The Star Diaries

by Stanisław Lem

  “You’re leaving today?" he said. “Wonderful. But not in your own rocket, Tichy. That’s out of the question. In such missions we employ special rockets.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Mine is perfectly adequate.”

  “I don’t doubt its capability,” he replied, “but this is a matter of camouflage. You’ll go in a rocket that on the outside looks like anything but a rocket. It will be—but you’ll see for yourself. Also, you must land at night…”

  “At night?” I said. “The flame from the exhaust will give me away…”

  “We’ve always used that tactic,” he said, clearly troubled.

  “Well, I’ll keep an eye out when I get there,” I said. “I have to go in disguise?”

  “Yes. It’s necessary. Our experts will take care of you. They’re waiting now. This way, if you don’t mind…”

  I was led through a secret corridor to a place that resembled a small operating room. Here four people began to work on me. After an hour they brought me before a mirror—I couldn’t recognize myself. Encased in iron, with square shoulders and an equally square head, and glass apertures instead of eyes, I looked like a perfectly average robot.

  “Mr. Tichy,” said the make-up man in charge, “there are a few important things you must remember. The first is, not to breathe.”

  “You must be mad,” I said. “How can I not breathe? I’ll suffocate!”

  “A misunderstanding. Obviously you are allowed to breathe, but do it quietly. No sighs, no panting or puffing, no deep inhalation—keep everything inaudible, and for the love of God don’t sneeze. That would be the end of you.”

  “Right, what else?” I asked.

  “For the trip you'll receive a complete set of back issues of both the Electron Courier and the opposition newspaper, The Outer Space Gazette.”

  “They have an opposition?”

  “Yes, but it’s also run by the Computer. Professor Urp speculates that the machine suffers from a political as well as electrical dissociation of the psyche. But to continue. No eating, no chewing of candy, gum or anything of the kind. You will take food only at night, through this opening here, just turn the key—it’s a Wertheim lock—and lift the latch, that’s right. Try not to lose the key—you’ll starve to death if you do.”

  “True, robots don’t eat.”

  “We have no definite data on their customs, for obvious reasons. Study the classified ads of their newspapers, that is generally quite helpful. And when you talk to anyone, don’t stand too close, or they’ll be able to see you through the microphone mesh—it’s best if you keep your teeth blackened, here’s a box of henna. And don’t forget to make a great show of oiling all your hinges every morning; robots consider that de rigueur. But you needn’t overdo it—a little creaking now and then will give a good impression. Well, I guess that’s more or less it. Hold on, you don’t want to go out on the street like that, are you crazy? There’s a secret passage, over here…”

  A touch on the bookshelf, and a section of the wall opened up. I went rattling down a narrow stairway to the back yard, where a freight helicopter stood waiting. They loaded me inside, after which the machine lifted into the air. An hour later we landed at a secret cosmodrome. There on the platform beside the ordinary rockets stood a grain elevator, round as a tower.

  “Good Lord, don’t tell me that’s supposed to be my rocket,” I said to the secret officer accompanying me.

  “Yes. Everything you’ll possibly need—codes, decoders, radio, newspapers, provisions, assorted odds and ends—is already inside. Including a heavy-duty jimmy.”

  “A what?”

  “A jimmy, for opening safes … to use as a weapon, only in the last resort. Well then, break a leg,” said the officer kindly. I couldn’t even shake his hand properly, for mine was stuck in an iron glove. I opened the door and entered. Inside, the grain elevator turned out to be a perfectly normal rocket. More than anything I wanted to wriggle out of the iron rattletrap I wore, but they had cautioned me against that—the experts explained that the sooner I accustomed myself to the burden, the better.

  I revved up the reactor, blasted off, and got on course, then decided to have lunch, which wasn’t easy—craning my neck until it ached, I still couldn’t bring my mouth into position and finally had to feed myself with the aid of a shoehorn. Afterwards I sat in a hammock and started in on the robot press, A few headlines immediately caught my eye:

  BEATIFICACIOUN OF SEINT ELECTRIX

  AN ENDE TO FEENDLY MUCILID INTROODEMENT

  ALARUMS ATTE COLISSEUM

  MUSCILID YPILLOREYD

  The spelling and vocabulary surprised me at first, but then I recalled what Professor Gargarragh had said about those archaic language dictionaries which the Jonathan, long ago, had been carrying on board. I knew already that the robots called men mucilids. Themselves they styled magnificans.

  I read through the last paragraph, the one about the mucilid who was pilloried:

  Tweye halbardeere of His Sovereyn Inductivitee kaughte, whan the oure hyt strook thre this ilke morn, oon mucilyte espye, whoo atte hostelrye of herbergeour magn. Mremran ylogged was, thynkyng ther to hyde his wikkednesse, Beeyng a feithful servaunt to H. S. Inductivitee, magn. Mremran spedily did notifie the toun Halbardeshippe, eftsoones the foule tratour, his helm agapen in grete shame, eek yhooted by the iresom crowde, in dongeoun ythrowe was, in Calefaustrium.

  Not bad for a start, I thought—and turned to the column under the heading of “Alarums atte Colisseum”:

  Feele bettors atte gridyrnliches tornee lefte the feeld in muche confoundrement, sith Garloy III, passyng the griddebal to Turtukoor, hadde ytombresult anon, wherat a fraktur of the knee withdrewe him fro the pley. The wajoureres, seyen hir premium forlost, bethrongged them unto the kassier, stomppelte the tingulum and sorely braste als the tingulator. The citee Halbardeshippe patrole did 8 tumultineeren in the moat yputte, al weyed doun with stoons. Whan an ende to swiches sory perturbaciouns bee, the kwittie bettors mekely axe th’adminystracioun?

  With the help of a glossary I learned that kwittie meant calm, from quietas, quietatis—peace, and that axe was ask, while gridyrn represented a kind of sporting field on which the magnificans played—in their fashion—football, using for that purpose a sphere of solid lead. I studied the papers assiduously, since before take-off it had been drummed into me at division headquarters that I must acquaint myself with all the ways and customs of magnifican life—even now I called them that in my thoughts: to refer to anyone as a robot would be not only an insult, it would unmask me at once.

  So I read, in turn, the following articles: “Sixe Principles As Touchinge the Parfit Estat of a Magnifycan,” “Th’Audience of Magn. Maister Gregaturian,” “How Goon the Repaires atte Armurers Guilde To-yeere,” “Deyntee Peregrinacioun of Magnificane Goostes by Cause of the Coolynge of Hyr Toobes.” But the ads were stranger yet. A good many of them I could scarcely understand.

  ARMELADORA VI, HONDIMAGN FAMOUS FOR warderobe-lavanderynge, valve-ootreemerye, henge-parficciounement, also in extermis, lowe rates.

  JUVENOX, salve for the remooval of rustes, rustraciouns, rustifycaciouns, rusticitees and oother plaguey rusticles. Nowe on sale.

  OLEUM PURISSIMUM PRO CAPITE—Suffre nat a squekee nekke destroublen youre thynkynge!!

  A few were altogether incomprehensible. These, for instance:

  Art likerous? Pleye-limbes to order! Alle sysen! For securitee oon worche dounpayen. Tarmodrylle VIII.

  LUXURS cubiculum omnifactorlich compleat with amphigneyss, to rente. Applie Perkulator XXV.

  And there were some that made the hair stand on end underneath my iron hood:

  THE BURDEL OF GOMORRHEUM

  OPNETH TO-DAY ITS YATES!

  OUR RESTAURACION OFFRETH

  TASTEE DISSHE NE BIFOREN

  FETURED!! MUCILYDE BABEE,

  VITAILLE YSERVE ATTE BORDAND CARIE-OOT!!!

  I racked my brains over these enigmatic texts, for which however I had ample ti
me, inasmuch as the trip was supposed to take about a year.

  In The Outer Space Gazette they had even more ads.

  BOON-BURSTERES, FLESSHE-PERCERES, NEKKE SISOURES, CLEVERES, CORVERES, STOUTE CUGGELS? Trie GREMONTORIUS, FIDRICAX LVI.

  PYROMANYAKS!!! Newe swabbes ysteped in Abracabbors specyall petro-oleum, GUARANTEYDE QUENCHE-PROVE!!

  FOR STRANGELACIOUN FANSYERE. Wee mussilid thynge, swete, conne speken, in clooth ycladde, with eek oon paire fingernail-plyers, litel used, chepe.

  LEDY-N-GENTILMAGNIFIKANS—The BELY-SKEWERES, Thumbe-skreweres, spyne-cheweres ARE IN!!!—Krakaruan XI.

  Reading these announcements at length, I began to understand—I fancied—the fate which the host of Second Division volunteers sent forth to reconnoiter had met with. It was not, I confess, with any great degree of confidence that I landed on the planet. This was accomplished at night, I cutting the engines beforehand as much as possible. After touching down in a fairly mountainous region, I decided—upon reflection—to cover the rocket with broken branches. Really, those experts back at Intelligence hadn’t been using their heads: grain elevators, after all, were a little out of place on a robot planet. I packed the interior of my iron casing with as many provisions as I was able, then set off in the direction of the city, which I spotted in the distance thanks to the strong electrical glow that hung over it. I had to stop a couple of times to reposition some cans of sardines, for they were clattering around awfully inside. On I went, when something invisible knocked me off my feet. I fell, raising an ungodly racket and pierced with the sudden thought of “What, already?!” But there wasn’t a living—that is, an electrical—thing in the vicinity. Just in case, I pulled out my weapons: a jimmy, the kind that safe-crackers use, and a tiny screwdriver. Groping about with my hands, I found that I was surrounded only by scrap-iron shapes. The remains of ancient automata, their abandoned cemetery. I continued on my way, frequently turning around to look, amazed at its dimensions. It went on for at least a mile. Then in the darkness, quite unalleviated by the distant glow, there loomed two four-legged shapes. I froze. My instructions said nothing about animals living on this planet. Two more quadrupeds noiselessly joined the first. A careless movement from me produced a metallic clang, and the black silhouettes bolted like mad into the night.

  After this incident I proceeded with redoubled caution. The time hardly seemed auspicious for entering the city—the late hour, the empty streets—my appearance would surely attract unwanted attention. So I jumped into a roadside ditch and patiently awaited the dawn, chewing on a biscuit. I knew that until the following night it would be impossible to eat a thing.

  At daybreak I approached the outskirts of the city. Didn’t see a soul. On a nearby fence was a large poster, faded and washed by the rains. I walked over to it.

  PROCLAMMACYON

  The toun auctoritees well woot that the mucellide slyme doth ever seek to infiltreyen the honeste rankes of our magnyfycans. Harkee! Whosoever ysee a mucellid or any individuum of suspecious contenaunce, shal streghtwey go him unto the locale hallebarderye ther for to informen. Any maner collaboracioun with or eek assistenz yiven to the same wil bee ypunysshed by peyne of unscrewynge in saecula saeculorum. A prise of 1,000 pistoons on eche mucellyd hed is heere by yleyd.

  I went on. The suburbs didn’t look inviting. Beside wretched, rust-eaten sheds sat groups of robots, playing odd and even. From time to time fights broke out among them, and with such a din, it sounded like artillery shelling a warehouse full of metal drums. A little farther on I came to a trolley stop. An almost empty trolley car drove up, and I climbed on. The driver was an inseparable part of the motor and had his hand permanently welded to the crank, while the conductor, screwed in place at the entrance, was also the door. He moved on hinges. I handed him a coin from the supply they’d given me at Division, and sat on a bench, creaking dreadfully. At the center of town I got off and sauntered straight ahead, as if without a worry in the world. I came across more and more halberdiers; they were walking back and forth, in groups of two and three, right down the middle of the street. Noticing a halberd propped against a wall, I carelessly picked it up and marched on, but I was alone and that might appear strange, so taking advantage of the fact that one of the three guards strutting in front of me had stepped off to the side in order to adjust his drooping grille, I filled his place in the formation. The perfect similarity of all robots stood me in good stead. As for my two companions, they maintained their silence for a time, then finally one spoke up:

  “Whan wole we the ese ysee, Burbor? For I am wery and fayn wouldst sport me som with the electrolasshe.”

  “What gabbestow, cherl?” replied the other. “Our stacioun delyteth thee namoor! Ho! ’Tis dreer enow, ywis!”

  In this fashion we covered the entire downtown area. Keeping my eyes open, I noticed along the way two restaurants, and in front of each a veritable forest of halberds propped against the wall. However I asked no questions. By now my feet ached in earnest, and it was stifling inside that iron kettle heated by the sun, and my nose was twitching from the acrid dust—afraid I might sneeze, I tried to slip away unnoticed, but both of them howled:

  “Hola, frend! Whider trippest thou ther? Wust have the bailly bat thee blatherless? Be ye mad?”

  “Nay,” I answered, “I oonly thoughte to sitte me doon a spel.”

  “Sitte? An has the fever brent thy coil? We are on dootee, trewe castynges of the founderye!”

  “Een so,” I said, assenting, and again we marched before us. No, I thought, this occupation was totally devoid of possibilities. There had to be some other way. We made yet another round of the city, then suddenly an officer stopped us, crying:

  “Raffandulum!”

  “Bondamacronger!” shouted my companions. I made a mental note of that password and reply. The officer looked us over, front and back, and ordered us to hold our halberds higher.

  “Fy, ye are sloggardly clunks, nat halbardeere of Hys Inductivitee!! Streghten thoos rankes! Shulders out! Hep-hep!!”

  The halberdiers submitted to this inspection without comment. Then on we trudged beneath the noonday sun, and I cursed the hour that I had volunteered to set out for this miserable planet. In addition, I was famished. A rumbling stomach could easily betray me, so I tried rattling as loudly as I could. We passed a restaurant. I looked inside. Practically all the tables were occupied: magnificans, or rather clunks—as I called them in my thoughts, remembering the officer’s words—sat there motionless, enameled blue, though now and then one of them would squeak or turn its head to gaze, glass-eyed, out at the street. They ate nothing, drank nothing, but seemed only to be waiting—for what, I couldn’t guess. The waiter, recognizable by the white apron it wore over its armor, was standing by the wall.

  “Perchaunce we too moot sitten yonder?” I asked, for I could feel every blister on my ironbound feet.

  “In soothe thou art a sely felawe!” huffed my companions, “Swiche luxuree nys for the lykes of us! Ne, stondynge we moste remeyn alway! But fere nat, thoos ther do lay in wayte for som musilid to entryken, whan hee coom and, requerynge soope or eek gruwel, hys feendly natur there by revele!!”

  Not understanding any of this, I plodded on obediently. After a while, though, I began to grow desperate—however we headed at last towards a great building of red brick, on which a wrought-iron inscription was visible:

  YE BARRACKS OF THE HALLEBARDYERES

  OF

  HYS MYGHTY INDUCTIVITEE

  CALCULON THE FYRST

  I broke away from my companions at the very entrance. The halberd I left with the sentinel as it turned its back with a clank and a clang, then ducked into the first side street. Around the corner there stood a sizable building with the signboard UNDER THE AXE. I only peered inside, but the innkeeper, a pot-bellied robot with short legs and creaking eagerly, hopped out on the street.

  “Wei mette, my liege, wel mette … umbly at your servyse … wol ye be a-cravinge of a roum, mayhap?”


  “Yis,” I answered laconically.

  He practically bore me bodily inside. Leading the way up the stairs, my host prattled on in his tinny voice like one possessed:

  “No ende of peregrynatours are hiderward ycome of layte, no ende … ther is nat a magnifican, I trow, who ne desyreth hem to looke upon the corounacioun of the incandessente fillementz of Oure Inductivitee with hys owne tweye lenzen … this wey, an it please yowr lorshippe … a worthy appartamentum, arter ye prithee … her is the parloure … ther the denne … but douteles yowr Grace moste bee for-wery … the dust hit gryndeth in thy geeres … by your leve I’ll fecche som ablootemaunts anon…”

  He went clattering down the stairs and, before I had much chance to look around that rather dismal room, furnished as it was with an iron chest of drawers and an equally iron bed, he returned with an oilcan, a rag, and a bottle of silicone. Placing these on the table, he said in a lower, more confidential tone:

  “Whan ye hav yourselven a myte refresshened, Sire, prey betake yow doune-steyers … for gentil folke lyke youre Honour I all weys kepe a litel secreetum, somthynge swete and savory … shalt dally wel…”

  And out he went, winking his photocells. Having nothing better to do, I oiled myself, polished my plates with the silicone, and noticed that the innkeeper had left on the table a card which seemed to resemble a restaurant menu. Well aware that robots never eat, I picked it up, surprised, and read Burdel 2nd Classe across the top.

  Mussilid infaunt, decapitatus

  8 pist.

  The same, with goo

  10 pist.

  The same, wepynge