Free Peace on Earth by Stanislaw Lem Page B

orgies plus special oils and paraphernalia, it’s all surrogate and silly. Orgies are so tiresome anyway, there’s nothing to talk about, nothing left to fantasize about. Oh to have an unfulfillable longing! Adelaide shook his head and said that he had foolishly cut off the branch he sat on by settling those old scores. Now, having nothing to dream about, he suffered from chronic insomnia. He hired a professional fantasist, probably a writer or poet. The man did come up with a few passable ideas for him, but a good fantasy compels its realization and after that it’s gone, so they had to be all but impossible. I interrupted to say that that shouldn’t be so hard. Move a continent. Saw the moon into four equal parts. Eat the leg of the President of the United States in Chinese duck sauce (I pulled out all the stops, after all I was talking to a madman). Have intercourse with a firefly at the moment of its brightest light. Walk on water, become a national holiday, change places with God. Pay the terrorists to leave ministers, ambassadors, and company executives alone and go after the people who really deserve it.
    Adelaide was looking at me now not only with fondness but also with admiration. “A pity we didn’t meet sooner, Jonathan,” he sighed. “You’re on the right track, but, you see, with continents and moons and miracles there’s no personal involvement. A true fantasist’s emotions have to be engaged. And fireflies don’t do anything for me. But a good fantasy isn’t really a matter of lust or fury, it’s like a rainbow, it’s there and not there, and then you fall asleep. During the day I never had time for rainbows. My writer expert stated that the number of one’s possible fantasies is inversely proportional to the amount of one’s liquid assets. For him who has everything dreams are no longer possible. Change places with God? God forbid! But I would have hired you anyway.”
    On the broad leaf of a low needleless cactus was a large slug. An ugly thing, and that was no doubt why Adelaide nodded to his servant. “Eat that,” he said, pointing. At the same time he pulled a checkbook and pen out of his pajama pocket.
    “How much will he do it for?” I wondered. The servant put out his hand for the slug but I stopped him.
    “I’ll give you a thousand dollars more than Mr. Kramer if you don’t eat it,” I said, taking my notebook from my pocket. It was covered with the same green plastic as Adelaide’s checkbook.
    The servant froze. In the face of the millionaire was hesitation, and I didn’t know whether or not we would start bidding now. My resources were certainly no match for Kramer’s. So I had to change tactics.
    “How much will you eat it for, Adelaide?” I asked, opening my notebook as though I were about to write a check. This delighted him. The servant was no longer in the picture.
    “I’ll give you a blank check if you swallow it without chewing and describe to me how it moves in your stomach,” he said in a hoarse voice.
    “Unfortunately I had breakfast already and I don’t eat between meals,” I said with a smile. “Anyway your bank account must be controlled by trustees.”
    “No, you’re wrong! Chase Manhattan always honors my checks.”
    “Perhaps, but I’m not hungry. Let’s return to fantasies.” This conversation had so absorbed me that I forgot all about my left side but it reminded me. We were moving away from the slug of contention when I tripped the millionaire and at the same time chopped him in the neck so that he fell flat on the grass. I relate this in the first person though it was my left foot and left hand that did it.
    “Forgive me,” I said, thinking quickly, “but that was my fantasy.” I helped him up. He was not so much offended as stunned. It was obvious no one had ever treated him like that, either here or before the asylum.
    “A clever fellow,” he said, brushing off the dirt. “But don’t do that again, because I might slip a disk.