The Star Diaries

by Stanisław Lem

  “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.

  “Beg your pardon?” He hadn’t heard me. I repeated my question, adding that I would like to acquire a scrupt. Apparently I had spoken too loud—those perched nearby turned around and looked at me with murky faces, and my Ardrite friend threw up his tentacles in alarm.

  “For the love of Munge, Mr. Tichy—but you’re alone!”

  “And what if I am?” I snapped, irritated. “Is that any reason I can’t see a scrupt?”

  There was a sickening silence. The wife of my acquaintance fell to the floor in a faint, he rushed to her assistance, and the nearest Ardrites started rolling towards me, their color betraying the most hostile intentions; at that moment three waiters appeared, seized me by the scruff of the neck and tossed me out into the street.

  I was positively furious. I hailed a transom, took it back to the hotel. All that night I didn’t sleep a wink, something was gnawing, chafing at me; at daybreak I discovered that the hotel staff, having received no particulars from Galax and accustomed to guests who burned their mattresses clear through to the springs, had given me asbestos sheets. But the unpleasant incidents of the previous day seemed unimportant that bright morning. It was in the best of spirits that I greeted the Galax representative who came for me at ten in a transom full of snares, jars of hunting spread and a whole arsenal of sportsman’s weapons.

  “Ever hunted squamp before?” asked my guide as the vehicle wove its way through the streets of Ubbidub at breakneck speed.

  “No. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me…” I said with a smile.

  My many years of experience on safaris for the largest game in the Galaxy entitled me, I thought, to show no excitement.

  “Gladly,” replied the courteous guide.

  This was a slender Ardrite of glassy complexion, without a shade, wrapped in a navy blue fabric—I had not seen that sort of dress before on the planet. When I told him this, he explained it was a hunting outfit, indispensable for stealing up on game; what I had taken for cloth was in fact a special substance with which one covered one’s body. In short—a spray-on suit, comfortable, practical and, most important, completely blotting out the natural effulgence of the Ardrites, which might scare off a squamp.

  The guide pulled a leaflet from his handbag and gave it to me to study; I have it still among my papers. It reads:

  HUNTING SQUAMP

  Instructions for Foreigners

  The squamp as a game animal places great demands on the personal accomplishments no less than on the gear of the hunter. Inasmuch as this beast has, in the course of evolution, adapted itself to meteoroid rains by developing an absolutely impervious integument of armor, squamp are hunted from the inside only.

  To hunt a squamp one must have:

  A) in the preliminary phase—base spread, mushroom sauce, chives, salt and pepper;

  B) in the phase proper—a whisk broom, a time bomb.

  I. Preparation in the field.

  One hunts a squamp with bait. The hunter, having besmeared himself beforehand with the base spread, crouches down in a furrow of the torg, after which his companions sprinkle finely chopped chives over him and season to taste.

  II. In this position one awaits the squamp. When the animal approaches, one should remain calm and with both hands take firm hold of the time bomb gripped between one’s knees. A hungry squamp will usually swallow at once. If however the squamp does balk, one may encourage it with a gentle slap across the tongue. When a miss seems likely, some advise additional salting, this however is a most hazardous move, for the squamp may sneeze. Very few hunters have survived the sneeze of a squamp.

  III. A squamp that takes the bait will lick its lips and walk away. Upon being swallowed, the hunter immediately proceeds to the active phase, i.e., with the whisk broom he brushes from himself the chives and spices, so that the spread may freely work its purgative effect, whereupon he sets the time bomb and withdraws as quickly as possible in the direction opposite to that from which he came.

  IV. Upon leaving the squamp, one should take care to land on one’s
hands and feet and not hurt oneself.

  Warning. The use of sharp spices is forbidden. Also forbidden is the planting of time bombs already set and sprinkled with chives. Such an act is considered poaching and will be prosecuted to the limit of the law.

  At the border of the game preserve we were met by the warden, Wawr, in the midst of his family that sparkled like crystal in the sun. He proved to be most friendly and hospitable; invited to partake of some refreshment, we passed several hours at his charming estate, listening to true-life tales of squamp and the hunting reminiscences of Wawr and his sons. Then suddenly a breathless courier came bursting in with the news that the beaters had flushed some squamp from cover and into the heart of the bush.

  “Squamp,” explained the warden, “must first be driven around a bit, to get them good and hungry!”

  Anointed with spread and holding my bomb and spices, I set off in the company of Wawr and my guide. We entered the torg. The path soon vanished in impenetrable thickets. Progress grew difficult, from time to time we came upon squamp tracks, which were potholes twenty feet in diameter. On and on we went, interminably. Then the earth shook and my guide halted, motioning silence with his tentacle. One could hear thunder, as if a violent storm were raging just over the horizon,

  “Hear that?” whispered the guide.

  “A squamp?”

  “Yes. It’s a cub.”

  Now we pushed ahead more slowly and with greater caution. The crashing died away and the torg again was still. Finally, through the underbrush there gleamed an open field. At the edge of it my companions found a suitable spot, then seasoned me and, making sure I had the whisk broom and bomb in readiness, left on tiptoe, recommending patience. For a while nothing disturbed the reigning silence but the whine and burr of octopockles; my legs had grown quite numb when, suddenly, the ground began to tremble. I saw a movement in the distance—the treetops at the far end of the clearing swayed and fell, marking the path of the beast. This was a big one, all right. Presently the squamp looked out on the field, stepped over some fallen trunks and plodded forward. Swinging majestically from side to side, it headed straight in my direction, snuffing noisily. With both hands I clutched the jug-eared bomb and waited, perfectly calm. The squamp stopped at a distance of some one hundred fifty feet from me and licked its lips. In its transparent interior I could clearly see the remains of many a hunter upon whom Fortune had not smiled.

  For a while the squamp thought it over. I began to fear the thing would go away, but then it approached and tasted me. I heard a hollow slurp and lost the ground from under my feet.

  “Got him!” I thought. Inside the squamp it wasn’t nearly as dark as it had seemed at first. Brushing myself off, I lifted the heavy time bomb and was just about to set it, when someone went “Ahem.” I looked up, startled, and saw before me a strange Ardrite, also bending over a bomb. We stared at one another for a minute.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Hunting squamp,” he replied.

  “So am I,” I said, “but go ahead, please. You were here first.”

  “Nonsense,” he replied, “you are a visitor.”

  “No, really,” I protested, “I’ll save my bomb for another time. Please don’t let my presence hamper you.”

  “I won’t hear of it!” he exclaimed. “You are our guest.”

  “I am a hunter first.”

  “And I—a host, and will not have you give up this squamp on my account! Make haste now, for the spread is beginning to work!”

  In truth the squamp had become uneasy; even in here its powerful panting reached us, with a sound like several dozen locomotives all going at once. Seeing that I would never persuade the Ardrite, I set the bomb and waited for my new companion, he however insisted I go first. Shortly thereafter we left the squamp. Falling from a height of two stories, I twisted my ankle a little. The squamp, evidently much relieved, went charging off into the brush, snapping trees with an awful racket. Suddenly there was a terrific boom, then silence.

  “Well done, old fellow! Congratulations!” shouted the hunter, heartily shaking my hand. At that moment the game warden and my guide came up.

  It was getting dark, we had to hurry back; the warden promised that he himself would stuff the squamp and have it sent to Earth on the very first freighter out.

  5. XI. Didn’t write a word for four days, I was too busy. Every morning—those characters from the Commission for Cultural Cooperation with the Cosmos, museums, exhibits, radioactivities, and in the afternoon—visits, official receptions, addresses. I’m all done in. The delegate from CCCC in charge of me said yesterday that we were due for a whacker, but I forgot to ask him what a whacker was. Supposed to see Professor Pook, the famous Ardrite scientist, but don’t know when yet.

  6. XI. At the hotel, early, wakened by an ungodly noise. I jumped out of bed and saw great columns of smoke and fire rising above the city. I phoned the information desk, asked what was happening.

  “It’s nothing,” said the operator, “nothing to worry about, sir, only a whacker.”

  “A whacker?”

  “Yes, a whacker, a meteor shower, we get them once every ten months.”

  “But that’s dreadful!” I cried. “Shouldn’t I go to a shelter?!”

  “Oh, no shelter will withstand a striking meteor. But really, sir, you have a spare, like every citizen, there is no need to be afraid.”

  “What do you mean, a spare?” I asked, but she had already hung up. I quickly dressed and went out into the city. The traffic in the streets was perfectly normal; pedestrians hurried about their business, dignitaries ablaze with iridescent medals drove to their offices, and in the parks played children, twinkling and singing. The explosions thinned out after a while; only in the distance now could one still hear their steady rumble. A whacker, I thought, evidently was not a terribly serious phenomenon, if no one here paid the least attention to it, and so I went—as I had planned—to the zoological garden.

  I was shown around by the director himself, a slender, nervous Ardrite with a handsome shine. The Ubbidub Zoo is well kept up; the director told me with pride that its collection contains animals from the farthermost reaches of the Galaxy, including even an Earth exhibit. Touched, I asked to see it.

  “Unfortunately you can’t just now,” he said, then added, when I looked at him questioningly:

  “It’s their sleeping period. We had a great deal of trouble with the acclimatization, you see, for a while I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to keep a single one of them alive, but happily the vitamin supplements our experts worked out gave excellent results.”

  “Yes … but what sort of animal are they?”

  “Flies. By the way, do you like squamp?”

  He threw me a peculiar, searching look, so that I replied, trying to give my voice the sound of genuine enthusiasm;

  “Oh, I’m crazy about them—wonderful creatures!”

  He beamed.

  “Good. Let’s go see them, but first, excuse me for a moment.”

  He returned with a coil of rope and led me to the squamp pen, which was encircled with a three-hundred-foot wall. Opening the door, he had me enter first.

  “You can rest easy,” he said, “my squamp are perfectly tame.”

  I found myself on an artificial torg field; there were six or seven squamp grazing, splendid specimens, each measuring about three hectares across. The largest, at the voice of the director, approached us and held out its tail. The director climbed up on it, beckoning me to follow—so I did. When the angle grew too steep, he uncoiled his rope and gave me an end to tie around myself. Thus fastened, we climbed for more than two hours. At the summit of the squamp the director sat down in silence, clearly moved. I said nothing, wishing to respect his feelings. After some time he spoke:

  “A beautiful view from here, don’t you think?”

  And indeed, we had at our feet nearly all of Ubbidub, with its spires, temples and gum towers; along the streets milled the cit
izens, as small as ants.

  “You’re fond of squamp,” I quietly remarked, seeing how the director gently stroked the back of the beast near its summit.

  “I love them,” he said simply, turning to face me. “Squamp, after all, are the cradle of our civilization,” he added. Then, after a moment’s thought, he continued: “Once, many thousands of years ago, we had no cities, no magnificent homes, no technology, no spares… In those days these gentle, mighty beings cared for us, brought us safely through the difficult periods of the whackers. Without squamp not a single Ardrite would have lived to see these present happy times, and now look how they are hunted down, destroyed, exterminated! What monstrous, black ingratitude!”

  I dared not interrupt. It took him a moment to master his emotions, then he went on:

  “How I hate those hunters, who return goodness with villainy! You have seen, I take it, the hunting advertisements, the signs?”

  “Yes.”

  The director’s words had made me thoroughly ashamed of myself, and I trembled at the thought that he might learn of my recent crime; I had, after all, hunted a squamp with my very own hands. Wishing to divert the director from this somewhat ticklish topic of conversation, I asked him:

  “You really owe them that much, then? I was not aware of this…”

  “What—not aware? But the squamp carried us in their wombs for twenty thousand years! Living inside them, protected by their powerful armor against the hail of deadly meteors, our forefathers became what we are today: intelligent, beautiful beings that shine by night. And you were not aware of this?”

  “I am a foreigner…” I muttered, vowing in my soul never, never again to raise a hand against a squamp.

  “Yes, of course…” replied the director, no longer listening to me, and got to his feet. “Unfortunately we must go back: I have my duties to attend to…”