I heard a familiar, flat voice:

"I deem it my duty to testify that Number D-503 is ill and is unable to regulate his emotions. Moreover, I am sure that he was led by natural indignation—"

"Yes! Yes!" I exclaimed. I even shouted, 'Catch her!'"

From behind me: "You did not shout anything."

"No, but I wanted to. I swear by the Well-Doer I wanted to!"

For a second I was bored through by the gray, cold, drill eyes. I don't know whether he believed that what I said was the truth (almost!), or whether he had some secret reason for sparing me for a while, but he wrote a short note, handed it to one of those who had held me, and again I was free. That is, I was again included in the orderly, endless Assyrian rows of Numbers.

The quadrangle, the freckled face, and the temple with the map of blue veinlets disappeared forever around the corner. We walked again—a million-headed body; and in each one of us resided that humble joyfulness with which in all probability molecules, atoms, and phagocytes live.

In the ancient days the Christians understood this feeling; they are our only, though very imperfect, direct fore-runners. The greatness of the "Church of the United Flock" was known to them. They knew that resignation is virtue, and pride a vice; that "We" is from "God," "I," from the devil.

I was walking, keeping step with the others yet separated from them. I was still trembling from the emotion just felt, like a bridge over which a thundering ancient steel train has passed a moment before. I felt myself. To feel one's self, to be conscious of one's personality, is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder, or an infected finger, or a bad tooth. A healthy eye, or finger, or tooth is not felt; it is nonexistent, as it were. Is it not clear, then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness?

Apparently I am no longer a phagocyte which quietly, in a businesslike way, devours microbes (microbes with freckled faces and blue temples); apparently I am myself a microbe, and she, too, I-330, is a microbe, a wonderful, diabolic microbe! It is quite possible that there are already thousands of such microbes among us, still pretending to be phagocytes, as I pretend. What if today's accident, although in itself not important, is only a beginning, only the first meteorite of a shower of burning and thundering stones which the infinite may have poured out upon our glass paradise?

RECORD TWENTY-THREE

Flowers

The Dissolution of a Crystal

If Only (?)

They say there are flowers that bloom only once in a hundred years. Why not suppose the existence of flowers that bloom only once in a thousand years? We may have known nothing about them until now only because today is the "once in a thousand years."

Happy and dizzy, I walked downstairs to the controller on duty, and quickly under my gaze, all around me and silently, the thousand-year-old buds burst, and everything was blooming: armchairs, shoes, golden badges, electric bulbs, someone's dark heavy eyes, the polished columns of the banisters, the handkerchief which someone had lost on the stairs, the small, ink-blotted desk of the controller, and the tender, brown, somewhat freckled cheeks of U-, everything seemed not ordinary, but new, tender, rosy, moist. U- took the pink stub from me while the blue, aromatic moon, banging from an unseen branch, shone through the glass of the wall and over the head of U-. With a solemn gesture I pointed my finger and said:

"The moon. You see?"

U- glanced at me, then at the number of the stub, and again made that familiar, charmingly innocent movement with which she fixes the fold of the unif between her knees.

"You look abnormal and ill, dear. Abnormality and illness are the same thing. You are killing yourself. And no one would tell you that, no one!"

That "No one" was certainly equivalent to the number on the stub, I-330. This thought was confirmed by an ink blot which fell close to the figure 330. Dear, wonderful U-! You are right, of course. I am not reasonable. I am sick. I have a soul. I am a microbe. But is blooming not a sickness? Is it not painful when the buds are bursting? And don't you think that spermatozoa, are the most terrible of all microbes?

Back upstairs to my room. In the widely open cup of the armchair was I-330. I, on the floor, embracing her limbs, my head on her lap. We were silent. Everything was silent. Only the pulse was audible. Like a crystal I was dissolving in her, in I-330. I felt most distinctly how the polished facets which limited me in space were slowly thawing, melting away, I was dissolving in her lap, in her, and I became at once smaller and larger, and larger, unembraceable. For she was not she but the whole universe. For a second I and that armchair near the bed, transfixed with joy, we were one. And the wonderfully smiling old woman at the gate of the Ancient House, and the wild debris beyond the Green Wall, and some strange silver wreckage on a black background, dozing like the old woman, and the slam of a door in the distance—all this was within me, was listening to my pulse and soaring through the happiest of seconds.

In absurd, confused, overflowing words I attempted to tell her that I was a crystal and that there was a door in me, and that I felt how happy the armchair was. But something nonsensical came out of the attempt and I stopped. I was ashamed. And suddenly:

"Dear I-! Forgive me! I understand nothing. I talk so foolishly!"

"And why should you think that foolishness is not fine? If we had taken pains to educate human foolishness through centuries, as we have done with our intelligence, it might perhaps have been transformed into something very precious."

And I think she is right! How could she be wrong at that moment?

"... And for this foolishness of yours and for what you did yesterday during the walk, I love you the more, much more.

"Then why did you torture me? Why would you not come? Why did you send me the pink check and make me—?"

"Perhaps I wanted to test you. Perhaps I must be sure that you will do anything I wish, that you are completely mine."

"Yes, completely."

She took my face, my whole self, between her palms, lifted my head.

"And how about, 'It is the duty of every honest Number'? Eh?'"

Sweet, sharp white teeth—a smile. In the open cup of the armchair she was like a bee, sting and honey combined.

Yes, duty....I turned over in my mind the pages of my records; indeed there is not a thought about the fact that strictly speaking I should...

I was silent. Exaltedly, and probably stupidly, I smiled, looking into the pupils of her eyes. I followed first one eye and then the other, and in each of them I saw myself, a millimetric self imprisoned in those tiny rainbow cells. Then again the lips and the sweet pain of blooming.

In each Number of the United State there is an unseen metronome that tick-tocks silently; without looking at the clock we know exactly the time of day within five minutes. But now my metronome had stopped, and I did not know how much time had passed. In fright I grasped my badge with its clock from under the pillow. Glory be to the Well-Doer! I had twenty minutes more! But those minutes were such tiny, short ones! They ran! And I wanted to tell her so many things. I wanted to tell her all about myself; about the letter from O- and about that terrible evening when I gave her a child; and for some reason also about my childhood, about our mathematician Plappa, and about the square root of minus one; and how, when I attended the glorification on the Day of Unanimity for the first time in my life, I wept bitterly because there was an inkstain on my unif—on such a holy day!

I-330 lifted her head. She leaned on her elbow. In the corners of her lips two long, sharp lines and the dark angle of lifted eyebrows—a cross.

"Perhaps on that day..." her brow grew, darker; she took my hand and pressed it hard. "Tell me, will you ever forget me? Will you always remember me?"

"But why such talk? What is it, I-, dear? "

She was silent. And her eyes were already sliding past me, through me, away into the distance. I suddenly heard the wind beating the glass with its enormous wings. Of course it had been blowing all the while, but I had not noticed it until then. And for some reason those cawing birds over the Green Wall came to my mind.

I-330 shook her head with a gesture of throwing something off. Once more she touched me for a second with her whole body, as an aero before landing touches the ground for a second with all the tension of a recoiling spring.

"Well, give me my stockings, quick!"

The stockings were on the desk, on the open manuscript, on page 124. Being in haste, I caught some of the pages and they were scattered over the floor, so that it was hard to put them back in the proper order. Moreover, even if I put them in that order there will be no real order; there are obstacles to that anyway, some undiscoverable unknowns.

"I can't bear it," I said. "You are here, near me, yet you seem to be behind an opaque ancient wall; through that wall I hear a rustle and voices; I cannot make out the words, I don't know what is there. I cannot bear it. You seem always to withhold something from me; you have never told me what kind of place it was where I found myself that day beneath the Ancient House. Where did those corridors lead? Why was the doctor there—or perhaps all that never happened?"

I-330 put her hands on my shoulders and slowly entered deeply into my eyes.

"You want to know all?"

"Yes, I do."

"And you would not be afraid to follow me anywhere? Wherever I should lead you?"

"Anywhere!"

"All right then. I promise you, after the holiday, if only ...Oh, yes, there is your Integral. I always forget to ask; will it soon be completed?"

"No. 'If only' what? Again! 'If only' what?"

She, already at the door: "You shall see."

I was alone again. All that she left behind her was a barely perceptible scent, similar to that of a sweet, dry, yellow dust of flowers from behind the Green Wall; also, sunk deeply within me, question marks like small hooks similar to those the ancients used for fishing (vide the Prehistoric Museum).

...Why did she suddenly ask about the Integral?

RECORD TWENTY-FOUR

The Limit of the Function

Easter

To Cross Out Everything

I am like a motor set in motion at a speed of too many revolutions per second; the bearings have become too hot, and in one more minute the molten metal will begin to drip and everything will go to the devil. Cold water! Quick! Some logic! I pour on pailfuls of it, but my logic merely sizzles on the hot metal and disappears into the air in the form of vapor.

Of course it is clear that in order to establish the true meaning of a function one must establish its limit. It is also clear that yesterday's "dissolution in the universe" taken to its limit is death. For death is exactly the most complete dissolution of the self in the universe. Hence: L=f (D), love is the function of death.

Yes, exactly, exactly! That is why I am afraid of I-330; I struggle against her, I don't want...But why is it that within me "I don't want to" and "I want to" stand side by side? That is the chief horror of the matter; I continue to long for that happy death of yesterday. The horror of it is that even now, when I have integrated the logical function, when it becomes evident that that function contains death hidden within it, still I long for it with my lips, my arms, my heart, with every millimeter....

Tomorrow is the Day of Unanimity. She will certainly be there and I shall see her, though from a distance. That distance will be painful to me, for I must be, I am inevitably drawn, close to her, so that her hands, her shoulder, her hair...I long for even that pain....Let it come....Great Well-Doer! How absurd to desire pain! Who is ignorant of the simple fact that pains are negative items that reduce that sum total we call happiness? Consequently...Well, no "consequently"...Emptiness....Nakedness!

The Same Evening

Through the glass wall of the house I see a disquieting, windy, feverishly pink sunset. I move my armchair to avoid that pinkness and turn over these pages, and I find I am forgetting that I write this not for myself but for you unknown people whom I love and pity, for you who still lag centuries behind, below. Let me tell you about the Day of Unanimity, about that Great Day. I think it is for us what Easter was for the ancients. I remember I used to prepare an hour calendar on the eve of that day; solemnly I would cross out every time the figure of the hour elapsed: nearer by one hour! one hour less to wait!...If I were certain that nobody would discover it, I assure you I should now, too, make out such a calendar and carry it with me; and I should watch how many hours remain until tomorrow....When I shall see, at least from a distance...

(I was interrupted. They brought me a new unif from the shop. As is customary, new unifs are given to us for tomorrow's celebration. Steps in the hail, exclamations of joy, noises.)

I shall continue; tomorrow I shall see the same spectacle which we see year after year, and which always awakes in us fresh emotions, as if we saw it for the first time: an impressive throng of piously lifted arms. Tomorrow is the day of the yearly election of the Well-Doer. Tomorrow we shall again hand over to our Well-Doer the keys to the impregnable fortress of our happiness. Certainly this in no way resembles the disorderly, unorganized election days of the ancients, on which (it seems so funny!) they did not even know in advance the result of the election. To build a state on some nondiscountable contingencies, to build blindly—what could be more nonsensical? Yet centuries had to pass before this was understood!

Needless to say, in this respect as in all others we have no place for contingencies; nothing unexpected can happen. The elections themselves have rather a symbolic meaning. They remind us that we are an united, powerful organism of millions of cells, that—to use the language of the "gospel" of the ancients—we are a united church. The history of the United State knows not a single case in which upon this solemn day even a solitary voice has dared to violate the magnificent unison.

They say that the ancients used to conduct their elections secretly, stealthily like thieves. Some of our historians even assert that they would come to the electoral celebrations completely masked. Imagine the weird, fantastic spectacle! Night. A plaza. Along the walls the stealthily creeping figures covered with mantles. The red flame of torches dancing in the wind....Why was such secrecy necessary? It has never been satisfactorily explained. Probably it resulted from the fact that elections were associated with some mystic and superstitious, perhaps even criminal, ceremonies. We have nothing to conceal or to be ashamed of; we celebrate our election openly, honestly, in daylight. I see them all vote for the Well-Doer, and everybody sees me vote for the Well-Doer. How could it be otherwise, since "all" and 'T' are one "we"? How ennobling, sincere, lofty this is, compared with the cowardly, thievish "secrecy" of the ancients! And how much more expedient! For even admitting for a moment the impossible—that is, the outbreak of some dissonance in our customary unity—our unseen Guardians are always right there among us, are they not, to register the Numbers who might fall into error and save them from any further false steps? The United State is theirs, the Numbers'! And besides...

Through the wall to my left a she.Number before the mirror door of the closet; she is hastily unbuttoning her unif. For a second, swiftly—eyes, lips, two sharp, pink...the curtains fell. Within me, all that happened yesterday instantly awoke, and now I no longer know what I meant to say by "besides..." I no longer wish to—I cannot. I want one thing. I want I-330, I want her every minute, every second, to be with me, with no one else. All that I wrote about Unanimity is of no value; it is not what I want; I have a desire to cross it out, to tear it to pieces and throw it away. For I know (be it a sacrilege, yet it is the truth) that a glorious Day is possible only with her and only when we are side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Without her tomorrow's sun will appear to me only as a little circle cut out of a tin sheet, and the sky a sheet of tin painted blue, and I myself...I snatched the telephone receiver.

"I-330, are you there?"

"Yes, it is I. Why so late.'?"

"Perhaps not too late yet. I want to ask you ... I want you to be with me tomorrow—dear!"

I said "Dear" in a very low voice. And for some reason a thing I saw this morning at the docks flashed through my mind: just for fun someone had put a watch under the hundred-ton sledge hammer.... A swing, a breath of wind in the face, and the silent, hundred-ton, knife-like weight on the breakable watch...

A silence. I thought I heard someone's whisper in I-330's room. Then her voice:

"No, I cannot. Of course you understand that I myself...No, I cannot.'Why?' You shall see tomorrow."

Night.

RECORD TWENTY-FIVE

The Descent from Heaven

The Greatest Catastrophe in History

The Known—Is Ended

At the beginning all arose, and the Hymn, like a solemn mantle, slowly waved above our heads. Hundreds of tubes of the Musical Tower, and millions of human voices. For a second I forgot everything; I forgot that alarming something at which I-330 had hinted in connection with today's celebration; I think I even forgot about her. At that moment I was the very same little boy who once wept because of a tiny inkstain on his unif, which no one else could see. Even if nobody else sees that I am covered with black, ineffaceable stains, I know it, don't I? I know that there should be no place for a criminal like me among these frank, open faces. What if I should rush forward and shout out everything about myself all at once! The end might follow. Let it happen! At least for a second I would feel myself clear and clean and senseless like that innocent blue sky....

All eyes were directed upward; in the pure morning blue, still moist with the tears of night, a small dark spot appeared. Now it was dark, now bathed in the rays of the sun. It was He, descending to us from the sky, He— the new Jehovah—in an aero, He, as wise and as lovingly cruel as the Jehovah of the ancients. Nearer and nearer He came, and higher toward Him were drawn millions of hearts. Already He saw us. And in my mind with Him I looked over everything from the heights: concentric circles of stands marked with dotted blue lines of unifs— like circles of a spiderweb strewn with microscopic suns (the shining badges). And in the center the wise white spider would soon occupy His place—the Well-Doer clad in white, the Well-Doer who wisely tangled our hands and feet in the salutary net of happiness.

His magnificent descent from the sky was accomplished. The brassy Hymn came to silence; all sat down. At once I perceived that everything was really a very thin spiderweb the threads of which were stretched tense and trembling—and it seemed that in a moment those threads might break and something improbable...

I half-rose and looked around, and I met many lovingly worried eyes which passed from one face to another. I saw someone lifting his hand and almost imperceptibly waving his fingers—he was making signs to another. The latter replied with a similar finger sign. And a third....I understood; they were the Guardians. I understood; they were alarmed by something—the spider-web was stretched and trembling. And within me, as if tuned to the same wave-length, within me there was a corresponding quiver.

On the platform a poet was reciting his preelectoral ode. I could not hear a single word; I only felt the rhythmic swing of the hexametric pendulum, and with its every motion I felt how nearer and nearer there was approaching some hour set for... I continued to turn over face after face like pages, but I could not find the one, the only one, I was seeking, the one I needed to find at once, as soon as possible, for one more swing of the pendulum, and...

It was he, certainly it was he! Below, past the main platform, gliding over the sparkling glass, the ear wings flapped by, the running body gave a reflection of a double-curved S-, like a noose which was rolling toward some of the intricate passages among the stands. S-, I-330,—there is some thread between them. I have always felt some thread between them. I don't know yet what that thread is, but someday I shall untangle it. I fixed my gaze on him; he was rushing farther away, behind him that invisible thread....There, he stopped...there... I was pierced, twisted together into a knot as if by a light-ning-like, many-volted electric discharge; in my row, not more than 4°from me, S- stopped and bowed. I saw I-330, and beside her the smiling, repellent, Negro-lipped R-13.

My first thought was to rush to her and cry, "Why with him? Why did you not want...?" But the salutary, invisible spiderweb bound fast my hands and feet; so gritting my teeth, I sat stiff as iron, my gaze fixed upon them. A sharp physical pain at my heart. I remember my thought: "If non-physical causes produce physical pain, then it is clear that..."

I regret that I did not come to any conclusion. I remember only that something about "heart" flashed through my mind; a purely nonsensical ancient expression, "His heart fell into his boots, passed through my head. My heart sank. The hexameter came to an end. It was about to start. What "It"?

The five-minute preelection recess established by custom. The custom-established, pre-electional silence. But this time it was not that pious, really prayer-like silence that it usually was. This time it was like the ancient days when the sky, still untamed, would roar from time to time with its "storms." It was like the "lull before the storm" of the ancient days. The air seemed to be made of transparent, vaporized east iron. You wanted to breathe with your mouth wide open. My hearing, intense to the point of pain, registered from behind a mouse-like, gnawing, worried whisper. Without lifting my eyes I saw those two, I-330 and R-13, side by side, shoulder to shoulder—and on my knees my trembling, foreign, hateful, hairy hands

Everybody was holding a badge with a clock in his hands. One....Two.... Three....Five minutes. From the main platform a cast-iron, slow voice:

"Those in favor shall lift their hands."

If only I dared look straight into his eyes as I always had! If only I could think devotedly: "Here I am, my whole self!. Take me!" But now I did not dare, I had to make an effort to raise my hand, as if my joints were rusty.

The whisper of millions of hands. Someone's subdued "Ah," and I felt something was coming, falling heavily, but I could not understand what it was, and I did not have the strength or courage to take a look

"Those opposed?" ...

This was always the most magnificent moment of our celebration: all would remain sitting motionless, joyfully bowing their heads under the salutary yoke of that Number of Numbers. But now, to my horror again I heard a rustle—light as a sigh, yet it was even more distinct than the brass tube of the Hymn. Thus the last sigh in a man's life, around him people with their faces pale and with drops of cold sweat upon their foreheads I lifted my eyes, and ...

It took one hundredth of a second only; I saw thousands of hands arise "opposed" and fall back. I saw the pale, cross-marked face of I-330 and her lifted hand. Darkness came upon my eyes.

Another hundredth of a second, silence. Quiet. The Pulse. Then, as if at the sign of some mad conductor, from all over the stands a rattling, a shouting, a whirl-wind of unifs lifted by the rush, the perplexed figures of the Guardians running to and fro. Someone's heels in the air near my eyes, and close to those heels someone's wide-open mouth tearing itself in an inaudible scream. For some reason this picture remains particularly distinct in my memory: thousands of mouths noiselessly yelling as if on the screen of a monstrous cinema. Also, as if on a screen, somewhere below at a distance, for a second, O-90, pressed against the wall in a passage, her lips white, defending her abdomen with her crossed arms. She disappeared as if washed away by a wave, or else I simply forgot her because ...

This was not on the screen any more but within me, within my compressed heart, within the rapidly pulsating temples. Over my head, somewhat to the left, R-13 suddenly jumped upon a bench, all sprinkling, red, rabid. In his arms was I-330, pale, her unif torn from shoulder to breast, red blood on white. She held him firmly around the neck, and he with huge leaps from bench to bench, repellent and agile, like a gorilla, was carrying her upward, away.

As if it were in a fire of ancient days, everything became red around me. Only one thing in my head: to jump after them, to catch them. At this moment I cannot explain to myself the source of that strength within me, but like a battering-ram I broke through the crowd, over somebody's shoulders, over a bench, and I was there in a moment and caught R-13 by the collar.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare, I say! Immediately—"

Fortunately no one could hear my voice, as everyone was shouting and running.

"Who is it? What is the matter? What—" R-13 turned around; his sprinkling lips were trembling. He apparently thought it was one of the Guardians.

"I do not want—I won't allow— Put her down at once!"

But he only sprinkled angrily with his lips, shook his head, and ran on. Then I—I am terribly ashamed to write all this down but I behave I must, so that you, my unknown readers, may make a complete study of my disease—then I hit him over the head With all my might. You understand? I hit him. This I remember distinctly. I remember also a feeling of liberation that followed my action, a feeling of lightness in my whole body.

I-330 slid quickly out of his arms.

"Go away!" she shouted to R-. "Don't you see that he—? Go!"

R-13 showed his white Negro teeth, sprinkled into my face some word, dived down, and disappeared. And I picked up I-330, pressed her firmly to myself, and carried her away.

My heart was beating forcibly. It seemed enormous. And with every beat it would splash out such a thundering, such a hot, such a joyful wave! A flash: "Let them, below there, let them toss and rush and yell and fall; what matter if something has fallen, if something has been shattered to dust? Little matter! Only to remain this way and carry her, carry and carry ..."

The Same Evening, Twenty-two O'clock

I hold my pen with great difficulty. Such an extraordinary fatigue after all the dizzying events of this morning. Is it possible that the strong, salutary, centuries-old walls of the United State have fallen? Is it possible that we are again without a roof over our heads, back in the wild state of freedom like our remote ancestors? Is it possible that we have lost our Well-Doer? "Opposed!" On the Day of Unanimity—opposed! I am ashamed of, them, painfully, fearfully ashamed...But who are "they "? And who am I? "They," "We"... ? Do I know?

I shall continue.

She was sitting where I had brought her, on the uppermost glass bench which was hot from the sun. Her right shoulder and the beginning of the wonderful and incalculable curve were uncovered—an exceedingly thin serpent of blood. She seemed not to be aware of the blood, or that her breast was uncovered. No, I will say rather: she seemed to see all that and seemed to feel that it was essential to her, that if her unif had been buttoned she would have torn it open, she would have ...

"And tomorrow!" She breathed the words through sparkling white clenched teeth. "Tomorrow, nobody knows what ... do you understand? Neither I nor anyone else knows; it is unknown! Do you realize what a joy it is? Do you realize that all that was certain has come to an end? Now...things will be new, improbable, unforeseen!"

Below the human waves were still foaming, tossing, roaring, but they seemed to be very far away, and to be growing more and more distant. For she was looking at me. She slowly drew me into herself through the narrow golden windows of her pupils. We remained like that, silent, for a long while. And for some reason I recalled how once I had watched some queer yellow pupils through the Green Wall, while above the Wall birds were soaring (or was this another time?).

"Listen, if nothing particular happens tomorrow, I shall take you there; do you understand?"

No, I did not understand, but I nodded in silence. I was dissolved, I became infinitesimal, a geometrical point...

After all, there is some logic—a peculiar logic of today— in this state of being a point. A point has more unknowns than any other entity. If a point should start to move, it might become thousands of curves, or hundreds of solids.

I was afraid to budge. What might I have become if I had moved? It seemed to me that everybody, like myself, was afraid now of even the most minute of motions.

At this moment, for instance, as I sit and write, everyone is sitting hidden in his glass cell, expecting something. I do not hear the buzzing of the elevators, usual at this hour, or laughter, or steps; from time to time Numbers pass in couples through the hall, whispering, on tip-toe...

What will happen tomorrow? What will become of me tomorrow?

RECORD TWENTY-SIX

The World Does Exist

Rash

Forty-one Degrees Centigrade

Morning. Through the ceiling the sky is, as usual, firm, round, red-checked. I think I should have been less surprised had I found above some extraordinary quadrangular sun, or people clad in many-colored dresses made of the skins of animals, or opaque walls of stone. Then the world, our world, does exist still? Or is it only inertia? Is the generator already switched out, while the armature is still roaring and revolving; two more revolutions, or three, and at the fourth it will die away?

Are you familiar with that strange state in which you wake up in the middle of the night, when you open your eyes into the darkness, and then suddenly feel you are lost in the dark; you quickly, quickly begin to feel around, seeking in the Journal of the United State; quickly, qickly—I found this:

The celebration of the Day of Unanimity, long awaited by all, took place yesterday. The same Well-Doer who so often has proved his unshakable wisdom was unanimously reelected for the forty-eighth time. The celebration was clouded by a little confusion, created by the enemies of happiness, who by their action naturally lost the right to be the bricks for the foundation of the renovated United State. It is clear to everyone that to take their votes into account would mean to consider as a part of a magnificent, heroic symphony the accidental cough of a sick person who happened to be in the concert hall."

Oh, great Sage! Is it really, true that despite everything we are saved? What objection, indeed, can one find to this most crystalline syllogism? And further on a few more lines:

"Today at twelve o'clock a joint meeting of the Administrative Bureau, Medical Bureau, and Bureau of Guardians will take place. An important State decree is to be expected momentarily."

No, the Walls still stand erect. Here they are! I can feel them. And that strange feeling of being lost somewhere, of not knowing where I am—that feeling is gone. I am no longer surprised to see the sky blue and the sun round and all the Numbers going to work as usual

I walked along the avenue with a particularly firm, resounding step. It seemed to me that everyone else walked exactly like me. But at the crossing, on turning the corner, I noticed people strangely shying away, going around the corner of a building sidewise, as if a pipe had burst in the wall, as if cold water were spurting like a fountain on the sidewalk and it was impossible to cross it.

Another five or ten steps and I, too, felt a spurt of cold water that struck me and threw me from the sidewalk; at a height of approximately two meters a quadrangular piece of paper was pasted to the wall, and on that sheet of paper, unintelligible, poisonously green letters:

MEPHI

And under the paper—an S-like curved back and wing ears shaking with anger or emotion. With fight arm lifted as high as possible, his left arm hopelessly stretched out backward like a hurt wing, he was trying to jump high enough to reach the paper and tear it off, but he was unable to do so. He was a fraction of an inch too short.

Probably every one of the passers.by had the same thought: "if I go to help him, I, only one of the many, will he not think that I am guilty of something and that I am therefore anxious to..."

I must confess I had that thought. But remembering how many times he had proved my real Guardian Angel and how often he had saved me, I stepped toward him and with courage and warm assurance I stretched out my hand and tore off the sheet. S- turned around. The little drills sank quickly into me to the bottom and found something there. Then he lifted his left brow, and winked toward the wall where "Mephi" had been hanging a minute ago. The tail of his little smile even twinkled with a certain pleasure, which greatly surprised me. But why should I be surprised? A doctor always prefers a temperature of 40°C. and a rash to the slow, languid rise of the temperature during the incubation period of a disease; it enables him to determine the character of the disease. Today "Mephi" broke out on the walls like a rash. I understood his smile.

In the passage to the underground railway, under our feet on the clean glass of the steps, again a white sheet: "Mephi." And also on the walls of the tunnel, and on the benches, and on the mirror of the car (apparently pasted on in haste as some were hanging on a slant). Everywhere, the same white, gruesome rash.

I must confess that the exact meaning of that smile became clear to me only after many days which were overfilled with the strangest and most unexpected events.

The roaring of the wheels, distinct in the general silence, seemed to be the noise of infected streams of blood. Some Number was inadvertently touched on the shoulder, and he started so that a package of papers fell out of his hands. To my left another Number was reading a paper, his eyes fixed always on the same line; the paper perceptibly trembled in his hands. I felt that everywhere, in the wheels, in the hands, in the newspapers, even in the eyelashes, the pulse was becoming more and more rapid, and I thought it probable that today when I-330 and I found ourselves there, the temperature would rise to 39°C., 40°, perhaps 41°and...

At the docks—the same silence filled with the buzzing of an invisible propeller. The lathes were silent as if brooding. Only the cranes were moving almost inaudibly as if on tiptoe, gliding, bending over, picking up with their tentacles the lumps of frozen air and loading the tanks of the Integral. We are already preparing the Integral for a trial flight.

"Well, shall we have her up in a week?" This was my question addressed to the Second Builder. His face is like porcelain, painted with sweet blue and tender little pink flowers (eyes and lips), but today those little flowers looked faded and washed out. We were counting aloud when suddenly I broke off in the midst of a word and stopped, my mouth wide open; above the cupola, above the blue lump lifted by the crane, there was a scarcely noticeable small white square. I felt my whole body trembling—perhaps with laughter. Yes! I myself heard my own laughter. (Did you ever hear your own laughter?)

"No, listen," I said. "Imagine you are in an ancient air-plane. The altimeter shows 5,000 meters. A wing breaks; you are dashing down like ...And on the way you calculate: 'Tomorrow from twelve to two ... from two to six ...and dinner at five!' Would it not be absurd?"

The little blue flowers began to move and bulge out. What if I were made of glass and he could have seen what was going on within me at that moment? If he knew that some three or four hours later...

RECORD TWENTY-SEVEN

No Headings. It Is Impossible!

I was alone in the endless corridors. In those same corridors ...A mute, concrete sky. Water was dripping somewhere upon a stone. The familiar, heavy, opaque door—and the subdued noise from behind it.

She said she would come out at sixteen sharp. It was already five minutes, then ten, then fifteen past sixteen. No one appeared. For a second I was my former self, horrified at the thought that the door might open.

"Five minutes more, and if she does not come out ..."

Water was dripping somewhere upon a stone. No one about. With melancholy pleasure I felt: "Saved," and slowly I turned and walked back along the corridor. The trembling dots of the small lamps on the ceiling became dimmer and dimmer. Suddenly, a quick rattle of a door behind me. Quick steps, softly echoing from the ceiling and the walls. It was she, light as a bird, panting somewhat from running.

"I knew you would be here, you would come! I knew you—you... "

The spears of her eyelashes moved apart to let me in and ...How can I describe what effect that ancient, absurd, and wonderful rite has upon me when her lips touch mine? Can I find a formula to express that whirl-wind which sweeps out of my soul everything, everything save her? Yes, yes, from my soul. You may laugh at me if you will.

She made an effort to raise her eyelids, and her slow words, too, came with an effort:

"No. Now we must go."

The door opened. Old, worn steps. An unbearably multicolored noise, whistling and light....

Twenty-four hours have passed since then and everything seems to have settled in me, yet it is most difficult for me to find words for even an approximate description....It is as though a bomb had exploded in my head ... Open mouths, wings, shouts, leaves, words, stones, all these one after another in a heap....

I remember my first thought was: "Fast—back!" For it was clear to me that while I was waiting there in the corridors, they somehow had blasted and destroyed the Green Wall, and from behind it everything rushed in and splashed over our city which until then had been kept clean of that lower world. I must have said something of this sort to I-330. She laughed.

"No, we have simply come out beyond the Green Wall. "

Then I opened my eyes, and close to me, actually, I saw those very things which until then not a single living Number had ever seen except depreciated a thousand times, dimmed and hazy through the cloudy glass of the Wall.

The sun—it was no longer our light evenly diffused over the mirror surface of the pavements; it seemed an accumulation of living fragments, of incessantly oscillating, dizzy spots which blinded the eyes, And the trees! Like candies rising into the very sky, or like spiders that squatted upon the earth, supported by their clumsy paws, or like mute green fountains. And all this was moving, jumping, rustling. Under my feet some strange little ball was crawling....I stood as though rooted to the ground. I was unable to take a step because under my foot there was not an even plane, but (imagine!) something disgustingly soft, yielding, living, springy, green!...

I was dazed; I was strangled—yes, strangled; it is the best word to express my state. I stood holding fast with both hands to a swinging branch.

"It is nothing. It is all right. It is natural, the first time. It will pass. Courage!"

At I-330's side, bouncing dizzily on a green net, someone's thinnest profile, cut out of paper. No, not "someone's." I recognized him. I remembered. It was the doctor. I understood everything very dearly. I realized that they both caught me beneath the arms and laughingly dragged me forward. My legs twisted and glided Terrible noise, cawing, stumps, yelling, branches, tree trunks, wings, leaves, whistling....

The trees drew apart. A bright clearing. In the clearing, people, or perhaps, to be more exact, beings. Now comes the most difficult part to describe, for this was beyond any bounds of probability. It is clear to me now why I-330 was stubbornly silent about it before; I would not have believed it, would not have believed even her. It is even possible that tomorrow I shall not believe myself, shall not believe my own description in these pages.

In the clearing, around a naked, skull-like rock, a noisy crowd of three or four hundred ...people. Well, let's call them people. I find it difficult to coin new words. Just as on the stands you recognize in the general accumulation of faces only those which are familiar to you, so at first I recognized only our grayish-blue unifs. But one second later and I saw distinctly and clearly among the unifs dark, red, golden, black, brown, and white humans—apparently they were humans. None of them had any, clothes on, and their bodies were covered with short, glistening hair, like that which may be seen on the stuffed horse in the Prehistoric Museum. But their females had faces exactly, yes, exactly, like the faces of our women: tender, rosy, and not overgrown with hair. Also their breasts were free of hair, firm breasts of wonderful geometrical form. As to the males, only a part of their faces were free from hair, like our ancestors', and the organs of reproduction were similar to ours.

All this was so unbelievable, so unexpected, that I stood there quietly (I assert positively that I stood quietly) and looked around. Like a scale: overload one side sufficiently and then you may gently put on the other as much as you will; the arrow will not move.

Suddenly I felt alone. I-330 was no longer with me. I don't know how or where she disappeared. Around me were only those, with their hair glistening like silk in the sunlight. I caught someone's warm, strong, dark shoulder.

"Listen, please, in the name of the Well-Doer, could you tell me where she went? A while, a minute ago, she..."

Long-haired, austere eyebrows turned to me.

"Sh....sh ... silence!" He made a sign with his head toward the center of the clearing where there stood the yellow skull-like stone.

There above the heads of all I saw her. The sun beat straight into my eyes, and because of that she seemed coal-black, standing out on the blue cloth of the sky—a coal-black silhouette on a blue background. A little higher the clouds were floating. And it seemed that not the clouds but the rock itself, and she herself upon that rock, and the crowd and the clearing—all were silently floating like a ship, and the earth was light and glided away from under the feet....

"Brothers!" (It was she.) "Brothers, you all know that there inside the Wall, in the City, they are building the Integral. And you know also that the day has come for us to destroy that Wall and all other walls, so that the green wind may blow over all the earth, from end to end. But the Integral is going to take these walls up, up into the heights, to the thousands of other worlds which every evening whisper to us with their lights through the black leaves of night...."

Waves and foam and wind were beating the rock:

"Down with the Integral! Down!"

"No, brothers, not 'down.' The Integral must be ours. And it shall be ours. On the day when it first sets sail into the sky we shall be on board. For the Builder of the Integral is with us. He left the wails, he came with me here in order to be with us. Long live the Builder!"

A second—and I was somewhere above everything. Under me: heads, heads, heads, wide-open, yelling mouths, arms rising and falling....There was something strange and intoxicating in it all. I felt myself above everybody; I was, I, a separate world; I ceased to be the usual item; I became unity....

Again I was below, near the rock, my body happy, shaken, and rumpled, as after an embrace of love. Sunlight, voices, and from above—the smiles of I-330. A golden-haired woman, her whole body silky-golden and diffusing an odor of different herbs, was nearby. She held a cup, apparently made of wood. She drank a little from it with her red lips, and then offered the cup to me. I closed my eyes and eagerly drank the sweet, cold, prickly sparks, pouring them down on the fire which burned within me.

Soon afterward my blood and the whole world began to circulate a thousand times faster; the earth seemed to be flying: light as dawn. And within me everything was simple, light, and clear. Only then I noticed on the rock the familiar, enormous letters: M E P H I, and for some reason the inscription seemed to me necessary. It seemed to be a simple thread binding everything together. A rather rough picture hewn in the rock—this, too, seemed comprehensible; it represented a youth with wings and a transparent body and, in the place ordinarily occupied by the heart, a blinding, red, blazing coal. Again I understood that coal—or no, I felt it as I felt without hearing every word of I-330's (she continued to speak from above, from the rock); and I felt that all of them breathed one breath, and that they were all ready to fly somewhere like the birds over the Wall.

From behind, from the confusion of breathing bodies, a loud voice:

"But this is folly!"

It seems to me it was I—yes, I am certain it was I who then jumped on the rock; from there I saw the sun, the heads, a green sea on a blue background, and I cried:

"Yes, yes, precisely. All must become insane; we must become insane as soon as possible! We must: I know it."

I-330 was at my side. Her smile—two dark lines from the angles of her mouth directed upward....And within me a blazing coal. It was momentary, light, a little painful, beautiful.... And later, only stray fragments that remained sticking in me....

... Very low and slowly a bird was moving. I saw it was living, like me. It was turning its head now to the right and then to the left like a human being, and its round black eyes drilled themselves into me ....

... Then: a human back glistening with fur the color of ancient ivory; a mosquito crawling on that back, a mosquito with tiny transparent wings. The back twitched to chase the mosquito away; it twitched again

... And yet another thing: a shadow from the leaves, a woven, net-like shadow. Some humans lay in that shadow, chewing something, something similar to the legendary food of the ancients, a long yellow fruit and a piece of something dark. They put some of it in my hand, and it seemed strange to me for I did not know whether I might eat it or not....

...And again: a crowd, heads, legs, arms, mouths, faces appearing for a second and disappearing like bursting bubbles. For a second (or perhaps it was only a hallucination?) the transparent, flying wing ears appeared

With all my might I pressed the hand of I-330. She turned to me.

"What is the matter?"

"He is here! I thought, I-"

'Who?"

"S-, a second ago, in the crowd."

The ends of the thin, coal-black brows moved to the temples—a smile like a sharp triangle. I could not see clearly why she smiled. How could she smile?

"But you understand, I-330, don't you, you understand what it means if he, or one of them, is here?"

"You are funny! How could it ever enter the heads of those within the Wall that we are here? Remember; take yourself. Did you ever think it was possible? They are busy hunting us there—let them! You are delirious!"

Her smile was light and cheerful and I, too, was smiling; the earth was drunken, cheerful, light, floating....

RECORD TWENTY-EIGHT

Both of Them

Entropy and Energy

The Opaque Part of the Body

If your world is similar to the world of the ancients, then you may easily imagine that one day you suddenly come upon a sixth or a seventh continent, upon some Atlantis, and you find there unheard-of cities, labyrinths, people flying through the air without the aid of wings or aeros, stones lifted into the air by the power of a gaze—in brief, imagine that you see things that cannot come to your mind even if you suffer from dream sickness. That is how I feel now. For you must understand that no one has ever gone beyond the Green Wall since the Two Hundred Years' War, as I have already told you.

I know it is my duty to you, my unknown friends, to give more details about that unsuspected, strange world which has opened to me since yesterday. But for the time being I am unable to return to that subject. Everything is so novel, so novel it is like a rainstorm, and I am not big enough to embrace it all. I spread out the folds of my unif, my palms—and yet pailfuls splash past me and only drops can reach these pages ....

At first I heard behind me, behind the door, a loud voice. I recognized her voice, the voice of I-330, tense, metallic—and another one, almost inflexible, like a wooden ruler, the voice of U-. Then the door burst open with a crack and both of them shot into the room. Shot is the right word. I-330 put her hand on the back of my armchair and smiled over her shoulder, but only with her teeth, at U-. I should not care to stand before such a smile.

"Listen," she said to me, "this woman seems to have made it her business to guard you from me like a little child. Is it with your permission?"

"But he's a child. Yes! That is why he does not notice that you ...that it is only in order...That all this is only a foul game! Yes! And it is my duty... "

For a second (in the mirror) the broken, trembling line of brows. I leaped, controlling with difficulty the other self within me, the one with the hairy fists. With difficulty, pushing every word through my teeth, I cried straight into her face, into her very gills:

"Get out of here at once! Out! At once!"

The gills swelled at first into brick-red lumps, then fell and became gray. She opened her mouth to say something, but without a word she slammed it shut and went out.

I threw myself toward I-330.

"Never, never will I forgive myself! She dared! You ...But you don't think, do you, that you, that she ...This is all because she wants to register on me, but I..."

"Fortunately she will not have time for that now. Besides, even a thousand like her ... I don't care....I know you will not believe that thousand, but only me. For after all that happened yesterday, I am all yours, all, to the very end, as you wanted it. I am in your hands; you can now at any moment...."

"What, 'at any moment'?" (But immediately I understood what. The blood rushed to my ears and cheeks.) "Don't speak about that, you must never speak about that! The other I, my former self...but now..."

"How do I know? Man is like a novel: up to the last page one does not know what the end will be. It would not be worth reading otherwise."

She was stroking my head. I could not see her face, but I could tell by her voice that she was looking somewhere far into the distance; she had hooked herself on to that cloud which was floating silently, slowly, no one knows where to.

Suddenly she pushed me away with her hand, firmly but tenderly.

"Listen. I came to tell you that perhaps we are now...our last days...You know, don't you, that all Auditoriums are to be closed after tonight?"

"Closed?"

"Yes. I passed by and saw that in all Auditoriums preparations are going on: tables, medics all in white ..."

"But what does it all mean?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows as yet. That's the worst of it. I feel only that the current is on, the spark is jumping, and if not today, then tomorrow....Yet perhaps they will not have time...."

It has been a long while since I ceased to understand who they are and who we are. I do not understand what I want; do I want them to have or not to have enough time? One thing is clear to me: I-330 is now on the very edge, on the very edge, and in one second more...

"But it is folly," I said. "You, versus the United State! It's the same as if you were to cover the muzzle of a gun with your hands and expect that way to prevent the shot....It is absolute folly!"

A smile.

"We must all go insane—as soon as possible go insane. It was yesterday, do you remember?"

Yes, she was right; I had even written it down. Consequently, it really had taken place. In silence I looked into her face. At that moment the dark cross was especially distinct.

"I-, dear, before it is too late... If you want...I'll leave everything, I'll forget everything, and we'll go there beyond the Wall, to them....I do not even know who they are....

She shook her head. Through the dark windows of her eyes I saw within her a flaming oven, sparks, tongues of flame, and above them a heap of dry wood. It was clear to me that it was too late, my words could be of no avail.

She stood up. She would soon leave. Perhaps these were the last days, or the last minutes....I grasped her hand.

"No, stay a little while longer...for the sake...for the sake..."

She slowly lifted my hand toward the light, my hairy paw which I detest. I wanted to withdraw it, but she held it tightly.

"Your hand...You undoubtedly don't know, and very few do know, that women from here occasionally used to fall in love with them. Probably there are in you a few drops of that blood of the sun and the woods. Perhaps that is why I..."

Silence. It was so strange that because of that silence, because of an emptiness, because of a nothing, my heart should beat so wildly. I cried:

"Ah, you shall not go yet! You shall not go until you tell me about them, for you love...them, and I don't even know who they are, nor where they come from."

"Where are they? The half we have lost. —H2 and O, two halves, but in order to get water—H2 O, creeks, seas, waterfalls, storms—those two halves must be united."

I distinctly remember every movement of hers. I remember she picked up a glass triangle from my table, and while talking she pressed its sharp edge against her cheek; a white scar would appear, then it would fill again and become pink and disappear. And it is strange that I cannot remember her words, especially the beginning of the story. I remember only different images and colors. At first, I remember, she told me about the Two Hun— dred Years' War. Red color.... On the green of the grass, on the dark clay, on the pale blue of the snow—everywhere red ditches that would not become dry. Then, yellow; yellow grass burned by the sun, yellow, naked wild men and wild dogs side by side near swollen cadavers of dogs or perhaps of men. All this certainly beyond the Walls, for the City was already the victor, and it already possessed our present—day petroleum food. And at night...down from the sky... heavy black folds. The folds would swing over the woods, the villages— blackish-red, slow columns of smoke. A dull moaning; endless strings of people driven into the City to be saved by force and to be whipped into happiness.

"...You knew almost all this."

"Yes, almost."

"But you did not know, and only a few did, that a small part of them remained together and stayed to live beyond the Wall. Being naked, they went into the woods. They learned there from the trees, beasts, birds, flowers, and sun. Hair soon grew over their bodies, but under that hair they preserved their warm red blood. With you it was worse; numbers covered your bodies; numbers crawled over you like lice. One ought to strip you of everything, and naked you ought to be driven into the woods. You ought to learn how to tremble with fear, with joy, with wild anger, with cold; you should pray to fire! And we Mephi, we want... "

"Wait a minute! 'Mephi,' what does it mean?"

"Mephi? It is from Mephisto, You remember, there on the rock, the figure of the youth? Or, no. I shall explain it to you in your own language, and you will understand better. There are two forces in the world, entropy and energy. One leads into blessed quietude, to happy equilibrium, the other to the destruction of equilibrium, to torturingly perpetual motion. Our, or rather your ancestors, the Christians, worshiped entropy like a God. But we are not Christians, we..."

At that moment a slight whisper was suddenly heard, a knock at the door, and in rushed that flattened man with the forehead low over his eyes, who several times had brought me notes from I-330. He ran straight to us, stopped, panting like an air pump, and could say not a word, as he must have been running at top speed.

"But tell me! What has happened?" I-330 grasped him by the hand.

"They are coming here," panted the air pump, "with guards....And with them that what's-his-name, the hunchback...

"S-?"

"Yes. They are in the house by this time. They'll soon be here. Quick, quick!"

"Nonsense, we have time!" I-330 was laughing, cheerful sparks in her eyes. It was either absurd, senseless courage, or else there was something I did not understand.

"I-, dear, for the sake of the Well-Doer! You must understand that this..."

"For the sake of the Well-Doer!" The sharp, triangle smile.

"Well... well, for my sake, I implore you!"

"Oh, yes, I wanted to talk to you about some other matters....Well, never mind.... We'll talk about them tomorrow."

And cheerfully (yes, cheerfully) she nodded to me; the other came out for a second from under his forehead's awning and nodded also. I was alone.

Quick! To my desk! I opened this manuscript and took up my pen so that they should find me at this work, which is for the benefit of the United State. Suddenly I felt every hair on my head living, separated, moving. "What if they should read even one page of these most recently written?"

Motionless I sat at the table, but everything around me seemed to be moving, as if the less than microscopic movements of the atoms had suddenly been magnified millions of times; I saw the walls trembling, my pen trembling, and the letters swinging and fusing together. "To hide them! But where?" Glass all around. "To burn them?" But they would notice the fire through the corridor and in the neighboring room. Besides, I felt unable, I felt too weak, to destroy this torturing and perhaps dearest piece of my own self....

Voices from a distance (from the corridor), and steps. I had time only to snatch a handful of pages and put them under me and then, as if soldered to the armchair—every atom of which was quivering—I remained sitting, while the floor under my feet rolled like the deck of a ship, up and down....

All shrunk together and hidden under the awning of my own forehead, like that messenger, I watched them stealthily; they were going from room to room, beginning at the right end of the corridor. Nearer...nearer....I saw that some sat in their rooms, torpid like me; others would jump up and open their doors wide—lucky ones! If only I, too, could....

"The Well-Doer is the most perfect fumigation humanity needs; consequently, no peristalsis in the organism of the United State could...."I was writing this nonsense, pressing my trembling pen hard, and lower and lower my head bent over the table, and within me some sort of crazy forge...With my back I was listening....and I heard the click of the doorknob.... A current of fresh air....My armchair was dancing a mad dance .... Only then, and even then with difficulty, I tore myself away from the page and turned my head in the direction of the newcomers (how difficult it is to play a foul game!). In front of all was S-, morose, silent, his eyes swiftly drilling deep shafts within me, within my armchair, and within the pages which were twitching in my hands. Then for a second—familiar, everyday faces at the door; one of them separated itself from the rest with its bulging, pinkish-brown gills....

At once I recalled everything that had happened in the same room half an hour ago, and it was clear to me that they would presently...

All my being was shriveling and pulsating in that fortunately opaque part of my body with which I was covering the manuscript. U-came up to S-, gently plucked his sleeve, and said in a low voice:

"This is D-503, the builder of the Integral. You have probably heard of him. He is always like that, at his desk—does not spare himself at all!"

... And I thought... What a dear, wonderful woman!...

S- slid up to me, bent over my shoulder toward the table. I covered the lines I had written with my elbow, but he shouted severely:

"Show us at once what you have there, please!"

Dying with shame, I held out the sheet of paper. He read it over, and I noticed a tiny smile jump out of his eyes, scamper down his face, and, slightly wagging it tail, perch upon the right angle of his mouth....

"Somewhat ambiguous, yet....Well, you may continue; we shall not disturb you any further."

He went splashing toward the door as if in a ditch of water. And with every step of his I felt coming back to me my legs, my arms, my fingers—my soul again distributed itself evenly throughout my whole body; I breathed....

The last thing: U- lingered in my room to come back to me and say right in my ear, in a whisper: "It is lucky for you that I..."

I did not understand. What did she mean by that? The same evening I learned that they had led away three Numbers, although nobody speaks aloud about it, or about anything that happened. This ostensible silence is due to the educational influence of the Guardians who are ever present among us. Conversations deal chiefly with the quick fall of the barometer and the forthcoming change in the weather.

RECORD TWENTY-NINE

Threads on the Face

Sprouts

An Unnatural Compression

It is strange: the barometer continues to fall, yet there is no wind. There is quiet. Above, the storm which we do not yet hear has begun. The clouds are rushing with terrific speed. There are few of them as yet, separate fragments; it is as if above us an unknown city were being destroyed and pieces of walls and towers were rushing down, coming nearer and nearer with tremendous speed, but it will take some days of rushing through the blue infinite before they reach the bottom, that is us, below. And below there is silence.

There are thin, incomprehensible, almost invisible threads in the air; every autumn they are brought here from beyond the Wall. They float slowly, and suddenly you feel something foreign and invisible on your face; you want to brush it off, but no, you cannot rid yourself of it. You feel it especially near the Green Wall, where I was this morning. I-330 made an appointment with me to meet her in the Ancient House in that "apartment" of ours.

I was not far from the rust-red, opaque mass of the Ancient House when I heard behind me short, hasty steps and rapid breathing. I turned around and saw O-90 trying to catch up to me. She seemed strangely and perfectly rounded. Her arms and breast, her whole body, so familiar to me, was rounded out, stretching her unif. It seemed as though it would soon tear the thin cloth and come out into the sun, into the light. I think that there in the green debris, in springtime, the unseen sprouts try thus to tear their way through the ground in order to send forth their branches and leaves and to bloom.

For a few seconds she stared into my face with her blue eyes, in silence.

"I saw you on the Day of Unanimity."

"I saw you, too." I at once remembered; below, in a narrow passage she had stood, pressing herself to the wall, protecting her abdomen with her arms; and automatically I now glanced at her abdomen which rounded the unif. She must have noticed, for she became pink, and with a rosy smile:

"I am so happy...so happy! I am so full of...you understand, I am...I walk and I hear nothing around me.... And all the while I listen within, within me.... "

I was silent.Something foreign was shadowing my face and I was unable to rid myself of it. Suddenly, all shining, light blue, she caught my hand; I felt her lips upon it.... It was the first time in my life....It was some ancient caress as yet unknown to me.... And I was so ashamed and it pained me so much that I swiftly, I think even roughly, pulled my hand away.

"Listen, you are crazy, it seems....And anyway you...What are you happy about? Is it possible that you forget what is ahead of you? If not now, then within a month or two .... "

Her light went out, her roundness sagged and shrank. And in my heart an unpleasant, even a painful compression, mixed with pity. Our heart is nothing else than an ideal pump: a compression, i.e., a shrinking at the moment of pumping, is a technical absurdity. Hence it is clear how essentially absurd, unnatural, and pathological are all these "loves" and "pities," etc., etc., which create that compression....

Silence. To the left the cloudy green glass of the Wall. And just ahead the dark red mass. Those two colors combined gave me what I thought was a splendid idea.

"Wait! I know how to save you! I shall save you from...To see one's own child for a few moments only, and then be sent to death! No! You shall be able to bring it up! You shall watch it and see it grow in your arms, and ripen like a fruit.... "

Her body quivered and she seemed to have chained herself to me.

"Do you remember that woman, I-330? That...of...of long ago?...Who during that walk? ...Well, she is now right here, in the Ancient House. Let us go to her and I assure you that I shall arrange matters at once."

I already pictured us, I-330 and I, leading O-90 through the corridors... then how she would be brought amidst flowers, grass, and leaves But O-90 stepped back, the little horns of her rosy crescent trembling and bending downward.

"Is she that same one?" she asked.

"That is... " I was confused for some reason. "Yes, of course... that very same...."

"And you want me to go to her, to ask her...to...Don't you ever dare to say another word about it!"

Leaning over, she walked away....Then, as if she had remembered something, she turned around and cried:

"I shall die; all right! And it's none of your business...What do you care?"

Silence. From above pieces of blue towers and walls were falling downward with terrific speed...they will ave perhaps hours or days to fly through the infinite Unseen threads were slowly floating through the air, planting themselves upon my face, and it was impossible to brush them off, impossible to rid myself of them.

I walked slowly toward the Ancient House, and in my heart I felt that absurd, tormenting compression....

RECORD THIRTY

The Last Number

Galileo's Mistake

Would It Not Be Better?

Here is my conversation with I-330, which took place in the Ancient House yesterday in the midst of loud noise, among colors which stifled the logical course of my thoughts, red, green, bronze, saffron yellow, orange colors...and all the while under the motionless, marble smile of that snub-nosed ancient poet.

I shall reproduce the conversation word for word, for it seems to me that it may have an enormous and decisive importance for the fate of the United State—more than that, for the fate of the universe. Besides, in reading it, you, my unknown readers, may find some justification for me. I-330, without preliminaries, at once brought everything down upon my head.

"I know that the day after tomorrow the first trial trip of the Integral is to take place. On that day we shall take possession of it."

"What! Day after tomorrow?"

"Yes. Sit down and don't be upset. We cannot afford to lose a minute. Among the hundreds who were arrested yesterday there are twenty Mephis. To let two or three days pass means that they will perish."

I was silent.

"As observers on the trial trip they will send electricians, mechanics, physicians, meteorologists, etc.... At twelve sharp—you must remember this—when the bell rings for dinner, we shall remain in the passage; lock them all up in the dining hall, and the Integral will be ours. You realize that it is essential, happen what may! The Integral in our hands will be a tool that will help to put an end to everything at once without pain.... Their aeros?... Bah! They would be insignificant mosquitoes against a buzzard. And then, if it proves inevitable, we may direct the tubes of the motors downward, and by their work alone..."

I jumped up.

"It is inconceivable! It is absurd! Is it not clear to you that what you are planning is a revolution? Absurd, because a revolution is impossible! Because our—I speak for myself and for you—our revolution was the last one. No other revolutions may occur. Everybody knows that."

A mocking, sharp triangle of brows.

"My dear, you are a mathematician, are you not? More than that, a philosopher-mathematician? Well, then, name the last number."

"What is...I ...I cannot understand, which last?"

"The last one, the highest, the largest."

"But I-330, that's absurd! Since the number of numbers is infinite, how can there be a last one?"

"And why then do you think there is a last revolution ...their number is infinite....The 'last one' is a child's story. Children are afraid of the infinite, and it is necessary that children should not be frightened, so that they may sleep through the night."

"But what is the use, what is the use of it all? For the sake of the Well-Doer! What is the use since all of us are happy already?"

"All right! Even suppose that is so. And then what?"

"How funny! A purely childish question. You tell a story to children, come to the very end, and they will invariably ask you, 'and then what'? and 'what for'? And then nothing! Period. In the whole world, evenly, everywhere, there is distributed..."

"Ah, 'evenly'! 'Everywhere!' That is the point, entropy! Psychological entropy. Don't you as a mathematician know that only differences—only differences—in temperature, only thermic contrasts make for life? And of all over the world there are evenly warm or evenly cold bodies, they must be pushed off!... in order to get flame, explosions! And we shall push!..."

"But I-330, please realize that our ancestors during the Two Hundred Years' War did exactly that!"

"Oh, they were right! A thousand times right! But they did one thing wrong: later they began to believe that they were the last number, a number that does not exist in nature. Their mistake was the mistake of Galileo; he was right in that the earth revolves around the sun, but he did not know that our whole solar system revolves around some other center, he did not know that the real, not relative, orbit of the earth is not a naive circle."

"And you, the Mephi?"

"We? For the time being we know that there is no last number. We may forget that, someday. Of course, we shall certainly forget it when we grow old, as everything inevitably grows old. Then we shall inevitably fall like autumn leaves from the trees, like you the day after tomorrow....No, no, dear, not you personally. You are with us, aren't you? You are with us?"

Flaming, stormy, sparkling! I never before had seen her in such a state. She embraced me with her whole self, and my self disappeared.

Her last word, looking steadily, deeply into my eyes:

"Then, do not forget: at twelve o'clock sharp."

And I answered:

"Yes, I remember."

She left. I was alone amidst a rebellious, multivoiced commotion of blue, red, green, saffron-yellow, and orange

Yes, at twelve!...Suddenly a feeling of something foreign on my face, of something implanted, that could not be brushed off. Suddenly, yesterday morning, and U- and all she had shouted into the face of I-330! Why, how absurd!

I hastened to get out of the house and home, home! Somewhere behind me I heard the chattering of the birds beyond the Wall. And ahead of me in the setting sun the balls of cupolas made of red, crystallized fire, enormous flaming cubes—houses—and the sharp point of the Accumulating Tower high in the sky like a paralyzed streak of lightning. And all this, all this impeccable, most geometric beauty, shall I, I myself, with my own hands ...? Is there no way out? No path? No trail?

I passed by an auditorium (I do not recall its number). Inside, the benches were stacked along the walls. In the middle, tables covered with snow-white glass sheets, with pink stains of sunny blood on the white....There was foreshadowed in all that some unknown and therefore alarming tomorrow. It is unnatural for a thinking and seeing human being to live among irregularities, unknowns, X's. If suddenly your eyes were covered with a bandage and you were left to feel around, to stumble, ever aware that somewhere very close to you there was a border line, and one step only and nothing but a compressed, smothered piece of flesh would be left of you....I now feel somewhat like that.

... And what if, without waiting for anything, I should ...just head down....Would it not be the only correct thing to do? To disentangle everything at once?

RECORD THIRTY-ONE

The Great Operation

I Forgave Everything

The Collision of Trains

Saved! At the very last moment, when it seemed that there was nothing to hold on to, that it was the end!...

It was as if you already ascended the steps toward the threatening machine of the Well-Doer, or as if the great glass Bell with a heavy thud had already covered you, and for the last time in life you looked at the blue sky to devour it with your eyes ...when suddenly, it was only a dream! The sun is pink and cheerful and the wall ...What happiness to be able to touch the cold wall! And the pillow! To delight endlessly in the little cavity formed by your own head in the white pillow! ...This is approximately what I felt, when I read the State Journal this morning. It has all been a terrible dream, and the dream is over. And I was so feeble, so unfaithful, that I thought of selfish, voluntary death! I am ashamed now to reread yesterday's last lines. But let them remain as a memory of that incredible what-might-have-happened, which will not happen! On the front page of the State Journal the following gleamed:

REJOICE!

For from now on we are perfect!

Until today your own creation, engines, were more perfect than you.

WHY?

For every spark from a dynamo is a spark of pure reason; each motion of a piston, a pure syllogism. Is it not true that the same faultless reason is within you?

The philosophy of the cranes, presses, and pumps is complete and clear like a circle. But is your philosophy less circular? The beauty of a mechanism lies in its immutable, precise rhythm, like that of a pendulum. But have you not become as precise as a pendulum, you who are brought up on the system of Taylor?

Yes, but there is one difference:

MECHANISMS HAVE NO FANCY.

Did you ever notice a pump cylinder with a wide, dis— tant, sensuously dreaming smile upon its face while it was working? Did you ever hear cranes that were restless, tossing about and sighing at night during the hours de— signed for rest?

NO!

Yet on your faces (you may well blush with shame!) the Guardians have more and more frequently seen those smiles, and they have heard your sighs, And (you should hide your eyes for shame!) the historians of the United State have all tendered their resignations so as to be relieved from having to record such shameful occurrences.

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 further and further, even though "further" 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 center 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 one-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 not read all this 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 a most certain reality—if not the reality of today, then that of tomorrow—would you not feel the very things I feel? Would your head not 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 you only 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? Isn't it, isn't it 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 would 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 night, 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 Nun!

At the corner a group of such Joshuas, sons of Nun, were standing with their foreheads pasted to the glass of the wall. Inside, on a dazzling white table, a Number already lay. You could see two naked soles emerging from under the sheet in ayellow 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 glisten— ing 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, fiat 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 further than his own platter! If only he knew that, but for the Operation, tomorrow at twelve he would have been locked up in a glass cage, 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 been waiting for a long while, because when she rose brusquely to meet me the five white imprints of her fingers remained on her cheek.

For a second that terrible morning came back to me: she beside I-330, indignant. But for a second only. All that was at once washed away by today's sun—as happens sometimes when you enter your room on a bright day and absent-mindedly turn on the light, and the bulb shines but is out of place, comical, 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 were in the place where I had left them the night before. If only she knew what I had written there! But I didn't really care. Now it was only history; it was a ridiculously far-off distance, like an image seen through a reversed opera glass.

"Yes," I said. "A while ago, while passing along the avenue, I saw a man walking ahead of me. His shadow stretched along the pavement—and think of it! His shadow was luminous! I think—more than that, I am absolutely certain—that tomorrow all shadows will disappear. Not a shadow from any person or any thing!The sun will be shining through everything."

She, gently and earnestly:

"You are a dreamer! I would not allow my children in school to talk that way."

She told me something about the children: that they were all led in one herd to the Operation; that it was necessary to bind them afterward with ropes; that one must love pitilessly, "yes, pitilessly," and that she thought she might finally decide to ...

She smoothed out the grayish-blue fold of the unif that fell between her knees, swiftly pasted her smiles all over me, and went out.

Fortunately the sun did not stop today. The sun was running. It was already sixteen o'clock I was knocking at the door, my heart was knocking ....

"Come in!"

I threw myself upon the floor near her chair, to embrace her limbs, to lift my head upward and look into her eyes, first into one, then into the other, and in each of them to see the reflection of myself in wonderful captivity ....

There beyond the wall it looked stormy, there the clouds were leaden—let them be! My head was overcrowded with impetuous words, and I was speaking aloud, and flying with the sun I knew not where ....No, now we knew where we were flying; planets were following me, planets sparkling with flame and populated with fiery, singing flowers, and mute planets, blue ones where rational stones were unified into one organized society, and planets which like our own earth had already reached the apex of one-hundred-percent happiness.

Suddenly, from above:

"And don't you think that at the apex are, precisely, stones unified into an organized society?" The triangle grew sharper and sharper, darker and darker.

"Happiness ...well? ...Desires are tortures, aren't they? It is clear, therefore, that happiness is when there are no longer any desires, not a single desire any more. What an error, what an absurd prejudice it was, that we used to mark happiness with the sign 'plus'! No, absolute happiness must be marked 'minus'—divine minus!"

I remember I stammered unintelligibly:

"Absolute zero!—minus 273°."

"Minus 273°—exactly! A somewhat cool temperature. But doesn't it prove that we are at the summit?"

As before she seemed somehow to speak for me and through me, developing my own thoughts to the end. But there was something so morbid in her tone that I could not refrain...with an effort I drew out a "No."

"No,"1 said. "You, you are mocking...."

She burst out laughing loudly, too loudly. Swiftly, in a second, she laughed herself to some unseen edge, stumbled, and fell over....Silence.

She stood up, put her hands upon my shoulders, and looked into me for a long while. Then she pulled me toward her and everything seemed to have disappeared save her sharp, hot lips....

"Good-by."

The words came from afar, from above, and reached me not at once but only after a minute, perhaps two minutes later.

"Why...why 'good-by'?"

"You have been ill, have you not? Because of me you have committed crimes. Hasn't all this tormented you? And now you have the Operation to look forward to. You will be cured of me. And that means—good-by."

"No!" I cried.

A pitilessly sharp black triangle on a white background.

"What? Do you mean that you don't want happiness?"

My head was breaking into pieces; two logical trains collided and crawled upon each other, rattling and smothering....

"well, I am waiting. You must choose; the Operation and one-hundred-percent happiness, or..."

"I cannot...without you...I must not...without you..." I said, or perhaps I only thought—I am not sure which—but I-330 heard.

"Yes, I know," she said. Then, her hands still on my shoulders and her eyes not letting my eyes go, "Then...until tomorrow. Tomorrow at twelve. You remember?"

"No, it was postponed for a day. Day after tomorrow!"

"So much the better for us. At twelve, day after tomorrow!"

I walked alone in the dusky street. The wind was whirling, carrying, driving me like a piece of paper; fragments of the leaden sky were soaring, soaring—they had to soar through the infinite for another day or two....

Unifs of Numbers were brushing my sides—yet I was walking alone. It was clear to me that all were being saved but that there was no salvation for me. For I do not want salvation....

RECORD THIRTY-TWO

I Do Not Believe

Tractors

A Little Human Splinter

Do you believe that you will die? Oh, yes, "Man is mortal; I am a man; consequently..." No, not that; I know that; you know it. But I ask: Has it ever happened that you actually believed it? Believed definitely, believed not with your reason but with your body, that you actually felt that someday those fingers which now hold this page will become yellow, icy?...

No, of course you cannot believe this. That is why you haven't jumped from the tenth floor to the pavement before now; that is why you eat, turn over these pages, shave, smile, write.

This very thing, yes, exactly this is alive in me today. I know that that small black hand on the clock will slide down here toward midnight, then it will again start to ascend, and it will cross some last border and the improbable tomorrow will have arrived. I know it, but somehow I do not believe it—or perhaps I think that twenty-four hours are twenty-four years. So I am still able to act, to hurry, to answer questions, to climb the rope ladder to the Integral. I am still able to feel how the Integral shakes the surface of the water and I still understand that I must grasp the railing, and I am still able to feel the cold glass in my hand. I see the transparent, living cranes, bending their long necks, carefully feeding the Integral with the terrible explosive food which the motors need I still see below on the river the blue veins and knots of water swollen by the wind....Yet all this seems very distant from me, foreign, flat, like a draft on a sheet of paper. And it seems to me strange, when the fiat draft-like face of the Second Builder suddenly asks:

"Well, then. How much fuel for the motors shall we load on? If we count on three, or say three and a half hours ..."

I see before me, over a draft, my hand with the counter and the logarithmic dial at the figure 15.

"Fifteen tons. But you'd better take...yes, better take a thousand."

I said that because I know that tomorrow ...I noticed that my hands and the dial began to tremble.

"A thousand! What do you need such a lot for? That would last a week! No, more than a week!"

"Well, nobody knows ..."

I do know....

The wind whistled, the air seemed to be stuffed to the limit with something invisible. I had difficulty in breathing, difficulty in walking, and with difficulty, slowly but without stopping for a second, the hand of the Accumulating Tower was crawling, at the end of the avenue. The peak of the Tower reached into the very clouds—dull, blue, groaning in a subdued way, sucking electricity from the clouds. The tubes of the Musical Tower resounded.

As always—four abreast. But the rows did not seem as firm as usual; they were swinging, bending more and more, perhaps because of the wind. There! They seemed to stumble upon something at the corner; they drew back and stopped, congealed, a close mass, a clot, breathing rapidly; at once all of them stretched their necks like geese.

"Look! No, look, look—there, quick!"

"They? Are those they?"

"Ah, never! Never! I'd rather put my head straight into the Machine...."

"Silence! Are you crazy?"

On the corner, the doors of the auditorium were ajar, and a wide column of about fifty people—the word "people" is not the fight one. These were heavy-wheeled automatons seemingly bound in iron and moved by an invisible mechanism. Not people, but a sort of human-like tractor. Over their heads, floating in the air—a white banner with a golden sun embroidered on it, and the rays of the sun: "We are the first! We have already been operated upon! Follow us, all of you!"

Slowly, unhesitatingly they moved through the crowd, and it was clear that if they had had in their way a wall, a tree, a house, they would have moved on just as unhesitatingly through the wall, the tree, the house. In the middle of the avenue they fused and stretched out into a chain, arm in arm, their faces turned toward us. And we, a human clot, tense, the hair pricking our heads, we waited. Our necks were stretched out goose fashion. Clouds. The wind whistled. Suddenly the wings of the chain from fight and left bent quickly around us, and faster, faster, like a heavy engine descending a hill, they closed the ring and pulled us toward the yawning doors and inside....

Somebody's piercing cry: "They are driving us in! Run!"

Everybody ran.Close to the wall there was still an open, living gate of human beings. Everybody dashed through it, heads forward. Their heads became sharp wedges, and with their ribs, shoulders, hips...Like a stream of water compressed in a fire hose they spurted out in the form of a fan, and all around me stamping feet, raised arms, unifs....The double curved S- with his transparent wing ears appeared for a moment close before my eyes; he disappeared as suddenly; I was alone among arms and legs appearing for a second and disappearing. I was running....

I dashed to the entrance of a house to stop to catch my breath, my back close to the door—and suddenly, like a splinter borne by the wind, a human being was thrown toward me.

"All the while I ...I have been following you. I do not want... do you see? I do not want...I am ready to...

Small round hands on my sleeves, round dark blue eyes—it was O-90. She just slipped along my body like a unif which, its hanger broken, slips along the wall to fall upon the floor. Like a little bundle she crumpled below me on the cold doorstep, and I stood over her, stroking her head, her face. My hands were wet. I felt as if I were very big and she very small, a small part of myself. I felt something quite different from what I feel toward I-330.I think the ancients must have had similar feelings toward their private children.

Below, filtering through her hands with which she was covering her face, a voice came to me:

"Every night I...I cannot! If they cure me...Every night I sit in the darkness alone and think of him, and of what he will look like when I... If I am cured I would have nothing to live with—do you understand me? You must...you must..."

An absurd feeling, yet it was there; I really must! Absurd, because this "duty" of mine was nothing but another crime. Absurd, because white and black cannot be one, duty and crime cannot coincide. Or perhaps there is no black and white in life, but everything depends upon the first logical premise? If the premise is that I unlawfully gave her a child...

"It's all right, but don't, only don't..." I said, "Of course I understand....I must take you to I-330, as I once offered to, so that she..."

'Yes." (This in a low voice, without uncovering her face.)

I helped her rise. Silently we went along the darkening street, each busy with his own thoughts, or perhaps with the same thought....We walked between silent, leaden houses, through the tense, whipping branches of the wind....

All at once, through the whistling of the wind, I heard, as if splashing through ditches, the familiar footsteps coming from some unseen point. At the corner I turned around, and among the clouds, flying upside down in the dim glass reflection of the pavement, I saw S-. Instantly my arms became foreign, swinging out of time, and I began to tell O-90 in a low voice that tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, was the day of the first flight of the Integral, and that it was to be something that had never happened before in all history, great, miraculous.

"Think of it! For the first time in life to Fred myself outside the limits of our city and see—who knows what is beyond the Green Wall?"

O-90 looked at me extremely surprised, her blue eyes trying to penetrate mine; she looked at my senselessly swinging arms. But I did not let her say a word—I kept talking, talking....And within me, apart from what I was saying and audible only to myself, a thought was feverishly buzzing and knocking. "Impossible! You must somehow...you must not lead him to I-330!"

Instead of turning to the right I turned to the left. The bridge submissively bent its back in a slavish way to all three of us, to me, to O-, to him behind. Lights were falling from the houses across the water, falling and breaking into thousands of sparks which danced feverishly, sprayed with the mad white foam of the water. Somewhere not far away the wind was moaning like the tensely stretched string of a double bass. And through this bass, behind us, all the while...

The house where I live. At the entrance O- stopped and began:

"No! You promised, did you not, that..."

I did not let her finish. Hastily I pushed her through the entrance and we found ourselves in the lobby. At the controller's desk the familiar, hanging, excitedly quivering cheeks—a group of Numbers around. They were quarreling about something, heads bending over the banisters on the second floor; they were running downstairs one by one. But about that later. I drew O-90 at once into the opposite, unoccupied corner and sat down with my back to the wall. I saw a dark, large-headed shadow gliding back and forth over the sidewalk. I took out my notebook. O-90 in her chair was sinking slowly, as if she were evaporating from under her unif, as if her body were thawing, as if only her empty unif were left, and empty eyes taking one into the blue emptiness. In a tired voice:

"Why did you bring me here? You lied to me."

"No, not so loud! Look here! Do you see? Through the wall?"

"Yes, I see a shadow."

"He is always following me... I cannot...Do you understand? I cannot, therefore...I am going to write a few words to I-330. You take the note and go alone. I know he will remain here."

Her body began again to take form and to move beneath the unif; on her face a faint sunrise, dawn. I put the note between her cold fingers, pressed her hand firmly, and for the last time looked into her blue eyes.

"Good-by. Perhaps someday..." She freed her hand. Bending over slightly, she slowly moved away, made two steps, turned around quickly, and again we were side by side. Her lips were moving; with her lips and with her eyes she repeated some inaudible word. What an unbearable smile! What suffering!

Then the bent-over human splinter went to the door; a bent-over little shadow beyond the wall; without turning around she went on faster, still faster....

I went to U-'s desk. With emotion filling her indignant gills, she said to me:

"They have all gone crazy! He, for instance, is trying to assure me that he himself saw a naked man covered with hair near the Ancient House... "

A voice from the group of empty raised heads: "Yes. I repeat it, yes."

"Well, what do you think of that? Oh, what a delirium!" The word "delirium" came out of her mouth so full of conviction, so unbending, that I asked myself: "Perhaps it really was nothing but delirium, all that has been going on around me lately." I glanced at my hairy hand, and I remembered: "There are, undoubtedly, some drops of that blood of the sun and woods in you. That is why perhaps you..."No, fortunately it was not delirium; or no, unfortunately it was not delirium.

RECORD THIRTY-THREE

This Without a Synopsis, Hastily, the Last The day.

Quick, to the newspaper! Perhaps there...I read the paper with my eyes (exactly; my eyes now are like a pen, or like a counting machine which you hold and feel in your hands like a tool, something foreign, an instrument). In the newspaper, on the first page, in large print:

THE ENEMIES OF HAPPINESS ARE AWAKE! HOLD TO YOUR HAPPINESS WITH BOTH HANDS. TOMORROW ALL WORK WILL STOP AND ALL NUMBERS ARE TO COME TO BE OPERATED UPON. THOSE WHO FAIL TO COME WILL BE SUB— MITIED TO THE MACHINE OF THE WELL—DOER.

Tomorrow! How can there be, how can there be any tomorrow?

Following my daily habit, I stretched out my arm (instrument!) to the bookshelf to put today's paper with the rest within a cover ornamented with gold. While doing this: "What for? What does it matter? Never again shall I... Within this cover, never..." And out of my hands, down to the floor it fell.

I stood looking all around, over all my room; hastily I was taking away, feverishly putting into some unseen valise, everything I regretted leaving here: my desk, my books, my chair. Upon that chair I-330 had sat that day, I was below on the floor...My bed...Then for a minute or two I stood and waited for some miracle to happen; perhaps the telephone would ring, perhaps she would say that...But no, no miracle...

I am leaving, going into the unknown. These are my last lines. Farewell you, my unknown beloved ones, with whom I have lived through so many pages, before whom I have bared my diseased soul, my whole self to the last broken little screw, to the last cracked spring...I am going...

RECORD THIRTY-FOUR

The Forgiven Ones

A Sunny Night

A Radio-Valkyrie

Oh, if only I had actually broken myself to pieces! If only I had actually found myself with her in some place beyond the Wall, among beasts showing their yellow tusks. If only I had never actually returned here! It would be a thousand, a million times easier! But now—what? Now to go and choke that—! But would it help? No, no, no! Take yourself in hand, D-503! Set into yourself the firm hub of logic; at least for a short while weigh heavily with all your might on the lever and, like the ancient slave, turn the millstones of syllogisms until you have written down and understood everything that happened

When I boarded the Integral, everyone was already there and in his place; all the cells of the gigantic hive were filled. Through the decks of glass—tiny, ant-like people below, at the telegraph, dynamo, transformers, altimeters, ventilators, indicators, motor, pumps, tubes....In the saloon people were sitting over tables and instruments, probably those commissioned by the Scientific Bureau; near them the Second Builder and his two aides. All three had their heads down between their shoulders like turtles, their faces gray, autumnal, rayless.

"Well?" I asked.

"Well, somewhat uncanny" one of them replied, smiling a gray, rayless smile. "Perhaps we shall have to land in some unknown place. And, generally speaking, nobody knows..."

I could hardly bear to look at them, when in an hour or so I was to throw them out with my own hands, to cast them out from the cozy figures of our Table of Hours, to tear them away forever from the mother's breast of the United State. They reminded me of the tragic figures of "The Three Forgiven Ones"—a story known to all of our school children. It tells about three Numbers, who by way of experiment were exempted for a whole month from any work.[1] "Go wherever you will, do what you will," they were told. The unhappy three spent their whole time wandering around their usual place of work and gazing within with hungry eyes. They would stop on the plazas and busy themselves for hours repeating the motions which they had been used to making during certain hours of the day; it became a bodily necessity for them to do so. They would saw and plane the air; with unseen sledge hammers they would bang upon unseen stakes. Finally, on the tenth day, they could bear it no longer; they took one another by the hand, entered the river, and to the accompaniment of the March they waded deeper and deeper until the water ended their sufferings forever.

I repeat, it was hard for me to look at them, and I was anxious to leave them.

"I just want to take a glance into the engine room, and then oft" I said.

They were asking me questions: "What voltage should be used for the initial spark, how much ballast water was needed in the tank aft?" As if a phonograph were some where within me, I was giving quick and precise answers, but I, my inner self, was busy with my own thoughts.

In the narrow passage gray unifs were passing, gray faces, and, for a second, one face with its hair low over the forehead, eyes gazing from deep beneath it—it was that same man. I understood: they had come, and there was no escape from it for me; only minutes remained, a few dozen minutes....An infinitesimal, molecular quiver of my whole body. This quivering did not stop to the very end—it was as if an enormous motor had been placed under the very foundation of my body, which was so light that the walls, partitions, cables, beams, lights— everything was quivering....

I did not yet know whether she was there. But I had no time...They were calling me: quick! To the commander's bridge; time to go...where?

Gray, rayless faces. Below in the water—tense blue veins. Heavy, cast-iron patches of sky. It was so difficult to lift my cast-iron hand and take up the receiver of the commander's telephone!..."Up! Forty—five degrees!"

A heavy explosion—a jerk—a rabid, greenish-white mountain of water aft—the deck beneath my feet began to move, soft as rubber; and everything below, my whole life, forever...For a second, falling deeper and deeper into a sort of funnel, becoming more and more compressed—the icy-blue relief map of the City, the round bubbles of cupolas, the lonely leaden finger of the Accumulating Tower...Then, instantaneously, a cotton curtain of cloud...We pierced it, and there was the sun and the blue sky! Seconds, minutes, miles—the blue was hardening, fast filling with darkness; like drops of cold, silver sweat the stars appeared....

A sad, unbearably bright, black, starry, sunny night As if one had become deaf, one still saw that the pipes were roaring, but one only saw; dead silence all about. The sun was mute. It was natural, of course. One might have expected it; we were beyond the terrestrial atmosphere. The transition was so quick, so sudden, that everyone became timid and silent. Yet I...I thought I felt easier under that fantastic, mute sun. I had bounded over the inevitable border, having left my body somewhere there below, and I was soaring bodiless to a new world, where everything was to be different, upside down.

"Keep the same course!" I shouted into the engine room, or perhaps it was not I but a phonograph in me, and the same machine that I was, with a mechanical, hinge-like movement, handed the commander's trumpet to the Second Builder. Permeated by that most delicate, molecular quiver known only to me, I ran down the companionway, to seek...

The door of the saloon....An hour later it was to latch and lock itself....At the door stood an unfamiliar Number. He was small, with a face like a hundred or a thousand others which are usually lost in a crowd, but his arms were exceptionally long—they reached down to his knees, as if they had been taken by mistake from another set of human organs and fastened to his shoulders.

The long arm stretched out and barred the way.

"Where do you want to go?"

It was obvious that he was not aware that I knew everything. All right! Perhaps it had to be that way. From above him, in a deliberately significant tone, I said:

"I am the Builder of the Integral, and I am directing the test flight. Do you understand?"

The arm drew away.

The saloon. Heads covered with bristles, gray iron bristles, and yellow heads, and bald, ripe heads were bent over the instruments and maps. Swiftly, with a glance, I gathered them in with my eyes; off I ran, back down the long passage, then through the hatch into the engine room. It was hot there from the red tubes, overheated by the explosions: a constant roar—the levers were dancing their desperate, drunken dance, moving ceaselessly with a barely noticeable quiver; the arrows on the dials...There! At last! Near the tachometer, a notebook in his hand, was that man with the low forehead.

"Listen," I shouted straight into his ear (because of the roar). "Is she here? Where is she?"

"She? There, at the radio."

I dashed over. There were three of them, all with receiving helmets on. And she seemed a head taller than usual, wingy, sparkling, flying like an ancient Valkyrie; the bluish sparks from the radio seemed to emanate from her—from her also that ethereal, lightning—like odor of ozone.

"Someone—well, you, for instance," I said to her, panting from having run, "I must send a message down to earth, to the docks. Come, I shall dictate it to you."

Close to the apparatus there was a small, box-like cabin. We sat at the table side by side. I found her hand and pressed it hard.

"Well, what is going to happen?"

"I don't know. Do you realize how wonderful it is? To fly without knowing where...no matter where? it will soon be twelve o'clock and nobody knows what...And when night...Where shall you and I be tonight? Perhaps somewhere on the grass, on dry leaves..."

Blue sparks emanated from her, and the odor of lightning, and the vibration within me became more and more frequent.

"Write down," I said loudly, panting(from having run). "Time: eleven-twenty; speed, 5,800..."

"Last night she came to me with your note. I know... I know everything; don't talk...But the child is yours. I sent her over; she is already beyond the Wall. She will live..."

I was back on the commander's bridge, back in the delirious night with its black starry sky and its dazzling sun. The hands of the clock on the table were slowly moving from minute to minute. Everything was permeated by a thin, hardly perceptible quivering (only I noticed it). For some reason a thought passed through my head: it would be better if all this took place not here but somewhere below, nearer to earth.

"Stop!" I commanded.

We kept moving by inertia, but more and more slowly. Now the Integral was caught for a second by an imperceptible little hair, for a second it hung motionless, then the little hair broke and the Integral, like a stone, dashed downward with increasing speed. That way minutes, tens of minutes passed in silence. My pulse was audible; the hand of the clock before my eyes came closer and closer to twelve. It was clear to me that I was a stone, I-330 the earth, and the stone was under irresistible compulsion to fall downward, to strike the earth and break into small particles. What if...? Already the hard, blue smoke of clouds appeared below...What if...? But the phonograph within me, with a hinge-like motion and precision, took the telephone and commanded: "Low speed!" The stone ceased failing. Now only the four lower tubes were growling, two ahead and two aft, only enough to hold the Integral motionless; and the Integral, only slightly trembling, stopped in the air as if anchored, about one kilometer from the earth.

Everybody came out on deck (it was shortly before twelve, before the sounding of the dinner gong) and leaned over the glass railing; hastily, in huge gulps, they devoured the unknown world which lay below, beyond the Green Wall. Amber, blue, green, the autumnal woods, prairies, a lake. At the edge of a little blue saucer some lone yellow debris, a threatening, dried-out yellow finger—it must have been the tower of an ancient "church" saved by a miracle....

"Look, there! Look! There to the right!"

There—over the green desert—a brown blot was rapidly moving. I held a telescope in my hands and automatically I brought it to my eyes: the grass reaching their chests, a herd of brown horses was galloping, and on their backs—they, black, white, and dark...

Behind me:

"I assure you, I saw a face!"

"Go away! Tell it to someone else!"

"Well, look for yourself! Here is the telescope."

They had already disappeared. Endless green desert— and in that desert, dominating it completely and dominating me, and everybody, the piercing vibrations of the gong; dinnertime, one minute to twelve.

For a second the little world around me became incoherent, dispersed. Someone's brass badge fell to the floor. It mattered little. Soon it was under my heel. A voice: "And I tell you, it was a face!" A black square, the open door of the main saloon. White teeth pressed together, smiling...And at that moment, when the clock began slowly to strike, holding its breath between beats, and when the front rows began to move toward the dining saloon, the rectangle of the door was suddenly crossed by the two familiar, unnaturally long arms.

"STOP!"

Someone's fingers sank piercing into my palm. It was I-330. She was beside me.

'Who is it? Do you know him?'

"Is he not? ...Is he not?..."

He was already lifted upon somebody's shoulders. Above a hundred other faces, his face like hundreds, like thousands of other faces, yet unique among them all

"In the name of the Guardians! You, to whom I talk, they hear me, every one of them hears me. I talk to you: we know! We don't know your numbers yet, but we know everything else. The Integral shall not be yours! The test flight will be carried out to the end and you, you will not dare to make another move! You, with your own hands, will help to go on with the test and afterward...well, I have finished!"

Silence. The glass plates under my feet seemed soft, cotton-like. My feet, too—soft, cotton-like. Beside me—she with a dead-white smile, angry blue sparks. Through her teeth to me:

"Ah! It is your work! You did your 'duty'! Well... " She tore her hand from mine; the Valkyrie helmet with indignant wings was soon to be seen some distance in front of me. I was alone, torpid, silent. Like everyone else I followed into the dining saloon.

But it was not I, not I! I told nobody, save these white, mute pages ...I cried this to her within me, inaudibly, desperately, loudly. She was across the table, directly opposite me, and not once did she even touch me with her gaze. Beside her someone's ripe, yellow, bald head. I heard (it was I-330's voice):

"'Nobility' of character! But my dear professor, even a superficial etymological analysis of the word shows that it is a superstition, a remnant of the ancient feudal epoch. We..."

I felt I was growing pale, and that they would soon notice it. But the phonograph within me performed the prescribed fifty chewing movements for every bite. I locked myself into myself as though into an opaque house; I threw up a heap of reeks before my door and lowered the window blinds....

Afterward, the telephone of the commander was again in my hands, and again we made the flight through the clouds with icy, supreme anxiety into the icy, starry, sunny night. Minutes, hours passed...Apparently all that time the motor of logic within me was working feverishly at full speed. For suddenly somewhere, at a distant point of the dark blue space, I saw my desk, and the gill-like cheeks of U- bent over it, and the forgotten pages of my records! It became clear to me; nobody but her...everything was dear to me!

If only I could reach the radio room soon...wing-like helmets, the odor of blue lightning...I remember telling her something in a low voice, and I remember how she looked through me, and how her voice seemed to come from a distance:

"I am busy. I am receiving a message from below. You may dictate yours to her."

The small, box-like little cabin...I thought for a second and then dictated in a firm voice:

"Time fourteen-forty. Going down. Motors stopped. The end of all."

The commander's bridge. The machine heart of the Integral stopped; we were falling; my heart could not catch up and would remain behind and rise higher and higher into my throat....Clouds....And then a distant green spot—everything green, more and more distinct, running like a storm toward us. "Soon the end."

The porcelain-like distorted white face of the Second Builder! It was he who struck me with all his strength; I hurt my head on something; and through the approaching darkness, I heard while falling:

"Full speed—aft!"

A brusque jolt upward....

[1] It happened long ago, in the third century A.T. (After the Tables).

RECORD THIRTY-FIVE

In a Ring

A Carrot

A Murder

I did not sleep all night. But one thought the whole night... As a result of yesterday's mishap my head is tightly bandaged—it seems to me not a bandage but a ring, a pitiless ring of glass iron, riveted about my head. And I am busy with the same thought, always the same thought in my riveted circle: to kill U-. To kill U- and then go to her and say: "Now do you believe?" What is most disquieting is that to kill is dirty, primitive. To break her head with something—the thought of it gives me a peculiar sensation of something disgustingly sweet in my mouth, and I am unable to swallow my saliva; I am always spitting into my handkerchief, yet my mouth feels dry.

I had in my closet a heavy piston rod which had cracked during the casting, and which I had brought home in order to find out with a microscope the cause of the cracking. I made my manuscript into a tube (let her read me to the last letter!), pushed the broken piston into that tube, and went downstairs. The stairway seemed endless, the steps disgustingly slippery, liquid. I had to wipe moisture from off my mouth very frequently. Downstairs ...my heart dropped. I took the piston out and went to the controller's table. But she was not there; instead, an empty, icy desk with ink blots. And then I remembered that today all work had stopped; everyone was to go to be operated on. There was no need for her to stay here. There was nobody to be registered...

The street. It was windy. The sky seemed to be composed of soaring panels of cast iron. And exactly as it had seemed for one moment yesterday, the whole world was broken up into separate, sharp, independent fragments, and each of these fragments was falling at full speed; each would stop for a second, hang before me in the air, and disappear without a trace. It was as if the precise, black letters on this page should suddenly move apart and begin to jump hither and thither in fright, so that there was not a word on the page, only nonsensical "ap," "jum," "wor." The crowd seemed just as nonsensical, dispersed (not in rows), going forward, backward, diagonally, transversely....

Then nobody. For a second, suddenly stopping in my mad dashing, I saw on the second floor, in the glass cage of a room hanging in the air, a man and a woman—a kiss; she, standing with her whole body bent backward, brokenly: "This is for the last time, forever..."

At a corner a thorny, moving bush of heads. Above the heads separate, floating in the air, a banner: "Down with the machines! Down with the Operation!" And, distinct from my own self, I thought: "Is it possible that each one of us bears such a pain, that it can be removed only with his heart? ....That something must be done to each one, before he..." For a second everything disappeared for me from the world, except my beast-like hand with the heavy, cast-iron package it held

A boy appeared. He was running, a shadow under his lower lip. The lower lip turned out like the cuff of a rolled-up sleeve. His face was distorted; he wept loudly; he was running away from someone. The stamping of feet was heard behind him...

The boy reminded me: "U- must be in school. I must hurry!" I ran to the nearest opening of the Underground Railway. At the entrance someone passed me and said, "Not running. No trains today... there!" I descended. A sort of general delirium was reigning. The glitter of cut-crystal suns; the platform packed closely with heads. An empty, torpid train..

in the silence—a voice. I could not see her but I knew, I knew that intense, living, flexible,, whip-like, flogging voice! I felt there that sharp trangle of brows drawn to the temples....

"Let reel Let me reach her! I must! ..."

Someone's tentacles caught my arm, my shoulders. I was nailed, In the silence I heard:

"No. Go up to them. There they will cure you; there they will overfeed you with that leavened happiness. Satiated, you will slumber peacefully, organized, keeping time, and snoring sweetly. Is it possible that...you do not hear yet that great symphony of snoring? Foolish people! Don’t you realize that they want to liberate you from these gnawing, worm-like, torturing question marks? And you remain standing here and listening to me? Quick Up! To the Great Operation! What is your concern, if I remain here alone? What does it matter to you if I want to struggle, hopelessly struggle? So much the better! What does it matter to you that I do not want others to desire for me? I want to desire for myself. If I desire the impossible... "

Another voice, slow, heavy:

"Ah, the, impossible! Which means to run after your stupid fancies; those fancies would whirl from under your very noses like a tail. No, we shall catch that tail, and then ..."

"And then—swallow it and fall snoring; a new tail will become necessary. They say the ancients had a certain animal which they called 'ass.' In order to make it go forward they would attach a carrot to a bow held in front of its nose, so that it could not reach it....If it had caught and swallowed it..."

The tentacles suddenly let me go; I threw myself toward the place she was speaking from; but at that very moment everything was brought down in confusion. Shouts from behind: "They are coming here! Coming here!" The lights twinkled and went out—someone had cut the cable—and everything was like a lava of cries, groaning, heads, fingers....

I do not know how long we were rolled about that way in the underground tube. I only remember that underneath my feet steps were felt, dusk appeared, becoming brighter and brighter, and again we were in the street, dispersing fan wise in different directions.

Again I was alone. Wind. Gray, low twilight crawling over my head. In the damp glass of the sidewalk, somewhere very deep, there were light, topsy-turvy walls and figures moving along, feet upward. And that terribly heavy package in my hands pulled me down into that depth, to the bottom.

At the desk again. U- was not yet there; her room was dark and empty. I went up to my room and turned on the light. My temples, tightly bound by the iron ring, were pulsating. I paced and paced, always in the same circle: my table, the white package on the table, the bed, my table, the white package on the table... In the room to my left the curtains were lowered. To my right, the knotty bald head bent over a book, the enormous, parabolic forehead. Wrinkles on the forehead like a series of yellow, illegible lines. At times our eyes met, and then I felt that those lines were about me.

...It happened at twenty-one o'clock exactly. U- came in on her own initiative. I remember that my breathing was so loud that I could hear it, and that I wanted to breathe less noisily but was unable to.

She sat down and arranged the fold of her unif on her knees. The pinkish-brown gills were waving.

"Oh, dear, is it true that you are wounded? I just learned about it, and at once I ran..."

The piston was before me on the table. I jumped up, breathing even louder. She heard, and stopped halfway through a word and rose. Already I had located the place on her head; something disgustingly sweet was in my mouth...My handkerchief! I could not find it. I spat on the floor.

The fellow with the yellow, fixed wrinkles which think of me! He must not see. It would be even more disgusting if he could...I pressed the button (I had no right to, but who cared about fights at that moment?). The curtains fell.

Evidently she felt and understood what was coming, for she rushed to the door. But I was quicker than she, and I locked the door with the key, breathing loudly and not for a second taking my eyes from that place on her head

"You...you are mad! How dare you..." She moved backward toward the bed, put her trembling hands between her knees...Like a tense spring, holding her firmly with my gaze,'I slowly stretched out my arm toward the table (only one arm could move), and I snatched the piston.

"I implore you! One day—only one day! Tomorrow I shall go and attend to the formalities..."

What was she talking about? I swung my arm...And I consider I killed her. Yes, you my unknown readers, you have the right to call me murderer. I know that I should have dealt the blow on her head had she not screamed:

"For... for the sake...I agree....I ...one moment..." With trembling hands she tore off her unif—a large, yellow, drooping body, she fell upon the bed....

Then I understood; she thought that I pulled the curtains...in order to...that I wanted...

This was so unexpected and so stupid that I burst out laughing. Immediately the tense spring within me broke, and my hand weakened, and the piston fell to the floor.

Here I learned from personal experience that laughter is the most terrible of weapons; you can kill anything with laughter, even murder. I sat at my table and laughed desperately; I saw no way out of that absurd situation. I don't know what would have been the end if things had run their natural course, but suddenly a new factor in the arithmetical chain: the telephone rang.

I hurried, grasped the receiver. Perhaps she... I heard an unfamiliar voice:

"Wait a minute."

Annoying, infinite buzzing. Heavy steps from afar, nearer and louder like cast iron, and...

"D-5037 The Well-Doer speaking. Come at once to me."

Ding! He hung up the receiver. Ding! like a key in a keyhole.

U- was still in bed, eyes closed, gills apart in the form of a smile. I picked up her clothes, threw them on her, and said through clenched teeth:

"Well. Quick! Quick!"

She raised her body on her elbow, her breasts hanging down to one side, eyes round. She became a figure of wax.

"What?"

"Get dressed, that is what!"

Face distorted, she firmly snatched her clothes and said in a fiat voice, "Turn away... "

I turned away, pressed my forehead against the glass. Light, figures, sparks were trembling in the black, wet mirror....No, all this was I, myself—within me..... What did HE call me for? Is it possible that HE knows already about her, about me, about everything?

U-, already dressed, was at the door. I made a step toward her and pressed her hand as hard as though I hoped to squeeze out of it, drop by drop, what I needed.

"Listen... Her name, you know whom I am talking of, did you report her name? No? Tell the truth, I must ... I don't care what happens, but tell the truth!"

"No."

"No? But why not, since you..."

Her lower lip turned out like the lip of that boy and her face...tears were running down her cheeks.

"Because I... I was afraid that if I did you might...you would stop lov— Oh, I cannot, I could not!"

I understood, It was the truth, Absurd, ridiculous, human truth. I opened the door.

RECORD THIRTY-SIX

Empty Pages

The Christian God

About My Mother

It is very strange that a kind of empty white page should be left in my hand. How I walked there, how I waited (I remember I had to wait), I know nothing about it; I remember not a sound, not a face, not a gesture, as if all communicating wires between me and the world were cut.

When I came to, I found myself standing before Him. I was afraid to raise my eyes; I saw only the enormous cast-iron hands upon His knees. Those hands weighed upon Him, bending His knees with their weight. He was slowly moving His fingers. His face was somewhere above, as if in fog. And, only because His voice came to my ears from such a height, it did not roar like thunder, it did not deafen me but appeared to be an ordinary, human voice.

"Then you, too, you, the Builder of the Integral! You, whose lot it was to become the greatest of all conquistadores! You, whose name was to have been at the head of a glorious new chapter in the history of the United State! You..."

Blood ran to my head, to my cheeks—and here again a white page; only the pulsation in my temples and the heavy voice from above; but I remember not a word. Only when He became silent, I came to and noticed how His hand moved heavily like a thousand pounds, and crawled slowly—His finger threatened me.

"Well? Why are you silent? Is it true, or not? Executioner? So!"

"So," I repeated submissively. And then I heard clearly every one of His words.

"Well, then? Do you think I am afraid of the Word? Did you ever try to take off its shell and look into its inner meaning? I shall tell you....Remember a blue hill, a crowd, a cross? Some up on the hill, sprinkled with blood, are busy nailing a body to the cross; others below, sprinkled with tears, are gazing upward. Does it not occur to you that the part which those above must play is the more difficult, the more important part? If it were not for them, how could that magnificent tragedy ever have been staged? True, they were hissed by the dark crowd, but for that the author of the tragedy, God, should have remunerated them the more liberally, should He not? And the most clement, Christian Cod himself, who burned all the infidels on a slow fire, is He not an executioner? Was the number of those burned by the Christians less than the number of burned Christians? Yet (you must understand this!), yet this God was for centuries glorified as the God of love! Absurd? Oh, no. Just the contrary. It is instead a testament to the imperishable wisdom of man, written in blood. Even at the time when he still was wild and hairy, man knew that real, algebraic love for humanity must inevitably be inhuman, and that the inevitable mark of truth is cruelty—just as the inevitable mark of fire is its property of causing the sensation of burning. Could you show me a fire that would not hurt? Well, now prove your point! Proceed! Argue!"

How could I argue? How could I argue when those thoughts were once mine, though I was never able to dress them in such a splendid, tempered armor? I remained silent.

"If your silence is intended to mean that you agree with me, then let us talk as adults do after the children have gone to bed; let us talk to the logical end. I ask: what was it that man from his diaper age dreamed of, tormented himself for, prayed for? He longed for that day when someone would tell him what happiness is, and then would chain him to it. What else are we doing now? The ancient dream about a paradise... Remember: there in paradise they know no desires any more, no pity, no love; there they are all—blessed. An operation has been performed upon their center of fancy; that is why they are blessed, angels, servants of God....And now, at the very moment when we have caught up with that dream, when we hold it like this" (He clenched his hand so hard, that if he had held a stone in it sap would have run out!) "....At the moment when all that was left for us was to adorn our prize and distribute it among all in equal pieces, at that very moment you, you... "

The cast-iron roar was suddenly broken off. I was as red as a piece of iron on an anvil under the moulding sledge hammer. The hammer seemed to have stopped for a second, hanging in the air, and I waited, waited ...until suddenly:

"How old are you?'

"Thirty-two."

"Just double the age, and as simple as at sixteen! Listen. Is it possible that it really never occurred to you that they (we do not yet know their names, but I am certain you will disclose them to us), that they were interested in you only as the Builder of the Integral? Only in order to be able, through the use of you—"

"Don't! Don't!" I cried. But it was like protecting yourself with your hands and crying to a bullet: you may still be hearing your own "don't," but meanwhile the bullet has burned you through, and writhing with pain you are prostrated on the ground.

Yes, yes: the Builder of the Integral...Yes, yes.... At once there came back to me the angry face of U- with twitching, brick-red gills, on that morning when both of them...

I remember now, clearly, how I raised my eyes and laughed. A Socrates-like, bald-headed man was sitting before me; and small drops of sweat dotted the bald surface of his head.

How simple, how magnificently trivial everything was! How simple... almost to the point of being ridiculous! Laughter was choking me and bursting forth in puffs; I covered my mouth with my hand and rushed wildly out....

Steps. Wind. Damp, leaping fragments of lights and faces... And while running: "No! Only to see her! To see her once more!"

Here again an empty white page. All I remember is feet: not people, just feet, hundreds of feet, confusedly stamping feet, falling from somewhere in the pavement, a heavy rain of feet... And some cheerful, daring voice, and a shout that was probably for me: Hey, hey! Come here! Come along with us!"

Afterward—a deserted square heavily overloaded with tense wind. In the middle of the square a dim, heavy, threatening mass—the Machine of the Well-Doer. And a seemingly unexpected image arose within me in response to the sight of the Machine: a snow-white pillow, and on the pillow a head thrown back, and half-closed eyes, and a sharp, sweet line of teeth... All this seemed so absurdly, so terribly connected with the Machine. I know how this connection has come about, but I do not yet want to see it nor to say it aloud—I don't want to! I don't!

I closed my eyes and sat down on the steps which led upward to the Machine. I must have been running hard, for my face was wet. From somewhere far away cries were coming. But nobody heard them; nobody heard me crying: "Save me from it—save me!"

If only I had a mother as the ancients had—my mother, mine, for whom I should be not the Builder of the Integral, and not D-530, not a molecule of the United State, but merely a living human piece, a piece of herself, a trampled, smothered, cast-off piece... And though I were driving the nails into the cross, or being nailed to it (perhaps it is the same), she would hear what no one else could hear, her old, grown-together, wrinkled lips...

RECORD THIRTY-SEVEN

Infusorian

Doomsday

Her Room

This morning while we were in the refectory my neighbor to my left whispered to me in a frightened tone:

"But why don't you eat? Don't you see, they are looking at you"

I had to pluck up all my strength to show a smile. I felt it—like a crack in my face; I smiled, and the borders of the crack drew apart wider and wider; it was quite painful.

And then: no sooner had I lifted the small cube of paste upon my fork, than the fork jerked from my hand and tinkled against the plate. And at once the tables, the walls, the plates, even the air, trembled and rang; outside, too, an enormous, iron, round roar reaching the sky—floating over heads and houses, it died away in the distance in small, hardly perceptible circles like those upon water.

I saw faces instantaneously grow faded and bleached; I saw mouths filled with food suddenly motionless, and forks hanging in air. Then everything became confused, jumped off the centuries-old tracks; everybody jumped up from his place (without singing the Hymn!) and confusedly, in disorder, hastily finishing chewing, choking, grasping one another.... They were asking: "What? What happened? What?..." And the disorderly fragments of the Machine, which was once perfect and great, fell down in all directions—down the elevators, down the stairs.... Stamping of feet... Pieces of words like pieces of torn letters carried by the wind....

The same outpour from the neighboring houses. A minute later the avenue seemed like a drop of water seen under a microscope: the infusoria locked up in the transparent, glass-like drop of water were tossing around, from side to side, up and down.

"Ah!" Someone's triumphant voice. I saw the back of a neck, and a finger pointing to the sky. I remember very distinctly a yellowish-pinkish nail, and under the nail a crescent crawling out as if from under the horizon. The finger was like a compass; all eyes were raised to the sky.

There, running away from invisible pursuit, masses of cloud were rushing upon each other; colored by the clouds, the aeros of the Guardians were floating with their tube-like antennae. And farther to the west—something like... At first nobody could understand what it was, even I, who knew (unfortunately) more than the others. It was like a great hive of black aeros swarming somewhere at an extraordinary height—they looked like hardly noticeable, swiftly moving points... Nearer and nearer... Hoarse, guttural sounds began to reach the earth, and finally we saw birds just over our heads! They filled the sky with their sharp, black, descending triangles. The furious wind drove them down, and they began to land on the cupolas, on the roofs, poles, and balconies.

"Ah-ah!" and the triumphant back of the neck turned; again I saw that man with the protruding forehead, but it seemed that the name, so to speak, was all that was left of him: he seemed to have crawled out from under his forehead, and on his face, around the eyes and lips, bunches of rays were growing. Through the noise of the wind and the wings and the cawing he cried to me:

"Do you realize? Do you realize! They have blown up the Wall! The Wall has been blown up! Do you understand?"

Somewhere in the background figures with their heads drawn in were hastily rushing by and into the houses. In the middle of the pavements was a mass of those who had already been operated upon; they moved toward the west...

...Hairy bunches of rays around the lips and eyes... I grasped his hands:

"Tell me. Where is she? Where is I-3307 There? Beyond the Wall, or ...? I must... Do you hear me? At once... I cannot..."

"Here!" he shouted in a happy, drunken voice, showing strong yellow teeth, "here in town, and she is acting! Oh, we are doing great work!"

Who are those "we"? Who am I?

There were about fifty around him. Like him, they seemed to have crawled out from under their foreheads. They were loud, cheerful, strong-toothed, swallowing the stormy wind. With their simple not at all terrible-looking electrocutors (where did they get them?), they started to the west, toward the operated ones, encircling them, keeping parallel to avenue Forty-eight...

Stumbling against the tightly drawn ropes woven by the wind, I was running to her. What for? I did not know. I was stumbling... Empty streets... The city seemed foreign, wild, filled with the ceaseless, triumphant hubbub of the birds. It seemed like the end of the world, Doomsday.

Through the glass of the walls in quite a few houses (this cut into my mind), I saw male and female Numbers in shameless embraces—without curtains lowered, without pink checks, in the middle of the day!...

The house—her house; the door ajar. The lobby, the control desk, all were empty. The elevator had stopped in the middle of its shaft. I ran panting up the endless stairs. The corridor. Like the spokes of a wheel figures on the doors dashed past my eyes: 320, 326, 330—I-330! Through the glass wall I could see everything in her room upside down, confused, creased: the table overturned, its legs in the air like a beast; the bed absurdly placed away from the wall, obliquely; strewn over the floor—fallen, trodden petals of pink checks.

I bent over and picked up one, two, three of them; all bore the name D-503. I was on all of them, drops of myself, of my molten, poured-out self. And that was all— that was left...

Somehow I felt they should not lie there on the floor and be trodden upon. I gathered a handful of them, put them on the table, and carefully smoothed them out, glanced at them, and... laughed aloud! I never knew it before but now I know—and you, too, know—that laughter may be of different colors. Laughter is but a distant echo of an explosion within us; it may be the echo of a holiday—red, blue, and golden fireworks—or at times it may represent pieces of human flesh exploded into the air....

I noticed an unfamiliar name on some of the pink checks. I do not remember the figures but I do remember the letter—F. I brushed the stubs from the table to the floor, stepped on them, on myself, stamped on them with my heels—and went out ...

In the corridor I sat on the window sill in front of her door and waited long and stupidly. An old man appeared. His face was like a pierced, empty bladder with folds; from beneath the puncture something transparent was still slowly dripping. Slowly, vaguely, I realized—tears. And only when the old man was quite far off I came to and exclaimed:

"Please... listen .... Do you know... Number I-330?"

The old man turned around, waved his hand in despair, and stumbled farther away....

I returned home at dusk. On the west side the sky was twitching every second in a pale blue, electric convulsion; a subdued, heavy roar could be heard from that direction. The roofs were covered with black, charred sticks— birds.

I lay down; and instantly, like a heavy beast, sleep came and stifled me....

RECORD THIRTY-EIGHT

I Don't Know What Title—Perhaps the Whole

Synopsis May Be Called a Castoff Cigarette Butt

I awoke. A bright glare painful to look at. I half-closed my eyes. My head seemed filled with some caustic blue smoke. was fog, and through fog:

"But I did not turn on the light...then how is it..."

I jumped up. At the table, leaning her chin on her hand and smiling, sat I-330, looking at me.

She was at the very table at which I am now writing. Those ten or fifteen minutes are already well behind me, cruelly twisted into a very firm spring. Yet it seems to me that the door closed after her only a second ago, and that I could still overtake her and grasp her hand, and that she might laugh out and say...

I-330 was at the table. I rushed toward her.

"You? You! I have been...I saw your room... I thought you... " But midway I hurt myself upon the sharp, motionless spears of her eyelashes, and I stopped. I remembered: she had looked at me in the same way before, in the Integral. I felt I had to tell her everything in one split second, and in such a way that she would surely believe, or she would never...

"Listen, I-330, I must... I must... everything! No, no, one moment—let me have a glass of water first."

My mouth was as dry as if it were lined with blotting paper. I poured a glass of water but I couldn't...I put the glass back upon the table, and with both hands f irmly grasped the carafe.

Now I noticed that the blue smoke came from a cigarette. She brought the cigarette to her lips, and eagerly drew in and swallowed the smoke as I did water; then she said:

"Don't. Be silent. Don't you see it matters very little? I came, anyway. They are waiting for me below.... Do you want these minutes, which are our last...?"

Abruptly she threw the cigarette on the floor and bent backward, over the side of the chair, to reach the button in the wall (it was quite difficult to do), and I remember how the chair swayed slightly, how two of its legs were lifted. Then the curtains fell.

She came close to me and embraced me. Her knees, through her dress, were like a slow, gentle, warm, enveloping, and permeating poison...

Suddenly (it happens at times)you plunge into sweet, warm sleep—when all at once, as it something pricks you, you tremble and your eyes are again widely open. So it was now; there on the floor in her room were the pink checks stamped with traces of footsteps, some of them bore the letter F- and some figures... Plus and minus fused within my mind into one lump... I could not say even now what sort of feeling it was, but I crushed her so that she cried out with pain...

One more minute out of those ten or fifteen; her head thrown back, lying on the bright white pillow, her eyes half-dosed, a sharp, sweet line of teeth... And all this reminded me in an irresistible, absurd, torturing way about something forbidden, something not permissible at that moment. More tenderly, more cruelly, I pressed her to myself, brighter grew the blue traces of my fingers...

She said, without opening her eyes (I noticed this), "They say you went to see the Well-Doer yesterday; is it true?"

"Yes."

Then her eyes opened widely and with delight I looked at her and saw that her face grew quickly paler and paler, that it effaced itself, disappearing—only the eyes remained.

I told her everything. Only for some reason, why I don't know (no, that's not true, I know the reason), I was silent about one thing: His assertion at the end that they needed me only in order...

Like the image on a photographic plate in a developing fluid, her face gradually reappeared: the cheeks, the white line of teeth, the lips. She stood up and went to the mirror door of the closet. My mouth was dry again. I poured water but it was revolting to drink it; I put the glass back on the table and asked:

"Did you come to see me because you wanted to inquire...?"

A sharp, mocking triangle of brows drawn to the temples looked at me from the mirror. She turned around to say something, but said nothing.

It was not necessary; I knew.

To bid her good-by, I moved my foreign limbs, struck the chair with them. It fell upside down, dead, like the table in her room. Her lips were cold...just as cold was once the floor, here, near my bed... When she left I sat down on the floor, bent over the cigarette butt...

I cannot write any more—I no longer want to!

RECORD THIRTY-NINE

The End

All this was like the last crystal of salt thrown into a saturated solution; quickly, needle-like crystals began to appear, to grow more substantial and solid. It was all clear to me; the decision was made, and tomorrow morning I shall do it! It amounts to suicide, but perhaps then I shall be reborn. For only what is killed can be reborn.

Every second the sky twitched convulsively there in the west. My head was burning and pulsating inside; I was up all night, and I fell asleep only at about seven o'clock in the morning, when the darkness of the night was already dispelled and becoming gray, and the roofs crowded with birds became visible...

I woke up; ten o'clock. Evidently the bell did not ring today. On the table—left from yesterday—stood the glass of water. I gulped the water eagerly and I ran; I had to do it quickly, as quickly as possible.

The sky was deserted, blue, all eaten up by the storm. Sharp corners of shadows... Everything seemed to be cut out of blue autumnal air—thin, dangerous to touch; it seemed so brittle, ready to disperse into glass dust. Within me something similar; I must not think; it was dangerous to think, for...

And I did not think, perhaps I did not even see properly; I only registered impressions. There on the pavement, thrown from somewhere, branches were strewn; their leaves were green, amber, and cherry-red. Above, crossing each other, birds and aeros were tossing about. Here below heads, open mouths, hands waving branches... All this must have been shouting, buzzing, chirping... Then—streets empty as if swept by a plague. I remember I stumbled over something disgustingly soft, yielding yet motionless. I bent down—a corpse. It was lying fiat, the legs apart. The face... I recognized the thick Negro lips, which even now seemed to sprinkle with laughter. His eyes, firmly screwed in, laughed into my face. One second...I stepped over him and ran: I could no longer... I had to have everything done as soon as possible, or else I felt I would snap, I would break in two like an overloaded sail...

Luckily it was not more than twenty steps away; I already saw the sign with the golden letters: "The Bureau of Guardians." At the door I stopped for a moment to gulp down as much air as I could, and I stepped in.

Inside, in the corridor, stood an endless chain of Numbers, holding small sheets of paper and heavy notebooks. They moved slowly, advancing a step or two and stopping again. I began to be tossed about along the chain; my head was breaking to pieces. I pulled them by the sleeves, I implored them as a sick man implores to be given something that would, even at the price of sharpest pain, end everything forever.

A woman with a belt tightly clasped around her waist and with two distinctly protruding, squatty hemispheres tossing about as if she had eyes on them, chuckled at me:

"He has a bellyache! Show him to the room second door to the right!"

Everybody laughed, and because of that laughter something rose in my throat; I felt I would either scream or...or ...

Suddenly from behind me someone touched my elbow. I turned around. Transparent wing ears! But they were not pink as usual; they were purplish red; his Adam's apple was tossing about as though ready to tear the covering...

Quickly boring into me: " What are you here for?"

I seized him.

"Quickly! Please! Quickly! ...into your office... I must tell everything... right away... I am glad that you...It may be terrible that it should be you to whom...But it is good, it is good...."

He, too, knew her; this made it even more tormenting for me. But perhaps he, too, would tremble when he heard ...And we would both be killing ... And I would not be alone at that, my supreme second...

The door closed with a slam. I remember a piece of paper was caught beneath the door, and it rustled on the floor when the door closed. And then a strange, airless silence covered us as if a glass bell had been put over us. If only he had uttered a single, most insignificant word, no matter what, I would have told him everything at once. But he was silent. So keyed up that I heard a noise in my ears, I said without looking at him:

"I think I always hated her from the very beginning ...I struggled...Or, no, no, don't believe me; I could have, but I did not want to save myself. I wanted to perish; this was dearer to me than anything else...and even now, even this minute, when I already know everything...Do you know that I was summoned to the Well-Doer?"

"Yes, I do."

"But what he told me! Please realize that it was equivalent to ...it was as if someone should remove the floor from under you this minute, and you and everything here on the desk, the papers, the ink...the ink would splash out and cover everything with blots..."

"What else? What further? Hurry up, others are waiting!"

Then, stumbling, muttering, I told him everything that is recorded in these pages... About my real self, and about my hairy self, and about my hands... yes... exactly, that was the beginning... And how I lied to myself, and how she obtained false certificates for me, and how I grew worse and worse, every day, and about the long corridors underground, and there beyond the Wall...

All this I threw out in formless pieces and lumps. I would stutter and fail to find words. The lips double-curved in a smile would prompt me with the word I needed, and I would nod gratefully: "Yes, yes!"...Suddenly, what was it? He was talking for me, and I only listened and nodded: "Yes, yes," and then, "Yes, exactly so... yes, yes ... "

I felt cold around my mouth as though it were wet with ether, and I asked with difficulty:

"But how is it...You could not learn anywhere..."

He smiled a smile growing more and more curved; then:

"But I see that you do want to conceal something from me. For example, you enumerated everything you saw beyond the Wall, but you failed to mention one thing. You deny it? But don't you remember that once, just in passing, just for a second, you saw me there? Yes, yes, me!"

Silence.

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, it became shame-lessly clear to me: he—he, too— And everything about myself, my torment, all that I had brought here, crushed by the burden,plucking up my last strength as if performing a great feat, all appeared to me only funny—like the ancient anecdote about Abraham and Isaac: Abraham all in a cold sweat, with the knife already raised over his son, over himself, and suddenly a voice from above: Never mind...I was only joking."

Without taking my eyes from the smile that grew more and more curved, I put my hands on the edge of the desk and slowly, very slowly pushed myself with my chair away from him. Then instantly gathering myself into my own hands, I dashed madly out, past loud voices, past steps and mouths...

I do not remember how I got into one of the public rest rooms, in a station of the Underground Railway. Above, everything was perishing; the greatest civilization, the most rational in human history was crumbling, but here, by some irony, everything remained as before, beautiful. The walls shone; water murmured cozily; and like the water, the unseen, transparent music... Only think of it! All this is doomed; all this will be covered with grass someday; only myths will remain..

I moaned aloud. At the same instant I felt someone gently patting my knee. It was from the left; it was my neighbor who occupied a seat on my left—an enormous forehead, a bald parabola, yellow, unintelligible lines of wrinkles on his forehead, those lines about me.

"I understand you. I understand completely," he said. "Yet you must calm yourself. You must. It will return. It will inevitably return. It is only important that everybody should learn of my discovery. You are the first to whom I talk about it. I have calculated that there is no infinity! No!"

I looked at him wildly.

"Yes, yes, I tell you so. There is no infinity. If the universe is infinite, then the average density of matter must equal zero; but since we know it is not zero, therefore the universe is finite; it is spherical in form, and the square of its radius—R2 —is equal to the average density multiplied by...The only thing left is to calculate the numerical coefficient and then...Do you realize what it means? It means that everything is final, everything is simple... But you, my honored sir, you disturb me, you prevent my finishing my calculations by your yelling!"

I do not know which shattered me more, his discovery, or his positiveness at that apocalyptic hour. Only then did I notice that he had a notebook in his hands, and a logarithmic dial. I understood then that even if everything was perishing it was my duty (before you, my unknown and beloved) to leave these records in a finished form.

I asked him to give me some paper, and here in the rest room, to the accompaniment of the quiet music, transparent like water, I wrote down these last lines.

I was about to put down a period as the ancients would put a cross over the caves into which they used to throw their dead, when all of a sudden my pencil trembled and fell from between my fingers...

"Listen" I pulled my neighbor. "Yes, listen, I say. There, where your finite universe ends, what is there? What?"

He had no time to answer. From above, down the steps stamping...

RECORD FORTY

Facts

The Bell

I Am Certain

Daylight. It is clear. The barometer—760 ram. Is it possible that I, D-503, really wrote these—pages? Is it possible that I ever felt, or imagined I felt, all this?

The handwriting is mine. And what follows is all in my handwriting. Fortunately, only the handwriting. No more delirium, no absurd metaphors, no feelings—only facts. For I am healthy—perfectly, absolutely healthy...I am smiling; I cannot help smiling; a splinter has been taken out of my head, and I feel so light, so empty!.To be more exact, not empty, but there .is nothing foreign, nothing that prevents me from smiling. (Smiling is the normal state for a normal human being.)

The facts are as follows: That evening my neighbor who discovered the finiteness of the universe, and I, and all others who did not have a certificate showing that we had been operated on, all of us were taken to the nearest auditorium. (For some reason the number of the auditorium, 112, seemed familiar to me.) There they tied us to the tables and performed the great operation, Next day, I, D-503, appeared before the Well-Doer and told him everything known to me about the enemies of happiness. Why, before, it had seemed hard for me to go, I cannot understand. The only explanation seems to be my illness—my soul.

That same evening, sitting at the same table with Him, with the Well-Doer, I saw for the first time in my life the famous Gas Chamber. They brought in that woman. She was to testify in my presence. She remained stubbornly silent and smiling. I noticed that she had sharp and very white teeth which were very pretty.

Then she was brought under the Bell. Her face became very white, and as her eyes were large and dark, all was very pretty. When they began pumping the air from under the Bell she threw her head back and half-closed her eyes; her lips were pressed together. This reminded me of something. She looked at me, holding the arms of the chair firmly. She continued to look until her eyes closed. Then she was taken out and brought back to consciousness by means of electrodes, and again she was put under the Bell. The procedure was repeated three times, yet she did not utter a word.

The others who were brought in with that woman proved to be more honest; many of them began to speak after the first trial. Tomorrow they will all ascend the steps to the Machine of the Well-Doer. No postponement is possible, for there still is chaos, groaning, cadavers, beasts in the western section; and to our regret there are still quantifies of Numbers who have betrayed Reason.

But on the transverse avenue Forty we have succeeded in establishing a temporary Wall of high-voltage waves. And I hope we win. More than that; I am certain we shall win. For Reason must prevail.