“Have you ever heard of Master Oh?” I asked, not knowing myself how the question popped into my head.
“Yes. It was he who created our state. In so doing, he produced his masterpiece—the Simulation of Eternity.”
Thus ended our conversation. Three days later, brought before the court, I was found guilty and condemned to life identification. Driven back to the airport, I promptly blasted off, setting my course for Earth. I doubt that I’ll ever again get the urge to meet this Benefactor of the Universe.
THE
FOURTEENTH
VOYAGE
19. VIII. Having my rocket repaired. I got too close to the sun last time; all the finish peeled off. The shop manager suggests green. Perhaps, I don’t know. Spent the morning straightening up my collection. The prettiest gargoon pelt was full of moths. Sprinkled it with naphthalene. My afternoon—at Tarantoga’s. We sang Martian songs. I borrowed from him Brizard’s Two Years among the Squamp and Octopockles. Read it till dawn—simply fascinating.
20. VIII. I agreed to green. The manager is trying to talk me into buying an electrical brain. He has an extra one, in good condition, hardly used, high-powered. He says that no one goes anywhere today without a brain, except maybe to the moon. Haven’t decided yet, it’s a big expense. Read Brizard all afternoon—can’t put it down. And to think that I’ve never even seen a squamp.
21. VIII. At the shipyard bright and early. The manager showed me his brain. Truly handsome, and the joke battery lasts five years. This is supposed to solve the problem of cosmic ennui, “You’ll laugh the whole voyage,” said the manager. When the battery runs out, simply put in another. I ordered the rudders painted red. But as for the brain—I’ll have to think about it. Stayed up until midnight reading Brizard. Why not go hunting myself?
22. VIII. I finally bought that brain. Had it built into the wall. The manager added on some optionals, a heating pad and pillow. Taking me for all I’m worth! But he says I’ll save a lot of money. The point is that when you land on a planet you usually have to go through customs. With a brain, however, you can leave the rocket in space, let it circle the planet like an artificial moon, and then, without paying a single cent on duty, you proceed the rest of the way on foot. The brain computes the astronomical elements of its flight and relays the coordinates when you have to find the rocket later. I finished Brizard. Pretty well made up my mind, I’m going to Enteropia.
23. VIII. Got the rocket from the repair shop. It looks beautiful, except that the rudders clash. I repainted them myself, yellow. Worlds better. Borrowed volume E of the Cosmic Encyclopedia from Tarantoga and copied down the entry on Enteropia. Here it is;
ENTEROPIA, 6th planet of a double (red and blue) star in the Calf constellation. 8 continents, 2 oceans, 167 active volcanoes, 1 torg (see TORG). A 20-hr. day, warm climate, conditions for life favorable except during the whackers (see WHACKER).
Inhabitants:
a) dominant race—the Ardrites, intelligent beings, polydiaphanohedral, nonbisymmetrical and pelissobrachial (3), belonging to the genus Siliconoidea, order Polytheria, class Luminifera. Like all Polytheria the Ardrites are subject to periodic discretional splitting. They form families of the spherical type. System of government: gradocracy II B, with the introduction, 340 yrs. ago, of Penitential Trasm (see TRASM), Industry highly developed, principally eating utensils. Chief items of export; phosphorescent manubria, heart pl.’s, and loppets in several doz. varieties, ribbed and tannable. Capital; Ubbidub, pop. 1,400,000. Industrial centers: Haupr, Drur, Arbagellar. Culture luminositous, showing tendency to mushroom, due to the pervasive influence of the relics of a civilization wiped out by the Ardrites, the Phytogosian (see MUSHROOM MEN). In recent yrs. an increasingly imp. role has been played in the cultural life of the society by (see) scrupts. Beliefs: the prevailing religion—Monomungism. According to M., the world was created by the Multiple Munge in the person of the Original Urdle, from whom arose the suns and planets, with Enteropia at the head. The plated temples of the Ardrites are stationary and collapsible. Besides Monomungism several sects are active, the most significant—the Tentortonian. The (see) Tentortonians believe only in Emphosis (see EMPHOSIS), and some not even in that. Art: ballet (rotary), radio opera, scruption, antediluvian drama. Architecture: in con. with the whackers—pump-inflatable, tubulous, blobiform. Gum towers, highest are the 130-deckers. On art. moons edifices generally ovoid.
b) Animals. Fauna of the siliconoidal var., prin. species: slebs, autachial denderfnifts, gruncheons, squamp and whimpering octopockles. During the whackers the hunting of squamp and octopockles is prohibited by law. For man these animals are inedible, with the exception of squamp (and only in the zarf region, see ZARF). Aquatic fauna: constitute the raw material of the food industry. Prin. species: infernalia (hellwinders), chungheads, frinkuses and opthropularies. Unique to Enteropia is the torg, with its bollical fauna and flora. In our Galaxy the only things analogous to it are the hii in the frothless sump bosks of Jupiter, All life on Enteropia evolved—as has been shown by the studies of the school of Prof, Tarantoga—within the confines of the torg, from the chalcycladine deposits. In con. with the massive devel. of land and sea one can expect the swift disappearance of the remnants of the torg. Falling under par. 6 of the stat. in re the preservation of planetary monuments (Codex Galacticus t. MDDDVII, vol. XXXII, pg. 4670), the torg has been declared a park; esp. forbidden is poaching (croaching) at night.
Most of the entry is clear to me, except for the references to scrupts, trasm and whackers. Unfortunately the last volume of the Encyclopedia published so far ends on “SUCCOTASH,” which means there’s nothing about trasm or whacker. However I did go over to Tarantoga’s to look up “SCRUPTS.” All I found was:
SCRUPTS—a feature of the civilization of the (see) Ardrites, of the planet (see) Enteropia, plays a significant role in their cultural life. See SCRUPTURE.
I followed this advice and read:
SCRUPTURE—the act of scrupturing, the state of being scruptured, the product of (see) scruption.
I looked under “Scruption,” which said:
SCRUPTION—an activity or condition of the (see) Ardrites, of the planet (see) Enteropia. See SCRUPTS.
The circle had closed, there was nowhere else to look. Well, I’d sooner die than admit to such ignorance in front of the Professor, and there’s no one but him I can turn to. Anyway, the die is cast—I’ve decided to go to Enteropia. I take off in three days.
28. VIII. Started out at two, right after lunch. Didn’t bring along any books, since I have that new brain. It told anecdotes all the way to the moon. I laughed and laughed. Then supper, and off to bed.
29. VIII. I must have caught a cold in the moon’s shadow, I keep sneezing. Took two aspirin. Three freighters from Pluto on our course; the engineer telegraphed me to get out of the way. I asked what his cargo was, thinking it might be God knows what, but nothing, just ordinary clabber. And then an express from Mars, terribly packed. I looked out the window, they were all lying one on top of the other, like herring. We waved our handkerchiefs, but they were already gone. Listened to jokes until supper. Hysterical, only I keep sneezing.
30. VIII. Increased the speed. The brain working perfectly. My sides began to hurt some, so I turned it off for a couple of hours and plugged in the pad and pillow. Feels wonderful. It was after two when I picked up the radio signal Popov sent from Earth in the year 1896. I’m a good ways out now.
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 “RAUS SPREAD HUNTS BEST!,” 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:
The Star Diaries Page 13
