Memoirs of a Space Traveler

by Stanisław Lem

  Nor do I know how long I would have stood and stared had it not been for Diagoras, who took me gently by the arm, closed the porthole, and turned the screw wheel hard.

  "What is it?" I asked, as if he had wakened me. Only now came my reaction; it was with nausea and confusion that I looked at the fat scientist and the hot copper tank.

  "A fungoid," replied Diagoras. "The dream of cyberneticists -- a self-organizing substance. I had to give up traditional materials. This one proved better. It's a polymer."

  "Is it -- alive?"

  "What can I tell you? It has neither protein, nor cells, nor metabolism. I accomplished this after an enormous number of tests. To put it briefly, I initiated a chemical evolution. Selection was to give rise to a substance that would react to every external stimulus with internal change, not only to neutralize the stimulus but to free itself from it. First I exposed the substance to heat, magnetic fields, and radiation. But that was just the beginning. I gave it increasingly difficult tasks; for example, I used definite patterns of electric shocks from which it could free itself only by producing a specific rhythm of currents in reply. . . In this way I taught it conditioned reflexes, so to speak. But that, too, was a preliminary phase. It soon began to universalize; it solved increasingly difficult problems."

  "How is that possible, if it has no senses?"

  "To tell the truth, I don't understand it fully myself. I can only give you the principle. If you put a computer on a cybernetic 'tortoise' and let it into a big hall, equipped with a quality-of-function regulator, you will obtain a system devoid of 'senses' but which reacts to any change in the environment. If there is a magnetic field somewhere in the hall exerting a negative effect on the operation of the computer, it will immediately withdraw and search for a spot where such disturbances do not occur. The constructor need not even anticipate every possible disturbance, which may be mechanical vibrations, heat, loud sounds, the presence of electrical charges -- anything. The machine does not 'perceive,' because it has no senses, so it does not feel heat or see light, but it reacts as though it does see and feel. Now, that's only an elementary model. The fungoid" -- he put his hand on the copper cylinder, which reflected his image like a grotesquely distorting mirror -- "can do that and a thousand times more. My idea was to create a liquid medium filled with 'constructional elements,' from which the original organization could draw and build as it wished. That's how the fungoid arose."

  "But what is it exactly? A brain?"

  "I can't tell you that; we have no words for it. To our way of thinking it isn't a brain, since it doesn't belong to any living creature, nor was it constructed to solve definite problems. However, I assure you it thinks -- though not like an animal or a human being."

  "How do you know that?"

  "It's a long story. Allow me. . ."

  He opened a door that was metal-plated and extremely thick, almost like the door of a bank vault; the other side was covered with sheets of cork and the same spongy material that supported the copper cylinder. In the next, smaller room there was also a light; the window was blocked with black paper, and on the floor, away from the walls, stood the same type of red copper vat.

  "You have two. . .?" I asked, stunned. "But why?"

  "A variant," he replied, closing the door. I noticed how carefully he did so.

  "I didn't know which of them would function better. There are important differences in chemical structure and so on. . . I did have others, but they were no good. Only these two passed through all the stages of the selection process. They developed very nicely," he went on, putting his hand on the convex lid of the second cylinder, "but I didn't know whether that meant anything. They became quite independent of changes in their environment; both were able to guess quickly what I demanded of them -- in other words, to react in a way that freed them from harmful stimuli. Surely you'll admit that it's something" -- he turned toward me with unexpected vehemence -- "if a gelatinous paste can solve with electrical impulses an equation given it by means of other electrical impulses. . .?"

  "Of course, but as for thinking. . ."

  "Maybe it's not thinking," he replied. "Names are not important here; the facts are. After a while both began to show increasing -- what should I call it? -- indifference to my stimuli, unless their actual existence was threatened. Yet my sensing devices registered exceptionally intense activity during this time, in the form of series of discharges."

  He took from the drawer of a small table a strip of photographic paper with an irregular sinusoidal line.

  "Series of such 'electrical attacks' occurred in both fungoids, apparently without any external cause. I began to study the matter more systematically and discovered a strange phenomenon: that one" -- he pointed to the door leading to the larger room -- "produced electromagnetic waves, and this one received them. When I realized that, I noticed at once that their activity alternated; one was 'silent' while the other 'broadcast.' "

  "What are you saying?!"

  "The truth. I immediately shielded both rooms -- did you notice the sheet metal on the doors? The walls are also covered with it, but they are painted. This prevented radio contact. The activity of both fungoids increased, then fell almost to zero after a few hours. But the next day it was the same as before. Do you know what happened? They had switched to ultrasonic vibrations -- they sent signals through the walls and ceilings. . ."

  "That's why you have the cork!"

  "Exactly. I could have destroyed them, of course, but what good would that have done me? I placed both containers on sound-absorbing insulation. In this way I broke off their communication again. Then they started growing. . . until they reached their present size. They became almost four times larger."

  "Why?"

  "I have no idea."

  Diagoras stood by the metal cylinder. He did not look at me; as he spoke, he repeatedly put his hand on the arched lid, as though to check the temperature.

  "Their electrical activity returned to normal after a few days, as if they had succeeded in re-establishing contact. I eliminated thermal and radioactive radiation, installed every possible shield, screen, and proofing, used ferromagnetic sensors -- all to no avail. I even moved this one down to the basement for a week, then took it out to a shed, which you might have seen -- it's a hundred feet from the house. But their activity during the whole time did not undergo the slightest change. The 'questions' and 'answers' that I registered and which I am still registering" -- he pointed to the oscillograph under the shaded window -- "have gone on continuously in series, night and day. They work incessantly. I tried to break in on their signaling with false 'messages.' "

  "You faked the signals? Then you know what they mean?"

  "Not for the life of me. But you can record on tape what one person says in an unknown language and replay it for someone else who also speaks that language. That's what I tried to do, and failed. They still send each other the same impulses, those damned signals -- but in what manner, I have no idea."

  "It could be an independent, spontaneous activity," I observed. "You have no conclusive proof, after all."

  "In a sense I do. You see, the time is also recorded on the tapes. Thus a clear correlation exists: when one is broadcasting the other is silent, and vice versa. Lately the intervals have increased considerably, but the pattern hasn't changed. Do you realize what I've done? One can guess the plans, the good or bad intentions, the innermost thoughts of a silent person from his facial expression and his behavior. But my creations have no face or body -- just as you postulated before -- and now I stand helpless, without a chance of understanding. Should I destroy them? That would be an admission of failure! They don't want contact with man -- or is that as impossible as contact between an ameba and a turtle? I don't know. I don't know anything!"

  He stood by the gleaming cylinder, his hand on its lid. It was no longer me he was speaking to; he could even have forgotten I was there. Nor did I hear his last words -- my attention had been drawn by something odd. A
s he spoke, with increasing vehemence, he kept lifting his right hand and placing it on the copper surface; something about the hand seemed not right. Its movement was unnatural. Whenever his fingers came near the metal, they shook for a second -- shook rapidly, unlike a nervous tremor. But before, when he gestured, his movement had been steady and decisive, with no trace of shakiness. I looked at his hand more closely now; amazed and shocked, yet hoping that I was mistaken, I stammered:

  "Diagoras, what is wrong with your hand?"

  "What? What hand?" He looked at me in surprise. I had interrupted his train of thought.

  "That," I pointed. He brought his hand near the shiny surface. It began shaking. Open-mouthed, he held it up to his eyes. The shaking immediately stopped. Once more he looked at his hand, then at me, and very cautiously, millimeter by millimeter, brought it up to the metal. When the fingertips touched the surface, the muscles started twitching slightly, and the twitching spread to the entire hand. He stood still, an indescribable expression on his face. Then he clenched his fist, propped it on his hip, and moved his elbow toward the copper surface. The muscles of the forearm twitched where the skin came in contact with the cylinder. He stepped back, raised his hands to his eyes, and examined them in turn, whispering: "So it was I. . .? I myself. . . through me. . . then I was. . . the subject of the experiment. . ."

  I thought he would burst into hysterical laughter, but he thrust his hands into his apron pockets, walked silently across the room, and said in a changed voice:

  "I don't know whether that has any -- but enough. You'd better go now. I have nothing else to show, and besides. . ."

  He broke off, went up to the window, tore away the black paper covering it, and threw open the shutters. Breathing loudly, he looked out into the darkness.

  "Why don't you go?" he mumbled without turning around. "That would be best."

  I did not want to leave like that. The scene, which later, in my memory, would strike me as grotesque -- the copper vat filled with those oozing intestines that had turned his body into an involuntary messenger of unknown signals -- at that moment horrified me and filled me with pity for the man. That is why I would prefer to end my story here. For what happened afterward was senseless: his outburst against me, that I had -- he said -- intruded; his angry face, the insults and the shouting -- all that, and the submissive silence with which I left, seemed like a cliched nightmare. To this day I do not know whether he threw me out of his gloomy house because he wanted to or whether. . .

  But I could be wrong. Possibly both of us then were the victims of a delusion, and we hypnotized each other. Such things do happen.

  But, then, how is one to explain the discovery made quite accidentally about a month after my Cretan expedition? While investigating a malfunction in a power line not far from Diagoras's estate, several workmen tried to gain entrance to his house. At first they were unsuccessful. When they finally broke in, they found the building deserted and all the machines destroyed, except for two large copper vats that were untouched and completely empty.

  I alone know what they contained, and it is precisely for that reason that I dare not make conjectures connecting those contents with the disappearance of their creator, who has not been seen since.

  Let Us Save the Universe

  (An Open Letter from Ijon Tichy)

  After a long stay on Earth I set out to visit my favorite places from my previous expeditions -- the spherical clusters of Perseus, the constellation of the Calf, and the large stellar cloud in the center of the Galaxy. Everywhere I found changes, which are painful for me to write about, because they are not changes for the better. There is much talk nowadays about the growth of cosmic tourism. Without question tourism is wonderful, but everything should be in moderation.

  The eyesores begin as soon as you are out the door. The asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter is in deplorable condition. Those monumental rocks, once enveloped in eternal night, are lit up now, and to make matters worse, every crag is carved with initials and monograms.

  Eros, the particular favorite of lovers, shakes from the explosions with which self-taught calligraphers gouge inscriptions in its crust. A couple of shrewd operators there rent out hammers, chisels, and even pneumatic drills, and a man cannot find an untouched rock in what were once the most rugged areas.

  Everywhere are graffiti like IT WAS LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT ON THIS HERE METEORITE, and arrow-pierced hearts in the worst taste. On Ceres, which for some reason large families like, there is a veritable plague of photography. The many photographers there don't just rent out spacesuits for posing, but cover mountainsides with a special emulsion and for a nominal fee immortalize on them entire groups of vacationers. The huge pictures are then glazed to make them permanent. Suitably posed families -- father, mother, grandparents, children -- smile from cliffs. This, as I read in some prospectus, creates a "family atmosphere." As regards Juno, that once beautiful planetoid is all but gone; anyone who feels like it chips stones off it and hurls them into space. People have spared neither nickel-iron meteors (which have gone into souvenir signet rings and cuff links) nor comets. You won't find a comet with its tail intact any more.

  I thought I would escape the congestion of cosmobuses, the family portraits on cliffs, and the graffiti doggerel once I left the Solar System. Was I wrong!

  Professor Bruckee from the observatory complained to me recently that both stars in Centaurus were growing dim. How can they not grow dim when the entire area is filled with trash? Around the heavy planet Sirius, the chief attraction of this system, is a ring like those of Saturn, but formed of beer bottles and lemonade containers. An astronaut flying that route must dodge not only swarms of meteors but also tin cans, eggshells, and old newspapers. There are places where you cannot see the stars, for all the rubbish. For years astrophysicists have been racking their brains over the reason for the great difference in the amounts of cosmic dust in various galaxies. The answer, I think, is quite simple: the higher a civilization is, the more dust and refuse it produces. This is a problem more for janitors than for astrophysicists. Other nebulae have not been able to cope with it, either, but that is small comfort.

  Spitting into space is another reprehensible practice. Saliva, like any liquid, freezes at low temperatures, and colliding with it can easily lead to disaster. It is embarrassing to mention, but individuals who fall sick during a voyage seem to consider outer space their personal toilet, as if unaware that the traces of their distress will orbit for millions of years, arousing in tourists bad associations and an understandable disgust.

  Alcoholism is a special problem.

  Beyond Sirius I began counting the huge signs advertising Mars vodka, Galax brandy, Lunar gin, and Satellite champagne, but soon lost count. I hear from pilots that some cosmodromes have been forced to switch from alcohol fuel to nitric acid, there being nothing of the former left to use for takeoff. The patrol service says that it is difficult to spot a drunken person from a distance: people blame their staggering on weightlessness. And the practices of certain space stations are a disgrace. I once asked that my reserve bottles be filled with oxygen, after which, having traveled no more than a parsec, I heard a strange burbling and found that I had been given, instead, pure cognac! When I went back, the station director insisted that I had winked when I spoke to him. Maybe I did wink -- I have a stye -- but does that justify such a state of affairs?

  Confusion reigns on the main routes. The huge number of accidents is not surprising, considering that so many people regularly exceed the speed limit. The worst offenders are women: by traveling fast they slow the passage of time and age less. Also, one frequently encounters rattletraps, like the old cosmobuses that pollute the length of the ecliptic with their exhaust.

  When I landed on Palindronia and asked for the complaint book, I was told that it had been smashed the day before by a meteorite. And the supply of oxygen is running short. Six light-years from Beluria it cannot be obtained anywhere, people who go there to sightsee
are forced to freeze themselves and wait, reversibly dead, for the next shipment of air, because if alive they would have not a thing to breathe. When I arrived, there was no one at the cosmodrome; they were all hibernating in the coolers. But in the cafeteria I saw a complete assortment of drinks -- from pineapples in cognac to pilsner.

  Sanitary conditions, particularly on those planets within the Great Preserve, are outrageous. In the Voice of Mersituria I read an article calling for the extermination of those splendid beasts, the swallurkers. These predators have on their upper lips a number of shiny warts in diverse patterns. In the last few years, however, a variety with warts arranged in the form of two zeroes has been appearing more frequently. Swallurkers usually hunt in the vicinity of campsites, where at night, under cover of darkness, they lie, with wide-open jaws, in wait for people seeking a secluded spot. Doesn't the author of the article realize that the animals are completely innocent, that one should blame not them but those responsible for the lack of proper plumbing facilities?

  On this same Mersituria the absence of public conveniences has caused a whole series of mutations among insects.