The Star Diaries Read Free Page A

gravitational vortex. I was in a cold sweat, for the thought occurred to me that we might now go around and around in this time loop, repeating ourselves for all eternity, but luckily that didn't happen. By the time the acceleration had slackened enough for me to stand, I was alone once more in the cabin. Apparently the localized existence of Tuesday, which until now had persisted in the vicinity of the sink, had vanished, becoming a part of the irretrievable past. I rushed over to the map, to find some nice vortex into which I could send the rocket, so as to bring about still another warp of time and in that way obtain a helping hand.
    There was in fact one vortex, quite promising too, and by manipulating the engines with great difficulty, I aimed the rocket to intersect it at the very center. True, the configuration of that vortex was, according to the map, rather unusual—it had two foci, side by side. But by now I was too desperate to concern myself with this anomaly.
    After several hours of bustling about in the engine room my hands were filthy, so I went to wash them, seeing as there was plenty of time yet before I would be entering the vortex. The bathroom was locked. From inside came the sounds of someone gargling.
    “Who’s there?!” I hollered, taken aback.
    “Me,” replied a voice.
    “Which me is that?!”
    “Ijon Tichy.”
    “From what day?”
    “Friday. What do you want?”
    “I wanted to wash my hands…” I said mechanically, thinking meanwhile with the greatest intensity: it was Wednesday evening, and he came from Friday, therefore the gravitational vortex into which the ship was to fall would bend time from Friday to Wednesday, but as for what then would take place within the vortex, that I could in no way picture. Particularly intriguing was the question of where Thursday might be. In the meantime the Friday me still wasn’t letting me into the bathroom, taking his sweet time, though I pounded on the door insistently.
    “Stop that gargling!” I roared, out of patience. “Every second is precious—come out at once, we have to fix the rudder!”
    “For that you don’t need me,” he said phlegmatically from behind the door. “The Thursday me must be around here somewhere, go with him…”
    “What Thursday me? That’s not possible…”
    “I ought to know whether it’s possible or not, considering that I’m already in Friday and consequently have lived through your Wednesday as well as his Thursday…”
    Feeling dizzy, I jumped back from the door, for yes, I did hear some commotion in the cabin: a man was standing there, pulling the toolbag out from under the bed.
    “You’re the Thursday me?!” I cried, running into the room.
    “Right,” he said. “Here, give me a hand…”
    “Will we be able to fix the rudder this time?” I asked as together we pulled out the heavy satchel.
    “I don’t know, it wasn’t fixed on Thursday, ask the Friday me…”
    That hadn’t crossed my mind! I quickly ran back to the bathroom door.
    “Hey there, Friday me! Has the rudder been fixed?”
    “Not on Friday,” he replied.
    “Why not?"
    “This is why not,” he said, opening the door. His head was wrapped in a towel, and he pressed the flat of a knife to his forehead, trying in this manner to reduce the swelling of a lump the size of an egg. The Thursday me meanwhile approached with the tools and stood beside me, calmly scrutinizing the me with the lump, who with his free hand was putting back on the shelf a siphon of seltzer. So it was its gurgle I had taken for his gargle.
    “What gave you that?” I asked sympathetically,
    “Not what, who,” he replied. “It was the Sunday me.”
    “The Sunday me? But why … that can’t be!” I cried.
    “Well it’s a long story…”
    “Makes no difference! Quick, let’s go outside, we might just make it!” said the Thursday me, turning to the me that was I.
    “But the rocket will fall into the vortex any minute now,” I replied. “The