Korridorium

♫ Mare Chronium—Drifting ♫

83/398

I enter the corridor, rushing to reach Room No. 27 in time. Our guest, Mr. Koriander, insists that his meal—again it is Coq au vin, a specialty of our house—be served promptly at five minutes past midnight. Today, Pascal, the chef, has been a bit slow, and I have to bear the brunt of it. But Mr. Koriander, the one who opens the door for me, doesn’t seem upset that I’m running slightly late. Again, he is not alone. There’s an older gentleman sitting there, with a distinguished face and dense black hair, who appears somewhat reserved and uncertain.

I serve their meals and pour each of them a glass of still water, as Mr. Koriander prefers. “Please, stay,” he offers, and I position myself beside the bed in the small guest room, ready to refill their glasses at any time.

Mr. Koriander’s guest eyes the chicken on his plate a bit critically. “Man is no more than a little fleck of foam…” Mr. Koriander begins, and as his guest continues, “…on the torrent of existence,” revealing that he’s British. He smiles. The ice seems to be broken.

The Englishman starts eating, and Mr. Koriander bombards him with questions, eagerly jotting down notes in his notebook. They seem to have forgotten about me, or maybe they think I don’t speak English. However, I understand enough to catch that their conversation briefly touches on Mars and its inhabitants before moving on to Venus, a planet inhabited by humans, which leaves me quite perplexed. Mr. Koriander appears to be consistently interested in matters related to intelligence and consciousness, as he frequently inquires about them and has his guest explain his views on these topics.

Suddenly, the Englishman turns to me. He has a keen gaze, and I feel myself blushing a bit. Without taking his deep-set eyes off me, he asks Mr. Koriander if the hotel might have a swimming pool. Mr. Koriander replies in the negative. I also shake my head. The Englishman lowers his gaze again and mutters something like “too bad.”

The intense conversation between the two continues, and their journey into a distant future unfolds. They don’t just talk about one, but “our” humanity, touching upon a succession of human civilizations, even one in which the individual humans telepathically join together to form a kind of superintelligence, if I’ve understood correctly. In two billion years—can it truly be that they’re discussing such an unimaginable span of time while our world is supposed to end in this very year?

The Englishman eventually finishes his meal but declines when Mr. Coriander offers him his portion, which he has not touched. “You can clear the table,” Mr. Koriander instructs me. As I leave the room with the tray, he mentions to his guest that he would have liked to discuss the intelligence and consciousness of stars and galaxies, and I feel a bit bewildered. Often I gaze in wonder at the star-studded night sky, but the idea that the thousands of shimmering points above me could possess their own consciousness or intelligence has never crossed my mind!

Pascal is still around and is pestering me with questions as I put the tray in the kitchen. I should probably explain to him that there were two madmen—one of whom mysteriously appeared because I haven’t left the reception all evening, except once when I had to use the restroom. But I can still see their two faces and the seriousness with which they discussed their eccentric topics. So, I simply tell Pascal that there were two writers who met here in Room 27 of our hotel.

“Writers, hm-hm,” Pascal responds with a knowing grin, “and only still water, you say?” He wants to open a bottle of wine with me, but I send him home.

A short while later, Mr. Koriander stands at the reception with his hat and coat, placing the room key and a tip on the counter. I nearly ask him who the man with the intense eyes was, but I believe Mr. Koriander chose our small country hotel because of our discretion, so I decide to keep my mouth shut.

The room is empty, the bed untouched. How the Englishman managed to leave the hotel unnoticed remains a mystery to me. But perhaps that’s precisely what makes good room service: not to be surprised by anything.

Olaf Stapledon:

Last and First Men: