The Star Diaries Read online

  This brilliant example of social engineering, called the Simulation of Individual Freedom, was something new to me, and I could not help but inquire as to its creator, who was, as it turned out, Master Oh.

  Later, spending some time on other globes, I had occasion to come across other traces of his beneficial influence. Take Ardeluria, for instance, where there had lived a certain famous astronomer who proclaimed that the planet revolved about its axis. This theory contradicted the creed of the Ardelurians, according to which the planet was fixed motionless in the center of the Universe. The council of high priests summoned the astronomer before the tribunal and demanded he renounce his heretical teaching. When he refused, they condemned him to be cleansed of his sins by fire, at the stake. Master Oh, learning of this, hastened to Ardeluria. There he conferred with both priests and scientists, however each side held stubbornly to its position. After spending the night in meditation, the sage finally came up with an idea, which immediately he put into action. This was a planetary brake. With its help the rotational motion of the planet was arrested. The astronomer, sitting in his cell, detected the change by observing the heavens and, recanting his previous assertions, willingly accepted the dogma of the immobility of Ardeluria. Thus was created the Simulation of Objective Truth.

  In his spare moments, when he was not engaged in social work, Master Oh carried out research of another kind: it was he, for example, who invented the method of locating—at great distances—planets occupied by intelligent life. This is the method of the “a posteriori clue,” incredibly simple, as are all ideas of genius. The flaring up of a new star in the firmament, where there have been no stars before, testifies to the recent disintegration of a planet whose former inhabitants had achieved a high level of civilization and discovered the means of releasing atomic energy. Master Oh did what he could to prevent such incidents, and in the following way: when a planet became depleted of its natural fuels, such as coal or oil, he would instruct the inhabitants in the breeding of electric eels. This was implemented on more than one globe, under the name of the Simulation of Progress. Which of our astronauts has not enjoyed an evening stroll on Enteroptosis, wandering through the dark accompanied by a trained eel with a light bulb in its little mouth?!

  As time went by I longed to meet, more and more, this Master Oh. Of course I understood that before I could actually make his acquaintance I would have to do some serious boning up, in order to raise myself to his high intellectual plane. Inspired by this thought, I decided to devote the entire time of the flight, roughly nine years, to educating myself in the field of philosophy. And so I blasted off from Earth in a rocket filled from stem to stern with bookshelves that sagged beneath the weight of the loftiest fruits of the human spirit. Having put some six hundred million miles or more between myself and the parent star, when nothing could disturb my concentration, I started in on the reading. There was so much of it, that I’d worked out a special system for myself: first, to avoid the mistake of reading books I might already have leafed through, I planned to toss each work—as I was finished with it—out the hatch of the rocket, and then collect them all, one by one, afloat in space, on the return trip.

  So for the next two hundred and eighty days I pored over Anaxagoras, Plato and Plotinus, Origen and Tertullian, went through Erigena the Scott, the bishops Hrab of Moguncia and Hincmar of Reims, read Ratramnus of Corbie from cover to cover, Servatus Lupus, and Augustine too, his De Vita Beata, De Civitate Dei and De Quantitate Animae. Then I took on Thomas Aquinas, the bishops Synesios and Nemesios, also Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, Saint Bernard and Suarez. At Saint Victor I had to stop, for it’s a habit of mine, when I read, to roll little pills out of bread, and by now the rocket was full of them. Sweeping them into space, I shut the hatch and got back to my studies. The next shelves contained more recent works—there were a good seven and a half tons there and I began to fear I wouldn’t have time to master it all, however I soon discovered that the themes repeated themselves, differing only in their formulation. What some set right side up, so to speak, others put upside down; thus I was able to skip over quite a bit.

  Then I did the mystics and the Schoolmen, Hartmann, Gentile, Spinoza, Ulundt, Malebranche, Herbart, and acquainted myself with infinitism, the perfection of creation, the harmony of the spheres, and monads, never ceasing to be amazed at how each of these wise men had such a great deal to say about the human soul, and all of it diametrically opposed to what the others proclaimed.

  Then, as I became engrossed in a positively delightful description of the harmony of the spheres, my reading was interrupted by a fairly serious incident. I was now passing through a region of intense magnetic fields, which magnetized all iron objects with tremendous force. This is precisely what happened to the iron tags on the laces of my slippers. Rooted to the steel floor, I couldn’t take a step to reach the cupboard where the food was. The prospect of death by starvation loomed before me, but I remembered in time that I had a copy of the Astronaut’s Handbook in my pocket and, pulling it out, read that in such situations one ought to remove one’s shoes. This done, I returned to my studies.

  When I had familiarized myself with about six thousand tomes and knew their contents like the palm of my own hand, some eight trillion miles still separated me from Fatamiasma. I was just beginning to tackle the next shelf, which was filled with the critique of pure reason, when the sound of energetic knocking reached my ears. I looked up, startled, for I was alone in the rocket, and was hardly expecting any visitors from space. The knocking grew more insistent, at the same time I heard a muffled voice:

  “Open up! Aquatica!”

  I hurriedly unlocked the hatch, and into the rocket came three beings in spacesuits, covered with cosmic dust.

  “Aha! A hydrant, caught in the act!” cried the first of them, and the second added:

  “All right, where’s your water?”

  Before I could reply, gaping with astonishment, the third said something to the other two, which seemed to appease them a little.

  “Where are you from?” asked the first.

  “From Earth. And who are you?”

  “Free Aquatica of Pinta,” he growled, and handed me a questionnaire to fill out.

  I took a glance at the blanks in this document, then at the spacesuits, which with every movement gave a gurgling sound. Then it dawned on me that I had carelessly flown within the proximity of the twin planets of Pinta and Panta, which all the handbooks warn to give as wide a berth as possible. But it was too late now. While I filled out the questionnaire, the persons in the spacesuits systematically made a list of the objects on board. Discovering at one point a can of sardines in oil, they gave a cry of triumph, then proceeded to place seals on the rocket and take it in tow. I tried to engage them in conversation, but without success. The spacesuits they wore, I noticed, ended in wide, flat appendages, as if the Pintanese had fish tails instead of legs. Before long we began to descend. The planet was completely covered with water, which however was very shallow, since the tops of the buildings stuck out. When the Aquaticans removed their suits at the airport, I saw that they were really quite similar to people, except that their limbs were strangely bent and twisted. I was put in a curious kind of boat, which had large openings in the bottom and was filled to the brim with water. Thus immersed, we slowly drifted off in the direction of the city. I asked whether it wouldn’t be possible to stop up those holes and bail out the water; I asked about other things as well, but my companions didn’t answer, they only took frantic notes of everything I said.

  Along the streets waded the inhabitants of the planet with their heads beneath the water, surfacing every now and then to catch a breath of air. The walls of the houses were glass and one could see inside: the rooms were all more or less half-filled with water. When our vehicle halted at an intersection not far from a building that bore the inscription of “Central Authority of Irrigation,” through the open windows I could hear the gurgling of the officials. In the squ
ares stood soaring statues of fish, decked with garlands of seaweed. When our boat again stopped for a moment (the traffic was quite heavy), I overheard some passers-by say that a spy had just been caught on the corner, norching his combula.

  Then we floated down a broad avenue lined with magnificent portraits of fish and with placards of many colors: “Long Live Water, Down with Drought!,” “Fin in Fin We Onward Swim!”—and others I didn’t have time to read. At last the boat docked in front of a gigantic skyscraper. Its façade was all festooned, and above the entrance gleamed the emerald words: “Free Piscatorial Aquatica.” The elevator, resembling a small aquarium, took us up to the 16th floor. I was ushered into an office filled with water up over the desk and told to wait. Everything was upholstered in gorgeous emerald scales.

  In my mind I prepared precise answers to the questions of how I came here and whither I was bound, however no one asked them. My interrogator, an Aquatican of small stature, entered the room, looked me over sternly, then stood on tiptoe and asked, his mouth just above the water:

  “When did you begin your criminal activity? How much did they pay you? Who are your accomplices?”

  I replied that, so help me, I was no spy; I also explained the circumstances that had brought me to the planet. But when I declared I was on Pinta purely by accident, the interrogator burst into laughter and said I would have to think up something a little more intelligent than that. Then he began to study the reports, throwing various questions at me from time to time, which cost him considerable trouble, for after each question he was obliged to stand up for air, and once he accidentally swallowed water and coughed for quite some time. I noticed, later on, that this happened to the Pintanese fairly often.

  My Aquatican smilingly urged me to confess to everything, but when I continued to insist that I was innocent, he suddenly leaped up and, pointing to the can of sardines, asked:

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, nonplussed.

  “We shall see. Remove this provocateur!” he shouted.

  With that the interrogation was concluded.

  The cell they threw me into was perfectly dry. Which came as a pleasant surprise, since all this moisture had begun to bother me in earnest. There were seven Pintanese besides myself in that tiny chamber; they received me most graciously and made room for me, a foreigner, on their bench. From them I learned that the sardines found in the rocket constituted, by their laws, a terrible insult to the highest Pintan ideals, and this through a “subversive innuendo.” I asked what innuendo was involved here, but they were unable or rather—so it seemed to me—unwilling to say. Seeing that the subject caused them distress, I quickly dropped it. I also learned from them that cells like the one in which I found myself were the only waterless places on the face of the planet. I inquired if in their history they had always lived in water—they told me that once Pinta had contained many continents and few seas, and that there had been a great number of disgusting dry areas.

  The present ruler of the planet was the Mighty Hydrant Hermezinius the Fish-eyed. During the three months I spent in the desiccator I was examined by eighteen different commissions. They measured the shape of the mist on the mirror I was ordered to breathe on, they counted the number of drops that fell from me after immersion in water, they fitted me with a fish tail. I also had to tell the experts my dreams, which were immediately sorted and classified according to the paragraphs of the penal code. By autumn the proofs of my guilt took up eighty thick volumes, and the material evidence occupied three bookcases in the office with the fish scales. Finally I confessed to everything they accused me of, and particularly to the perforating of chondrites and repeated clutch-stuffing on behalf of Panta. To this day I haven’t the least idea what that means. Taking into account the mitigating circumstances, namely my dull-witted ignorance of the blessings of life underwater, and also the approaching birthday of the Mighty Fish-eyed Hydrant Hermezinius, they meted out the lenient sentence of two years of voluntary sculpture, suspended in water for six months, after which I was released on my own cognizance.

  I resolved to make myself as comfortable as possible for the duration of my six-month stay on Pinta and, unable to find a room in any of the hotels, took up lodgings at the house of an old woman who spent her time trilling snails, that is, training them to arrange themselves in certain patterns on national holidays.

  The very first evening after my release from the desiccator I attended a performance of the metropolitan choir, which was a great disappointment, since the choir sang underwater—gurgling.

  At one point I noticed an Aquatican usher escorting out some individual who, when the houselights were dimmed, had started breathing through a reed. The dignitaries seated in the loges filled with water were showering themselves. I couldn’t get rid of the strange feeling that everyone was actually quite uncomfortable with all of this. I even tried sounding out my landlady on the subject—she, however, chose to ignore the questions, asking only at what level I should like the water in my room. When I said that I would most prefer seeing it confined to the bathtub, she screwed up her lips, shrugged and walked away, leaving me in the middle of a word.

  Desiring to acquaint myself more fully with the Pintanese, I tried to take part in their cultural life. At the time of my arrival on the planet there was a lively discussion underway in the press, on the topic of gurgling. The specialists were in favor of silent gurgling, as having the greatest future.

  My landlady had another lodger, a pleasant young Pintan who was the editor of the popular periodical The Daily Fish. In the papers I frequently came across references to gwats and sunkers; judging by the texts, these were living creatures of some kind, but I wasn’t able to figure out what connection they had with the Pintanese. The people I asked about this usually submerged, drowning me out with their gurgling. I wanted to ask the editor, but he was terribly preoccupied. At supper he revealed to me with the utmost agitation that a most dreadful thing had happened to him. Without thinking he had written in a lead article that water was wet. On account of which, he expected the worst. I did my best to console him, and asked if they then considered water to be dry; startled, he replied that I didn’t understand a thing. You have to look at it from the fish’s point of view. Fish do not find water wet—ergo, it isn’t. Two days later the editor disappeared.

  I met with special difficulties when I started going to shows. The first time I went to the theater, I could hardly follow the performance what with all the whispering. Thinking it was my neighbors, I tried to ignore them. Finally, extremely annoyed, I moved to another seat, but there too I heard the same whispering. While on the stage they were talking about the Mighty Hydrant, a small voice whispered: “Your limbs with bliss are all aquiver.” I noticed that the entire audience had begun trembling slightly. Afterwards I learned that all public places were equipped with special softspeakers, which prompted those present with the appropriate emotions. Wishing to understand better the customs and peculiarities of the Pintanese, I purchased a considerable number of books, novels as well as graded readers and scientific studies. Some of these I still have, such as: The Little Sunker, On the Horrors of Aridity, How Finny ’Tis beneath the Waves, Guggle Love, etc. At the university bookstore they recommended a work on evolutionary persuasion, however all I got out of it was a highly detailed description of gwats and sunkers.

  My landlady, when I tried to question her, locked herself in the kitchen with the snails, so I went back to the bookstore and inquired as to where I might possibly find at least one gwat. At these words the salesmen dived under the counter, and a few young Pintanese who happened to be present in the store took me to Aquatican headquarters as a provocateur. Thrown into the desiccator, I found three of my former companions there. It was from them that I learned that as yet there were no gwats or sunkers on Pinta. These are the noble forms, perfect in their fishiness, into which the Pintanese will in time change according to the laws of evolutionary persuasion. I as
ked when this was supposed to take place. At that they all trembled and tried to dive out of sight, an obvious impossibility in the absence of water, and then the oldest of them, his limbs badly misshapen, said:

  “Listen here, hydrant, among us such things are not said with impunity. Just let Aquatica hear about these questions of yours, and you’ll receive a nice addition to your sentence.”

  Disheartened, I gave in to the gloomiest reflections, from which however I was roused by the conversation of my fellow sufferers. They were discussing their offenses, each pondering the gravity of his own. One was in the desiccator because he had, after dozing off on a waterlogged sofa, choked and jumped sputtering to his feet with the cry: “A man could drown.” The second had carried his child piggyback instead of teaching it, from the very first, to live underwater. And the third, the oldest one, had had the misfortune to gurgle in a manner characterized by competent observers as ambiguous and disrespectful during a lecture on the three hundred hydrant heroes who gave up their lives to set a record for breathing underwater.

  Shortly thereafter I was summoned before the Head Flounder, who informed me that this new despicable crime of mine forced him now to sentence me to a total of three years of voluntary sculpture. The next day, in the company of thirty-seven Pintanese, I sailed off in a boat, no longer surprised at having to sit chin-deep in water, off to the sculpting areas. They were located far outside the city. Our work consisted in carving statues of fish of the carp family. To the best of my recollection we chiseled out approximately 140,000 of these. In the morning we would swim to work, singing songs; there is one particularly that sticks in my mind, it began with the words, “No slaves are we, that drag their feet, Freedom makes the labor sweet.” After work we would return to our cells; but before supper—which had to be eaten underwater—a lecturer came each day and gave a talk on our watery rights; those interested could sign up as members of the club of Contemplators of Befinnitude. At the end of his talk our lecturer would invariably ask if perchance any of us had lost the inclination to sculpt. Somehow or other no one ever spoke up, so neither did I. And anyway, the softspeakers placed around the hall assured us that we wished to sculpt as long as possible, and the more underwater, the better.