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.
Rheya
Desperation and a sort of dumb rage had sustained me while working with the computer. Now, overcome with exhaustion, I could not even remember how to let down a mechanical bed. Forgetting to push back the clamps, I hung on to the handle with all my weight and the mattress tumbled down on top of me.
I tore off my clothes and flung them away from me, then collapsed on to the pillow, without even taking the trouble to inflate it properly. I fell asleep with the lights on.
I reopened my eyes with the impression of having dozed off for only a few minutes. The room was bathed in a dim red light. It was cooler, and I felt refreshed.
I lay there, the bedclothes pushed back, completely naked. The curtains were half drawn, and there, opposite me, beside the window-pane lit by the red sun, someone was sitting. It was Rheya. She was wearing a white beach dress, the material stretched tightly over her breasts. She sat with her legs crossed; her feet were bare. Motionless, leaning on her sun-tanned arms, she gazed at me from beneath her black lashes: Rheya, with her dark hair brushed back. For a long time, I lay there peacefully gazing back at her. My first thought was reassuring: I was dreaming and I was aware that I was dreaming. Nevertheless, I would have preferred her not to be there. I closed my eyes and tried to shake off the dream. When I opened them again, Rheya was still sitting opposite me. Her lips were pouting slightly—a habit of hers—as though she were about to whistle; but her expression was serious. I thought of my recent speculations on the subject of dreams.
She had not changed since the day I had seen her for the last time; she was then a girl of nineteen. Today, she would be twenty-nine. But, evidently, the dead do not change; they remain eternally young. She went on gazing at me, an expression of surprise on her face. I thought of throwing something at her, but, even in a dream, I could not bring myself to harm a dead person.
I murmured: "Poor little thing, have you come to visit me?"
The sound of my voice frightened me; the room, Rheya, everything seemed extraordinarily real. A three-dimensional dream, colored in half-tones… I saw several objects on the floor which I had not noticed when I went to bed. When I wake up, I told myself, I shall check whether these things are still there or whether, like Rheya, I only saw them in a dream.
"Do you mean to stay for long?" I asked. I realized that I was speaking very softly, like someone afraid of being overheard. Why worry about eavesdroppers in a dream?
The sun was rising over the horizon. A good sign. I had gone to bed during a red day, which should have been succeeded by a blue day, followed by another red day. I had not slept for fifteen hours at a stretch. So it was a dream!
Reassured, I looked closely at Rheya. She was silhouetted against the sun. The scarlet rays cast a glow over the smooth skin of her left cheek and the shadows of her eyelashes fell across her face. How pretty she was! Even in my sleep my memory of her was uncannily pr
ecise. I watched the movements of the sun, waiting to see the dimple appear in that unusual place slightly below the corner of the lips. All the same, I would have preferred to wake up. It was time I did some work. I closed my eyelids tightly.
I heard a metallic noise, and opened my eyes again. Rheya was sitting beside me on the bed, still looking at me gravely. I smiled at her. She smiled back at me and leant forward. We kissed. First a timid, childish kiss, then more prolonged ones. I held her for a long time. Was it possible to feel so much in a dream, I wondered. I was not betraying her memory, for it was of her that I was dreaming, only her. It had never happened to me before…
Was it then that I began to have doubts? I went on telling myself that it was a dream, but my heart tightened.
I tensed my muscles, ready to leap out of bed. I was half-expecting to fail, for often, in dreams, your sluggish body refuses to respond. I hoped that the effort would drag me out of sleep. But I did not wake; I sat on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling. There was nothing for it, I should have to endure this dream right to the bitter end. My feeling of well-being had vanished. I was afraid.
"What…" I asked. I cleared my throat. "What do you want?"
I felt around the floor with my bare feet, searching for a pair of slippers. I stubbed my toe against a sharp edge, and stifled a cry of pain. That'll wake me up, I thought with satisfaction, at the same time remembering that I had no slippers.
But still it went on. Rheya had drawn back and was leaning against the end of the bed. Her dress rose and fell lightly with her breathing. She watched me with quiet interest.
Quick, I thought, a shower! But then I realized that in a dream a shower would not interrupt my sleep.
"Where have you come from?"
She seized my hand and, with a gesture I knew well, threw it up and caught it again, then played with my fingers.
"I don't know," she replied. "Are you angry?"
It was her voice, that familiar, low-pitched, slightly faraway voice, and that air of not caring much about what she was saying, of already being preoccupied with something else. People used to think her off-hand, even rude, because the expression on her face rarely changed from one of vague astonishment.
"Did … did anyone see you?"
"I don't know. I got here without any trouble. Why, Kris, is it important?"
She was still playing with my fingers, but her face now wore a slight frown.
"Rheya."
"What, my darling?"
"How did you know where I was?"
She pondered. A broad smile revealed her teeth.
"I haven't the faintest idea. Isn't it funny? When I came in you were asleep. I didn't wake you up because you get cross so easily. You have a very bad temper."
She squeezed my hand.
"Did you go down below?"
"Yes. It was all frozen. I ran away."
She let go of my hand and lay back. With her hair falling to one side, she looked at me with the half-smile that had irritated me before it had captivated me.
"But, Rheya…" I stammered.
I leaned over her and turned back the short sleeve of her dress. There, just above her vaccination scar, was a red dot, the mark of a hypodermic needle. I was not really surprised, but my heart gave a lurch.
I touched the red spot with my finger. For years now I had dreamt of it, over and over again, always waking with a shudder to find myself in the same position, doubled up between the crumpled sheets—just as I had found her, already growing cold. It was as though, in my sleep, I tried to relive what she had gone through; as though I hoped to turn back the clock and ask her forgiveness, or keep her company during those final minutes when she was feeling the effects of the injection and was overcome by terror. She, who dreaded the least scratch, who hated pain or the sight of blood, had deliberately done this horrible thing, leaving nothing but a few scribbled words addressed to me. I had kept her note in my wallet. By now it was soiled and creased, but I had never had the heart to throw it away.
Time and time again I had imagined her tracing those words and making her final preparations. I persuaded myself that she had only been play-acting, that she had wanted to frighten me and had taken an overdose by mistake. Everyone told me that it must have happened like that, or else it had been a spontaneous decision, the result of a sudden depression. But people knew nothing of what I had said to her five days earlier; they did not know that, in order to twist the knife more cruelly, I had taken away my belongings and that she, as I was closing my suitcases, had said, very calmly: "I suppose you know what this means?" And I had pretended not to understand, even though I knew quite well what she meant; I thought her too much of a coward, and had even told her as much… And now she was lying across the bed, looking at me attentively, as though she did not know that it was I who had killed her.
"Well?" she asked. Her eyes reflected the red sun. The entire room was red. Rheya looked at her arm with interest, because I had been examining it for so long, and when I drew back she laid her smooth, cool cheek in the palm of my hand.
"Rheya," I stammered, "it's not possible…"
"Hush!"
I could sense the movement of her eyes beneath their closed lids.
"Where are we, Rheya?"
"At home."
"Where's that?"
One eye opened and shut again instantly. The long lashes tickled my palm.
"Kris."
"What?"
"I'm happy."
Raising my head, I could see part of the bed in the washbasin mirror: a cascade of soft hair—Rheya's hair—and my bare knees. I pulled towards me with my foot one of the misshapen objects I had found in the box and picked it up with my free hand. It was a spindle, one end of which had melted to a needle-point. I held the point to my skin and dug it in, just beside a small pink scar. The pain shot through my whole body. I watched the blood run down the inside of my thigh and drip noiselessly on to the floor.
What was the use? Terrifying thoughts assailed me, thoughts which were taking a definite shape. I no longer told myself: "It's a dream." I had ceased to believe that. Now I was thinking: "I must be ready to defend myself."
I examined her shoulders, her hip under the close-fitting white dress, and her dangling naked feet. Leaning forward, I took hold of one of her ankles and ran my fingers over the sole of her foot.
The skin was soft, like that of a newborn child.
I knew then that it was not Rheya, and I was almost certain that she herself did not know it.
The bare foot wriggled and Rheya's lips parted in silent laughter.
"Stop it," she murmured.
Cautiously I withdrew my hand from under the cheek and stood up. Then I dressed quickly. She sat up and watched me.
"Where are your things?" I asked her. Immediately, I regretted my question.
"My things?"
"Don't you have anything except that dress?"
From now on, I would pursue the game with my eyes open. I tried to appear unconcerned, indifferent, as though we had parted only yesterday, as though we had never parted.
She stood up. With a familiar gesture, she tugged at her skirt to smooth out the creases. My words had worried her, but she said nothing. For the first time, she examined the room with an enquiring, scrutinizing gaze. Then, puzzled, she replied:
"I don't know." She opened the locker door. "In here, perhaps?"
"No, there's nothing but work-suits in there."
I found an electric point by the basin and began to shave, careful not to take my eyes off her.
She went to and fro, rummaging everywhere. Eventually, she came up to me and said:
"Kris, I have the feeling that something's happened…"
She broke off. I unplugged the razor, and waited.
"I have the feeling that I've forgotten something," she went on, "that I've forgotten a lot of things. I can only remember you. I … I can't remember anything else."
I listened to her, forcing myself to look
unconcerned.
"Have I… Have I been ill?" she asked.
"Yes … in a way. Yes, you've been slightly ill."
"There you are then. That explains my lapses of memory."
She had brightened up again. Never shall I be able to describe how I felt then. As I watched her moving about the room, now smiling, now serious, talkative one moment, silent the next, sitting down and then getting up again, my terror was gradually overcome by the conviction that it was the real Rheya there in the room with me, even though my reason told me that she seemed somehow stylized, reduced to certain characteristic expressions, gestures and movements.
Suddenly, she clung to me.
"What's happening to us, Kris?" She pressed her fists against my chest. "Is everything all right? Is there something wrong?"
"Things couldn't be better."
She smiled wanly.
"When you answer me like that, it means things could hardly be worse."
"What nonsense!" I said hurriedly. "Rheya, my darling, I must leave you. Wait here for me." And, because I was becoming extremely hungry, I added: "Would you like something to eat?"
"To eat?" She shook her head. "No. Will I have to wait long for you?"
"Only an hour."
"I'm coming with you."
"You can't come with me. I've got work to do."
"I'm coming with you."
She had changed. This was not Rheya at all; the real Rheya never imposed herself, would never have forced her presence on me.
"It's impossible, my sweet."
She looked me up and down. Then suddenly she seized my hand. And my hand lingered, moved up her warm, rounded arm. In spite of myself I was caressing her. My body recognized her body; my body desired her, my body was attracted towards hers beyond reason, beyond thought, beyond fear.
Desperately trying to remain calm, I repeated:
"Rheya, it's out of the question. You must stay here."
A single word echoed round the room:
"No."
"Why?"
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