Solaris

4 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.

The rescue teams were returning to base when the hovercraft was spotted by a flitter, barely 24 miles from the command-ship. The engine was running and the machine, at first sight undamaged, was hovering above the waves. Carucci alone could be seen, semi-conscious, in the glass-domed cockpit.

The hovercraft was escorted back to base. After treatment, Carucci quickly regained consciousness, but could throw no light on Fechner’s disappearance. Just after they had decided to return to base a valve in his oxygen-gear had failed and a small amount of unfiltered gas had penetrated his atmosphere-suit. In an attempt to repair the valve, Fechner had been forced to undo his safety belt and stand up. That was the last thing Carucci could remember.

According to the experts who reconstructed the sequence of events, Fechner must have opened the cabin roof because it impeded his movements — a perfectly legitimate thing to do since the cabins of these vehicles were not air-tight, the glass dome merely providing some protection against infiltration and turbulence. While Fechner was occupied with his colleague, his own oxygen supply had probably been damaged and, no longer realizing what he was doing, he had pulled himself up on to the superstructure, from which he had fallen into the ocean.

Fechner thus became the ocean’s first victim. Although the atmosphere-suit was buoyant, they searched for his body without success. It was, of course, possible that it was still floating somewhere on the surface, but the expedition was not equipped for a thorough search of this immense, undulating desert, covered with patches of dense fog.

By dusk, all but one of the search craft had returned to base; only a big supply helicopter piloted by André Berton was still missing. Just as they were about to raise the alarm, the aircraft appeared. Berton was obviously suffering from nervous shock; after struggling out of his suit, he ran round in circles like a madman. He had to be overpowered, but went on shouting and sobbing. It was rather surprising behavior to put it mildly, on the part of a man who had been flying for seventeen years and was well used to the hazards of cosmic navigation. The doctors assumed that he too was suffering from the effects of unfiltered gases.

Having more or less recovered his senses, Berton nevertheless refused to leave the base, or even to go near the window overlooking the ocean. Two days later, he asked for permission to dictate a flight-report, stressing the importance of what he was about to reveal. This report was studied by the expeditionary council, who concluded that it was the morbid creation of a mind under the influence of poisonous gases from the atmosphere. As for the supposed revelations, they were evidently regarded as part of Berton’s clinical history rather than that of the expedition itself, and they were not described.

So much for the supplement. It seemed to me that Berton’s report must at any rate provide a key to the mystery. What strange happening could have had such a shattering effect on a veteran space-pilot? I began to search through the books once more, but

The Little Apocrypha was not to be found. I was growing more and more exhausted and left the room, having decided to postpone the search until the following day.

As I was passing the foot of the stairway, I noticed that the aluminum treads were streaked with light falling from above. Sartorius was still at work. I decided to go up and see him.

It was hotter on the upper deck, but the paper strips still fluttered frenziedly at the air-vents. The corridor was wide and low-ceilinged. The main laboratory was enclosed by a thick panel of opaque glass in a chrome embrasure. A dark curtain screened the door on the inside, and the light was coming from windows let in above the lintel. I pressed down the handle, but, as I expected, the door refused to budge. The only sound from the laboratory was an intermittent whine like that of a defective gas jet. I knocked. No reply. I called:

“Sartorius! Dr. Sartorius! I’m the new man, Kelvin. I must see you, it’s very important. Please let me in!”

There was a rustling of papers.

“It’s me, Kelvin. You must have heard of me. I arrived off the Prometheus a few hours ago.”

I was shouting, my lips glued to the angle where the door joined the metal frame.

“Dr. Sartorius, I’m alone. Please open the door!”

Not a word. Then the same rustling as before, followed by the clink of metal instruments on a tray. Then… I could scarcely believe my ears… there came a succession of little short footsteps, like the rapid drumming of a pair of tiny feet, or remarkably agile fingers tapping out the rhythm of steps on the lid of an empty tin box.

I yelled:

“Dr. Sartorius, are you going to open this door, yes or no?”

No answer. Nothing but the pattering, and, simultaneously, the sound of a man walking on tiptoe. But, if the man was moving about, he could not at the same time be tapping out an imitation of a child’s footsteps.

No longer able to control my growing fury, I burst out:

“Dr. Sartorius, I have not made a sixteen-month journey just to come here and play games! I’ll count up to ten. If you don’t let me in, I shall break down the door!”

In fact, I was doubtful whether it would be easy to force this particular door, and the discharge of a gas pistol is not very powerful. Nevertheless, I was determined somehow or other to carry out my threat, even if it meant resorting to explosives, which I could probably find in the munition store. I could not draw back now; I could not go on playing an insane game with all the cards stacked against me.

There was the sound of a struggle — or was it simply objects being thrust aside? The curtain was pulled back, and an elongated shadow was projected on to the glass.

A hoarse, high-pitched voice spoke:

“If I open the door, you must give me your word not to come in.”

“In that case, why open it?”

“I’ll come out.”

“Very well, I promise.”

The silhouette vanished and the curtain was carefully replaced.

Obscure noises came from inside the laboratory. I heard a scraping — a table being dragged across the floor? At last, the lock clicked back, and the glass panel opened just enough to allow Sartorius to slip through into the corridor.

He stood with his back against the door, very tall and thin, all bones under his white sweater. He had a black scarf knotted around his neck, and over his arm he was carrying a laboratory smock, covered with chemical burns. His head, which was unusually narrow, was cocked to one side. I could not see his eyes: he wore curved dark glasses, which covered up half his face. His lower jaw was elongated; he had bluish lips and enormous, blue-tinged ears. He was unshaven. Red anti-radiation gloves hung by their laces from his wrists.

For a moment we looked at one another with undisguised aversion. His shaggy hair (he had obviously cut it himself) was the color of lead, his beard grizzled. Like Snow, his forehead was burnt, but the lower half only; above it was pallid. He must have worn some kind of cap when exposed to the sun.

“Well, I’m listening,” he said.

I had the impression that he did not care what I had to say to him. Standing there, tense, still pressed against the door panel, his attention was mainly directed to what was going on behind him.

Disconcerted, I hardly knew how to begin.

“My name is Kelvin,” I said, “You must have heard about me. I am, or rather I was, a colleague of Gibarian’s.”

His thin face, entirely composed of vertical planes, exactly as I had always imagined Don Quixote’s, was quite expressionless. This blank mask did not help me to find the right words.

“I heard that Gibarian was dead…” I broke off.

“Yes. Go on, I’m listening.” His voice betrayed his impatience.

“Did he commit suicide? Who found the body, you or Snow?”

“Why ask me? Didn’t Dr. Snow tell you what happened?”

“I wanted to hear your own account.”

“You’ve studied psychology, haven’t you, Dr. Kelvin?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“You think of yourself as a servant of science?”

“Yes, of course. What has that to do with…”

“You are not an officer of the law. At this hour of the day, you should be at work, but instead of doing the job you were sent here for, you not only threaten to force the door of my laboratory, you question me as though I were a criminal suspect.”

His forehead was dripping with sweat. I controlled myself with an effort. I was determined to get through to him. I gritted my teeth and said:

“You are suspect, Dr. Sartorius. What is more, you’re well aware of it!”

“Kelvin, unless you either retract or apologize, I shall lodge a complaint against you.”

“Why should I apologize? You’re the one who barricaded himself in this laboratory instead of coming out to meet me, instead of telling me the truth about what is going on here. Have you gone completely mad? What are you — a scientist, or a miserable coward?”

I don’t know what other insults I hurled at him. He did not even flinch. Globules of sweat trickled down over the enlarged pores of his cheeks. Suddenly I realized that he had not heard a word I was saying. Both hands behind his back, he was holding the door in position with all his strength; it was rattling as though someone inside were firing bursts from a machine-gun at the panel.

In a strange, high-pitched voice, he moaned:

“Go away. For God’s sake, leave me. Go downstairs, I’ll join you later. I’ll do whatever you want, only please go away now.”

His voice betrayed such exhaustion that instinctively I put out my arms to help him control the door. At this, he uttered a cry of horror, as though I had pointed a knife at him. As I retreated, he was shouting in his falsetto voice: “Go away! Go away! I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming! No! No!” He opened the door and shot inside. I thought I saw a shining yellow disc flash across his chest.

Now a muffled clamor rose from the laboratory; a huge shadow appeared, as the curtain was brushed momentarily aside; then it fell back into place and I could see nothing more. What was happening inside that room? I heard running footsteps, as though a mad chase were in progress, followed by a terrifying crash of broken glass and the sound of a child’s laugh.

My legs were trembling, and I stared at the door, appalled. The din had subsided, giving way to an uneasy silence. I sat down on a window ledge, too stunned to move; my head was splitting.

From where I was, I could see only a part of the corridor encircling the laboratory. I was at the summit of the Station, beneath the actual shell of the superstructure; the walls were concave and sloping, with oblong windows a few yards apart. The blue day was ending, and, as the shutters grated upwards, a blinding light shone through the thick glass. Every metal fitting, every latch and joint, blazed, and the great glass panel of the laboratory door glittered with pale coruscations. My hands looked grey in the spectral light. I noticed that I was holding the gas pistol; I had not realized that I had taken it out of its holster, and replaced it. What use could I have made of it — or even of a gamma pistol, had I had one? I could hardly have taken the laboratory by force.

I got up. The disc of the sun, reminiscent of a hydrogen explosion, was sinking into the ocean, and as I descended the stairway I was pierced by a jet of horizontal rays which was almost tangible. Halfway downstairs I paused to think, then went back up the steps and followed the corridor round the laboratory. Soon, I came across a second glass door, exactly like the first; I made no attempt to open it, knowing that it would be locked.

I was looking for an opening or vent of some sort. The idea of spying on Sartorius had come to me quite naturally, without the least sense of shame. I was determined to have done with conjecture and discover the truth, even if, as I imagined it would, the truth proved incomprehensible. It struck me that the laboratory must be lit from above by windows let into the dome. It should be possible, therefore, to spy on Sartorius from the outside. But first I should have to equip myself with an atmosphere-suit and oxygen gear.

When I reached the deck below, I found the door of the radio-cabin ajar. Snow, sunk in his armchair, was asleep. At the sound of my footsteps, he opened his eyes with a start.

“Hello, Kelvin!” he croaked. “Well, did you discover anything?”

“Yes… he’s not alone.” Snow grinned sourly.

“Oh, really? Well, that’s something. Has he got visitors?”

“I can’t understand why you won’t tell me what’s going on,” I retorted impulsively. “Since I have to remain here, I’m bound to find out the truth sooner or later. Why the mystery?”

“When you’ve received some visitors yourself, you’ll understand.”

I had the impression that my presence annoyed him and he had no desire to prolong the conversation. I turned to go. “Where are you off to?” I did not answer.

The hangar-deck was just as I had left it. My burnt-out capsule still stood there, gaping open, on its platform. On my way to select an atmosphere-suit, I suddenly realized that the skylights through which I hoped to observe Sartorius would probably be made of slabs of opaque glass, and I lost interest in my venture on to the outer hull.

Instead, I descended the spiral stairway which led to the lower-deck store rooms. The cramped passage at the bottom contained the usual litter of crates and cylinders.

The walls were sheeted in bare metal which had a bluish glint. A little further on, the frosted pipes of the refrigeration plant appeared beneath a vault and I followed them to the far end of the corridor where they vanished into a cooling-jacket with a wide, plastic collar. The door to the cold store was two inches thick and lagged with an insulating compound. When I opened it, the icy cold gripped me. I stood, shivering, on the threshold of a cave carved out of an iceberg; the huge coils, like sculptured reliefs, were hung with stalactites. Here, too, buried beneath a covering of snow, there were crates and cylinders, and shelves laden with boxes and transparent bags containing a yellow, oily substance. The vault sloped downwards to where a curtain of ice hid the back of the cave. I broke through it. An elongated figure, covered with a sheet of canvas, lay stretched out on an aluminum rack.

I lifted a corner of the canvas and recognised the stiff features of Gibarian. His glossy black hair clung tightly to his skull. The sinews of his throat stood out like bones. His glazed eyes stared up at the vault, a tear of opaque ice hanging from the corner of each lid. The cold was so intense that I had to clench my teeth to prevent them from chattering. I touched Gibarian’s cheek; it was like touching a block of petrified wood, bristling with black prickly hairs. The curve of the lips seemed to express an infinite, disdainful patience.

As I let the canvas fall, I noticed, peeping out from beneath the folds at the foot, five round, shiny objects, like black pearls, ranged in order of size. I stiffened with horror.

What I had seen were the round pads of five bare toes. Under the shroud, flattened against Gibarian’s body, lay the Negress. Slowly, I pulled back the canvas. Her head, covered in frizzy hair twisted up into little tufts, was resting in the hollow of one massive arm. Her back glistened, the skin stretched taut over the spinal column. The huge body gave no sign of life. I looked again at the soles of her naked feet; they had not been flattened or deformed in any way by the weight which they had had to carry. Walking had not calloused the skin, which was as unblemished as that of her shoulders.

With a far greater effort than it had taken to touch Gibarian’s corpse, I forced myself to touch one of the bare feet. Then I made a second bewildering discovery: this body, abandoned in a deep freeze, this apparent corpse, lived and moved. The woman had withdrawn her foot, like a sleeping dog when you try to take its paw.

“She’ll freeze,” I thought confusedly, but her flesh had been warm to the touch, and I even imagined I had felt the regular beating of her pulse. I backed out and fled.

As I emerged from the white cave, the heat seemed suffocating. I climbed the spiral stairway back to the hangar-deck.

I sat on the hoops of a rolled-up parachute and put my head in my hands. I was stunned. My thoughts ran wild. What was happening to me? If my reason was giving way, the sooner I lost consciousness the better. The idea of sudden extinction aroused an inexpressible, unrealistic hope.

Useless to go and find Snow or Sartorius: no one could fully understand what I had just experienced, what I had seen, what I had touched with my own hands. There was only one possible explanation, one possible conclusion: madness. Yes, that was it, I had gone mad as soon as I arrived here. Emanations from the ocean had attacked my brain, and hallucination had followed hallucination. Rather than exhaust myself trying to solve these illusory riddles, I would do better to ask for medical assistance, to radio the Prometheus or some other vessel, to send out an SOS.

Then a curious change came over me: at the thought that I had gone mad, I calmed down.

And yet… I had heard Snow’s words quite clearly. If, that is, Snow existed and I had ever spoken to him. The hallucinations might have begun much earlier. Perhaps I was still on board the Prometheus, perhaps I had been stricken with a sudden mental illness and was now confronting the creations of my own inflamed brain.

Assuming that I was ill, there was reason to believe that I would get better, which gave me some hope of deliverance — a hope irreconcilable with a belief in the reality of the tangled nightmares through which I had just lived.

If only I could think up some experiment in logic — a key experiment — which would reveal whether I had really gone mad and was a helpless prey to the figments of my imagination, or whether, in spite of their ludicrous improbability, I had been experiencing real events.

As I turned all this over in my mind, I was looking at the monorail which led to the launching pad. It was a steel girder, painted pale green, a yard above the ground. Here and there, the paint was chipped, worn by the friction of the rocket trolleys. I touched the steel, feeling it grow warm beneath my fingers, and rapped the metal plating with my knuckles. Could madness attain such a degree of reality? Yes, I answered myself. After all, it was my own subject, I knew what I was talking about.

But was it possible to work out a controlled experiment? At first I told myself that it was not, since my sick brain (if it really was sick) would create the illusions I demanded of it. Even while dreaming, when we are in perfectly good health, we talk to strangers, put questions to them and hear their replies. Moreover, although our interlocutors are in fact the creations of our own psychic activity, evolved by a pseudo-independent process, until they have spoken to us we do not know what words will emerge from their lips. And yet these words have been formulated by a separate part of our own minds; we should therefore be aware of them at the very moment that we think them up in order to put them into the mouths of imaginary beings. Consequently, whatever form my proposed test were to take, and whatever method I used to put it into execution, there was always the possibility that I was behaving exactly as in a dream. Neither Snow nor Sartorius having any real existence, it would be pointless to put questions to them.

I thought of taking some powerful drug, peyotl for example, or another preparation inducing vivid hallucinations. If visions ensued, this would prove that I had really experienced these recent events and that they were part and parcel of the surrounding material reality. But then, no, I thought, this would not constitute the proof I needed, since I knew the effects of the drug (which I should have chosen for myself) and my imagination could suggest to me the double illusion of having taken the drug and of experiencing its effects.

I was going around in circles; there seemed to be no escape. It was not possible to think except with one’s brain, no one could stand outside himself in order to check the functioning of his inner processes. Suddenly an idea struck me, as simple as it was effective.

I leapt to my feet and ran to the radio-cabin. The room was deserted. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall. Nearly four o’clock, the fourth hour of the Station’s artificial night-time. Outside, the red sun was shining. I quickly plugged in the long-range transmitter, and while the valves warmed up, I went over in my mind the principal stages of the experiment.

I could not remember the call-sign for the automatic station on the satellite, but I found it on a card hanging above the main instrument panel, sent it out in Morse, and received the answering signal eight seconds later. The satellite, or rather its electronic brain, identified itself by a rhythmic pulse.

I instructed the satellite to give me the figures of the galactic meridians it was traversing at 22-second intervals while orbiting Solaris, and I specified an answer to five decimal points.

Then I sat and waited for the reply. Ten minutes later, it arrived. I tore off the strip of freshly printed paper and hid it in a drawer, taking care not to look at it. I went to the bookcase and took out the big galactic charts, the logarithm tables, a calendar giving the daily path of the satellite, and various other textbooks. Then I sat down to work out for myself the answer to the question I had posed.

For an hour or more, I integrated the equations. It was a long time since I had tackled such elaborate calculations. My last major effort in this direction must have been my practical astronomy exam.

I worked at the problem with the help of the Station’s giant computer. My reasoning went as follows: by making my calculations from the galactic charts, I would obtain an approximate cross-check with the results provided by the satellite. Approximate because the path of the satellite was subject to very complex variations due to the effects of the gravitational forces of Solaris and its two suns, as well as to the local variations in gravity caused by the ocean. When I had the two series of figures, one furnished by the satellite and the other calculated theoretically on the basis of the galactic charts, I would make the necessary adjustments and the two groups would then coincide up to the fourth decimal point, discrepancies due to the unforeseeable influence of the ocean arising only at the fifth.

If the figures obtained from the satellite were simply the product of my deranged mind, they could not possibly coincide with the second series. My brain might be unhinged, but it could not conceivably compete with the Station’s giant computer and secretly perform calculations requiring several months’ work. Therefore if the figures corresponded, it would follow that the Station’s computer really existed, that I had really used it, and that I was not delirious.

My hands trembled as I took the telegraphic tape out of the drawer and laid it alongside the wide band of paper from the computer. As I had predicted, the two series of numbers corresponded up to the fourth decimal point.

I put all the papers away in the drawer. So the computer existed independently of me; that meant that the Station and its inhabitants really existed too.

As I was closing the drawer, I noticed that it was stuffed with sheets of paper covered with hastily scribbled sums. A single glance told me that someone had already attempted an experiment similar to mine and had asked the satellite, not for information about the galactic meridians, but for the measurements of Solaris’s albedo at intervals of forty seconds.

I was not mad. The last ray of hope was extinguished. I unplugged the transmitter, drank the remains of the soup in the vacuum flask, and went to bed.