Peace on Earth (3 page)

“Blondes only?”

“Mainly. They can be bleached blondes.”

“Is this still going on?”

“Not on the bus.”

“Elsewhere?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried. I mean, I haven’t given it the opportunity. If you must know, I was slapped several times. It embarrassed and angered me, being slapped, because I wasn’t guilty, yet at the same time I was pleased. But once a woman slapped me and the slap landed fully on the left cheek, and when that happened I didn’t feel the slightest pleasure. I thought this over and finally figured out the reason.”

“But of course!” cried the professor. “When the left-hemisphere Tichy was slapped on the cheek for the right-hemisphere Tichy, the right-hemisphere Tichy was pleased. But when the slap was wholly on the left, it didn’t like that at all.”

“Exactly. So there is some sort of communication in my unfortunate head, but it appears to be more emotional than rational. Emotions too are experience, though not conscious experience. But how can experience be unconscious? No, that Eccles with his automatic reflexes was all wet. To see an attractive girl in a crowd, and maneuver yourself close to her, and pinch her—that’s a whole premeditated plan of attack, not a bunch of mindless reflexes. But
whose
plan? Who thinks it, who is conscious of it, if it’s not
mine?”

“It can be explained,” said the professor, excited. “The light of a candle is visible in the dark but not in the sun. The right brain may have consciousness, but a consciousness as feeble as candlelight, extinguished by the dominant consciousness of the left brain. It’s entirely possible that—”

The professor ducked, avoiding a shoe in the head. My left foot had slipped it off, propped the heel against a chair leg, then kicked it so hard that the shoe flew like a missile and crashed into the wall, missing him by a hair.

“You may be right,” I remarked, “but the right hemisphere is damned touchy.”

“Perhaps it feels threatened by our conversation, not fully understanding it or misunderstanding it,” said the professor. “Perhaps we should address it directly.”

“You mean, the way I do it? That’s possible. But what do you want to say to it?”

“That will depend on its response. Yours, Mr. Tichy, is a unique situation. There’s never been a person completely sound of mind, and not an ordinary mind at that, who underwent a callotomy.”

“Let me make myself clear,” I answered, stroking the back of my left hand to calm it because it was starting to move, flexing the fingers, which worried me. “I am not interested in sacrificing myself for science. If you or someone else enters into communication with It—you know what I mean—that could turn out to be harmful to me, let alone damned unpleasant, if, say, it becomes more independent.”

“That’s quite impossible,” declared the professor, a little too confidently, I thought. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a piece of flannel. His eyes did not have that helpless expression of most people who can’t see without their glasses. He gave me a sharp look as if he didn’t need them at all, then immediately dropped his eyes.

“What happens is always quite impossible,” I said, weighing my words. “The whole history of mankind consists of impossibilities, and the history of science too. A certain young philosopher told me that my condition is an impossibility, contradicting all established thought, which says that consciousness is an indivisible thing. The so-called split personality is essentially a consciousness that alternates between different states joined imperfectly by memory and a sense of identity. It’s not a cake that can be cut into pieces!”

“I see you’ve been reading the literature,” observed the professor, putting on his glasses. He added something I didn’t hear. I was going to go on but stopped because my left hand was putting its fingers into my right palm, making signs. That had never happened before. McIntyre saw me looking at my hands and understood immediately.

“Is It speaking?” he whispered as if not wanting to be overheard.

“Yes.”

The message surprised me, but I relayed it:

“It wants a piece of cake.”

The joy on the professor’s face made my blood run cold. Assuring the left hand that if it was patient it would have cake, I said to the professor:

“From your scientific point of view it would be wonderful if It became more independent. I don’t hold that against you, I understand how fantastic it would be having two fully developed individuals in a single body, so much to learn, so many experiments to run, and all that. But I’m not thrilled by the thought of having a democracy established in my head. I want to be less plural, not more.”

“You are giving me a vote of no confidence? Well, I can understand that.” The professor smiled sympathetically. “First let me assure you that all this information will remain confidential. My professional oath of secrecy. Beyond that, I will suggest no therapy for you. You must do what you believe is best. I hope you’ll think it over carefully. Will you be in Melbourne long?”

“I don’t know yet. In any case, I’ll call you.”

Tarantoga, sitting in the waiting room, jumped up when he saw me.

“Well? Professor…? Ijon…?”

“No decisions have been made,” said McIntyre in an official tone. “Mr. Tichy has various things to consider. I am at his service.”

Being a man of my word, I asked the taxi driver to stop at a bakery on the way, and bought a piece of cake and had to eat it immediately in the car because It insisted, even though I wasn’t in the mood for anything sweet. But I had decided, for the present at least, not to torment myself with questions such as
who
wanted the cake, since no one but me could answer a question like that, and
I
couldn’t.

Tarantoga and I had adjoining rooms, so I went to his and filled him in on what happened with McIntyre. My hand interrupted me several times because it was dissatisfied. The cake had been flavored with licorice, which I can’t stand. I ate it anyway, thinking I was doing it for It, but apparently It and I—or I and I—have the same taste. Which is understandable, in that the hand can’t eat by itself and It and I do have a mouth, palate, and tongue in common. I had the feeling I was in a dream, part nightmare, part comedy, and carrying not an infant exactly but a small, spoiled, precocious child. I remembered one psychologist’s theory that small children didn’t have a continuous consciousness because the fibers of the commissure were still undeveloped.

“A letter for you.” With these words Tarantoga brought me out of my reverie. I was surprised: no one knew where I was. The letter was postmarked Mexico City, airmail, no return address. In the envelope was a square of paper with the typed words: “He’s from the LA.”

Nothing more. I turned the paper over. It was blank. Tarantoga took it, looked at it, and then at me:

“What does this mean? Do you understand it?”

“No. Yes … the LA is the Lunar Agency. They were the ones who sent me.”

“To the moon?”

“Yes. On a reconnaissance mission. I was supposed to submit a report afterward.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. I wrote what I remembered. And gave it to the barber.”

“Barber?”

“That was the arrangement. Instead of going to them. But who is ‘he’? It must be McIntyre. I haven’t seen anyone else here.”

“Wait. I don’t understand. What was in the report?”

“I can’t tell that even to you. It’s top-secret. But there wasn’t much in it. I forgot a great deal.”

“After your accident?”

“Yes. What are you doing, professor?”

Tarantoga turned the tom envelope over. Someone had printed in pencil, inside: “Burn this. Don’t let the right sink the left.”

I didn’t understand it, yet there was some sense in it. Suddenly I looked at Tarantoga with widened eyes:

“I begin to see. Neither message, on the envelope or in the letter, has proper nouns. Did you notice?”

“So?”

“It understands nouns best. Whoever sent this wants to tell me something and not It…”

As I was saying this, I pointed to my right temple with my right hand. Tarantoga got up, paced the room, drummed his fingers on the table, and said:

“In other words, McIntyre is…”

“Don’t say it.”

I took a notepad from my pocket and wrote on a fresh page: “It understands what it hears better than what it reads. We’ll have to communicate, for a while, in this matter, by writing to each other. My guess is that the things I didn’t put into my report to the LA because I couldn’t remember, It remembers, and that someone knows or at least suspects this. I won’t phone M. or go back to him, because he’s probably the ‘he’ in the letter. He wanted to ask It questions. Perhaps to interrogate It. Please write your reply.”

Tarantoga read my note and frowned. Saying nothing, he bent over the table and wrote: “But if he is from the LA, why this deviousness? The LA can contact you directly, no?”

I wrote back: “Among those to whom I turned in NY there must have been someone from the LA. Through him they learned that I found a way to talk to It. But I left before they could try that themselves. If the anonymous letter is telling the truth, the son of the man who was your father’s friend was supposed to take over. To find out, without arousing my suspicions, what It remembers. Whereas, if they turned to me directly, officially, I could refuse to submit to such an interrogation, and they would be up a tree because legally It is not a separate person and they would need my consent to talk to It. Please use participles, pronouns, verbs, and avoid simple syntax.”

The professor tore out the page I had written on, put it in his pocket, and wrote: “But why is it that you don’t want It to know what is now happening?”

“To be safe. Because of what was written inside that envelope. It can’t be from the LA because the LA obviously wouldn’t warn me about itself. Someone else wrote it.”

Tarantoga’s reply this time was brief:

“Who?”

“About what is taking place where I was and had the accident, many parties would love to know. The LA has plenty of competition. I believe we should avoid the company of kangaroos. Let’s get out of here. It doesn’t understand the imperative mood.”

Tarantoga took all the pieces of paper from his pocket, rolled them into a ball with the letter and envelope, lit it with a match, and tossed it into the fireplace. He watched the paper shrivel into ash.

“I’m on my way to a travel agent,” he said. “And what will you do now?”

“Shave,” I said. “This beard itches like the devil and obviously is no longer needed. The faster the better, professor. Maybe there’s a night flight. And don’t tell me where we’re going.”

As I shaved in the bathroom and looked in the mirror, I made faces. The left eye didn’t even blink. I appeared completely ordinary. When I packed, I looked at my left hand and leg now and then, but they behaved normally. At the last moment, however, as I was putting my ties on top of the folded clothes in the suitcase, the left hand took the green tie with brown dots, a tie I liked though it was quite old, and threw it on the floor. It, apparently, didn’t like it. I picked up the tie with my right hand and tried to make the left hand take part of it so we could lay it neatly in the suitcase. What happened next had happened more than once before: the arm obeyed but the fingers didn’t. They opened, and the tie fell on the bed.

“Hopeless,” I sighed, stuffed the tie into the suitcase with my right hand, and closed the suitcase. Tarantoga appeared in the doorway, showed me two tickets without saying a word, and went to pack.

Did I have reason to fear my right hemisphere? I could think about this without worrying, because It couldn’t know what I thought unless I told It by hand signals. Human beings are so constructed that they don’t know what they know. What a book contains can be learned from the contents page, but there’s no contents page in the head. The head is like a full bag; in order to see what’s in it you have to pull everything out, item by item. Groping for a memory in your head is like groping in a bag with your hand.

Tarantoga paid the hotel bill, and as we drove to the airport at dusk and then waited in the terminal, I went over everything that had happened after my return from the Calf, to see how much I could remember. Earth had changed completely. There was total disarmament. Even the superpowers no longer had the money to continue the arms race. The more intelligent the weapons, the more they cost. That was the real reason for the Geneva Agreement. In Europe and in the United States no one wanted to enlist in the army. Men were replaced by machines, but one machine cost as much as a jet plane. Live soldiers surrendered the field to nonliving soldiers, who weren’t robots, either, but simply small computers inserted into rockets, self-firing firearms, and tanks like giant bed-bugs, flat, because no space was needed for a crew, and if its computer was knocked out, a spare took over. Since command communications were vulnerable to disruption, the machines were made more and more autonomous, and therefore became more and more expensive. I couldn’t recall who came up with the idea of moving the arms race to the moon. Not in the form of weapon factories but through the so-called planet machines. These machines had been in use a couple of years for exploring the solar system. Remembering this, I noticed that a number of details were missing. Had I known them before or not? One usually knows, when one can’t remember something, whether or not one knew it in the first place, but I didn’t. I must have read about the new Geneva Agreement before my mission, but I wasn’t sure. The planet machines were built by several companies, mostly American. They were unlike anything industry had produced before. Not factories and not robots but something in between. Some resembled giant spiders. Of course there was a lot of debate, a lot of protests that they shouldn’t be armed but used only for mining and that sort of thing, but when it came to transporting the weapons to the moon, it turned out that the countries who could afford it already had self-programming mobile rocket launchers, cannon able to travel underwater, fire-throwers able to travel underground like moles, and laser artillery that could move like tanks and trigger, with salvos of intense radiation, nuclear fusion reactions that would vaporize everything, themselves included. Each country could program on Earth its own planet machines, which were then transported to the moon and placed in their respective sectors by the Lunar Agency, especially created for that purpose. The principle of parity was adhered to, how much of this and that could be put up there, and various international commissions watched over this whole military exodus. Scientists and generals from each country were allowed to verify that their devices were unloaded on the moon and in working order, then they all had to return to Earth together. In the twentieth century such a solution would have been senseless because the arms race wasn’t so much a matter of production as of research, innovation, which in those days depended entirely on people. But these new machines worked on a different principle, one borrowed from the natural evolution of plants and animals. These were systems capable of auto-optimization, speciation, and ramification, which means they could change themselves and multiply. I was pleased with myself that I had been able to remember that. Was the right hemisphere of my brain, interested mainly in women’s behinds and cake and hating green ties with brown dots, able to grasp such concepts? How could Its memory, then, be of value militarily? But if it wasn’t, I reflected, all the worse for me, because I could swear up and down that It knew nothing but no one would believe me. They’d grill It, that is grill me, and if they didn’t obtain what they wanted with the signs I taught It they’d use better teaching, better signs, and not let go for anything. The less It knew, the more trouble I was in. My life, even, might be at stake. This was not paranoia. I continued to dig into my memory.