The Final Circle of Paradise

Doctor Opir finally ran down, leaned back in his chair, and inhaled deeply with total enjoyment. I sucked on the mighty cigar and contemplated the man. I had him well pegged, this doctor of philosophy. Always and in all times there have been such men, absolutely pleased with their situation in society and therefore absolutely satisfied with the condition of that society. A marvelously well-geared tongue and a lively pen, magnificent teeth and faultless innards, and a well-employed sexual apparatus.

"And so the world is beautiful, Doctor?"

"Yes," said the doctor with feeling, "it is finally beautiful."

"You are a gigantic optimist," said I.

"Our time is the time of optimists. Pessimists go to the Good Mood Salon, void the gall from their subconscious, and become optimists. The time of pessimists has passed, just as the time of tuberculars, of sexual maniacs, and of the military has passed. Pessimism, as an intellectual emotion, is being extirpated by that self-same science. And that not indirectly through the creation of affluence, but concretely by way of invasion of the dark world of the subcortex. Let's take the dream generator, currently the most popular diversion of the masses. It is completely harmless, unusually well adopted to general use, and is structurally simple. Or consider the neurostimulators…"

I attempted to steer him into the desired channel.

"Doesn't it seem to you that right there in the pharmaceutical field science is overdoing it a bit sometimes?"

Doctor Opir smiled condescendingly and sniffed at his cigar.

"Science has always moved by trial and error," he said weightily. "And I am inclined to believe that the so-called errors are always the result of criminal application. We haven't yet entered the Golden Age, we are just in the process of doing so, and all kinds of throwbacks, mobsters, and just plain dirt are under foot. So all kinds of drugs are put out which are health-destroying, but which are created, as you know, from the best of motives; all kinds of aromatics… or this… well, that doesn't suit a dinner conversation." He cackled suddenly and obscenely "You can guess my meaning – we are mature people! What was I saying? Oh yes, all this shouldn't disturb you. It will pass just like the atom bombs."

"I only wanted to emphasize," I remarked, "that there is still the problem of alcoholism, and the problem of narcotics."

Doctor Opir's interest in the conversation was visibly ebbing. Apparently he imagined that I challenged his thesis that science is a boon. To conduct an argument on this basis naturally bored him, as though, for instance, he had been affirming the salubriousness of ocean swimming and I was contradicting him on the basis that I had almost drowned last year.

"Well, of course…" he mumbled, studying his watch, "we can't have it all at once… You must admit, after all, that it is the basic trend which is the most important… Waiter!"

Doctor Opir had eaten well, had a good conversation – professing progressive philosophy – felt well-satisfied, and I decided not to press the matter, especially as I really didn't give a hang about his progressive philosophy, while in the matters which interested me the most, he probably would not be concretely informed at all in the final analysis.

We paid up and went out of the restaurant. I inquired, "Do you know, Doctor, whose monument that is? Over there on the plaza."

Doctor Opir gazed absent-mindedly. "Sure enough, it's a monument," he said. "Somehow I overlooked it before… Shall I drop you somewhere?"

"Thank you, I prefer to walk."

"In that case, goodbye. It was a pleasure to meet you… Of course it's hard to expect to convince you." He grimaced, shifting a toothpick around his mouth. "But it would be interesting to try. Perhaps you will attend my lecture? I begin tomorrow at ten."

"Thank you," I said. "What is your topic?"

"Neo-optimist Philosophy. I will be sure to touch upon a series of questions which we have so pithily discussed today."

"Thank you," I said again. "Most assuredly."

I watched as he went to his long automobile, collapsed in the seat, puttered with the auto-driver control, fell back against the seat back, and apparently dozed off instantly. The car began to roll cautiously across the plaza and disappeared in the shade and greenery of a side street.

Neo-optimism… Neo-hedonism… Neo-cretinism…

Neo-capitalism… "No evil without good," said the fox. So, I have landed in the Country of the Boobs. It should he recorded that the ratio of congenital fools does not vary as a function of time. It should be interesting to determine what is happening to the percentage of fools by conviction. Curious – who assigned the title of Doctor to him? He is not the only one! There must have been a whole flock of doctors who ceremoniously granted that title to Neo-optimist Opir. However, this occurs not only among philosophers.