Earthlings’ initiation fee, to the tune of a billion tons of platinum, but also compensate the unfortunate victims of their planetary incontinence—in the form of C OSMIC A LIMONY ?!”
With these words pandemonium broke loose in the amphitheater. I cowered—flying through the air in every direction came portfolios, volumes of the Interplanetary Penal Code, and even material evidence, objects such as badly rust-eaten jugs, barrels, pokers, though Lord knows how they got there; perhaps the clever Iridians, having some score to settle with the Rhohches, had been conducting archeological research on Earth since time immemorial, collecting the incriminating evidence, which was all carefully stored on board their Flying Saucers; but I found it difficult to ponder such a point, for everything was heaving around me, tentacles and claws flashed past, and my Rhohch, extremely agitated, leaped up from his seat screaming something, but it was lost in the general bedlam, while I continued to sit, as it were, in the eye of the storm, and the last thought that pounded in my brain was the question of that sneeze with premeditation which had brought us into the world.
The next thing I knew, someone seized me by the hair, painfully, till I groaned; it was the Rhohch, trying to demonstrate how solidly I’d been fashioned by Earth’s evolution and how little I deserved being called a paltry sort of creature, stuck together—and flimsily at that—out of rotten bits of refuse, and he walloped me over the head again and again with his enormous, heavy claw… I felt the life slowly going out of me, my struggling grew weak, weaker, I couldn’t breathe, I gave a few last kicks in agony—and collapsed on my pillow. Half-conscious, I jumped up immediately, sat on the bed, feeling my neck, head, chest, to make sure that all that I had undergone was but the product of an awful dream. I heaved a sigh of relief, but then, later, some slight doubts began to trouble me. I told myself, “For God’s sake, it’s only a dream!” Somehow that didn’t help. Finally, to dispel these gloomy thoughts I went to see my aunt on the Moon. But an eight-minute ride on a lunibus that stops right outside my house, no, I can hardly call this the eighth stellar voyage—more worthy of that title, surely, would be the journey taken in my sleep, in which I suffered so for all humanity.
THE
ELEVENTH
VOYAGE
I t was going to be one of those days. The mess in the house, bad enough when I’d had my servant sent out for repairs, was growing worse. I couldn’t find a thing. There were mice nesting in my meteor collection. They had gnawed the prettiest chondrite.
While I was making coffee the milk boiled over. That electrical numskull had hidden the dishrags along with my handkerchiefs. I really should have taken him in for an overhaul back when he started shining my shoes on the inside. I used an old parachute for a dishrag, then went upstairs, dusted off the meteors and set a mousetrap. I’d collected all the specimens myself. It’s not that difficult—all you do is come up on the meteor from behind and drop a net over it.
Then I remembered the toast and ran downstairs.
Burnt to a crisp, of course. I tossed the toast in the sink. The sink stopped up. I waved my hand in disgust and took a look in the mailbox.
It was full of the usual morning fare—two invitations to conferences somewhere in the godforsaken backwaters of the Crab Nebula, fliers advertising cream for polishing your rocket, a new issue of The Jet Trackman, nothing of interest. The last item was a dark, thick envelope sealed with five seals. I weighed it in my hand, then opened it.
The Secret Minister for matters concerning Cercia has the honor to request the presence of Mr. Ijon Tichy at a meeting to be held on the 16th of this month, 17.30 hours, in the small lecture hall of Lambretanum. Admittance only to those bearing invitations. X-rays required.
We urge the matter be kept in strictest
With these words pandemonium broke loose in the amphitheater. I cowered—flying through the air in every direction came portfolios, volumes of the Interplanetary Penal Code, and even material evidence, objects such as badly rust-eaten jugs, barrels, pokers, though Lord knows how they got there; perhaps the clever Iridians, having some score to settle with the Rhohches, had been conducting archeological research on Earth since time immemorial, collecting the incriminating evidence, which was all carefully stored on board their Flying Saucers; but I found it difficult to ponder such a point, for everything was heaving around me, tentacles and claws flashed past, and my Rhohch, extremely agitated, leaped up from his seat screaming something, but it was lost in the general bedlam, while I continued to sit, as it were, in the eye of the storm, and the last thought that pounded in my brain was the question of that sneeze with premeditation which had brought us into the world.
The next thing I knew, someone seized me by the hair, painfully, till I groaned; it was the Rhohch, trying to demonstrate how solidly I’d been fashioned by Earth’s evolution and how little I deserved being called a paltry sort of creature, stuck together—and flimsily at that—out of rotten bits of refuse, and he walloped me over the head again and again with his enormous, heavy claw… I felt the life slowly going out of me, my struggling grew weak, weaker, I couldn’t breathe, I gave a few last kicks in agony—and collapsed on my pillow. Half-conscious, I jumped up immediately, sat on the bed, feeling my neck, head, chest, to make sure that all that I had undergone was but the product of an awful dream. I heaved a sigh of relief, but then, later, some slight doubts began to trouble me. I told myself, “For God’s sake, it’s only a dream!” Somehow that didn’t help. Finally, to dispel these gloomy thoughts I went to see my aunt on the Moon. But an eight-minute ride on a lunibus that stops right outside my house, no, I can hardly call this the eighth stellar voyage—more worthy of that title, surely, would be the journey taken in my sleep, in which I suffered so for all humanity.
THE
ELEVENTH
VOYAGE
I t was going to be one of those days. The mess in the house, bad enough when I’d had my servant sent out for repairs, was growing worse. I couldn’t find a thing. There were mice nesting in my meteor collection. They had gnawed the prettiest chondrite.
While I was making coffee the milk boiled over. That electrical numskull had hidden the dishrags along with my handkerchiefs. I really should have taken him in for an overhaul back when he started shining my shoes on the inside. I used an old parachute for a dishrag, then went upstairs, dusted off the meteors and set a mousetrap. I’d collected all the specimens myself. It’s not that difficult—all you do is come up on the meteor from behind and drop a net over it.
Then I remembered the toast and ran downstairs.
Burnt to a crisp, of course. I tossed the toast in the sink. The sink stopped up. I waved my hand in disgust and took a look in the mailbox.
It was full of the usual morning fare—two invitations to conferences somewhere in the godforsaken backwaters of the Crab Nebula, fliers advertising cream for polishing your rocket, a new issue of The Jet Trackman, nothing of interest. The last item was a dark, thick envelope sealed with five seals. I weighed it in my hand, then opened it.
The Secret Minister for matters concerning Cercia has the honor to request the presence of Mr. Ijon Tichy at a meeting to be held on the 16th of this month, 17.30 hours, in the small lecture hall of Lambretanum. Admittance only to those bearing invitations. X-rays required.
We urge the matter be kept in strictest
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