confidence.
An illegible signature, a seal,
and stamped across in red,
diagonally, the words:
C OSMIC I MPORTANCE . C LASSIFIED !!
Well now, here was something at last, I thought. Cercia, Cercia… I knew the name, but couldn’t quite place it. I looked it up in the Cosmic Encyclopedia. Ceres, Cerulia, that was all. Curious, I thought. The Almanac didn’t have it either. Yes, this was interesting indeed. Definitely a secret planet. “That’s what I like,” I murmured and began to dress. It was ten already, but I had to straighten up after my servant. The socks I found right away, in the refrigerator, and it seemed to me that I was finally catching on to the train of thought of that unhinged electronic brain, when suddenly I was faced with a singular fact: no pants. None, nowhere. Only jackets and coats were hanging in the closet. I searched the whole house, I even cleaned out the rocket—nothing. Except I discovered that that broken-down blockhead of mine had drunk up all the oil in the basement. He must have done it recently too, because a week ago I’d counted the cans and they were all full. This was so infuriating that I seriously considered whether I shouldn’t have him scrapped after all. He didn’t like getting up in the morning, and for months now would stuff his earphones with wax at night. You could ring until your arm fell off. Absent-mindedness, was his excuse. I threatened to unscrew his fuses, but he only rattled in disdain. He knew I needed him.
I divided the entire house into squares according to the Pinkerton method and began a search as thorough as if I’d been looking for a pin. Finally I found a laundry ticket. The scoundrel had sent all my pants to the cleaner’s. But what had happened to the pants I was wearing the day before? I simply couldn’t recall. Meanwhile it was time for lunch. No point in trying the refrigerator—besides the socks, it contained only stationery. I was getting desperate. I took my spacesuit out of the rocket, put it on and walked to the nearest department store. They stared at me a little on the street, but I bought two pair of pants, one black, one gray, returned home in the spacesuit, changed and—in the foulest possible mood—went out to a Chinese restaurant. I ate what they gave me, drank down my anger with a bottle of Mosel, and, looking at my watch, realized it was almost five. I’d wasted an entire day.
There weren’t any helicopters in front of the Lambretanum, and not a single car, not even a private rocket—nothing. “It’s that bad?” flashed the thought. I crossed a vast garden full of dahlias to reach the main entrance. For a long time no one answered. At last the cover over the one-way peephole lifted and an invisible eye scrutinized me, after which the gate opened, just enough for me to squeeze through,
“Mr. Tichy,” the man who let me in said into his pocket microphone. “Upstairs please,” he told me. “The door on the left. They’re waiting for you.”
Upstairs it was pleasantly cool. I entered the lecture hall and found myself in a highly select gathering. Except for two characters behind the conference table whom I’d never seen before, there on velvet upholstered armchairs sat the flower of cosmography. I recognized Professor Gargarragh and his assistants. Nodding to one and all, I took a seat in the back. One of the men behind the conference table, tall and graying at the temples, opened a drawer, pulled out a rubber bell and tinkled it noiselessly. What fantastic precautions, I thought.
“Gentlemen! Rectors, deans, professors, and you, our esteemed Ijon Tichy,” began the man with the gray temples, rising. “As Plenipotentiary and Minister to Matters of the Utmost Gravity and Secrecy, I hereby open this special session convened to consider the case of Cercia. Secret Adviser Xaphirius has the floor.”
In the first row a stout, broad-shouldered man, his hair as white as milk, stood up; he ascended the podium, made a
An illegible signature, a seal,
and stamped across in red,
diagonally, the words:
C OSMIC I MPORTANCE . C LASSIFIED !!
Well now, here was something at last, I thought. Cercia, Cercia… I knew the name, but couldn’t quite place it. I looked it up in the Cosmic Encyclopedia. Ceres, Cerulia, that was all. Curious, I thought. The Almanac didn’t have it either. Yes, this was interesting indeed. Definitely a secret planet. “That’s what I like,” I murmured and began to dress. It was ten already, but I had to straighten up after my servant. The socks I found right away, in the refrigerator, and it seemed to me that I was finally catching on to the train of thought of that unhinged electronic brain, when suddenly I was faced with a singular fact: no pants. None, nowhere. Only jackets and coats were hanging in the closet. I searched the whole house, I even cleaned out the rocket—nothing. Except I discovered that that broken-down blockhead of mine had drunk up all the oil in the basement. He must have done it recently too, because a week ago I’d counted the cans and they were all full. This was so infuriating that I seriously considered whether I shouldn’t have him scrapped after all. He didn’t like getting up in the morning, and for months now would stuff his earphones with wax at night. You could ring until your arm fell off. Absent-mindedness, was his excuse. I threatened to unscrew his fuses, but he only rattled in disdain. He knew I needed him.
I divided the entire house into squares according to the Pinkerton method and began a search as thorough as if I’d been looking for a pin. Finally I found a laundry ticket. The scoundrel had sent all my pants to the cleaner’s. But what had happened to the pants I was wearing the day before? I simply couldn’t recall. Meanwhile it was time for lunch. No point in trying the refrigerator—besides the socks, it contained only stationery. I was getting desperate. I took my spacesuit out of the rocket, put it on and walked to the nearest department store. They stared at me a little on the street, but I bought two pair of pants, one black, one gray, returned home in the spacesuit, changed and—in the foulest possible mood—went out to a Chinese restaurant. I ate what they gave me, drank down my anger with a bottle of Mosel, and, looking at my watch, realized it was almost five. I’d wasted an entire day.
There weren’t any helicopters in front of the Lambretanum, and not a single car, not even a private rocket—nothing. “It’s that bad?” flashed the thought. I crossed a vast garden full of dahlias to reach the main entrance. For a long time no one answered. At last the cover over the one-way peephole lifted and an invisible eye scrutinized me, after which the gate opened, just enough for me to squeeze through,
“Mr. Tichy,” the man who let me in said into his pocket microphone. “Upstairs please,” he told me. “The door on the left. They’re waiting for you.”
Upstairs it was pleasantly cool. I entered the lecture hall and found myself in a highly select gathering. Except for two characters behind the conference table whom I’d never seen before, there on velvet upholstered armchairs sat the flower of cosmography. I recognized Professor Gargarragh and his assistants. Nodding to one and all, I took a seat in the back. One of the men behind the conference table, tall and graying at the temples, opened a drawer, pulled out a rubber bell and tinkled it noiselessly. What fantastic precautions, I thought.
“Gentlemen! Rectors, deans, professors, and you, our esteemed Ijon Tichy,” began the man with the gray temples, rising. “As Plenipotentiary and Minister to Matters of the Utmost Gravity and Secrecy, I hereby open this special session convened to consider the case of Cercia. Secret Adviser Xaphirius has the floor.”
In the first row a stout, broad-shouldered man, his hair as white as milk, stood up; he ascended the podium, made a
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