Solaris

• CHAPTER 1
  The Arrival
  
• CHAPTER 2
  The Solarists
  
• CHAPTER 3
  The Visitors
  
• CHAPTER 4
  Sartorius
  
• CHAPTER 5
  Rheya
  
• CHAPTER 6
  "The Little Apocrypha"
  
• CHAPTER 7
  The Conference
  
• CHAPTER 8
  The Monsters
  
• CHAPTER 9
  The Liquid Oxygen
  
• CHAPTER 10
  Conversation
  
• CHAPTER 11
  The Thinkers
  
• CHAPTER 12
  The Dreams
  
• CHAPTER 13
  Victory
  
• CHAPTER 14
  The Old Mimoid
  

At 19.00 hours, ship's time, I made my way to the launching bay.
The men around the shaft stood aside to let me pass, and I climbed
down into the capsule.

Inside the narrow cockpit, there was scarcely room to move. I
attached the hose to the valve on my spacesuit and it inflated
rapidly. From then on, I was incapable of making the smallest
movement. There I stood, or rather hung suspended, enveloped in my
pneumatic suit and yoke to the metal hull.

I looked up; through the transparent canopy I could see a
smooth, polished wall and, far above, Moddard's head leaning over
the top of the shaft. He vanished, and suddenly I was plunged in
darkness: the heavy protective cone had been lowered into place.
Eight times I heard the hum of the electric motors which turned the
screws, followed by the hiss of the shock-absorbers. As my eyes
grew accustomed to the dark, I could see the luminous circle of the
solitary dial.

A voice echoed in my headphones:

"Ready Kelvin?"

"Ready, Moddard," I answered.

"Don't worry about a thing. The Station will pick you up in
flight. Have a good trip!"

There was a grinding noise and the capsule swayed. My muscles
tensed in spite of myself, but there was no further noise or
movement.

"When is lift-off?" As I asked, I noticed a rustling outside,
like a shower of fine sand.

"You're on your way, Kelvin. Good luck!" Moddard's voice sounded
as close as before.

A wide slit opened at eye-level, and I could see the stars. The
Prometheus
was orbiting in the region of
Alpha in Aquarius and I tried in vain to orient myself; a
glittering dust filled my porthole. I could not recognize a single
constellation; in this region of the galaxy the sky was unfamiliar
to me. I waited for the moment when I would pass near the first
distinct star, but I was unable to isolate any one of them. Their
brightness was fading; they receded, merging into a vague, purplish
glimmer, the sole indication of the distance I had already
travelled. My body rigid, sealed in its pneumatic envelope, I was
knifing through space with the impression of standing still in the
void, my only distraction the steadily mounting heat.

Suddenly, there was a shrill, grating sound, like a steel blade
being drawn across a sheet of wet glass. This was it, the descent.
If I had not seen the figures racing across the dial, I would not
have noticed the change in direction. The stars having vanished
long since, my gaze was swallowed up on the pale reddish glow of
infinity. I could hear my heart thudding heavily. I could feel the
coolness from the air-conditioning on my neck, although my face
seemed to be on fire. I regretted not having caught a glimpse of
the
Prometheus
, but the ship must have been
out of sight by the time the automatic controls had raised the
shutter of my porthole.

The capsule was shaken by a sudden jolt, then another. The whole
vehicle began to vibrate. Filtered through the insulating layers of
the outer skins, penetrating my pneumatic cocoon, the vibration
reached me, and ran through my entire body. The image of the dial
shivered and multiplied, and its phosphorescence spread out in all
directions. I felt no fear. I had not undertaken this long voyage
only to overshoot my target!

I called into the microphone:

"Station Solaris! Station Solaris! Station Solaris! I think I am
leaving the flight-path, correct my course! Station Solaris, this
is the
Prometheus
capsule. Over."

I had missed the precious moment when the planet first came into
view. Now it was spread out before my eyes; flat, and already
immense. Nevertheless, from the appearance of its surface, I judged
that I was still at a great height above it, since I had passed
that imperceptible frontier after which we measure the distance
that separates us from a celestial body in terms of altitude. I was
falling. Now I had the sensation of falling, even with my eyes
closed. (I quickly reopened them: I did not want to miss anything
there was to be seen.)

I waited a moment in silence before trying once more to make
contact. No response. Successive bursts of static came through the
headphones, against a background of deep, low-pitched murmuring,
which seemed to me the very voice of the planet itself. A veil of
mist covered the orange-colored sky, obscuring the porthole.
Instinctively, I hunched myself up as much as my inflated suit
would allow, but almost at once I realized that I was passing
through cloud. Then, as though sucked upwards, the cloud-mass
lifted; I was gliding, half in light, half in shadow, the capsule
revolving upon its own vertical axis. At last, through the
porthole, the gigantic ball of the sun appeared, looming up on the
left and disappearing to the right.

A distant voice reached me through the murmuring and
crackling.

"Station Solaris calling! Station Solaris calling! The capsule
will land at zero-hour. I repeat, the capsule will land at
zero-hour. Stand by for count-down. Two hundred and fifty, two
hundred and forty-nine, two hundred and forty-eight…"

The words were punctuated by sharp screeching sounds; automatic
equipment was intoning the phrases of the reception-drill. This was
surprising, to say the least. As a rule, men on space stations were
eager to greet a newcomer, especially if he was arriving direct
from Earth. I did not have long to ponder this, for the sun's
orbit, which had so far encircled me, shifted unexpectedly, and the
incandescent disc appeared now to the right, now to the left,
seeming to dance on the planet's horizon. I was swinging like a
giant pendulum while the planet, its surface wrinkled with
purplish-blue and black furrows, rose up in front of me like a
wall. As my head began to spin, I caught sight of a tiny pattern of
green and white dots; it was the station's positioning-marker.
Something detached itself with a snap from the cone of the capsule;
with a fierce jerk, the long parachute collar released its hoops,
and the noise which followed reminded me irresistibly of Earth: for
the first time after so many months, the moaning of the wind.

Everything went quickly after this. So far, I had known that I
must be falling; now I could see it for myself. The green and white
checker-board grew rapidly larger and I could see that it was
painted on an elongated silvery body, shaped like a whale, its
flanks bristling with radar antennae. This metal colossus, which
was pierced with several rows of shadowy apertures, was not resting
on the planet itself but suspended above it, casting upon the inky
surface beneath an ellipsoidal shadow of even deeper blackness. I
could make out the slate-colored ripples of the ocean, stirring
with a faint motion. Suddenly, the clouds rose to a great height,
rimmed with a blinding crimson glare; the lurid sky became grey,
distant and flat; everything was blotted out; I was falling in a
spin.

A sharp jolt, and the capsule righted itself. Through the
porthole, I could see the ocean once more, the waves like crests of
glittering quicksilver. The hoops of the parachute, their cords
snapped, flapped furiously over the waves, carried on the wind. The
capsule gently descended, swaying with a peculiar slow-motion
rhythm imposed on it by the artificial magnetic field; there was
just time to glimpse the launchingpads and the parabolic reflectors
of two radio-telescopes on top of their pierced-steel towers.

With the clang of steel rebounding against steel, the capsule
came to a stop. A hatch opened, and with a long, harsh sigh, the
metal shell which imprisoned me reached the end of its voyage.

I heard the mechanical voice from the control center:

"Station Solaris. Zero and zero. The capsule has landed.
Out."

Feeling a vague pressure on my chest and a disagreeable
heaviness in the pit of my stomach, I seized the control levers
with both hands and cut the contacts. A green indicator lit up:
'ARRIVAL.' The capsule opened, and the pneumatic padding shoved me
gently from behind, so that, in order to keep my balance, I had to
take a step forward.

With a muffled sigh of resignation, the spacesuit expelled its
air. I was free.

I found myself inside a vast, silver funnel, as high as a
cathedral nave. A cluster of colored pipes ran down the sloping
walls and disappeared into rounded orifices. I turned round. The
ventilation shafts were roaring, sucking in the poisonous gases
from the planet's atmosphere which had infiltrated when my capsule
had landed inside the Station. Empty, resembling a burst cocoon,
the cigar-shaped capsule stood upright, enfolded by a calyx mounted
on a steel base. The outer casing, scorched during flight, had
turned a dirty brown.

I went down a small stairway. The metal floor below had been
coated with a heavy-duty plastic. In places, the wheels of trolleys
carrying rockets had worn through this plastic covering to expose
the bare steel beneath.

The throbbing of the ventilators ceased abruptly and there was
total silence. I looked around me, a little uncertain, waiting for
someone to appear; but there was no sign of life. Only a neon arrow
glowed, pointing towards a moving walkway which was silently
unreeling. I allowed myself to be carried forward.

The ceiling of the hall descended in a fine parabolic arc until
it reached the entrance to a gallery, in whose recesses gas
cylinders, gauges, parachutes, crates and a quantity of other
objects were scattered about in untidy heaps.

The moving walkway set me down at the far end of the gallery, on
the threshold of a dome. Here there was an even greater disorder. A
pool of oily liquid spread out from beneath a pile of oil-drams; a
nauseating smell hung in the air; footprints, in a series of
glutinous smears, went off in all directions. The oil-drums were
covered with a tangle of tickertape, torn paper and other
waste.

Another green arrow directed me to the central door. Behind this
stretched a narrow corridor, hardly wide enough for two men to walk
side by side, lit by slabs of glass let into the ceiling. Then
another door, painted in green and white squares, which was ajar; I
went in.

The cabin had concave walls and a big panoramic window, which a
glowing mist had tinged with purple. Outside the murky waves slid
silently past. Open cupboards lined the walls, filled with
instruments, books, dirty glasses, vacuum flasks—all covered
with dust. Five or six small trolleys and some collapsible chairs
cluttered up the stained floor. One chair alone was inflated, its
back raised. In this armchair there was a little thin man, his face
burnt by the sun, the skin on his nose and cheeks coming away in
large flakes. I recognized him as Snow, a cybernetics expert and
Gibarian's deputy. In his time he had published articles of great
originality in the Solarist Annual. It so happened that I had never
had the opportunity of meeting him. He was wearing a mesh shirt
which allowed the grey hairs of his sunken chest to poke through
here and there, and canvas trousers with a great many pockets,
mechanic's trousers, which had once been white but now were stained
at the knees and covered with holes from chemical burns. He was
holding one of those pear-shaped plastic flasks which are used in
spaceships not equipped with internal gravitational systems. Snow's
eyes widened in amazement as he looked up and saw me. The flask
dropped from his fingers and bounced several times, spilling a few
drops of transparent liquid. Blood drained from his face. I was too
astonished to speak, and this dumbshow continued for so long that
Snow's terror gradually communicated itself to me. I took a step
forward. He cringed in his chair.

"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?"