Solaris (21 page)

"The truth."

"I asked you what you said."

"You know very well. Come back to my cabin and we'll write out
the report. Come on."

"Wait. What exactly do you want? You can't be intending to
remain on the Station."

"Yes, I want to stay."

I sat by the panoramic window, looking at the ocean. There was
nothing to do now that the report, which had taken five days to
compile, was only a pattern of waves in space. It would be months
before a similar pattern would leave earth to create its own line
of disturbance in the gravitational field of the galaxy towards the
twin suns of Solaris.

Under the red sun, the ocean was darker than ever, and the
horizon was obscured by a reddish mist. The weather was unusually
close, and seemed to be building up towards one of the terrible
hurricanes which broke out two or three times a year on the surface
of the planet, whose sole inhabitant, it is reasonable to suppose,
controlled the climate and willed its storms.

There were several months to go before I could leave. From my
vantage point in the observatory I would watch the birth of the
days—a disc of pale gold or faded purple. Now and then I
would come upon the light of dawn playing among the fluid forms of
some edifice risen from the ocean, watch the sun reflected on the
silver sphere of a symmetriad, follow the oscillations of the
graceful agiluses that curve in the wind, and linger to examine old
powdery mimoids.

And eventually, the screens of all the videophones would start
to blink and all the communications equipment would spring to life
again, revived by an impulse originating billions of miles away and
announcing the arrival of a metal colossus. The
Ulysses
, or it might be the
Prometheus
, would land on the Station to the
piercing whine of its gravitors, and I would go out onto the flat
roof to watch the squads of white, heavy-duty robots which proceed
in all innocence with their tasks, not hesitating to destroy
themselves or to destroy the unforeseen obstacle, in strict
obedience to the orders echoed into the crystals of their memory.
Then the ship would rise noiselessly, faster than sound, leaving a
sonic boom far behind over the ocean, and every passenger's face
would light up at the thought of going home.

What did that word mean to me? Earth? I thought of the great
bustling cities where I would wander and lose myself, and I thought
of them as I had thought of the ocean on the second or third night,
when I had wanted to throw myself upon the dark waves. I shall
immerse myself among men. I shall be silent and attentive, an
appreciative companion. There will be many acquaintances, friends,
women—and perhaps even a wife. For a while, I shall have to
make a conscious effort to smile, nod, stand and perform the
thousands of little gestures which constitute life on Earth, and
then those gestures will become reflexes again. I shall find new
interests and occupations; and I shall not give myself completely
to them, as I shall never again give myself completely to anything
or anybody. Perhaps at night I shall stare up at the dark nebula
that cuts off the light of the twin suns, and remember everything,
even what I am thinking now. With a condescending, slightly rueful
smile I shall remember my follies and my hopes. And this future
Kelvin will be no less worthy a man than the Kelvin of the past,
who was prepared for anything in the name of an ambitious
enterprise called Contact. Nor will any man have the right to judge
me.

Snow came into the cabin, glanced around, then looked at me
again. I went over to the table:

"You wanted me?"

"Haven't you got anything to do? I could give you some
work…calculations. Not a particularly urgent
job…"

"Thanks," I smiled, "you needn't have bothered."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I was thinking a few things over, and…"

"I wish you'd think a little less."

"But you don't know what I was thinking about! Tell me
something. Do you believe in God?"

Snow darted an apprehensive glance in my direction:

"What? Who still believes nowadays…"

"It isn't that simple. I don't mean the traditional God of Earth
religion. I'm no expert in the history of religions, and perhaps
this is nothing new—do you happen to know if there was ever a
belief in an…imperfect god?"

"What do you mean by imperfect?" Snow frowned. "In a way all the
gods of the old religions were imperfect, considering that their
attributes were amplified human ones. The God of the Old Testament,
for instance, required humble submission and sacrifices, and was
jealous of other gods. The Greek gods had fits of sulks and family
quarrels, and they were just as imperfect as mortals…"

"No," I interrupted. "I'm not thinking of a god whose
imperfection arises out of the candor of his human creators, but
one whose imperfection represents his essential characteristic: a
god limited in his omniscience and power, fallible, incapable of
foreseeing the consequences of his acts, and creating things that
lead to horror. He is a…sick god, whose ambitions exceed his
powers and who does not realize it at first. A god who has created
clocks, but not the time they measure. He has created systems or
mechanisms that served specific ends but have now overstepped and
betrayed them. And he has created eternity, which was to have
measured his power, and which measures his unending defeat."

Snow hesitated, but his attitude no longer showed any of the
wary reserve of recent weeks:

"There was Manicheanism…"

"Nothing at all to do with the principle of Good and Evil," I
broke in immediately. "This god has no existence outside of matter.
He would like to free himself from matter, but he
cannot…"

Snow pondered for a while:

"I don't know of any religion that answers your description.
That kind of religion has never been…necessary. If I
understand you, and I'm afraid I do, what you have in mind is an
evolving god, who develops in the course of time, grows, and keeps
increasing in power while remaining aware of his powerlessness. For
your god, the divine condition is a situation without a goal. And
understanding that, he despairs. But isn't this despairing god of
yours mankind, Kelvin? It is man you are talking about, and that is
a fallacy, not just philosophically but also mystically
speaking."

I kept on:

"No, it's nothing to do with man. Man may correspond to my
provisional definition from some points of view, but that is
because the definition has a lot of gaps. Man does not create gods,
in spite of appearances. The times, the age, impose them on him.
Man can serve his age or rebel against it, but the target of his
cooperation or rebellion comes to him from outside. If there was
only a single human being in existence, he would apparently be able
to attempt the experiment of creating his own goals in complete
freedom—apparently, because a man not brought up among other
human beings cannot become a man. And the being—the being I
have in mind—-cannot exist in the plural, you see?"

"Oh, then in that case…" He pointed out of the
window.

"No, not the ocean either. Somewhere in its development it has
probably come close to the divine state, but it turned back into
itself too soon. It is more like an anchorite, a hermit of the
cosmos, not a god. It repeats itself, Snow, and the being I'm
thinking of would never do that. Perhaps he has already been born
somewhere, in some corner of the galaxy, and soon he will have some
childish enthusiasm that will set him putting out one star and
lighting another. We will notice him after a while…"

"We already have," Snow said sarcastically. "Novas and
supernovas. According to you they are the candles on his
altar."

"If you're going to take what I say literally…"

"And perhaps Solaris is the cradle of your divine child," Snow
went on, with a widening grin that increased the number of lines
round his eyes. "Solaris could be the first phase of the despairing
God. Perhaps its intelligence will grow enormously. All the
contents of our Solarist libraries could be just a record of his
teething troubles…"

"…and we will have been the baby's toys for a while. It
is possible. And do you know what you have just done? You've
produced a completely new hypothesis about
Solaris—congratulations! Everything suddenly falls into
place: the failure to achieve contact, the absence of responses,
various…let's say various peculiarities in its behavior
towards ourselves. Everything is explicable in terms of the
behaviour of a small child."

"I renounce paternity of the theory," Snow grunted, standing at
the window.

For a long instant, we stood staring out at the dark waves. A
long pale patch was coming into view to the east, in the mist
obscuring the horizon.

Without talcing his eyes off the shimmering waste, Snow asked
abruptly:

"What gave you this idea of an imperfect god?"

"I don't know. It seems quite feasible to me. That is the only
god I could imagine believing in, a god whose passion is not a
redemption, who saves nothing, fulfils no purpose—a god who
simply is."

"A mimoid," Snow breathed.

"What's that? Oh yes, I'd noticed it. A very old mimoid."

We both looked towards the misty horizon.

"I'm going outside," I said abruptly. "I've never yet been off
the Station, and this is a good opportunity. I'll be back in half
an hour."

Snow raised his eyebrows:

"What? You're going out? Where are you going?"

I pointed towards the flesh-colored patch half-hidden by the
mist:

"Over there. What is there to stop me? I'll take a small
helicopter. When I get back to Earth I don't want to have to
confess that I'm a Solarist who has never set foot on Solaris!"

I opened a locker and started rummaging through the
atmosphere-suits, while Snow looked on silently. Finally he
said:

"I don't like it."

I had selected a suit. Now I turned towards him:

"What?" I had not felt so excited for a long time. "What are you
worrying about? Out with it! You're afraid that I…I promise
you I have no intention…it never entered my mind,
honestly."

"I'll go with you."

"Thanks, but I'd rather go alone." I pulled on the suit. "Do you
realize this will be my first flight over the ocean?"

Snow muttered something, but I could not make out what. I was in
a hurry to get the rest of the gear together.

He accompanied me to the hangar deck, and helped me drag the
flitter out onto the elevator disc. As I was checking my suit, he
asked me abruptly:

"Can I rely on your word?"

"Still fretting? Yes, you can. Where are the oxygen tanks?"

We exchanged no further words. I slid the transparent canopy
shut, gave him the signal, and he set the lift going. I emerged
onto the Station roof; the motor burst into life; the three blades
turned and the machine rose—strangely light—into the
air. Soon the Station had fallen far behind.

Alone over the ocean, I saw it with a different eye. I was
flying quite low, at about a hundred feet, and for the first time I
felt a sensation often described by the explorers but which I had
never noticed from the height of the Station: the alternating
motion of the gleaming waves was not at all like the undulation of
the sea or the billowing of clouds. It was like the crawling skin
of an animal—the incessant, slow-motion contractions of
muscular flesh secreting a crimson foam.

When I started to bank towards the drifting mimoid, the sun
shone into my eyes and blood-red flashes struck the curved canopy.
The dark ocean, flickering with sombre flames, was tinged with
blue.

The flitter came around too wide, and I was carried a long way
down wind from the mimoid, a long irregular silhouette looming out
of the ocean. Emerging from the mist, the mimoid was no longer
pink, but a yellowish grey. I lost sight of it momentarily, and
glimpsed the Station, which seemed to be sitting on the horizon,
and whose outline was reminiscent of an ancient zeppelin. I changed
course, and the sheer mass of the mimoid grew in my line of
vision—a baroque sculpture. I was afraid of crashing into the
bulbous swellings, and pulled the flitter up so brutally that it
lost speed and started to lurch; but my caution was unnecessary,
for the rounded peaks of those fantastic towers were subsiding.

I flew past the island; and slowly, yard by yard, I descended to
the level of the eroded peaks. The mimoid was not large. It
measured about three quarters of a mile from end to end, and was a
few hundred yards wide. In some places, it was close to splitting
apart. This mimoid was obviously a fragment of a far larger
formation. On the scale of Solaris it was only a tiny splinter,
weeks or perhaps months old.

Among the mottled crags overhanging the ocean, I found a kind of
beach, a sloping, fairly even surface a few yards square, and
steered towards it. The rotors almost hit a cliff that reared up
suddenly in my path, but I landed safely, cut the motor and slid
back the canopy. Standing on the fuselage I made sure that there
was no chance of the flitter sliding into the ocean. Waves were
licking at the jagged bank about fifteen paces away, but the
machine rested solidly on its legs, and I jumped to the
'ground.'

The cliff I had almost hit was a huge bony membrane pierced with
holes, and full of knotty swellings. A crack several yards wide
split this wall diagonally and enabled me to examine the interior
of the island, already glimpsed through the apertures in the
membrane. I edged warily onto the nearest ledge, but my boots
showed no tendency to slide and the suit did not impede my
movements, and I went on climbing until I had reached a height of
about four storeys above the ocean, and could see a broad stretch
of petrified landscape stretching back until it was lost from sight
in the depths of the mimoid.

It was like looking at the ruins of an ancient town, a Moroccan
city tens of centuries old, convulsed by an earthquake or some
other disaster. I made out a tangled web of winding sidestreets
choked with debris, and alleyways which fell abruptly towards the
oily foam that floated close to the shore. In the middle distance,
great battlements stood intact, sustained by ossified buttresses.
There were dark openings in the swollen, sunken walls—traces
of windows or loop-holes. The whole of this floating town canted to
one side or another like a foundering ship, pitched and turned
slowly, and the sun cast continually moving shadows, which crept
among the ruined alleys. Now and again a polished surface caught
and reflected the light. I took the risk of climbing higher, then
stopped; rivulets of fine sand were beginning to trickle down the
rocks above my head, cascading into ravines and alleyways and
rebounding in swirling clouds of dust. The mimoid is not made of
stone, and to dispel the illusion one only has to pick up a piece
of it: it is lighter than pumice, and composed of small, very
porous cells.