And this is before he learns how bad things really are...

“If but for a single instant you could see this world of ours the way it really is—undoctored, unadulterated, uncensored—you would drop in your tracks!”

“Wait a minute. What world? Where is it? Where can I see it?”

“Why anywhere. Here even!” he whispered in my ear, glancing nervously around. Then he pulled up his chair and slipped me—under the table—a small flask with a worn cork, saying with an air of dark conspiracy:

“…Merely carrying it on your person, let alone using it, is a federal offense!  Remove the cork and sniff—but only once, mind you, and carefully. Like smelling salts. And then, for heaven’s sake control yourself, don’t panic, remember where you are!”

My hands were trembling as I pulled the cork and lifted the flask to my nostrils. A whiff of bitter almonds made my eyes swell up with tears, and when I wiped them away, and could see again, I gasped.  The magnificent hall, covered with carpets, filled with palms, the ornamented majolica walls, the elegance of the sparkling tables, and the orchestra in the back that played exquisite chamber music while we dined, all this had vanished. We were sitting in a concrete bunker, at a rough wooden table, a straw mat—badly frayed—beneath our feet. The music was still there, but I saw that it came from a loudspeaker hung on a rusted wire. And the rainbow-crystal chandelier was now a dusty, naked light bulb. But the worst change had taken place before us on the table. The snow-white cloth was gone; the silver dish with the steaming pheasant had turned into a chipped earthenware plate containing the most unappetizing gray-brown gruel, which stuck in gobs to my tin—no longer silver—fork. I looked with horror upon the abomination that only moments ago I’d been consuming with such gusto, savoring the crackling golden skin of the bird and crunching—in sweet, succulent counterpoint—the croutons, crisp on the top and soaked with gravy on the bottom. And what I had taken for the overhanging leaves of a nearby potted palm turned out to be the drawstrings on the drawers of the person sitting (with three others) right above us—not a balcony or platform, but rather a shelf, it was so narrow. For the place was packed beyond belief! My eyes were practically popping from their sockets when this terrifying vision wavered and began to shift back, as if touched with a magic wand. The drawstrings near my face grew green and once again assumed the graceful shape of palm leaves, while the slop bucket reeking a few feet away took on a dull sheen and turned into a sculptured pot. The grimy surface of our table whitened back to the purest snow, the crystal goblets gleamed, the awful gruel grew golden, sprouting wings and drumsticks in the proper places, and the tin of our cutlery regained its former silvery shine … as the waiters’ tailcoats went fluttering, flapping all around. I looked at my feet—the straw was a Persian rug once more. I had returned to the world of luxury. But examining the ample breast of the pheasant, I couldn’t forget what it concealed…

“Now you are beginning to understand,” whispered Trottelreiner…

—Stanislaw Lem, The Futurological Congress