Solaris (4 page)

I was still leaning over the map, but I no longer saw it; my
limbs were in the grip of a sort of paralysis. The crates and a
small locker still barricaded the door, which was in front of me.
It's only a robot, I told myself—yet I had not discovered any
in the room and none could have entered without my knowledge. My
back and my neck seemed to be on fire; the sensation of this
relentless, fixed stare was becoming unbearable. With my head
shrinking between my hunched shoulders, I leant harder and harder
against the table, until it began slowly to slide away. The
movement released me; I spun round.

The room was empty. There was nothing in front of me except the
wide convex window and, beyond it, the night. But the same
sensation persisted. The night stared me in the face, amorphous,
blind, infinite, without frontiers. Not a single star relieved the
darkness behind the glass. I pulled the thick curtains. I had been
in the Station less than an hour, yet already I was showing signs
of morbidity. Was it the effect of Gibarian's death? In so far as I
knew him, I had imagined that nothing could shake his nerve: now, I
was no longer so sure.

I stood in the middle of the room, beside the table. My
breathing became more regular, I felt the sweat chill on my
forehead. What was it I had been thinking about a moment ago? Ah,
yes, robots! It was surprising that I had not come across one
anywhere on the Station. What could have become of them all? The
only one with which I had been in contact—at a
distance—belonged to the vehicle reception services. But what
about the others?

I looked at my watch. It was time to rejoin Snow.

I left the room. The dome was feebly lit by luminous filaments
running the length of the ceiling. I went up to Gibarian's door and
stood there, motionless. There was total silence. I gripped the
handle. I had in fact no intention of going in, but the handle went
down and the door opened, disclosing a chink of darkness. The
lights went on. In one quick movement, I entered and silently
closed the door behind me. Then I turned round.

My shoulders brushed against the door panels. The room was
larger than mine. A curtain decorated with little pink and blue
flowers (not regulation Station equipment, but no doubt brought
from Earth with his personal belongings) covered three-quarters of
the panoramic window. Around the walls were bookshelves and
cupboards, painted pale green with silvery highlights. Both shelves
and cupboards had been emptied of their contents, which were piled
into heaps, amongst the furniture. At my feet, blocking the way,
were two overturned trolleys buried beneath a heap of periodicals
spilling out of bulging brief cases which had burst open. Books
with their pages splayed out fanwise were stained with colored
liquids which had spilt from broken retorts and bottles with
corroded stoppers, receptacles made of such thick glass that a
single fall, even from a considerable height, could not have
shattered them in such a way. Beneath the window lay an overturned
desk, an anglepoise lamp crumpled underneath it; two legs of an
upturned stool were stuck in the half-open drawers. A flood of
papers of every conceivable size swamped the floor. My interest
quickened as I recognized Gibarian's hand-writing. As I stooped to
gather together the loose sheets, I noticed that my hand was
casting a double shadow.

I straightened up. The pink curtain glowed brightly, traversed
by a streak of incandescent, steely-blue light which was gradually
widening. I pulled the curtain aside. An unbearable glare extended
along the horizon, chasing before it an army of spectral shadows,
which rose up from among the waves and dispersed in the direction
of the Station. It was the dawn. After an hour of darkness the
planet's second sun—the blue sun—was rising in the
sky.

The automatic switch cut off the lights as I returned to the
heap of papers. The first thing I came across was a detailed
description of an experiment, evidently decided upon three weeks
before. Gibarian had planned to expose the plasma to an intensive
bombardment of X-rays. I gathered from the context that the paper
was addressed to Sartorius, whose job it was to organize
operations. What I was holding in my hand was a copy of the
plan.

The whiteness of the paper hurt my eyes. This new day was
different from the previous one. In the warm glow of the red sun,
mists overhung a black ocean with blood-red reflections, and waves,
clouds and sky were almost constantly veiled in a crimson haze.
Now, the blue sun pierced the flower-printed curtain with a
crystalline light. My suntanned hands looked grey. The room had
changed; all the red-reflecting objects had lost their luster and
had turned a greyish-brown, whereas those which were white, green
and yellow had acquired a vivid brilliance and seemed to give off
their own light. Screwing up my eyes, I risked another glance
through a chink in the curtain: an expanse of molten metal trembled
and shimmered under a white-hot sky, I shut my eyes and drew back.
On the shelf above the wash-basin (which had recently been badly
chipped) I found a pair of dark glasses, so big that when I put
them on they covered half my face. The curtain appeared to glow
with a sodium light. I went on reading, picking up the sheets of
paper and arranging them on the only usable table. There were gaps
in the text, and I searched in vain for the missing pages.

I came across a report of experiments already carried out, and
learned that, for four days running, Gibarian and Sartorius had
submitted the ocean to radiation at a point 1400 miles from the
present position of the Station. The use of X-rays was banned by a
UN convention, because of their harmful effects, and I was certain
that no one had sent a request to Earth for authorization to
proceed with such experiments.

Looking up, I caught sight of my face in the mirror of a
half-open locker door: masked by the dark glasses, it was deathly
pale. The room, too, glinting with blue and white reflections,
looked equally bizarre; but soon there came a prolonged screech of
metal as the air-tight outer shutters slid across the window. There
was an instant of darkness, and then the lights came on; they
seemed to me to be curiously dim. It grew hotter and hotter. The
regular drone of the air-conditioning was now a high-pitched whine:
the Station's refrigeration plant was running at full capacity.
Nevertheless, the overpowering heat grew more and more intense.

I heard footsteps. Someone was walking through the dome. In two
silent strides, I reached the door. The footsteps slowed down;
whoever it was was behind it. The handle moved. Automatically,
without thinking, I gripped it. The pressure did not increase, but
nor did it relax. Neither of us, on either side of the door, said a
word. We remained there, motionless, each of us holding the handle.
Suddenly it straightened up again, freeing itself from my grasp.
The muffled footsteps receded. With my ear glued to the panel, I
went on listening. I heard nothing more.

I hastily pocketed Gibarian's notes and went over to the locker.
Work-suits and clothes had been pushed to one side as though
someone had hidden himself at the back. On the floor I saw the
corner of an envelope sticking out from a heap of papers and picked
it up. It was addressed to me. Dry-mouthed with apprehension, I
tore it open; I had to force myself to unfold the note inside.

In his even handwriting, small but perfectly legible, Gibarian
had written two lines:

Supplement Dir. Solar. Vol 1.: Vot. Separat.

Messenger ds aff. F.; Ravintzer: The Little Apocrypha.

That was all, not another word. Did these two lines contain some
vital piece of information? When had he written them? I told myself
that the first thing to do was to consult the library index. I knew
the supplement to the first volume of the annual of Solarist
studies; or rather, without having read it, I knew of its
existence—but was it not a document of purely historical
interest? As for Ravintzer and
The Little
Apocrypha
, I had never heard of them.

What next?

I was already a quarter of an hour late for my meeting with
Snow. With my back to the door, I looked the room over carefully
once more. Only then did I notice the bed standing up against the
wall, half concealed by a large map of Solaris. Something was
hanging down behind the map; it was a pocket tape-recorder, and I
noted that nine tenths of the tape had been used. I took the
machine out of its case (which I hung back where I had found it)
and slipped it into my pocket.

Before leaving, I listened intently with my eyes closed. There
was no sound from outside. I opened the door on to a yawning gulf
of darkness—until it occurred to me to remove my dark
glasses. The dome was feebly lit by the glowing filaments in the
ceiling.

A number of corridors spread out in a star-shaped pattern
between the four doors of the sleeping quarters and the narrow
passage leading to the radio-cabin. Suddenly, looming up in the
opening which led to the communal bathroom, a tall silhouette
appeared, barely distinguishable in the surrounding gloom. I stood
stock still, frozen to the spot. A giant Negress was coming
silently towards me with a smooth, rolling gait. I caught a gleam
from the whites of her eyes and heard the soft slapping of her bare
feet. She was wearing nothing but a yellow skirt of plaited straw;
her enormous breasts swung freely and her black arms were as thick
as thighs. Less than a yard separated us as she passed me, but she
did not give me so much as a glance. She went on her way, her grass
skirt swinging rhythmically, resembling one of those steatopygous
statues in anthropological museums. She opened Gibarian's door and
on the threshold her silhouette stood out distinctly against the
bright light from inside the room. Then she closed the door behind
her and I was alone.

Terror-stricken, I stared blankly round the big, empty hall.
What had happened? What had I seen? Suddenly, my mind reeled as I
recalled Snow's warnings. Who was this monstrous Aphrodite? I took
a step, a single pace, in the direction of Gibarian's room, but I
knew perfectly well that I would not go in.

I do not know how long I remained leaning against the cool metal
wall, hearing nothing except the distant, monotonous whine of the
air-conditioners. Eventually I pulled myself together and made my
way to the radio-cabin. As I pressed down the door handle, I heard
a harsh voice:

"Who's there?"

"It's me, Kelvin."

Snow was seated at a table between a pile of aluminum crates and
the transmitter, eating meat concentrate straight out of a tin. Did
he then never leave the place? Dazedly, I watched him chewing until
I realized that I, too, was famished. I went to a cupboard,
selected the least dusty plate I could find, and sat down opposite
Snow. We ate in silence.

Snow got up, uncorked a vacuum flask and filled two tumblers
with clear, hot soup. Then he put the flask down on the floor;
there was no room on the table.

"Have you seen Sartorius?" he asked.

"No. Where is he?"

"Upstairs."

Upstairs: that meant the laboratory. We finished our meal
without exchanging another word, Snow dutifully scraping the bottom
of his tin. The outer shutter was in place over the window and
reflections from the four ceiling lights gleamed on the laminated
surface of the transmitter. Snow had put on a loose black sweater,
frayed at the wrists. The taut skin over his cheekbones was marbled
with tiny blood-vessels.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing, why?"

"You're pouring with sweat."

I wiped my forehead. It was true, I was dripping wet; it must
have been reaction, after my unexpected encounter. Snow gave me a
questioning glance. Should I tell him? If only he had taken me into
his confidence…What incomprehensible game was being played
here, and who was whose enemy?

"It's hot. I should have expected your air-conditioning to work
better than this!"

"It adjusts itself automatically every hour." He looked at me
closely. "Are you sure it's only the heat?"

I did not answer. He tossed the utensils and the empty tins into
the sink, returned to his armchair and went on with his
interrogation.

"What are your plans?"

"That depends on you," I answered coolly. "I suppose you have a
research programme? A new stimulus, X-rays, that sort of
thing…"

He frowned.

"X-rays? Who's been talking to you about that?"

"I don't remember. Someone dropped a hint—on the
Prometheus
perhaps. Why, have you begun?"

"I don't know the details, it was an idea of Gibarian's. He and
Sartorius set it up together. I wonder how you could have heard of
it."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Funny that you shouldn't know the details. You ought to, since
you're the one who…"

I left the sentence unfinished; Snow said nothing.

The whining of the air-conditioners had stopped. The temperature
stayed at a bearable level, but a high-pitched drone persisted,
like the buzzing of a dying insect.

Snow got up from his chair and leaned over the console of the
transmitter. He began to press knobs at random, and to no effect,
since he had left the activating switch off. He went on fidgeting
with them for a moment, then he remarked:

"There are certain formalities to be dealt with
concerning…"

"Yes?" I prompted, to his back.

He turned round and gave me a hostile look. Involuntarily, I had
annoyed him; but ignorant of the role he was playing. I could only
wait and see. His Adam's apple rose and fell inside the collar of
his sweater:

"You've been into Gibarian's room," he blurted out
accusingly.

I looked at him calmly.

"You
have
been in there, haven't you?"

"If you say so…"

"Was there anyone there?"

So he had seen her, or, at least, knew of her existence!

"No, no one. Who could there have been?"

"Why didn't you let me in, then?"

"Because I was afraid. I thought of your warnings and when the
handle moved, I automatically hung on to it. Why didn't you say it
was you? I would have let you in."

"I thought it was Sartorius," he answered, in a faltering
voice.

"And suppose it had been?"

Once again, he parried my question with one of his own.

"What do you think happened in there?"

I hesitated.

"You're the one who should know. Where is he?"

"Gibarian? In the cold store. We took him there straight away
this morning, after we'd found him in the locker."

"The locker? Was he dead?"

"His heart was still beating, but he had stopped breathing."

"Did you try resuscitation?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't have the chance," he mumbled. "By the time I'd moved
him, he was dead."

Snow picked up a sheet of paper from the fitted desk in the
corner and held it out to me.

"I have drafted a post-mortem report. I'm not sorry you've seen
the room, as a matter of fact. Cause of death—pernostal
injection, lethal dose. It's all here…"

I ran my eyes over the paper, and murmured:

"Suicide? For what reason?"

"Nervous troubles, depression, call it what you like. You know
more about that sort of thing than I do."

I was still seated; Snow was standing over me.

Looking him in the eye, I said:

"I only know what I've seen for myself."

"What are you trying to say?" he asked calmly.

"He injected himself with pernostal and hid in the locker,
right? In that case, it's not a question of nervous troubles or a
fit of depression, but of a very serious paranoid condition."
Speaking more and more deliberately and continuing to look him in
the eyes, I added: "What is certain is that he thought he saw
something."

Snow began fiddling with the transmitter again.

After a moment's silence, I went on.

"Your signature's here. What about Sartorius's?"

"As I told you, he's in the laboratory. He never shows his face.
I suppose he's…"

"What?"

"Locked himself in."

"Locked himself in? I see…you mean he's barricaded
himself in?"

"Possibly."

"Snow, there's someone on the Station. Someone apart from
us."

He had stopped playing with the knobs and was leaning sideways,
staring at me.

"You've seen it!"

"You warned me. Against what? Against whom? An
hallucination?"

"What did you see?"

"Shall we say…a human being?"

He remained silent. Turning his back as though to hide his face
from me, he tapped the metal plating with his finger-tips. I looked
at his hands; there was no longer any trace of blood between the
fingers. I had a brief moment of dizziness.

In scarcely more than a whisper, as though I were imparting a
secret and afraid of being overhead, I said:

"It's not a mirage, is it? It's a real person, someone you can
touch, someone you can…draw blood from. And what's more,
someone you've seen only today."

"How do you know?"

He had not moved; his face was still obstinately turned to the
wall and I was addressing his back.

"It was before I arrived, just before I arrived, wasn't it?"

His whole body contracted, and I could see his panic-stricken
expression.

"What about you?" he said in a strangled voice, "who are
you?"

I thought he was about to attack me. It was not at all the
reaction I had expected. The situation was becoming grotesque.
Obviously, he did not believe that I was who I claimed to be. But
what could this mean? He was becoming more and more terrified of
me. Was he delirious? Could he have been affected by unfiltered
gases from the planet's atmosphere? Anything seemed possible. And
then again, I too had seen this…creature, so what about
me?

"Who is she?" I asked.

These words reassured him. For a moment, he looked at me
searchingly, as though he was still doubtful of me; then he
collapsed into his chair and put his head in his hands. Even before
he opened his mouth, I knew that he had still not made up his mind
to give me a direct answer.

"I'm worn out," he said weakly.

"Who is she?" I insisted.

"If you don't know…"

"Go on, know what?"

"Nothing."

"Listen, Snow! We are isolated, completely cut off. Let's put
our cards on the table. Things are confused enough as it is. You've
got to tell me what you know!"

"What about you?" he retorted, suspiciously.

"All right, I'll tell you and then you tell me. Don't worry, I
shan't think you're mad."

"Mad! Good God!" He tried to smile. "But you haven't understood
a thing, not a single thing. He never for one moment thought that
he was mad. If he had he would never have done it. He would still
be alive."

"In other words, your report, this business of nervous troubles,
is a fabrication."

"Of course."

"Why not write the truth?"

"Why?" he repeated.

A long silence followed. It was true that I was still completely
in the dark. I had been under the impression that I had overcome
his doubts and that we were going to pool our resources to solve
the enigma. Why, then, was he refusing to talk?

"Where are the robots?"

"In the store-rooms. We've locked them all away; only the
reception robots are operational."

"Why?"

Once more, he refused to answer.

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"I can't."

He seemed constantly on the point of unburdening himself, only
to pull himself up at the last moment. Perhaps I would do better to
tackle Sartorius. Then I remembered the letter and, as I thought of
it, realized how important it was.

"Do you intend continuing with the experiments?"

He gave a contemptuous shrug:

"What good would that do?"

"Oh—in that case, what do you suggest we do?"

He was silent. In the distance, there was a faint noise of bare
feet padding over the floor. The muffled echo of these shuffling
steps reverberated eerily among the nickel-plated and laminated
equipment and the tall shafts, furrowed with glass tubes, which
encased the complicated electronic installations.

Unable to control myself any longer, I stood up. As I listened
to the approaching footsteps, I watched Snow. Behind the drooping
lids, his eyes showed no fear. Was he not afraid of her, then?

"Where does she come from?" I asked.

"I don't know."

The sound of the footsteps faded, then died away.

"Don't you believe me?" he said. "I swear to you that I don't
know."

In the silence that followed, I opened a locker, pushed the
clumsy atmosphere suits aside and found, as I expected, hanging at
the back, the gas pistols used for manoeuvering in space. I took
one out, checked the charge, and slung the harness over my
shoulder. It was not strictly speaking, a weapon, but it was better
than nothing.