The Star Diaries (17 page)

31. VIII.
The sun is barely visible. A walk around the rocket before lunch, to get the circulation going. Jokes until evening. Most of them old. It looks as if that shop manager gave the brain some back issues of a humor magazine to read, then threw in a few new jokes on top. I forgot the potatoes I’d put in the atomic pile, and now they’re burnt, all of them.

32. VIII.
Because of the velocity time is slowing down—this ought to be October, but here it is still August. Something’s started flashing by outside. I thought it was the Milky Way already, but no, just my paint flaking off. Damn, a cheap brand! There’s a service station up ahead. Wonder if it’s worth stopping.

33. VIII.
Still August. After lunch I pulled over to the station. It stands on a small, absolutely empty planet. The building looks abandoned, not a living soul about. Took my bucket and went to see if they had any paint here. I was walking around when I heard a puffing. I followed it, and there behind the building saw several steam robots standing and conversing. I drew near.

One of them was saying:

“Surely it’s obvious that clouds are the astral bodies of steam robots that have passed on. The basic question, as I see it, is this: which came first, the steam or the robot? I maintain it was the steam!”

“Hush, shameless idealist!” hissed another.

I tried asking for paint, but they were hissing and whistling so much, I couldn’t hear myself think. Dropped a complaint in the suggestion box and continued on my way.

34. VIII.
Will this August never end? Washed the rocket all morning. Bored stiff. Climbed inside, to try the brain. Instead of laughter, such an attack of yawning that I feared for my jaw. A tiny planet starboard. Passing it, I noticed some sort of white dots. Through the binoculars observed that these were little signs with the inscription: “Don’t lean out.” Something’s wrong with the brain—it’s swallowing its punch lines.

1. X.
Had to stop on Stroglon, out of fuel. In braking, the momentum carried me through all of September.

Considerable congestion at the airport. I left the rocket in space, so as to avoid having to pay duty, took only my fuel cans. But first I computed—with the help of the brain—the coordinates of my elliptical orbit. Returned an hour later with full containers, but not a trace of the rocket. Obviously I had to go look for it. Shuddered at the thought, but covered something like four thousand miles on foot. The brain made a mistake, of course. I’ll have to have a little talk with that shop manager when I get back.

2. X.
My velocity is so great, the stars have turned into fiery streaks, as if someone were waving a million lighted cigarettes in a dark room. The brain stutters. What’s worse, the switch is broken and I can’t turn it off. Rambles on and on.

3. X.
It’s running down, I think, spells everything out now. I’m gradually growing accustomed to that, I sit outside, as much as possible, only with my feet in the rocket, for it’s cold as hell,

7. X.
At eleven-thirty reached the Enteropia terminal. The rocket red-hot from braking. I parked it on the upper level of the artificial moon (their port of entry) and went inside to take care of the formalities. An unbelievable crowd in the spiral hallway; arrivals from every corner of the Galaxy walking, flowing, hopping from counter to counter. I got into line behind a pale blue Algolian, who in polite pantomime cautioned me not to stand too close to his posterior electrifying organ. Then suddenly behind me there was a young Saturnile in a beige kebong. With three shoots he held his luggage, with the fourth shoot mopped his brow. It was indeed hot in there. When my turn came, the official, an Ardrite as transparent as glass, looked me over carefully, greened a little (the Ardrites express emotions by changing color; green is equivalent to a smile) and asked:

“Vertebrate?”

“Yes.”

“Amphibious?”

“No, only land…”

“Thank you, good. Mixed diet?”

“Yes”

“From what planet, may I ask?”

“From Earth.”

“And now please go to the next window.”

I went to the next window and, looking in, confronted the very same official, or—more exactly—his continuation. He was turning the pages of an enormous book.

“Ah, there it is!” he said. “Earth … yes, very good. Are you here on business, or only touring?”

“Touring.”

“Now if you don’t mind…”

With one tentacle he filled out a form, while with another he gave me a form to sign, saying:

“There’s a whacker expected, it begins in a week. Therefore kindly go over to room 116, our spares are made there, you’ll be taken care of. Then proceed to room 67, that’s the pharmaceutical booth. They’ll give you Euphruglium pills, take one every three hours, it neutralizes the harmful effects on your organism of our planet’s radioactivity… Will you be lighting up during your stay on Enteropia?”

“No, thanks.”

“As you like. Here are your papers. You are a mammal, I believe?”

“That’s right.”

“Well then, happy mammaling!”

Taking my leave of this courteous official, I went—as he had directed me—to the place where they made spares. The egg-shaped chamber appeared, at first glance, to be unoccupied. There were several electrical devices standing about, and on the ceiling a crystal lamp gleamed and sparkled. It turned out, however, that the lamp was an Ardrite, a technician on duty; he immediately climbed down from the ceiling. I sat on the chair; diverting me with conversation, he took my measurements, then said:

“Thank you, sir. We’ll be transmitting your gemma to all the hatcheries on our planet. If anything should happen to you during a whacker, rest assured … we bring a spare at once!”

I wasn’t all that clear about what he meant, however in the course of my many travels I have learned discretion, since there is nothing more unpleasant for the inhabitants of a planet than to have to explain their local ways and customs to a foreigner. At the pharmaceutical booth, another line, but it moved quickly and before I knew it a nimble Ardritess in a faïence lampshade had handed me my pill radon. Then a brief formality at customs (I wasn’t about to trust that electrical brain) and with visa in hand I returned on board.

Behind the moon begins an interspace thruway, well maintained, with great billboards on either side. The individual letters are a few thousand miles apart, but at normal speed the words fall together so fast, it’s like having them printed in a newspaper. For a while I read these with interest—such as: “Hunters! For big-game spread, try MYLL!”—or: “Warm your cockles, bop octopockles!”—and so on.

It was seven in the evening when I landed at the Ubbidub airport. The blue sun had just gone down. In the rays of the red one, which was still quite high, everything seemed enveloped in flame—an unusual sight. A galactic cruiser majestically settled down beside my rocket. Beneath its fins, touching scenes of reunion were acted out. The Ardrites, separated for many long months, embraced one another with cries of joy, after which they all, fathers, mothers, children, tenderly clasped together in globes that shimmered pink in the light of the sun, hurried off to the exit. I followed after those harmoniously rolling families; right in front of the airport there was a molly stop, and I got on one. This conveyance, decorated on top with characters of gold that formed the sign “R
AUS
S
PREAD
H
UNTS
B
EST
!,” looked something like a Swiss cheese; in its larger holes sat the grownups, while the smaller served to carry the little ones. As soon as I got on, the molly pulled out. Enclosed in its crystal mass, above me, below me, and all around I saw the congenially translucent and multicolored silhouettes of my fellow passengers. I reached into my pocket for the Baedeker, feeling it was high time I acquainted myself with a few helpful facts, but discovered—to my dismay—that the volume I was holding dealt with the planet Enteroptica, a good three million light-years removed from my present location. The Baedeker I needed was at home. That damned absent-mindedness of mine!

Well, I had no choice but to go to the Ubbidub branch of the well-known astronautical travel bureau GALAX. The conductor was most courteous; when I asked him, he immediately stopped the molly and pointed his tentacle at an enormous building, then saw me off with a friendly change of color.

For a moment I stood still, delighting in the remarkable scene afforded by the city at dusk. The red sun was just then sinking beneath the horizon. Ardrites don’t use artificial illumination, they themselves light up. The Mror Boulevard, on which I stood, was filled with the glimmer of pedestrians; one young Ardritess, passing by, flirtatiously burst into golden stripes inside her shade, but then, evidently recognizing a foreigner, she modestly dimmed.

Houses near and far sparkled and glowed with the inhabitants returning from work; deep within the temples gleamed multitudes in prayer; children raced up and down the stairs like crazy rainbows. It was all so captivating, so colorful, that I didn’t want to leave, but had to, before Galax closed for the night.

In the lobby of the travel bureau they directed me to the twenty-third floor, the provincial division. Yes, it’s sad but nonetheless true: our Earth is in the boondocks of the Universe, obscure, ignored!

The secretary I approached in the tourist service department clouded over with embarrassment and said that Galax, unfortunately, had neither guidebooks nor sightseeing itineraries for Earthlings, since the latter came to Enteropia no more than once a century. She offered me a booklet for Jovians, in view of the common solar origin of Earth and Jupiter. I took it—for lack of anything better—and requested a reservation at the hotel Cosmonia. I also signed up for the hunt organized by Galax, then went out into the city. My situation was all the more awkward in that I wasn’t able to shine by myself, thus when I encountered at an intersection an Ardrite who was regulating traffic, I stopped and—in his light—skimmed through my new guidebook. As I might have expected, it furnished information about where one could obtain methane preserves, what to do with one’s antennae at official functions, etc. So I chucked it in a trash can, caught a passing transom and asked to be taken to the gum tower district. Those magnificent, cup-shaped edifices, seen at a distance, glistened with the variegated glow of Ardrites devoting themselves to their family affairs, and in the office buildings the luminous necklaces of the officials coruscated in the loveliest way.

Dismissing my transom, I wandered about on foot for a while. As I marveled at the Porridge Authority, a gum tower soaring high above the square, two important functionaries emerged from it—I could tell they were important by the intense glare and the red crests around their shades. They stopped nearby, and I overheard their conversation:

“So smearing the rims is out now?” said the tall one, covered with medals.

The other brightened at this and replied:

“Yes. The director says we won’t make quota, and it’s all the fault of Grudrufs. There’s no help for it, says the director, he’ll have to be converted.”

“Grudrufs?”

“Grudrufs.”

The first darkened, only his medals continued to twinkle in iridescent wreaths, and lowering his voice he said: “He’ll slooch, the poor devil.”

“He can slooch all he likes. Discipline has to be maintained. We’ve been transmuting the boys for years, and it isn’t for the purpose of making more scrupts!”

Intrigued, I had edged closer to the two Ardrites without realizing it, and they moved away in silence. It was a funny thing, but after this incident the word “scrupt” seemed to crop up more and more frequently. The more I walked the streets, feeling the urge to immerse myself in the night life of the metropolis, the more from the throngs trundling past there drifted that enigmatic phrase, now uttered in a strangled whisper, and now in a passionate cry; one could see it written on the poster globes that announced sales and auctions of rare scruptics, or emblazoned across the neon ads encouraging the purchase of the very latest scruptures. In vain did I ponder its meaning; then finally, while I was sitting—around midnight—over a cold glass of squamp milk in a bar on the eightieth floor of a department store, and the Ardrite chanteuse had begun to sing the popular song, “That little scrupt o’ mine,” my curiosity reached such proportions, that I asked a passing waiter where I might buy myself a scrupt.

“Across the street,” he answered mechanically, taking my check and money. Then he gave me a hard look and dimmed a little. “You’re alone?” he asked.

“Yes. What of it?”

“Oh, nothing. I'm sorry, but I don’t have change.”

I forwent the change and took an elevator down. Yes, directly opposite me I saw a gigantic sign for scrupts, so I pushed open the glass door and found myself inside a shop, empty at that late hour. I went over to the counter and, assuming an air of indifference, asked for a scrupt.

“At which scruptrum?” inquired the salesman, coming down from his perch.

“At which … let me see … at the usual,” I replied.

“What do you mean, at the usual?” he said with surprise. “We sell only surried scrupts…”

“Fine, I’ll take one.”

“But where’s your macket?”

“Ah yes, h’m, didn’t bring it with me…”

“Then how can you buy it without your wife?” said the salesman, staring at me. He was slowly darkening.

“I’m not married,” I blurted without thinking.

“You’re—not—married—?” he gasped, ashen, looking at me with horror. “You—you want a scrupt, and you’re
not married
…?”

The salesman quivered all over. I got out of there as quickly as I could, flagged down an unoccupied transom and, furious, asked to be taken to some popular nightspot. Which turned out to be the Myrgindragg. When I entered, the orchestra had just stopped playing. There were well over three hundred persons perched here. Looking about for an empty place, I was pushing through the crowd when suddenly someone called my name; with joy I caught sight of a familiar face, it was a traveling salesman I’d met once on Autropia. He was perching with his wife and daughter. I introduced myself to the ladies and began amusing my already merry companions with a little repartee; from time to time they alighted and, to the rhythm of a lively dance tune, went rolling across the ballroom floor. Repeatedly urged by the spouse of my acquaintance, I finally got up the nerve to join in; and so, tightly embraced, the four of us rolled round and round to the music of a wild mamborina. To tell the truth, I got battered up a bit, but grinned and bore it, and pretended I was having a marvelous time. On the way back to our table I pulled my acquaintance aside and asked him, in a whisper, about the scrupts.