Once, on Ardenuria, they supposedly absconded with an entire continent, which luckily was not in use, being ice-covered. They hire themselves out for the cleaning and adjusting of moons, but few entrust to them these important responsibilities. Their young throw stones at comets, take rides on decaying meteors—in a word, one has no end of trouble with them. I concluded that such a mode of existence was quite intolerable and so, briefly interrupting my journey, set to work—and with considerable success, for I was able to obtain a secondhand moon in perfectly good condition. It was fixed up and, thanks to my contacts, promoted to the status of a planet.
Of course there wasn’t any air, but I took up a collection; the neighboring residents all pitched in, and you should have seen the joy with which the good Gypsonians entered their very own planet! They simply could not thank me enough. Bidding them a fond farewell, I continued on my way. To Amauropia there remained less than six quintillion miles; after covering this last stretch of road and finding the right planet (and they’re as thick as flies), I began to descend to its surface.
When it was time to throw on the brakes, I discovered to my horror that they didn’t work and I was falling towards the planet like a stone. Sticking my head out the hatch, I noticed that the brakes were completely gone. With indignation I thought of the ungrateful Gypsonians, however there wasn’t time to reflect on this, for I was already plunging through the atmosphere and the rocket had begun to glow a ruby-red. Another minute and I would be burnt alive.
Fortunately at the last moment I remembered the time dilator; turning it on, I made the passage of time so slow, that my fall to the planet lasted three weeks. Having extricated myself in this way from a difficult situation, I looked around to get my bearings.
The rocket had settled in a spacious clearing surrounded by pale-blue forest. Above the trees with their broom-shaped branches hovered emerald creatures, spinning with great velocity. At the sight of me a herd of animals scurried off into the purple bushes; these bore a striking resemblance to man, except that their skin was shiny and sapphire blue. I already knew one or two things about them from Tarantoga and, pulling out my astronautical handbook, acquired a few additional facts.
The planet was inhabited by a race of anthropoidal beings—so went the text—called Microcephalids, who stood at an extremely low level of development. Attempts to communicate with them were fruitless. The handbook certainly seemed to be telling the truth. The Microcephalids walked on all fours, hunkering here, crouching there, removing the lice from themselves with great skill, and when I drew near they batted their emerald eyes at me and jabbered in a totally disconnected manner. Besides a lack of intelligence they were characterized by a good-natured and peaceful disposition.
For two days I investigated the blue forest and the extensive plains that surrounded it, then went back to my rocket and turned in for the night. I was already in bed when I remembered the accelerator, and decided to set it going for a couple of hours, to see if by the following day it would produce any effect. So I hauled it—not without difficulty—out of the rocket, placed it near the trees, switched on the time acceleration and, returning to bed, slept the sleep of the just.
I was awakened by a violent pulling and tugging. Opening my eyes, I saw the faces of Microcephalids bending over me; already standing on two feet, they were conversing noisily and with the greatest interest moving my arms, and when I tried to resist, they nearly wrenched them from their sockets. The biggest Microcephalid, a lilac giant, forced open my mouth and, sticking his fingers in, counted my teeth.
Struggling helplessly, I was carried out into the clearing and tied to the tail of the rocket. From this position I watched the Microcephalids taking whatever they could from the rocket; the larger objects that would not fit through the opening of the hatch they first broke into pieces with stones. Suddenly a hail of stones rained down upon the rocket and on the Microcephalids busy at work around it; one stone landed on my head. Tightly bound, I was unable to look in the direction from which the stones were flying. I only heard the sounds of battle. The Microcephalids who had tied me up finally took to flight. Others came running, released me from my bonds, and with signs of great respect bore me on their shoulders into the forest.
The procession stopped at the foot of a spreading tree. From its branches hung, fastened with lianas, a kind of aerial hut with a tiny window. Through this window I was deposited inside, at which point the crowd assembled below fell to its knees, wailing and chanting. Long lines of Microcephalids made offerings to me of fruit and flowers. In the days that followed I became the object of a popular cult, in which high priests divined the future from the expression of my face; whenever it seemed unfavorable to them they fumigated me with incense, so that I nearly suffocated. Fortunately during the rendering of these burnt offerings the priest would swing the shrine in which I sat, and this enabled me from time to time to catch a breath of air.
On the fourth day my worshippers were attacked by a band of club-wielding Microcephalids, led by the giant who had counted my teeth. Passing from hand to hand in the course of the battle, I became—alternately—the recipient of veneration and indignities. The conflict concluded with the victory of the attackers, under the command of the giant whose name was Flying Worm. I participated in his triumphant return to the camp, lashed to the top of a high pole held by his relatives. This became a tradition and thereafter I served as a kind of banner, obliged to accompany them on all their military campaigns. It was burdensome, but carried with it certain privileges.
Gradually picking up the language of the Microcephalids, I began to explain to Flying Worm that it was to me that he and his subjects owed their rapid development. This wasn’t easy, but I had the impression that I was finally getting through to him; unfortunately he was poisoned by his nephew Flaking Spoon. The latter united the Microcephalids of both field and forest, still at war, by marrying Mastozymasia, the high priestess of the forest Microcephalids.
Catching sight of me during the wedding feast (I was now the taster—that office had been introduced by Flaking Spoon), Mastozymasia gave a delighted shriek: “My, what white-white skin you have!” This filled me with misgivings, which all too soon proved true. Mastozymasia smothered her husband while he slept and wed me in a morganatic marriage. To her in turn I attempted to explain my services on behalf of the Microcephalids, but she misunderstood me, for after the first few words she exclaimed, “Aha, you don’t love me any more!” and it took me quite some time to reassure her.
In the next palace coup Mastozymasia perished; I saved myself by jumping out the window. All that remained from our union was the white-and-lilac color of the national flag. After my escape I found the forest clearing with the accelerator, and was about to turn it off, but it occurred to me that it might be wiser instead to wait until the Microcephalids had produced a more democratic civilization.
For a period of time I lived in the forest, sustaining myself exclusively with roots, and only at night did I go out to look at the camp, which was rapidly being transformed into a city, encircled with a stockade.
The Microcephalid settlers tilled the soil, while the city dwellers would fall upon them, ravishing their wives and murdering and plundering them. Out of this, commerce soon developed. Meanwhile religious beliefs were also gaining in strength, and rituals grew more elaborate from day to day. Much to my distress the Microcephalids dragged the rocket from the clearing to the city and set it in the middle of their main square as a kind of idol, surrounding that area with a wall and guards. On several occasions the farmers banded together, attacked Lilium (as the city was called) and with their combined forces leveled it to the ground; however after each time a most efficient restoration followed.
These wars were brought to an end by King Sarcepanos, who burned the villages, cut down the forests as well as the farmers, and those who survived he placed as prisoners of war on the land around the city. Having nowhere now to go, I made my way to Lilium. Thanks to my connections (t
he palace servants knew me from the days of Mastozymasia) I was given the post of Masseur to the Throne. Sarcepanos took a liking to me at once and decided to confer upon me the dignity of Assistant to the State Assassin, with the rank of Senior Torturer. In despair I returned to the clearing where the accelerator was still running and set it at maximum speed. Sure enough, that very night Sarcepanos died of overeating and Trimon the Livid, commander of the army, ascended the throne. He introduced a hierarchy of officials, taxation, and compulsory military service. The color of my skin saved me from the draft. I was regarded as an albino and as such denied the right to approach the royal residence. I lived among the slaves, called by them Ijon the Ashen.
I began to preach universal equality and revealed my role in the development of Microcephalid society. Before long there had gathered around me many followers of this teaching, known as the Mechanists. Then disorders and rioting ensued, which were bloodily suppressed by the troops of Trimon the Livid. Mechanism became forbidden upon pain of death by tickling.
Several times I had to flee the city and hide in the municipal fish ponds; my disciples were subjected to the cruelest persecution. But more and more people from higher circles began to be drawn to my lectures, incognito of course. When Trimon tragically passed away, absent-mindedly forgetting to breathe, Carbonzyl the Smart assumed power. He was an adherent of my teachings, which were promptly raised to the status of a state religion. I acquired the title of Guardian of the Machine and a magnificent dwelling next to the court. My duties kept me busy—I don’t know myself how it happened, but the priests under me took to proclaiming the thesis of my heavenly origin. I opposed this, but to no avail. In the meantime there arose a sect of Antimechanists, who held that the Microcephalids were developing in an entirely natural manner and that I was a former slave who had deceitfully whitened himself with lime to make fools of the people.
The leaders of the sect were seized and the king charged me, as Guardian of the Machine, to put them to their death. Seeing no other way out, I escaped through a window of the palace and for a time concealed myself in the municipal fish ponds. One day the news reached me that the priests were announcing the Ascension of Ijon the Ashen, who, having completed his planetary mission, had left to rejoin his celestial parents. I went to Lilium to set things straight, but the crowd kneeling before my effigies, when I began to speak, wanted to stone me. The temple guards intervened, but only in order to throw me—as an impostor and blasphemer—in the dungeon. For three full days they scrubbed and scraped me, trying to remove the whitewash with which I was supposed to have impersonated the beatified Ashen. Because I failed to turn blue, they were going to apply torture. From this predicament I managed to escape, thanks to one of the jailers who obtained for me a little bluing. I rushed back to the forest where the accelerator stood and after a great deal of manipulating increased its operation even more, in the hope that I might in this way hasten the coming of a decent civilization. Then I hid for two weeks in the municipal fish ponds.
I returned to the capital when they had declared a republic, inflation, amnesty and the equalization of all classes. At the tollgates they were already demanding I.D.’s; having none, I was arrested for vagrancy. After my release I became, to make a living, a courier for the Ministry of Education. The ministerial cabinets changed frequently, sometimes twice a day, and since each new administration began its reign by rescinding the edicts of the previous administration and issuing new, I was kept running back and forth with circulars. Finally I developed bunions on my feet and submitted my resignation, however it was not accepted, for they had just declared a state of war. Living through the republic, two directorates, the restoration of an enlightened monarchy, the authoritarian regime of General Bugbear and his subsequent beheading for high treason, I grew impatient with the slow progress of civilization and once again took to fiddling with the machine, with the result that one of its knobs broke off. This didn’t particularly concern me, but after a few days I noticed that something peculiar was taking place.
The sun rose in the west, there was great commotion in the cemetery, the deceased were seen walking about, moreover their condition improved by the minute, adults dwindled before one’s eyes, and little children dropped completely out of sight.
The regime of General Bugbear returned, the enlightened monarchy, the directorate, finally the republic. When I saw with my own eyes the retreating funeral procession of King Carbonzyl, who after three days rose from his catafalque and was unembalmed, it dawned on me that I must have broken the machine and time was now running in reverse. The worst of it was, I observed the signs of advancing youth on myself as well. I decided to wait for the resurrection of Carbonzyl the First, when I would again become the Great Mechanist and be able to use my former influence to get to the rocket, which was serving as a sacred idol.
The only trouble was the alarming rate of change; I wasn’t sure I could last until the right moment. Every day I stood next to the tree in my back yard and marked the height of my head—I was shrinking with inordinate speed. By the time I was Guardian of the Machine at the side of Carbonzyl, I looked no older than nine—and there were still provisions to be gathered for the trip. At night I loaded them into the rocket, which cost me no little effort, for I was growing progressively weaker. To my great horror I discovered that in moments of leisure from palace duties I felt an irresistible urge to play tag.
When at last the vehicle was ready to go, I crept into it at the crack of dawn and reached for the starting stick—but it was too high. I had to scramble up on a stool before I could move it. Intending to curse, I was appalled to discover that I could only mewl. At the moment of takeoff I was still walking, but apparently the effect had acquired some momentum, since even after leaving that planet, when its disk loomed in the distance as a whitish spot, it was only with the greatest difficulty that I was able to crawl over to the bottle of milk which I had providently prepared for myself. I had to take nourishment in this fashion for six full months.
The journey to Amauropia lasts, as I mentioned at the beginning, about thirty years, consequently upon returning to Earth I did not alarm my friends with my appearance. I only regret that I lack a good imagination, for then I would not have to avoid meeting Tarantoga and could, surely, spare his feelings by making up some cock-and-bull story in praise of his talents as an inventor.
THE
THIRTEENTH
VOYAGE
It is with mixed emotions that I now come to a journey which brought me a great deal more than ever I bargained for. My object, when I set out from Earth, was to reach an extremely remote planet of the Crab constellation, Fatamiasma, known throughout space as the birthplace of one of the most distinguished individuals in our Universe, Master Oh. This is not the real name of that illustrious sage, but they refer to him thus, for it is impossible otherwise to render his true appellation in any earthly language. Children born on Fatamiasma receive an enormous number of titles and distinctions as well as a name that is, by our standards, inordinately long.
The day Master Oh came into the world he was called Hridipidagnittusuoayomojorfnagrolliskipwikabeccopyxlbepurz. And duly dubbed Golden Buttress of Being, Doctor of Quintessential Benignity, Most Possibilistive Universatilitude, etc., etc. From year to year, as he studied and matured, the titles and syllables of his name were one by one removed, and since he gave evidence of uncommon abilities, by the thirty-third year of his life he was relieved of his last distinction, and two years later carried no title whatever, while his name was designated in the Fatamiasman alphabet by a single and—moreover—voiceless letter, signifying “celestial aspirate”—this is a kind of stifled gasp which one gives from a surfeit of awe and rapture.
And now, surely, the Reader will understand why I call this great sage Master Oh. Commonly known as the Benefactor of the Universe, he has dedicated his life to the work of bringing happiness to innumerable races of the Galaxy. Laboring without respite,
he created the science of granting wishes, also called the General Theory of Simulation. He refers to himself, however, as a simple prostheticist.
The first time I encountered a manifestation of Master Oh’s activity was on Europia. That planet had for ages been seething with dissension, peevishness, and the mutual hostility of its inhabitants. Brother envied brother there, students hated teachers, subordinates—superiors. And yet when I dropped in for a visit I was confronted instead by universal tranquility and the most tender affection, displayed and reciprocated—without exception—by all the members of the planetary community. Naturally I was curious to learn the cause of such an edifying transformation.
One day, while wandering through the streets of the capital in the company of a native I knew, I noticed in a number of store windows life-size heads, arranged on stands as if they were hats, and large mannequins too, all bearing a remarkable likeness to the Europians themselves. My companion explained, when asked, that these were safety valves. If you happened to conceive a dislike for anyone, you went to such a store and purchased a custom-made replica of the party, in order afterwards, in the privacy of your lodgings, to take whatever liberties you liked with it. Persons of greater means could afford an entire mannequin, the rest had to content themselves with abusing the head only.
The Star Diaries Page 10
