Solaris (9 page)

"What do you mean, nothing?"

Snow smiled.

"You must know that science is concerned with phenomena rather
than causes. The phenomena here began to manifest themselves eight
or nine days after that X-ray experiment. Perhaps the ocean reacted
to the irradiation with a counter-irradiation, perhaps it probed
our brains and penetrated to some kind of psychic tumor."

I pricked up my ears.

"Tumor?"

"Yes, isolated psychic processes, enclosed, stifled,
encysted—foci smouldering under the ashes of memory. It
deciphered them and made use of them, in the same way as one uses a
recipe or a blue-print. You know how alike the asymmetric
crystalline structures of a chromosome are to those of the DNA
molecule, one of the constituents of the cerebrosides which
constitute the substratum of the memory-processes? This genetic
substance is a plasma which 'remembers.' The ocean has 'read' us by
this means, registering the minutest details, with the result
that…well, you know the result. But for what purpose? Bah!
At any rate, not for the purpose of destroying us. It could have
annihilated us much more easily. As far as one can tell, given its
technological resources, it could have done anything it
wished—confronted me with your double, and you with mine, for
example."

"So that's why you were so alarmed when I arrived, the first
evening!"

"Yes. In fact, how do you know it hasn't done so? How do you
know I'm really the same old Ratface who landed here two years
ago?"

He went on laughing silently, enjoying my discomfiture, then he
growled:

"No, no, that's enough of that! We're two happy mortals; I could
kill you, you could kill me."

"And the others, can't they be killed?"

"I don't advise you to try—a horrible sight!"

"Is there no means of killing them?"

"I don't know. Certainly not with poison, or a weapon, or by
injection…"

"What about a gamma pistol?"

"Would you risk it?"

"Since we know they're not human…"

"In a certain subjective sense, they
are
human. They
know nothing whatsoever about their origins. You must have noticed
that?"

"Yes. But then, how do you explain…?"

"They…the whole thing is regenerated with extraordinary
rapidity, at an incredible speed—in the twinkling of an eye.
Then they start behaving again as…"

"As?"

"As we remember them, as they are engraved on our memories,
following which…"

"Did Gibarian know?" I interrupted.

"As much as we do, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Very probably."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No. I found a book in his room…"

I leapt to my feet.

"
The Little Apocrypha
!"

"Yes." He looked at me suspiciously. "Who could have told you
about that?"

I shook my head.

"Don't worry, you can see that I've burnt my skin and that it's
not exactly renewing itself. No, Gibarian left a letter addressed
to me in his cabin."

"A letter? What did it say?"

"Nothing much. It was more of a note than a letter, with
bibliographic references—allusions to the supplement to the
Annual and to the
Apocrypha
. What is this
Apocrypha
?"

"An antique which seems to have some relevance to our situation.
Here!" He drew from his pocket a small, leatherbound volume,
scuffed at the edges, and handed it to me.

I grabbed the little book.

"And what about Sartorius?"

"Him! Everyone has his own way of coping. Sartorius is trying to
remain normal—that is, to preserve his respectability as an
envoy of an official mission."

"You're joking!"

"No, I'm quite serious. We were together on another occasion. I
won't bother you with the details, but there were eight of us and
we were down to our last 1000 pounds of oxygen. One after another,
we gave up our chores, and by the end we all had beards except
Sartorius. He was the only one who shaved and polished his shoes.
He's like that. Now, of course, he can only pretend, act a
part—or else commit a crime."

"A crime?"

"Perhaps that isn't quite the right word. 'Divorce by ejection!'
Does that sound better?"

"Very funny!"

"Suggest something else if you don't like it."

"Oh, leave me alone!"

"No, let's discuss the thing seriously. You know pretty well as
much as I do by now. Have you got a plan?"

"No, none. I haven't the least idea what I'll do
when…when she comes back. She will return, if I've
understood you correctly?"

"It's on the cards."

"How do they get in? The Station is hermetically sealed. Perhaps
the layer on the outer hull…"

He shook his head.

"The outer hull is in perfect condition. I don't know where they
get in. Usually, they're there when you wake up, and you have to
sleep eventually!"

"Could you barricade yourself securely inside a cabin?"

"The barricades wouldn't survive for long. There's only one
solution, and you can guess what that is…"

We both stood up.

"Just a minute, Snow! You're suggesting we liquidate the Station
and you expect me to take the initiative and accept the
responsibility?"

"It's not as simple as that. Obviously, we could get out, if
only as far as the satellite, and send an SOS from there. Of
course, we'll be regarded as lunatics; we'll be shut up in a
mad-house on Earth—unless we have the sense to retract. A
distant planet, isolation, collective derangement—our case
won't seem at all out of the ordinary. But at least we'd be better
off in a mental home than we are here: a quiet garden, little white
cells, nurses, supervised walks…"

Hands in his pockets, staring fixedly at a corner of the room,
he spoke with the utmost seriousness.

The red sun had disappeared over the horizon and the ocean was a
sombre desert, mottled with dying gleams, the last rays lingering
among the long tresses of the waves. The sky was ablaze.
Purple-edged clouds drifted across this dismal red and black
world.

"Well, do you want to get out, yes or no? Or not yet?"

"Always the fighter! If you knew the full implications of what
you're asking, you wouldn't be so insistent. It's not a matter of
what I want, it's a matter of what's possible."

"Such as what?"

"That's the point, I don't know."

"We stay here then? Do you think we'll find some
way…?"

Thin, sickly-looking, his peeling face deeply lined, he turned
towards me:

"It might be worth our while to stay. We're unlikely to learn
anything about
it
, but about ourselves…"

He turned, picked up his papers, and went out. I opened my mouth
to detain him, but no sound escaped my lips.

There was nothing I could do now except wait. I went to the
window and ran my eyes absently over the dark-red glimmer of the
shadowed ocean. For a moment, I thought of locking myself inside
one of the capsules on the hangar-deck, but it was not an idea
worth considering for long: sooner or later, I should have to come
out again.

I sat by the window, and began to leaf through the book Snow had
given me. The glowing twilight lit up the room and colored the
pages. It was a collection of articles and treatises edited by an
Otho Ravintzer, Ph.D., and its general level was immediately
obvious. Every science engenders some pseudo-science, inspiring
eccentrics to explore freakish by-ways; astronomy has its parodists
in astrology, chemistry used to have them in alchemy. It was not
surprising, therefore, that Solaristics, in its early days, had set
off an explosion of marginal cogitations. Ravintzer's book was full
of this sort of intellectual speculation, prefaced, it is only fair
to add, by an introduction in which the editor dissociated himself
from some of the texts reproduced. He considered, with some
justice, that such a collection could provide an invaluable period
document as much for the historian as for the psychologist of
science.

Berton's report, divided into two parts and complete with a
summary of his log, occupied the place of honor in the book.

From 14.00 hours to 16.40 hours, by expedition time, the entries
in the log were laconic and negative.

Altitude 3000—or 3500—2500 feet;
nothing visible; ocean empty
. The same words recurred over and
over again.

Then, at 16.40 hours:
A red mist rising. Visibility
700 yards. Ocean empty.

17.00 hours:
fog thickening; visibility 400 yards,
with clear patches. Descending to 600 feet.

17.20 hours:
in fog. Altitude 600. Visibility 20-40
yards. Climbing to 1200.

17.45:
altitude 1500. Pall of fog to horizon.
Funnel-shaped openings through which I can see ocean surface.
Attempting to enter one of these clearings; something is
moving.

17.52:
have spotted what appears to be a
waterspout; it is throwing up a yellow foam. Surrounded by a wall
of fog. Altitude 300. Descending to 60 feet.

The extract from Berton's log stopped at this point. There
followed his case-history, or, more precisely, the statement
dictated by Berton and interrupted at intervals by questions from
the members of the Commission of Enquiry.

BERTON: When I reached 100 feet it became very difficult to
maintain altitude because of the violent gusts of wind inside the
cone. I had to hang on to the controls and for a short
period—about ten or fifteen minutes—I did not look
outside. I realized too late that a powerful undertow was dragging
me back into the fog. It wasn't like an ordinary fog, it was a
thick colloidal substance which coated my windows. I had a lot of
trouble cleaning them; that fog—or glue rather—was
obstinate stuff. Due to this resistance, the speed of my
rotor-blades was reduced by thirty percent and I began losing
height. I was afraid of capsizing on the waves; but, even at full
power, I could maintain altitude but not increase it. I still had
four booster-rockets left but felt the situation was not yet
desperate enough to use them. The aircraft was shaken by shuddering
vibrations that grew more and more violent. Thinking my
rotor-blades must have become coated with the gluey substance, I
glanced at the overload indicator, but to my surprise it read zero.
Since entering the fog, I had not seen the sun—only a red
glow. I continued to fly around in the hope of emerging into one of
the funnels, which, after half an hour, was what happened. I found
myself in a new 'well,' perfectly cylindrical in shape, and several
hundred yards in diameter. The walls of the cylinder were formed by
an enormous whirlpool of fog, spiralling upwards. I struggled to
keep in the middle, where the wind was less violent. It was then
that I noticed a change in the ocean's surface. The waves had
almost completely disappeared, and the upper layer of the
fluid—or whatever the ocean is made of—was becoming
transparent, with murky streaks here and there which gradually
dissolved until, finally, it was perfectly clear. I could see
distinctly to a depth of several yards. I saw a sort of yellow
sludge which was sprouting vertical filaments. When these filaments
emerged above the surface, they had a glassy sheen. Then they began
to exuam—they frothed—until the foam solidified; it was
like a very thick treacle. These glutinous filaments merged and
became intertwined; great bubbles swelled up on the surface and
slowly began to change shape. Suddenly I realized that my machine
was being driven towards the wall of fog. I had to manoeuver
against the wind, and when I was able to look down again, I saw
something which looked like a garden. Yes, a garden. Trees, hedges,
paths—but it wasn't a real garden; it was all made of the
same substance, which had hardened and by now looked like yellow
plaster. Beneath this garden, the ocean glittered. I came down as
low as I dared in order to take a closer look.

QUESTION: Did the trees and plants you saw have leaves on
them?

BERTON: No, the shapes were only approximate, like a model
garden. That's exactly what it was like: a model, but lifesize. All
of a sudden, it began to crack; it broke up and split into dark
crevices; a thick white liquid ran out and collected into pools, or
else drained away. The 'earthquake' became more violent, the whole
thing boiled over and was buried beneath the foam. At the same
time, the walls of the fog began to close in. I gained height
rapidly and came clear at 1000 feet.

QUESTION: Are you absolutely sure that what you saw resembled a
garden—there was no other possible interpretation?

BERTON: Yes. I noticed several details. For example, I remember
seeing a place where there were some boxes in a row. I realized
later that they were probably beehives.

QUESTION: You realized later? But not at the time, not at the
moment when you actually saw them?

BERTON: No, because everything looked as though it were made of
plaster. But I saw something else.

QUESTION: What was that?

BERTON: I saw things which I can't put a name to, because I
didn't have time to examine them carefully. Under some bushes I
thought I saw tools, long objects with prongs. They might have been
plaster models of garden tools. But I'm not absolutely certain.
Whereas I'm sure, quite certain, that I recognized an apiary.

QUESTION: It didn't occur to you that it might be an
hallucination?

BERTON: No. I thought it was a mirage. It never occurred to me
that it was an hallucination because I felt perfectly well, and I
had never seen anything like it before. When I reached 1000 feet
and took another look at the fog, it was pitted with more
irregularly shaped holes, rather like a piece of cheese. Some of
these holes were completely hollow, and I could see the ocean
waves; others were only shallow saucers in which something was
bubbling. I descended another well and saw—the altimeter read
120 feet—I saw a wall lying beneath the ocean surface. It
wasn't very deep and I could see it clearly beneath the waves. It
seemed to be the wall of a huge building, pierced with rectangular
openings, like windows. I even thought I could see something moving
behind them, but I couldn't be absolutely certain of that. The wall
slowly broke the surface and a mucous bubbling liquid streamed down
its sides. Then it suddenly broke in half and disappeared into the
depths.

I regained height and continued to fly above the fog, the
machine almost touching it, until I discovered another clearing,
much larger than the previous one.

While I was still some distance away, I noticed a pale, almost
white, object floating on the surface. My first thought was that it
was Fechner's flying-suit, especially as it looked vaguely human in
form. I brought the aircraft round sharply, afraid of losing my way
and being unable to find the same spot again. The shape, the body,
was moving; sometimes it seemed to be standing upright in the
trough of the waves. I accelerated and went down so low that the
machine bounced gently. I must have hit the crest of a huge wave I
was overflying. The body—yes, it was a human body, not an
atmosphere-suit—the body was moving.

QUESTION: Did you see its face?

BERTON: Yes.

QUESTION: Who was it?

BERTON: A child.

QUESTION: What child? Did you recognize it?

BERTON: No. At any rate, I don't remember having seen it before.
Besides, when I got closer—when I was forty yards away, or
even sooner—I realized that it was no ordinary child.

QUESTION: What do you mean?

BERTON: I'll explain. At first, I couldn't understand what
worried me about it; it was only after a minute or two that I
realized: this child was extraordinarily large. Enormous, in fact.
Stretched out horizontally, its body rose twelve feet above the
surface of the ocean, I swear. I remembered that when I touched the
wave, its face was a little higher than mine, even though my
cockpit must have been at least ten feet above the ocean.

QUESTION: If it was as big as that, what makes you say it was a
child?

BERTON: Because it was a tiny child.

QUESTION: Do you realize, Berton, that your answer doesn't make
sense?

BERTON: On the contrary. I could see its face, and it was a very
young child. Besides, its proportions corresponded exactly to the
proportions of a child's body. It was a…babe in arms. No, I
exaggerate. It was probably two or three years old. It had black
hair and blue eyes—enormous blue eyes! It was
naked—completely naked—like a newborn baby. It was wet,
or I should say glossy; its skin was shiny. I was shattered. I no
longer thought it was a mirage. I could see this child so
distinctly. It rose and fell with the waves; but apart from this
general motion, it was making other movements, and they were
horrible!

QUESTION: Why? What was it doing?

BERTON: It was more like a doll in a museum, only a living doll.
It opened and closed its mouth, it made various gestures, horrible
gestures.

QUESTION: What do you mean?

BERTON: I was watching it from about twenty yards away—I
don't suppose I went any closer. But, as I've already told you, it
was enormous. I could see very clearly. Its eyes sparkled and you
really would have thought it was a living child, if it hadn't been
for the movements, the gestures, as though someone was
trying…It was as though someone else was responsible for the
gestures…

QUESTION: Try to be more explicit.

BERTON: It's difficult. I'm talking of an impression, more of an
intuition. I didn't analyze it, but I knew that those gestures
weren't natural.

QUESTION: Do you mean, for example, that the hands didn't move
as human hands would move, because the joints were not sufficiently
supple?

BERTON: No, not at all. But…these movements had no
meaning. Each of our movements means something, more or less,
serves some purpose…

QUESTION: Do you think so? The movements of an infant don't have
much meaning!

BERTON: I know. But an infant's movements are confused, random,
uncoordinated. The movements I saw were…er…yes,
that's it, they were methodical movements. They were performed one
after another, like a series of exercises; as though someone had
wanted to make a study of what this child was capable of doing with
its hands, its torso, its mouth. The face was more horrifying than
the rest, because the human face has an expression, and this
face…I don't know how to describe it. It was alive, yes, but
it wasn't human. Or rather, the features as a whole, the eyes, the
complexion, were, but the expression, the movements of the face,
were certainly not.

QUESTION: Were they grimaces? Do you know what happens to a
person's face during an epileptic fit?

BERTON: Yes. I've watched an epileptic fit. I know what you
mean. No, it was something quite different. Epilepsy provokes
spasms, convulsions. The movements I'm talking about were fluid,
continuous, graceful…melodious, if one can say that of a
movement. It's the nearest definition I can think of. But this
face…a face can't divide itself into two—one half gay,
the other sad, one half scowling and the other amiable, one half
frightened and the other triumphant. But that's how it was with
this child's face. In addition to that, all these movements and
changes of expression succeeded one another with unbelievable
rapidity. I stayed down there a very short time, perhaps ten
seconds, perhaps less.

QUESTION: And you claim to have seen all that in such a short
time? Besides, how do you know how long you were there? Did you
check your chronometer?

BERTON: No, but I've been flying for seventeen years and, in my
job, one can measure instinctively, to the nearest second, the
duration of what would be called an instant of time. It's an
acquired faculty, and essential for successful navigation. A pilot
isn't worth his salt if he can't tell whether a particular
phenomenon lasts five or ten seconds, whatever the circumstances.
It's the same with observation. We learn, over the years, to take
in everything at a glance.

QUESTION: Is that all you saw?

BERTON: No, but I don't remember the rest so precisely. I
suppose I must already have seen more than enough; my attention
faltered. The fog began to close in, and I had to climb. I climbed,
and for the first time in my life I all but capsized. My hands were
shaking so much that I had difficulty in handling the controls. I
think I shouted something, called up the base, even though I knew
we were not in radio contact.

QUESTION: Did you then try and get back?

BERTON: No. In the end, having gained height, I thought to myself
that Fechner was probably in the bottom of one of the wells. I know
it sounds crazy, but that's what I thought. I told myself that
everything was possible, and that it would also be possible for me
to find Fechner. I decided to investigate every clearing I came
across along my route. At the third attempt I gave up. When I had
regained height, I knew it was useless to persist after what I had
just seen on this, the third, occasion. I couldn't go on any
longer. I should add, as you already know, that I was suffering
from bouts of nausea and that I vomited in the cockpit. I couldn't
understand it; I have never been sick in my life.

COMMENT: It was a symptom of poisoning.

BERTON: Perhaps. I don't know. But what I saw on this third
occasion I did not imagine. That was not the effect of
poisoning.

QUESTION: How can you possibly know?

BERTON: It wasn't an hallucination. An hallucination is created
by one's own brain, wouldn't you say?

COMMENT: Yes.

BERTON: Well, my brain couldn't have created what I saw. I'll
never believe that. My brain wouldn't have been capable of it.

COMMENT: Get on with describing what it was!

BERTON: Before I do so, I should like to know how the statements
I've already made will be interpreted.

QUESTION: What does that matter?

BERTON: For me, it matters very much indeed. I have said that I
saw things which I shall never forget. If the Commission
recognizes, even with certain reservations, that my testimony is
credible, and that a study of the ocean must be undertaken—I
mean a study orientated in the light of my statements—then
I'll tell everything. But if the Commission considers that it is
all delusions, then I refuse to say anything more.

QUESTION: Why?

BERTON: Because the contents of my hallucinations belong to me
and I don't have to give an account of them, whereas I am obliged
to give an account of what I saw on Solaris.

QUESTION: Does that mean that you refuse to answer any more
questions until the expedition authorities have announced their
findings? You realize, of course, that the Commission isn't
empowered to take an immediate decision?

BERTON: Yes.