Solaris

by Stanisław Lem

  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.

  The Visitors

  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 dea
d?"

  "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.

  As I was adjusting a strap, Snow showed his yellow teeth in a mocking grin.

  "Good hunting!" he said.

  I turned towards the door.

  "Thanks."

  He dragged himself out of his chair.

  "Kelvin!"

  I looked at him. He was no longer smiling. I have never seen such an expression of weariness on anyone's face.

  He mumbled:

  "Kelvin, it isn't that… Really, I … I can't…"

  I waited; his lips moved, but uttered no sound. I turned on my heel and went out.

  Sartorius

  I followed a long, empty corridor, then forked right. I had never lived on the Station, but during my training on Earth I had spent six weeks in an exact replica of it; when I reached a short aluminum stairway, I knew where it led.

  The library was in darkness, and I had to fumble for the light switch. I first consulted the index, then dialled the coordinates for the first volume of the Solarist Annual and its supplement. A red light came on. I turned to the register: the two books were marked out to Gibarian, together with The Little Apocrypha. I switched the lights off and returned to the lower deck.

  In spite of having heard the footsteps receding, I was afraid to re-enter Gibarian's room. She might return. I hesitated for some time outside the door; finally, pressing down the handle, I forced myself to go in.

  There was no one in the room. I began rummaging through the books scattered beneath the window, interrupting my search only to close the locker door: I could not bear the sight of the
empty space among the work-suits.

  The supplement was not in the first pile, so, one by one, I started methodically picking up the rest of the books around the room. When I reached the final pile, between the bed and the wardrobe, I found the volume I was looking for.

  I was hoping to find some sort of clue and, sure enough, a book-marker had been slipped between the pages of the index. A name, unfamiliar to me, had been underlined in red: André Berton. The corresponding page numbers indicated two different chapters; glancing at the first, I learnt that Berton was a reserve pilot on Shannahan's ship. The second reference appeared about a hundred pages further on.

  At first, it seemed, Shannahan's expedition had proceeded with extreme caution. When, however, after sixteen days, the plasmatic ocean had not only shown no signs of aggression, but appeared to shun any direct contact with men and machines, recoiling whenever anything approached its surface, Shannahan and his deputy, Timolis, discontinued some of the precautions which were hindering the progress of their work. The force fences which had been used to demarcate and protect the working areas were taken back to base, and the expedition split up into groups of two or three men, some groups making reconnaissance flights over a radius of some several hundred miles.

  Apart from some unexpected damage to the oxygen-supply systems—the atmosphere had an unusually corrosive effect on the valves, which had to be replaced almost daily—four days passed without mishap. On the morning of the fifth day—21 days after the arrival of the expedition—two scientists, Carucci and Fechner (the first a radiobiologist, the second a physicist), left on a mission aboard a hovercraft. Six hours later, the explorers were overdue. Timolis, who was in charge of the base in Shannahan's absence, raised the alarm and diverted every available man into search-parties.

  By a fatal combination of circumstances, long-range radio contact had been cut that morning an hour after the departure of the exploration groups—a large spot had appeared on the red sun, producing a heavy bombardment of charged particles in the upper atmosphere. Only the ultra-shortwave transmitters continued to function, and contact was restricted to a radius of about twenty miles. As a crowning stroke of bad luck, a thick fog descended just before sunset and the search had to be called off.