Solaris (2 page)

"Snow?"

He quivered as though I had struck him. Gazing at me in indescribable horror, he gasped out:

"I don't know…" His voice croaked. "I don't know you… What do you want?"

The spilt liquid was quickly evaporating; I caught a whiff of alcohol. Had he been drinking? Was he drunk? What was he so terrified of? I stood in the middle of the room; my legs were trembling; my ears roared, as though they were stuffed with cotton wool. I had the impression that the ground was giving way beneath my feet. Beyond the curved window, the ocean rose and fell with regularity. Snow's blood-shot eyes never left me. His terror seemed to have abated, but his expression of invincible disgust remained.

"What's the matter? Are you ill?" I whispered.

"You seem worried," he said, his voice hollow. "You actually seem worried… So it's like that now, is it? But why concern yourself about me? I don't know you."

"Where's Gibarian?" I asked.

He gave a gasp and his glassy eyes lit up for an instant.

"Gi … Giba … No! No!"

His whole frame shook with stifled, hysterical laughter; then he seemed to calm down a little.

"So it's Gibarian you've come for, is it? Poor old Gibarian. What do you want with him?"

His words, or rather his tone of voice, expressed hatred and defiance; it was as though I had suddenly ceased to represent a threat to him.

Bewildered, I mumbled:

"What… Where is he?"

"Don't you know?"

Obviously he was drunk and raving. My anger rose. I should have controlled myself and left the room, but I had lost patience. I shouted:

"That's enough! How could I know where he is since I've only just arrived? Snow! What's going on here?"

His jaw dropped. Once again he caught his breath and his eyes gleamed with a different light. He seized the arms of his chair with both hands and stood up with difficulty. His knees were trembling.

"What? You've just arrived… Where have you come from?" he asked, almost sober.

"From Earth!" I retorted angrily. "Maybe you've heard of it? Not that anyone would ever guess it."

"From Earth? Good God! Then you must be Kelvin."

"Of course. Why are you looking at me like that? What's so startling about me?"

He blinked rapidly.

"Nothing," he said, wiping his forehead, "nothing, Forgive me, Kelvin, it's nothing, I assure you. I was simply surprised, I didn't expect to see you."

"What do you mean, you didn't expect to see me? You were notified months ago, and Moddard radioed only today from the
Prometheus
."

"Yes; yes, indeed. Only, you see, we're a bit disorganized at the moment."

"So I see," I answered dryly.

Snow walked around me, inspecting my atmosphere suit, which was standard issue with the usual harness of wires and cables attached to the chest. He coughed, and rubbed his bony nose:

"Perhaps you would like a bath? It would do you good. It's the blue door, on the other side."

"Thanks—I know the Station lay-out."

"You must be hungry."

"No. Where's Gibarian?"

Without answering, he went over to the window. From behind he looked considerably older. His close-cropped hair was grey, and deep wrinkles creased his sunburnt neck.

The wave-crests glinted through the window, the colossal rollers rising and falling in slow-motion. Watching the ocean like this one had the illusion—it was surely an illusion—that the Station was moving imperceptibly, as though teetering on an invisible base; then it would seem to recover its equilibrium, only to lean the opposite way with the same lazy movement. Thick foam, the color of blood, gathered in the troughs of the waves. For a fraction of a second, my throat tightened and I thought longingly of the
Prometheus
and its strict discipline; the memory of an existence which suddenly seemed a happy one, now gone for ever.

Snow turned around, nervously rubbing his hands together.

"Listen," he said abruptly, "except for me there's no one around for the moment. You'll have to make do with my company for today. Call me Ratface; don't argue. You know me by my photograph, just imagine we're old friends. Everyone calls me Ratface, there's nothing I can do about it."

Obstinately, I repeated my question:

"Where is Gibarian?"

He blinked again.

"I'm sorry to have received you like that. It's … it's not exactly my fault. I had completely forgotten… A lot has been happening here, you see…"

"It's all right. But what about Gibarian? Isn't he on the Station? Is he on an observation flight?"

Snow was gazing at a tangled mass of cables.

"No, he hasn't left the Station. And he won't be flying. The fact is…"

My ears were still blocked, and I was finding it more and more difficult to hear.

"What? What do you mean? Where is he then?"

"I should think you might guess," he answered in a changed voice, looking me coldly in the eyes. I shivered. He was drunk, but he knew what he was saying.

"There's been an accident?"

He nodded vigorously, watching my reactions closely.

"When?"

"This morning, at dawn."

By now, my sensations were less violent; this succinct exchange of questions and answers had calmed me. I was beginning to understand Snow's strange behavior.

"What kind of accident?"

"Why not go to your cabin and take off your spacesuit? Come back in, say, an hour's time."

I hesitated.

"All right," I said finally.

As I made to leave, he called me back.

"Wait!" He had an uneasy look, as if he wanted to add something but was finding it difficult to bring out the words. After a pause, he said:

"There used to be three of us here. Now, with you, there are three of us again. Do you know Sartorius?"

"In the same way as I knew you—only from his photographs."

"He's up there, in the laboratory, and I doubt if he'll come down before dark, but… In any case, you'll recognize him. If you should see anyone else—someone who isn't me or Sartorius, you understand, then…"

"Then what?"

I must be dreaming. All this could only be a dream! The inky waves, their crimson gleams under the low-hanging sun, and this little man who had gone back to his armchair, sitting there as before, hanging his head and staring at the heap of cables.

"In that case, do nothing."

"Who could I see?" I flared up. "A ghost?"

"You think I'm mad, of course. No, no, I'm not mad. I can't say anything more for the moment. Perhaps … who knows? … Nothing will happen. But don't forget I warned you."

"Don't be so mysterious. What's all this about?"

"Keep a hold on yourself. Be prepared to meet … anything. It sounds impossible I know, but try. It's the only advice I can give you. I can't think of anything better."

"But what could I possibly meet?" I shouted.

Seeing him sitting there, looking sideways at me, his sunburnt face drooping with fatigue, I found it difficult to contain myself. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

Painfully, dragging the words out one by one, he answered:

"I don't know. In a way, it depends on you."

"Hallucinations, you mean?"

"No … it's real enough. Don't attack. Whatever you do, remember that!"

"What are you getting at?" I could hardly recognize the sound of my own voice.

"We're not on Earth, you know."

"A Polytherian form?" I shouted. "There's nothing human about them!"

I was about to rush at him, to drag him out of the trance, prompted, apparently, by his crazy theories, when he murmured:

"That's why they're so dangerous. Remember what I've told you, and be on your guard!"

"What happened to Gibarian?"

He did not answer.

"What is Sartorius doing?"

"Come back in an hour."

I turned and went out. As I closed the door behind me, I took a last look at him. Tiny, shrunken, his head in his hands and his elbows resting on his stained knees, he sat there, motionless. It was only then that I noticed the dried bloodstains on the backs of his hands.

In the empty corridor I stood for a moment in front of the closed door. I noticed a strip of plaster carelessly stuck on one of the panels. Pencilled on it was the word "Man!" At the sight of this faintly scribbled word, I had a sudden longing to return to Snow for company; but I thought better of it.

His crazy warnings still ringing in my ears, I started off down the narrow, tubular passage which was filled with the moaning of the wind, my shoulders bowed under the weight of the spacesuit. On tip-toe, half- consciously fleeing from some invisible watcher, I found two doors on my left and two more on my right. I read the occupants' names: Dr. Gibarian, Dr. Snow, Dr. Sartorius. On the fourth, there was no nameplate. I hesitated, then pressed the handle down gently and slowly opened the door. As I did so, I had a premonition, amounting almost to a certainty, that there was someone inside. I went in.

There was no one. Another wide panoramic window, almost as large as the one in the cabin where I had found Snow, overhung the ocean, which, sunlit on this side, shone with an oleaginous gleam, as though the waves secreted a reddish oil. A crimson glow pervaded the whole room, whose lay-out suggested a ship's cabin. On one side, flanked by book-filled shelves, a retractable bed stood against the wall. On the other, between the numerous lockers, hung nickel frames enclosing a series of aerial photographs stuck end to end with adhesive tape, and racks full of test-tubes and retorts plugged with cotton-wool. Two tiers of white enamel boxes took up the space beneath the window. I lifted some of the lids; the boxes were crammed with all kinds of instruments, intertwined with plastic tubing. The corners of the room were occupied by a refrigerator, a tap and a demisting device. For lack of space on the big table by the window, a microscope stood on the floor. Turning round, I saw a tall locker beside the entrance door. It was half-open, filled with atmosphere suits, laboratory smocks, insulated aprons, underclothing, boots for planetary exploration, and aluminum cylinders: portable oxygen gear. Two sets of this equipment, complete with masks, hung down from one of the knobs of the vertical bed. Everywhere there was the same chaos, a general disorder which someone had made a hasty attempt to disguise. I sniffed the air. I could detect a faint smell of chemical reagents and traces of something more acrid—chlorine? Instinctively I searched the ceiling for the grills over the air-vents: strips of paper attached to the bars were fluttering gently; the air was circulating normally. In order to make a relatively free space around the bed, between the bookshelves and the locker, I cleared two chairs of their litter of books, instruments, and tools, which I piled haphazardly on the other side of the room.

I pulled out a bracket to hang up my spacesuit, took hold of the zip- fastener, then let go again. Deterred by the confused idea that I was depriving myself of a shield, I could not bring myself to remove it. Once more I looked round the room. I checked that the door was shut tight and that it had no lock, and after a brief hesitation I dragged some of the heaviest boxes to the doorway. Having built this temporary barricade, I freed myself from my clanking armor in three quick movements. A narrow looking-glass, built into the locker door, reflected part of the room, and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of something moving. I jumped, but it was only my own reflection. Underneath the spacesuit, my overalls were drenched with sweat. I took them off and pulled back a sliding door, revealing the bright-tiled walls of a small bathroom. A long, flat box lay in the hollow at the base of the shower; I carried it into the room. As I put it down, the springlid flew up and disclosed a number of compartments filled with strange objects: misshapen forms in a dark metal, grotesque replicas of the instruments in the racks. Not one of the tools was usable; they were blunted, distorted, melted, as though they had been in a furnace. Strangest of all, even the porcelain handles, virtually incombustible, were twisted out of shape. Even at maximum temperature, no laboratory furnace could have melted them; only, perhaps, an atomic pile. I took a Geiger counter from the pocket on my spacesuit, but when I held it over the debris, it remained dumb.

By now I was wearing nothing but my underwear. I tore it off, flung it across the room and dashed under the shower. The shock of the water did me good. Turning beneath the scalding, needle-sharp jets, I scrubbed myself vigorously, splashing the walls, expelling, eradicating from my skin the thick scum of morbid apprehensions which had pervaded me since my arrival.

I rummaged in the locker and found a work-suit which could also be worn under an atmosphere suit. As I pocketed my few belongings, I felt something hard tucked between the pages of my notebook: it was a key, the key to my apartment, down there on Earth. Absently, I turned it over in my fingers. Finally I put it down on the table. It occurred to me suddenly that I might need a weapon. An all-purpose pocket-knife was hardly sufficient for my needs, but I had nothing else, and I was not going to start searching for a gamma pistol or something else of the kind.

I sat down on a tubular stool in the middle of the clear space, glad to be alone, and seeing with satisfaction that I had over half an hour to myself. (By nature, I have always been scrupulous about keeping engagements, whether important or trivial.) The hands of the clock, its face divided into twenty- four hours, pointed to seven o'clock. The sun was setting. 07.00 hours here was 20.00 hours on board the
Prometheus
. On Moddard's screens, Solaris would be nothing but an indistinct dust-cloud, mingled with the stars. But what did the
Prometheus
matter to me now? I closed my eyes. I could hear no sound except the moaning of the ventilation pipes and a faint trickling of water from the bathroom.

If I had understood correctly, it was only a short time since Gibarian had died. What had they done with his body? Had they buried it? No, that was impossible on this planet. I puzzled over the question for a long time, concentrating on the fate of the corpse; then, realizing the absurdity of my thoughts, I began to pace up and down. My toe knocked against a canvas bag half-buried under a pile of books; I bent down and picked it up. It contained a small bottle made of colored glass, so light that it might have been blown out of paper. I held it up to the window in the purplish glow of the somber twilight, now overhung by a sooty fog. What was I doing, allowing myself to be distracted by irrelevancies, by the first trifle which came to hand?