Once upon a time long, long (eons) ago, on a planet far, far (light years) away, people lived happily and welcomed Santa Claus every Christmas night. But they lived in a vibrant, technologic society, and it’s the nature of technology to  advance continuously. That lives would change as a result was inevitable. Furthermore, all but the most intractable pessimists took it for granted that these changes would be for the better. The public gave little thought to unintended consequences, and scientists had no patience with soothsayers’ warnings.

The seminal discovery of the period was a gas lighter than air, which even in that place consisted mostly of nitrogen. Its lifting power was seen as bringing people closer to the sun, so they called it helium (extremely ancient Gr. ἥλιος [helios], sun). Progress to that end was slow, however, and those who first took a few whiffs of the gas, instead of rising into the air, spoke with squeaky voices while their feet stayed anchored to the ground. Undeterred, scientists proceeded in their quest, confident that success depended only on finding the right combination of inspiration and perspiration.

In a remarkable coincidence, a new market for helium was about to open up thousands of miles from where people lived. And it would change the planet forever.

To come straight to the point, reindeer were dying out, felled by rangiferosis gravis excessivum fumosum aerem inhalationis, an occupational disease for which there was no cure. Already there was a shortage of these iconic haulers of celestial sleighs; extinction loomed, even though they had been placed on the Endangered Species List. The more enterprising Santas (there had to be legions of them to visit all those homes during a single night) began to investigate alternative modes of transportation through the air. One of them recalled seeing balloons twisted into all kinds of imaginative shapes — even animals — floating near the ceiling in someone’s living room. He remembered something else: An obnoxious kid, with whispered parental goading fresh in his ear, had cozied up to him in J. C. Nickle’s department store and requested a tank of helium, explaining that he needed it to inflate balloons. Santa, of course, had no intention of giving a tank of helium to an irresponsible brat to spray around the neighborhood and make people squeak, balloons or no balloons. But that peculiar request had stayed in his memory. Now he put two and two together: If helium lifted those balloons to the ceiling, maybe more helium would lift up a heavier body, even his own!

He resolved not to breathe a word of this to his competing namesakes, at least not until he had obtained a patent. Visions of retirement danced in his head, visions of dressing up as a fat child and depositing his bulk in some other Santa’s lap to beg for an expensive toy, maybe a tank of laughing gas.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Santa needed to harness the newly discovered heliotropic wondergas for his own use. It turned out simpler than he had feared. He had observed that the carcasses of dead reindeer became bloated. Their abdomens were, in fact, full of gas, a product of decomposition, as he discovered to his olfactory distress when he stuck a knife into one. When he regained consciousness, he knew what his next step had to be. Into another bloated abdomen he carefully inserted a hypodermic needle. After the hissing had stopped and it was safe to breathe again, he attached to the needle a tube through which he inflated the animal with helium. As the animal regained its former size, mirabile dictu, it rose off the ground! Only by promptly withdrawing the needle and securing the carcass was he able to keep it within reach. Inspiration had clearly trumped perspiration — and he wasn’t even a scientist! He exulted mightily and loudly, but as he heard his own voice he realized that in his excitement he had forgotten to turn off the gas!

He had no use for an empty helium tank. And time was definitely not on his side. At least refrigeration was no problem, so he collected the ten largest animals he could find (two extra in case something went wrong) and kept them on ice, that is, on the floor of his sleigh-shed.

He would need more helium, but helium was expensive. It occurred to him to use the money that children had sent him in an effort to win his favor come next Christmas — bribes, he reflected with disgust. But that seemed unethical; he ought to use it to buy presents for the poor. Then, in one of those strokes of good fortune usually reserved for the truly righteous, word reached him of an attractive alternative: a cheaper — and even lighter! — gas called hydrogen. It was made from water (extremely ancient Gr. ὕδωρ [hydor], water), which he knew was chemically the same as ice, which in turn he saw all around him in limitless abundance. In due course he had several tanks delivered at a bargain price. He noted in passing that, unlike helium tanks, these bore a curious label: DANGER. Highly flammable! OK, no smoking, no problem.

The days grew shorter, then disappeared altogether. Christmas was just around the corner! In the glow of the Northern Lights (to avoid lighting a candle, which that label seemed to discourage), he fueled up eight of his majestic beasts, tethered them to the North Pole, loaded up his sleigh, and jumped aboard. Pulling a quick release, he freed the hydrogenated reindeer from the Pole and sailed into the clear, wintry night.

Gleefully he visited one home after another, each time picking up speed as his load lightened. He knew he was riding a winner. Soon even King Croesus would come begging for a handout! Soon the other Santas would spend their holiday seasons patting the heads of little monsters while he — now He — would shower gifts on the world and win universal adoration. Someone might even write a Christmas carol in his honor.

And then it happened.

Landing on one chimney, he saw too late that a cheerful fire was burning in a hearth just a few feet below. In fact, glowing embers were popping right up the chimney. He watched in mute horror as the heat caused the abdomen of Randolph, his favorite Red-Eyed Reindeer, to swell, to roast, and finally to burst.

In an instant, there was a Bang such as the world had never heard, and this particular Santa, together with his entire team, was blown to countless blinding smithereens. The force of the explosion propelled them into the stratosphere and beyond, into the unmeasurable firmament.

Many, many years (eons) later they were seen from a planet far, far (light years) away and designated as new stars. An imaginative astronomer read a pattern into their alignment and suggested a constellation with the name Rangifer* novus. Once government funds became available, the Bubble telescope was brought to bear, revealing eight planets orbiting the brightest of the stars. The third closest showed signs of water and therefore the potential to support life.

The rest, as the cognoscenti tell us, is history.

*The genus name for reindeer