Solaris (11 page)

"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 exude foam—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.