The Star Diaries (37 page)

Upon careful consideration of all sides of the issue, the physicalists maintained that when two bodies A and B move, it is a matter of indifference whether you say that A is moving in relation to B, or B is moving in relation to A. Since motion is relative, one can as easily say that a man is moving in relation to a potato as say that the potato is moving in relation to the man. Therefore the question of whether potatoes can move is meaningless, and the whole problem—trivial, i.e. it doesn’t really exist.

The semanticists maintained that everything depends on how you interpret the words “potato,” “is” and “moving.” Since the key here is the operational copula “is,” one must examine “is” rigorously. Whereupon they set to work on an Encyclopedia of Cosmic Semasiology, devoting the first four volumes to a discussion of the operational referents of “is.”

The neopositivists maintained that it is not clusters of potatoes one directly perceives, but clusters of sensory impressions. Then, employing symbolic logic, they created terms for “cluster of impressions” and “cluster of potatoes,” devised a special calculus of propositions all in algebraic signs and after using up several seas of ink reached the mathematically precise and absolutely undeniable conclusion that 0=0.

The Thomists maintained that God has created the laws of nature for the express purpose of working miracles, since miracles constitute a violation of the laws of nature, and where there are no laws, there is nothing to violate. In the abovementioned instance the potatoes move, if such is the will of the Almighty, though we cannot be certain that this is not some trick of accursed materialists bent on discrediting the Church. Therefore one must await the ruling of the Highest Council at the Vatican.

The Neo-Kantians maintained that objects are projections of the spirit and not knowable things; if then the psyche generates the idea of a moving potato, a moving potato shall have existence. Yet this is but a first impression, for our spirit is no more knowable than its projections; hence nothing can be said, either way.

The holists-pluralists-behaviorists-physicalists maintained that, as is well known in physics, laws of nature operate in a statistical fashion only. Just as it is impossible to predict with complete accuracy the path of a single electron, so too you cannot know with certainty the future behavior of a single potato. Thus far observations show that man has mashed potatoes millions of times, but it is not inconceivable that one time in a billion the situation could reverse itself, that a potato could mash a man.

Professor Fustian, a solitary sage of the school of Russell and Reichenbach, subjected each of these conclusions to withering criticism. He argued that a man does not experience sensory impressions, since no one sees a sensory impression of a table, but only the table itself; and since moreover it is known that about the external world not a thing is known, then neither external objects nor sensory impressions exist. “There is nothing,” declared Professor Fustian. “And anyone who thinks otherwise is wrong.” Consequently nothing can be said
about
potatoes, but for an altogether different reason than that given by the Neo-Kantians.

While Fustian labored unremittingly, not once leaving his home, which was besieged by anti-Potatoists hefting rotten potatoes, and while passions were clouding every mind, there appeared on the scene—or, to be more exact, there landed on Taffetum—Professor Tarantoga. Paying no heed to the fruitless disputes, he decided to investigate the mystery sine
ira et studio,
as befitted a true man of science. He began his inquiry by visiting all the nearby planets, gathering information from the inhabitants. In this way he learned that the enigmatic monsters were known under the following names: prucks, borkers, nuffits, gnuttles, garrugulas, malomorps, zops, yots, yuts, batats, rifflers, thycandorines, closh, flibbage and morchmell; which gave him considerable food for thought since, according to the dictionaries, all these names were in fact synonyms for the common potato.

With amazing tenacity and indomitable fortitude Tarantoga worked his way to the heart of the riddle and in five years had a completed theory that explained everything:

Long ago, in the vicinity of Tairia, a ship carrying potatoes to the colonists on Taffetum struck a meteor reef. Through a hole cut in its hull the entire cargo tumbled out. The ship was pulled off the reef and towed by tugs to Taffetum, after which the incident passed into oblivion. Meanwhile the potatoes, having fallen onto the surface of Tairia, put out shoots and began to grow as if nothing had happened. However the conditions under which they grew were uncommonly harsh: from out of the sky gravel rained down time and again, smashing the young sprouts and even killing whole plants. The result was such, that of all the potatoes only the most alert survived, those that were able to fend for themselves and find shelter. The emerging race of perspicacious potatoes developed by leaps and bounds. After a number of generations, wearying of their sedentary way of life, they pulled up roots and took on a nomadic existence. At the same time they completely lost the placid passivity typical of Earth’s potatoes, which have been domesticated through constant care and cultivation. Growing more and more wild, they became, at last, potatoes of prey. There are grounds for this in their family tree. The potato, as we know,
Solatium tuberosum,
belongs to the nightshade family
(Solanaceae),
and a dog—as we know too—comes from the wolf and, if let loose in the forest, may revert. This is precisely what happened to the potatoes on Tairia. And when they began to get crowded on the planet, a new crisis ensued; the younger potatoes were fired with the need for action; they wanted to accomplish unusual things, things no vegetable had ever done before. Lifting their eyes to the heavens, they beheld there sailing slabs of stone and resolved to settle upon them.

It would take us too far afield were I to outline here the entire theory of Professor Tarantoga, showing how first the potatoes taught themselves to fly by flapping their leaves, and how subsequently they ventured out beyond the atmosphere of Tairia, finally to establish themselves on the masses of rock that orbited the planet. Which was all the easier for them inasmuch as, preserving their vegetable metabolism, they could remain in space indefinitely, doing without oxygen and drawing their vital energy directly from the sun’s rays. In time they grew so bold as to fall upon rockets flying past the planet.

Any scholar in Tarantoga’s place would have published this brilliant hypothesis and rested on his laurels, but the Professor vowed not to rest until he had captured at least one predacious potato.

So then, the theoretical side of the problem having been dealt with, it was time to turn to the practical, of equal if not greater difficulty. The potatoes lurked in the crevices of large boulders, and to venture into that moving labyrinth of rushing rock in search of them would have been pure suicide. On the other hand Tarantoga did not intend to shoot a potato; it was a live specimen he wanted, one full of health and kicking. For a while he considered driving them from cover, but rejected that idea too as unsatisfactory, then he hit upon a plan entirely new, which later was to win him widespread fame. He decided he would bag a potato using bait. For this purpose he purchased, in a school supply store on Taffetum, the biggest globe he could find, a beautifully painted sphere twenty feet in diameter. He also obtained a great quantity of honey, sealing wax and fish glue, mixed this well in equal amounts, and smeared the resultant substance over the surface of the globe. He then fastened the globe to a long line from the rocket and flew off in the direction of Tairia. When he had drawn sufficiently near, the Professor hid behind the corner of a nebula close by and cast the line with the bait. The whole plan hinged upon the natural curiosity of potatoes. After an hour or so a light vibration indicated that something was approaching. Carefully peering out, Tarantoga observed several potatoes shaking their leaves and tentatively shifting their tubers as they made their way towards the globe; apparently they took it for some unknown planet. After a while they gathered up courage and squatted on the globe, sticking to its surface. The Professor quickly drew in his line, attached it to the tail of the rocket and headed back to Taffetum.

It is difficult to picture the enthusiasm with which the dauntless scholar was received. The captured potatoes, globe and all, were thrown into a cage and put on public display. Furious and wild with fear, the potatoes flailed the air with their leaves and stamped their roots, but obviously this got them nowhere.

When, on the following day, the college of sciences went to Tarantoga in order to present him with an honorary degree and a heavy medal of esteem, the Professor was gone. Having crowned his efforts with success, he had set off in the night, destination unknown.

The reason for his sudden departure is well known to me. Tarantoga hurried because in nine days he was supposed to meet me on Coerulea. I myself was at the same time speeding towards the appointed planet from the opposite end of the Milky Way. We intended to set out together for a still unexplored arm of the Galaxy which extended out beyond a dark nebula in Orion. The Professor and I were not yet personally acquainted. Desiring to earn the reputation of a man true to his word and punctual, I squeezed all the power I could out of the engine, but alas, as it so often happens when we’re in a particular hurry, an unforeseen accident ruined my plans. Some tiny meteor or other punctured the fuel tank and, lodging itself in the exhaust pipe, cut the motor dead. With a sigh I put on my spacesuit, picked up a strong flashlight and the tools, then left the cabin and went outside. While extracting the meteor with a pair of pliers I inadvertently knocked the flashlight, which drifted off a considerable distance and began independently to sail through space. I plugged the hole in the tank and returned to the cabin. I couldn’t chase after the flashlight, having lost practically my entire supply of fuel; as it was, I barely made it to the nearest planet, Procyton.

The Procytes are intelligent beings and very much like us; the one difference, unimportant really, lies in the fact that they have legs only to the knee, lower down is a wheel, not artificial but forming a part of the body. They move about with great speed and grace, like acrobats on unicycles. Their knowledge is extensive, astronomy in particular excites them; stargazing is in fact so widespread, that no one, young or old, goes anywhere without a hand telescope. Sundials are used exclusively and pulling out a mechanical timepiece in public constitutes a serious breach of conduct. The Procytes also have a number of civilizing devices. I recall how, the first time I visited them, I attended a banquet in honor of old Maratillitec, their famous astronomer. At one point I got into a discussion with him about some issue in astronomy. The Professor disagreed with me, our conversation grew sharper and sharper in tone, then the old man glared and it looked as if he would explode any moment. Suddenly he jumped up and rushed from the hall. After five minutes he returned and sat down beside me, pleasant, smiling, as placid as a child. Intrigued, I asked later what had caused this magical transformation of mood.

“What?” said the Procyte I’d approached. “You really don’t know? The Professor used the steam room.”

“The steam room?”

“The name of the device comes from the expression ‘to blow off steam.’ A person seized with anger or feeling hostility towards someone enters a small chamber padded with cork and there gives vent to his emotions.”

This time when I landed on Procyton I saw, from the air, crowds of people marching in the streets: they were waving lanterns and cheering. Leaving my rocket to the care of the mechanics, I went on to the city. As I soon learned, they were all celebrating the discovery of a new star, which had appeared in the sky the night before. This made me think, and when after a warm welcome Maratillitec invited me to his powerful refractor, as soon as I put my eye to the lens I realized that the star in question was only my flashlight sailing through space. Instead of telling the Procytes, however, I decided—somewhat frivolously—to play at being a better astronomer than they and, making a quick calculation in my head as to how long the flashlight batteries would last, announced to those assembled that the new star would shine white for six hours, then turn yellow, red, and finally go out altogether. This prediction met with general disbelief, and Maratillitec with his customary hotheadedness exclaimed that if that happened, he would eat his beard.

The star began to dim at the time foretold by me, and that evening, when I showed up at the observatory, I found a group of crestfallen assistants, who informed me that Maratillitec, wounded in his pride, had shut himself up in the study, there to carry out the promise he had so rashly given. Fearing that this might cause him some injury, I tried to reason with him through the door, but to no avail. I put my ear to the keyhole and heard a rustling that confirmed the words of the assistants. In the greatest agitation I wrote a letter explaining everything, gave it to the assistants, with the request that they hand it over to the Professor immediately following my departure, whereupon I ran to the airport as fast as my legs could carry me. I did this because I wasn’t sure whether or not the Professor would be able, before confronting me, to use the steam room.