We
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 notice only slightly 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 away the
_Integral_ 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 transcendant 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.
Number S-4711 I saw 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...."
"I-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, broader and broader, 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 the Guardians. Today, after
sixteen o'clock, I shall go there 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 towards us.
O-90 gently took my hand.
"You are so strange today ... are you ill?"
My dream.... Yellow color.... Buddha.... It was at once born 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 right. Absolutely right."
I did not go to the Bureau of the 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 text-book. This occupation always calms and purifies our
thoughts. O- sat over her note book, 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
surreptitiously to put these lilies-of-the-valley there. Well, true
I did not go; I didn't, but was it my fault that I 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
globe-like 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 be putting
the plug into the socket behind we would hear at first from the
megaphone, "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 clearly see that I was insincere with myself,
that I lied to myself in order to avoid seeing that square-root of
minus one. My sickness, etc., 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 came to accomplish a great thing: they came to put on