But the sleeper merely opened one eye and told me that not only was I rude, but didn’t exist, being a figment of his dream and nothing more. I tugged at him in vain, losing patience, and even attempted to drag him bodily from the bed. He wouldn’t budge, stubbornly repeating that it was all a dream; I began to curse, but he pointed out logically that bolts tightened in dreams wouldn’t hold on rudders in the sober light of day. I gave my word of honor that he was mistaken, I pleaded and swore in turn, to no avail—even the warts did not convince him. He turned his back to me and started snoring.
I sat down in the armchair to collect my thoughts and take stock of the situation. I’d lived through it twice now, first as that sleeper, on Monday, and then as the one trying to wake him, unsuccessfully, on Tuesday. The Monday me hadn’t believed in the reality of the duplication, while the Tuesday me already knew it to be a fact. Here was a perfectly ordinary time loop. What then should be done in order to get the rudder fixed? Since the Monday me slept on—I remembered that on that night I had slept through to the morning undisturbed—I saw the futility of any further efforts to rouse him. The map indicated a number of other large gravitational vortices up ahead, therefore I could count on the duplication of the present within the next few days. I decided to write myself a letter and pin it to the pillow, enabling the Monday me, when he awoke, to see for himself that the dream had been no dream.
But no sooner did I sit at the table with pen and paper than something started rattling in the engines, so I hurried there and poured water on the overheated atomic pile till dawn, while the Monday me slept soundly, licking his lips from time to time, which galled me no end. Hungry and bleary-eyed, for I hadn’t slept a wink, I set about making breakfast, and was just wiping the dishes when the rocket fell into the next gravitational vortex. I saw my Monday self staring at me dumbfounded, lashed to the armchair, while Tuesday I fried an omelet. Then a lurch knocked me off balance, everything grew dark, and down I went. I came to on the floor among bits of broken china; near my face were the shoes of a man standing over me.
“Get up,” he said, lifting me. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I answered, keeping my hands on the floor, for my head was still spinning. “From what day of the week are you?”
“Wednesday,” he said. “Come on, let’s get that rudder fixed while we have the chance!”
“But where’s the Monday me?” I asked.
“Gone. Which means, I suppose, that you are he.”
“How is that?”
“Well, the Monday me on Monday night became, Tuesday morning, the Tuesday me, and so on.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Doesn’t matter—you’ll get the hang of it. But hurry up, we’re wasting time!”
“Just a minute,” I replied, remaining on the floor. “Today is Tuesday. Now if you are the Wednesday me, and if by that time on Wednesday the rudder still hasn’t been fixed, then it follows that something will prevent us from fixing it, since otherwise you, on Wednesday, would not now, on Tuesday, be asking me to help you fix it. Wouldn’t it be best, then, for us not to risk going outside?”
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Look, I’m the Wednesday me and you’re the Tuesday me, and as for the rocket, well, my guess is that its existence is patched, which means that in places it’s Tuesday, in places Wednesday, and here and there perhaps there’s even a bit of Thursday. Time has simply become shuffled up in passing through these vortices, but why should that concern us, when together we are two and therefore have a chance to fix the rudder?!”
“No, you’re wrong!” I said. “If on Wednesday, where you already are, having lived through all of Tuesday, so that now Tuesday is behind you, if on Wednesday—I repeat—the rudder isn’t fixed, then one can only conclude that it didn’t get fixed on Tuesday, since it’s Tuesday now and if we were to go and fix the rudder right away, that right away would be your yesterday and there would now be nothing to fix. And consequently…”
“And consequently you’re as stubborn as a mule!” he growled. “You’ll regret this! And my only consolation is that you too will be infuriated by your own pigheadedness, just as I am now—when you yourself reach Wednesday!!”
“Ah, wait,” I cried, “do you mean that on Wednesday, I, being you, will try to convince the Tuesday me, just as you are doing here, except that everything will be reversed, in other words you will be me and I you? But of course! That’s what makes a time loop! Hold on, I’m coming, yes, it makes sense now…”
But before I could get up off the floor we fell into a new vortex and the terrible acceleration flattened us against the ceiling.
The dreadful pitching and heaving didn’t let up once throughout that night from Tuesday to Wednesday. Then, when things had finally quieted down a little, the volume of the General Theory of Relativity came flying across the cabin and hit me on the forehead with such force, that I lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes I saw broken dishes and a man sprawled among them. I immediately jumped to my feet and lifted him, shouting:
“Get up! Are you all right?”
“I think so,” he replied, blinking. “From what day of the week are you?”
“Wednesday,” I said, “come on, let’s get that rudder fixed while we have the chance.”
“But where’s the Monday me?” he asked, sitting up. He had a black eye.
“Gone,” I said, “which means that you are he.”
“How is that?"
“Well, the Monday me on Monday night became, Tuesday morning, the Tuesday me, and so on.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Doesn’t matter—you’ll get the hang of it. But hurry up, we’re wasting time!”
Saying this, I was already looking around for the tools.
“Just a minute,” he drawled, not budging an inch. “Today is Tuesday. Now, if you are the Wednesday me, and if by that time on Wednesday the rudder still hasn’t been fixed, then it follows that something will prevent us from fixing it, since otherwise you, on Wednesday, would not be asking me now, on Tuesday, to help you fix it. Wouldn’t it be best, then, for us not to risk going outside?”
“Nonsense!!” I yelled, losing my temper. “Look, I’m the Wednesday me, you’re the Tuesday me…”
And so we quarreled, in opposite roles, during which he did in fact drive me into a positive fury, for he persistently refused to help me fix the rudder and it did no good calling him pigheaded and a stubborn mule. And when at last I managed to convince him, we plunged into the next gravitational vortex. I was in a cold sweat, for the thought occurred to me that we might now go around and around in this time loop, repeating ourselves for all eternity, but luckily that didn't happen. By the time the acceleration had slackened enough for me to stand, I was alone once more in the cabin. Apparently the localized existence of Tuesday, which until now had persisted in the vicinity of the sink, had vanished, becoming a part of the irretrievable past. I rushed over to the map, to find some nice vortex into which I could send the rocket, so as to bring about still another warp of time and in that way obtain a helping hand.
There was in fact one vortex, quite promising too, and by manipulating the engines with great difficulty, I aimed the rocket to intersect it at the very center. True, the configuration of that vortex was, according to the map, rather unusual—it had two foci, side by side. But by now I was too desperate to concern myself with this anomaly.
After several hours of bustling about in the engine room my hands were filthy, so I went to wash them, seeing as there was plenty of time yet before I would be entering the vortex. The bathroom was locked. From inside came the sounds of someone gargling.
“Who’s there?!” I hollered, taken aback.
“Me,” replied a voice.
“Which me is that?!”
“Ijon Tichy.”
“From what day?”
“Friday. What do you want?”
“I wanted to wash my hands…” I said mechanically, thinking meanwhile with the
greatest intensity: it was Wednesday evening, and he came from Friday, therefore the gravitational vortex into which the ship was to fall would bend time from Friday to Wednesday, but as for what then would take place within the vortex, that I could in no way picture. Particularly intriguing was the question of where Thursday might be. In the meantime the Friday me still wasn’t letting me into the bathroom, taking his sweet time, though I pounded on the door insistently.
“Stop that gargling!” I roared, out of patience. “Every second is precious—come out at once, we have to fix the rudder!”
“For that you don’t need me,” he said phlegmatically from behind the door. “The Thursday me must be around here somewhere, go with him…”
“What Thursday me? That’s not possible…”
“I ought to know whether it’s possible or not, considering that I’m already in Friday and consequently have lived through your Wednesday as well as his Thursday…”
Feeling dizzy, I jumped back from the door, for yes, I did hear some commotion in the cabin: a man was standing there, pulling the toolbag out from under the bed.
“You’re the Thursday me?!” I cried, running into the room.
“Right,” he said. “Here, give me a hand…”
“Will we be able to fix the rudder this time?” I asked as together we pulled out the heavy satchel.
“I don’t know, it wasn’t fixed on Thursday, ask the Friday me…”
That hadn’t crossed my mind! I quickly ran back to the bathroom door.
“Hey there, Friday me! Has the rudder been fixed?”
“Not on Friday,” he replied.
“Why not?"
“This is why not,” he said, opening the door. His head was wrapped in a towel, and he pressed the flat of a knife to his forehead, trying in this manner to reduce the swelling of a lump the size of an egg. The Thursday me meanwhile approached with the tools and stood beside me, calmly scrutinizing the me with the lump, who with his free hand was putting back on the shelf a siphon of seltzer. So it was its gurgle I had taken for his gargle.
“What gave you that?” I asked sympathetically,
“Not what, who,” he replied. “It was the Sunday me.”
“The Sunday me? But why … that can’t be!” I cried.
“Well it’s a long story…”
“Makes no difference! Quick, let’s go outside, we might just make it!” said the Thursday me, turning to the me that was I.
“But the rocket will fall into the vortex any minute now,” I replied. “The shock could throw us off into space, and that would be the end of us…”
“Use your head, stupid,” snapped the Thursday me. “If the Friday me’s alive, nothing can happen to us. Today is only Thursday.”
“It’s Wednesday,” I objected.
“It makes no difference, in either case I’ll be alive on Friday, and so will you.”
“Yes, but there really aren’t two of us, it only looks that way,” I observed, “actually there is one me, just from different days of the week…”
“Fine, fine, now open the hatch…”
But it turned out here that we had only one spacesuit between us. Therefore we could not both leave the rocket at the same time, and therefore our plan to fix the rudder was completely ruined.
“Blast!” I cried, angrily throwing down the toolbag. “What I should have done is put on the spacesuit to begin with and kept it on. I just didn’t think of it—but you, as the Thursday me, you ought to have remembered!”
“I had the spacesuit, but the Friday me took it,” he said.
“When? Why?”
“Eh, it’s not worth going into,” he shrugged and, turning around, went back to the cabin. The Friday me wasn’t there; I looked in the bathroom, but it was empty too.
“Where’s the Friday me?” I asked, returning. The Thursday me methodically cracked an egg with a knife and poured its contents onto the sizzling fat.
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of Saturday, no doubt,” he replied, indifferent, quickly scrambling the egg.
“Excuse me,” I protested, “but you already had your meals on Wednesday—what makes you think you can go and eat a second Wednesday supper?”
“These rations are mine just as much as they are yours,” he said, calmly lifting the browned edge of the egg with his knife. “I am you, you are me, so it makes no difference…”
“What sophistry! Wait, that’s too much butter! Are you crazy? I don’t have enough food for this many people!"
The skillet flew out of his hand, and I went crashing into a wall: we had fallen into a new vortex. Once again the ship shook, as if in a fever, but my only thought was to get to the corridor where the spacesuit was hanging and put it on. For in that way (I reasoned) when Wednesday became Thursday, I, as the Thursday me, would be wearing that spacesuit, and if only I didn’t take it off for a single minute (and I was determined not to) then I would obviously be wearing it on Friday also. And therefore the me on Thursday and the me on Friday would both be in our spacesuits, so that when we came together in the same present it would finally be possible to fix that miserable rudder. The increasing thrust of gravity made my head swim, and when I opened my eyes I noticed that I was lying to the right of the Thursday me, and not to the left, as I had been a few moments before. Now while it had been easy enough for me to develop this plan about the spacesuit, it was considerably more difficult to put it into action, since with the growing gravitation I could hardly move. When it weakened just a little, I began to inch my way across the floor—in the direction of the door that led to the corridor. Meanwhile I noticed that the Thursday me was likewise heading for the door, crawling on his belly towards the corridor. At last, after about an hour, when the vortex had reached its widest point, we met at the threshold, both flattened to the floor. Then I thought, why should I have to strain myself to reach the handle? Let the Thursday me do it. Yet at the same time I began to recall certain things which clearly indicated that it was I now who was the Thursday me, and not he.
“What day of the week are you?’’ I asked, to make sure. With my chin pressed to the floor I looked him in the eye. Struggling, he opened his mouth.
“Thurs—day—me,” he groaned. Now that was odd. Could it be that, in spite of everything, I was still the Wednesday me? Calling to mind all my recollections of the recent past, I had to conclude that this was out of the question. So he must have been the Friday me. For if he had preceded me by a day before, then he was surely a day ahead now. I waited for him to open the door, but apparently he expected the same of me. The gravitation had now subsided noticeably, so I got up and ran to the corridor. Just as I grabbed the spacesuit, he tripped me, pulling it out of my hands, and I fell flat on my face.
“You dog!” I cried. “Tricking your own self—that’s really low!"
He ignored me, stepping calmly into the spacesuit. The shamelessness of it was appalling. Suddenly a strange force threw him from the suit—as it turned out, someone was already inside. For a moment I wavered, no longer knowing who was who.
“You, Wednesday!” called the one in the spacesuit. “Hold back Thursday, help me!"
For the Thursday me was indeed trying to tear the spacesuit off him.
“Give me the spacesuit!” bellowed the Thursday me as he wrestled with the other.
“Get off! What are you trying to do? Don’t you realize I’m the one who should have it, and not you?!” howled the other.
“And why is that, pray?”
“For the reason, fool, that I’m closer to Saturday than you, and by Saturday there will be two of us in suits!”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I said, getting into their argument, “at best you’ll be alone in the suit on Saturday, like an absolute idiot, and won’t be able to do a thing. Let me have the suit: if I put it on now, then you’ll be wearing it on Friday as the Friday me, and I will also on Saturday as the Saturday me, and so you see there will then be two of us, and with two suits… Come on, Thursd
ay, give me a hand!!”
“Wait,” protested the Friday me when I had forcibly yanked the spacesuit off his back. “In the first place, there is no one here for you to call ‘Thursday,’ since midnight has passed and you are now the Thursday me, and in the second place, it’ll be better if I stay in the spacesuit. The spacesuit won’t do you a bit of good.”
“Why not? If I put it on today, I’ll have it on tomorrow too.”
“You’ll see for yourself … after all, I was already you, on Thursday, and my Thursday has passed, so I ought to know…”
“Enough talk. Let go of it this instant!” I snarled. But he grabbed it from me and I chased him, first through the engine room and then into the cabin. It somehow worked out that there were only two of us now. Suddenly I understood why the Thursday me, when we were standing at the hatch with the tools, had told me that the Friday me took the spacesuit from him: for in the meantime I myself had become the Thursday me, and here the Friday me was in fact taking it. But I had no intention of giving in that easily. Just you wait, I thought, I’ll take care of you, and out I ran into the corridor, and from there to the engine room, where before—during the chase—I had noticed a heavy pipe lying on the floor, which served to stoke the atomic pile, and I picked it up and—thus armed—dashed back to the cabin. The other me was already in the spacesuit, he had pulled on everything but the helmet.
“Out of the spacesuit!” I snapped, clenching my pipe in a threatening manner.
“Not a chance.”
“Out, I say!!”
Then I wondered whether or not I should hit him. It was a little disconcerting, the fact that he had neither a black eye nor a bump on his head, like the other Friday me, the one I’d found in the bathroom, but all at once I realized that this was the way it had to be. That Friday me by now was the Saturday me, yes, and perhaps even was knocking about somewhere in the vicinity of Sunday, while this Friday me inside the spacesuit had only recently been the Thursday me, into which same Thursday me I myself had been transformed at midnight. Thus I was moving along the sloping curve of the time loop towards that place in which the Friday me before the beating would change into the Friday me already beaten. Still, he did say, back then, that it had been the Sunday me who did it, and there was no trace, as yet, of him. We stood alone in the cabin, he and I. Then suddenly I had a brainstorm.
The Star Diaries Page 2
