“Thank you,” said the stranger, and sat down facing me, pulling up his trouser legs with an elegant gesture. “But as for tea, please excuse me, Alexander Ivanovich, I have only just finished supper.”
He looked into my eyes for a while, smiling urbanely. I smiled back. “I suppose you are here about the sofa,” I said. “I’m afraid the sofa is gone. I’m very sorry, I don’t even know—”
The stranger fluttered his hands in the air. “Such petty trifles!” he said. “All that fuss over some nonsense—I beg your pardon—that nobody actually believes in anyway… Judge for yourself, Alexander Ivanovich, these petty squabbles and wild goose chases, like some movie, upsetting people over some mythical—I am not afraid to use the word—some mythical White Thesis… Every sober-minded individual regards the sofa as a universal translator, somewhat bulky, but extremely durable and reliable. The old ignoramuses with their idle talk about the White Thesis are just making fools of themselves… No, I do not wish to talk about the sofa.”
“Just as you please,” I said, concentrating all my urbanity in this one phrase. “Do let us talk about something else.”
“Superstition… Prejudice…” the stranger said absentmindedly. “Mental sloth and envy, hirsute envy…” He interrupted himself. “Forgive me, Alexander Ivanovich, but I will after all be so bold as to request your permission to remove that dipper. Unfortunately iron is effectively opaque to the hyperfield, and a buildup of hyperfield tension in a confined space…”
I raised my arms in assent. “By all means, just as you wish! Remove the dipper… You may even remove that… erm… erm… that magic wand.” At this point I stopped, amazed to see that the dipper was no longer there. The cylinder was standing in a puddle of liquid that looked like colored mercury. The liquid was rapidly evaporating.
“It is for the best, I assure you,” said the stranger. “But as for your magnanimous suggestion that I remove the plywitsum, unfortunately I am unable to avail myself of it. It is a matter of morality and ethics—a question of honor, if you wish… Convention is such a powerful force. Permit me to suggest that you do not touch the plywitsum again! I see that you have hurt yourself, and as for this eagle… I think you can sense… eh-eh… a certain fragrance…”
“Yes,” I said with passionate feeling. “The stench is vile, as bad as a monkey house.”
We looked at the eagle. The vulture was dozing, its feathers ruffled up.
“The art of controlling the plywitsum,” said the stranger, “is both complex and subtle. You must under no circumstances feel distressed or reproach yourself. The course in plywitsum control lasts seven semesters and requires a thorough knowledge of quantum alchemy. As a programmer, you would probably have no difficulty in mastering the electronic-level plywitsum, the so-called PEP-17… but the quantum plywitsum—the hyperfields… transgressive materialization… the unified Lomonosov-Lavoisier law…” He gestured apologetically.
“Why, naturally!” I said hastily. “I would never claim… Of course I am entirely unprepared.” At this point I suddenly remembered I hadn’t offered him a cigarette.
“Thank you,” said the stranger. “But I very much regret that I don’t.”
Then, with a polite shuffling of my fingers, I inquired—I didn’t ask, but precisely inquired—“Might I perhaps be permitted to know to what I owe the pleasure of our meeting?”
The stranger lowered his eyes. “I am afraid that I may appear indiscreet,” he said, “but I am, alas, obliged to confess that I have been here for quite a long time. I would not wish to name names, but I believe it is clear even to you, Alexander Ivanovich, far removed as you are from this entire business, that a rather unedifying commotion has developed over the sofa: a scandal is in the offing, the atmosphere is growing heated, and the tension is mounting. In such a situation mistakes and highly undesirable accidents are inevitable… We need not look too far for examples. A certain person—I repeat, I would not wish to name names, especially as this person is an associate deserving of the highest respect, and in speaking of respect, I have in mind if not perhaps his manners then his great talent and selfless dedication—well then, in his nervous haste, a certain person leaves the plywitsum here by mistake, and the plywitsum becomes the center of a sphere of events, in which there becomes implicated a certain individual having no connection with them whatsoever…” He bowed in my direction. “And in such cases it is absolutely essential to take action which will neutralize the harmful effects…” He cast a meaningful glance at the prints of my shoes on the ceiling. Then he smiled at me and said, “But I would not wish to appear to be an abstract altruist. Of course, as both a specialist and an administrator I find all these events extremely interesting… However, I have no intention of inconveniencing you any further, and since you have given me your assurance that you will not experiment with the plywitsum any further, I shall ask you please to allow me to take my leave.” He stood up.
“No, please!” I cried out. “Do not go! It is such a pleasure for me to talk with you, and I have a thousand questions to ask!”
“I am most truly appreciative of your tact, Alexander Ivanovich, but you are exhausted, you are in need of rest…”
“Not in the least!” I retorted heatedly. “Quite the contrary!”
“Alexander Ivanovich,” said the stranger, smiling kindly and staring hard into my eyes. “You really are feeling tired, and you really do want to take a rest.”
And then I realized that I actually was falling asleep. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want to do anything at all. I just felt terribly sleepy.
“It has been a quite exceptional pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the stranger said in a soft voice.
I saw him start to fade, gradually becoming fainter until he dissolved into the air, leaving behind a faint odor of expensive eau de cologne. I spread the bedding out clumsily on the floor, stuck my face into the pillow, and instantly fell asleep.
I was woken by a flapping of wings and an unpleasant screeching. The room was filled with a strange, bluish half-light. The vulture on the brick oven was rustling its feathers, screaming repulsively, and banging its wings against the ceiling. I sat up and looked around. Floating in the air at the center of the room was a big, tough-looking bozo in tracksuit pants and a striped Hawaiian shirt. He was hovering above the cylinder and making passes over it with his massive, bony hands without touching it.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
The bozo glanced briefly at me over his shoulder and then turned away.
“I didn’t hear your answer,” I said angrily. I was still feeling very sleepy.
“Quiet, mortal,” the bozo said in a hoarse voice. He stopped making passes and picked the cylinder up off the floor. I thought his voice sounded familiar.
“Hey, buddy!” I said threateningly. “Put that thing back and clear out.”
The bozo looked at me, thrusting out his jaw. I threw the blanket off and stood up.
“All right, put the plywitsum down,” I yelled at the top of my voice. The bozo descended to the floor, planted his feet firmly, and assumed a combat stance. The room became a lot lighter, although the lamp was not switched on.
“Sonny boy,” said the bozo, “it’s nighttime—you ought to be asleep. Why don’t you lay yourself down, before I help you do it?”
This guy was obviously no pushover in a fight. But then neither was I. “Shall we go outside, perhaps?” I suggested briskly, pulling up my underpants.
Someone declared with feeling, “With your thoughts directed to the higher Self, free from craving and self-love, cured of spiritual fever, fight, Arjuna!”