Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition (32 page)

(1962)

I
DON’T SUPPOSE
the oldsters, those of us who weren’t born into it, will ever feel quite at home being amphibious—amphibious in the new sense of the word. I still catch myself feeling blue about things that don’t matter any more.

I can’t help worrying about my business, for instance—or what used to be my business. After all, I spent thirty years building the thing up from scratch, and now the equipment is rusting and getting clogged with dirt. But even though I know it’s silly of me to care what happens to the business, I borrow a body from a storage center every so often, and go around the old hometown, and clean and oil as much of the equipment as I can.

Of course, all in the world the equipment was good for was making money, and Lord knows there’s plenty of that lying around. Not as much as there used to be, because there at first some people got frisky and threw it all around, and the wind blew it every which way. And a lot of go-getters gathered up piles of the stuff and hid it somewhere. I hate to admit it, but I gathered up close to a half million myself and stuck it away. I used to get it out and count it sometimes, but that was years ago. Right now I’d be hard put to say where it is.

But the worrying I do about my old business is bush league stuff compared to the worrying my wife, Madge, does about our old house. That thing is what she herself put in thirty years on while I was building the business. Then no sooner had
we gotten nerve enough to build and decorate the place than everybody we cared anything about got amphibious. Madge borrows a body once a month and dusts the place, though the only thing a house is good for now is keeping termites and mice from getting pneumonia.

·    ·    ·

Whenever it’s my turn to get into a body and work as an attendant at the local storage center, I realize all over again how much tougher it is for women to get used to being amphibious.

Madge borrows bodies a lot oftener than I do, and that’s true of women in general. We have to keep three times as many women’s bodies in stock as men’s bodies, in order to meet the demand. Every so often, it seems as though a woman just
has
to have a body, and doll it up in clothes, and look at herself in a mirror. And Madge, God bless her, I don’t think she’ll be satisfied until she’s tried on every body in every storage center on Earth.

It’s been a fine thing for Madge, though. I never kid her about it, because it’s done so much for her personality. Her old body, to tell you the plain blunt truth, wasn’t anything to get excited about, and having to haul the thing around made her gloomy a lot of the time in the old days. She couldn’t help it, poor soul, any more than anybody else could help what sort of body they’d been born with, and I loved her in spite of it.

Well, after we’d learned to be amphibious, and after we’d built the storage centers and laid in body supplies and opened them to the public, Madge went hog wild. She borrowed a platinum blonde body that had been donated by a burlesque queen, and I didn’t think we’d ever get her out of it. As I say, it did wonders for her self-confidence.

I’m like most men and don’t care particularly what body I get. Just the strong, good-looking, healthy bodies were put in storage, so one is as good as the next one. Sometimes, when Madge and I take bodies out together for old times’ sake, I let
her pick out one for me to match whatever she’s got on. It’s a funny thing how she always picks a blond, tall one for me.

My old body, which she claims she loved for a third of a century, had black hair, and was short and paunchy, too, there toward the last. I’m human and I couldn’t help being hurt when they scrapped it after I’d left it, instead of putting it in storage. It was a good, homey, comfortable body; nothing fast and flashy, but reliable. But there isn’t much call for that kind of body at the centers, I guess. I never ask for one, at any rate.

The worst experience I ever had with a body was when I was flimflammed into taking out the one that had belonged to Dr. Ellis Konigswasser. It belongs to the Amphibious Pioneers’ Society and only gets taken out once a year for the big Pioneers’ Day Parade, on the anniversary of Konigswasser’s discovery. Everybody said it was a great honor for me to be picked to get into Konigswasser’s body and lead the parade.

Like a plain damn fool, I believed them.

·    ·    ·

They’ll have a tough time getting me into that thing again—ever. Taking that wreck out certainly made it plain why Konigswasser discovered how people could do without their bodies. That old one of his practically
drives
you out. Ulcers, headaches, arthritis, fallen arches—a nose like a pruning hook, piggy little eyes, and a complexion like a used steamer trunk. He was and still is the sweetest person you’d ever want to know, but, back when he was stuck with that body, nobody got close enough to find out.

We tried to get Konigswasser back into his old body to lead us when we first started having the Pioneers’ Day Parades, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with it, so we always have to flatter some poor boob into taking on the job. Konigswasser marches, all right, but as a six-foot cowboy who can bend beer cans double between his thumb and middle finger.

Konigswasser is just like a kid with that body. He never gets tired of bending beer cans with it, and we all have to stand
around in our bodies after the parade, and watch as though we were very impressed.

I don’t suppose he could bend very much of anything back in the old days.

Nobody mentions it to him, since he’s the grand old man of the Amphibious Age, but he plays hell with bodies. Almost every time he takes one out, he busts it, showing off. Then somebody has to get into a surgeon’s body and sew it up again.

I don’t mean to be disrespectful of Konigswasser. As a matter of fact, it’s a respectful thing to say that somebody is childish in certain ways, because it’s people like that who seem to get all the big ideas.

There is a picture of him in the old days down at the Historical Society, and you can see from that that he never did grow up as far as keeping up his appearance went—doing what little he could with the rattle-trap body Nature had issued him.

His hair was down below his collar, he wore his pants so low that his heels wore through the legs above the cuffs, and the lining of his coat hung down in festoons all around the bottom. And he’d forget meals, and go out into the cold or wet without enough clothes on, and he would never notice sickness until it almost killed him. He was what we used to call absent-minded. Looking back now, of course, we say he was starting to be amphibious.

·    ·    ·

Konigswasser was a mathematician, and he did all his living with his mind. The body he had to haul around with that wonderful mind was about as much use to him as a flatcar of scrap-iron. Whenever he got sick and
had
to pay some attention to his body, he’d rant somewhat like this:

“The mind is the only thing about human beings that’s worth anything. Why does it have to be tied to a bag of skin, blood, hair, meat, bones, and tubes? No wonder people can’t get anything done, stuck for life with a parasite that has to be stuffed with food and protected from weather and germs all the
time. And the fool thing wears out anyway—no matter how much you stuff and protect it!

“Who,” he wanted to know, “really wants one of the things? What’s so wonderful about protoplasm that we’ve got to carry so damned many pounds of it with us wherever we go?

“Trouble with the world,” said Konigswasser, “isn’t too many people—it’s too many bodies.”

When his teeth went bad on him, and he had to have them all out, and he couldn’t get a set of dentures that were at all comfortable, he wrote in his diary, “If living matter was able to evolve enough to get out of the ocean, which was really quite a pleasant place to live, it certainly ought to be able to take another step and get out of bodies, which are pure nuisances when you stop to think about them.”

He wasn’t a prude about bodies, understand, and he wasn’t jealous of people who had better ones than he did. He just thought bodies were a lot more trouble than they were worth.

He didn’t have great hopes that people would really evolve out of their bodies in his time. He just wished they would. Thinking hard about it, he walked through a park in his shirtsleeves and stopped off at the zoo to watch the lions being fed. Then, when the rainstorm turned to sleet, he headed back home and was interested to see firemen on the edge of a lagoon, where they were using a pulmotor on a drowned man.

Witnesses said the old man had walked right into the water and had kept going without changing his expression until he’d disappeared. Konigswasser got a look at the victim’s face and said he’d never seen a better reason for suicide. He started for home again and was almost there before he realized that that was his own body lying back there.

·    ·    ·

He went back to reoccupy the body just as the firemen got it breathing again, and he walked it home, more as a favor
to the city than anything else. He walked it into his front closet, got out of it again, and left it there.

He took it out only when he wanted to do some writing or turn the pages of a book, or when he had to feed it so it would have enough energy to do the few odd jobs he gave it. The rest of the time, it sat motionless in the closet, looking dazed and using almost no energy. Konigswasser told me the other day that he used to run the thing for about a dollar a week, just taking it out when he really needed it.

But the best part was that Konigswasser didn’t have to sleep any more, just because
it
had to sleep; or be afraid any more, just because
it
thought it might get hurt; or go looking for things
it
seemed to think it had to have. And, when
it
didn’t feel well, Konigswasser kept out of it until it felt better, and he didn’t have to spend a fortune keeping the thing comfortable.

When he got his body out of the closet to write, he did a book on how to get out of one’s own body, which was rejected without comment by twenty-three publishers. The twenty-fourth sold two million copies, and the book changed human life more than the invention of fire, numbers, the alphabet, agriculture, or the wheel. When somebody told Konigswasser that, he snorted that they were damning his book with faint praise. I’d say he had a point there.

By following the instructions in Konigswasser’s book for about two years, almost anybody could get out of his body whenever he wanted to. The first step was to understand what a parasite and dictator the body was most of the time, then to separate what the body wanted or didn’t want from what you yourself—your psyche—wanted or didn’t want. Then, by concentrating on what you wanted, and ignoring as much as possible what the body wanted beyond plain maintenance, you made your psyche demand its rights and become self-sufficient.

That’s what Konigswasser had done without realizing it, until he and his body had parted company in the park, with his psyche going to watch the lions eat, and with his body wandering out of control into the lagoon.

The final trick of separation, once your psyche grew independent enough, was to start your body walking in some direction and suddenly take your psyche off in another direction. You couldn’t do it standing still, for some reason—you had to walk.

At first, Madge’s and my psyches were clumsy at getting along outside our bodies, like the first sea animals that got stranded on land millions of years ago, and who could just waddle and squirm and gasp in the mud. But we became better at it with time, because the psyche can naturally adapt so much faster than the body.

·    ·    ·

Madge and I had good reason for wanting to get out. Everybody who was crazy enough to try to get out at the first had good reasons. Madge’s body was sick and wasn’t going to last a lot longer. With her going in a little while, I couldn’t work up enthusiasm for sticking around much longer myself. So we studied Konigswasser’s book and tried to get Madge out of her body before it died. I went along with her, to keep either one of us from getting lonely. And we just barely made it—six weeks before her body went all to pieces.

·    ·    ·

That’s why we get to march every year in the Pioneers’ Day Parade. Not everybody does—only the first five thousand of us who turned amphibious. We were guinea pigs, without much to lose one way or another, and we were the ones who proved to the rest how pleasant and safe it was—a heck of a lot safer than taking chances in a body year in and year out.

Sooner or later, almost everybody had a good reason for giving it a try. There got to be millions and finally more than a billion of us—invisible, insubstantial, indestructible, and, by golly, true to ourselves, no trouble to anybody, and not afraid of anything.

When we’re not in bodies, the Amphibious Pioneers can meet on the head of a pin. When we get into bodies for the Pioneers’ Day Parade, we take up over fifty thousand square
feet, have to gobble more than three tons of food to get enough energy to march; and lots of us catch colds or worse, and get sore because somebody’s body accidentally steps on the heel of somebody else’s body, and get jealous because some bodies get to lead and others have to stay in ranks, and—oh, hell, I don’t know what all.

I’m not crazy about the parade. With all of us there, close together in bodies—well, it brings out the worst in us, no matter how good our psyches are. Last year, for instance, Pioneers’ Day was a scorcher. People couldn’t help being out of sorts, stuck in sweltering, thirsty bodies for hours.

Well, one thing led to another, and the Parade Marshal offered to beat the daylights out of my body with his body, if my body got out of step again. Naturally, being Parade Marshal, he had the best body that year, except for Konigswasser’s cowboy, but I told him to soak his fat head, anyway. He swung, and I ditched my body right there, and didn’t even stick around long enough to find out if he connected. He had to haul my body back to the storage center himself.

I stopped being mad at him the minute I got out of the body. I understood, you see. Nobody but a saint could be really sympathetic or intelligent for more than a few minutes at a time in a body—or happy, either, except in short spurts. I haven’t met an amphibian yet who wasn’t easy to get along with, and cheerful and interesting—as long as he was outside a body. And I haven’t met one yet who didn’t turn a little sour when he got into one.