I lowered Rheya onto the operating table and pulled the dressing-gown open. Her face was contorted with pain, the lips covered by a thick, black layer of frozen blood, the tongue a mass of sparkling ice crystals.
Liquid oxygen… The Dewar bottles in the work-room contained liquid oxygen. Splinters of glass had crunched underfoot as I carried Rheya out. How much of it had she swallowed? It didn't matter. Her trachea, throat and lungs must be burnt away—liquid oxygen corrodes flesh more effectively than strong acids. Her breathing was more and more labored, with a dry sound like tearing paper. Her eyes were closed. She was dying.
I looked across at the big, glass-fronted cabinets, crammed with instruments and drugs. Tracheotomy? Intubation? She had no lungs! I stared at shelves full of colored bottles and cartons. She went on, gasping hoarsely, and a wisp of vapor drifted out of her open mouth.
Thermophores…
I started looking for them, then changed my mind, ran to another cupboard and turned out boxes of ampoules. Now a hypodermic—where are they?—here—needs sterilizing. I fumbled with the lid of the sterilizer, but my numb fingers had lost all sensation and would not bend.
The harsh rattle grew louder, and Rheya's eyes were open when I reached the table. I opened my mouth to say her name but my voice had gone and my lips would not obey me. My face did not belong to me; it was a plaster mask.
Rheya's ribs were heaving under the white skin. The ice-crystals had melted and her wet hair was entangled in the headrest. And she was looking at me.
"Rheya!" It was all I could say. I stood paralyzed, my hands dangling uselessly, until a burning sensation mounted from my legs and attacked my lips and eyelids.
A drop of blood melted and slanted down her cheek. Her tongue quivered and receded. The labored panting went on.
I could feel no pulse in her wrist, and put my ear against her frozen breast. Faintly, behind the raging blizzard, her heart was beating so fast that I could not count the beats, and I remained crouched over her, with my eyes closed. Something brushed my head—Rheya's hand in my hair. I stood up.
"Kris!" A harsh gasp.
I took her hand, and the answering pressure made my bones creak. Then her face screwed up with agony, and she lost consciousness again. Her eyes turned up, a guttural rattle tore at her throat, and her body arched with convulsions. It was all I could do to keep her on the operating table; she broke free and her head cracked against a porcelain basin. I dragged her back, and struggled to hold her down, but violent spasms kept jerking her out of my grasp. I was pouring with sweat, and my legs were like jelly. When the convulsions abated, I tried to make her lie flat, but her chest thrust out to gulp at the air. Suddenly her eyes were staring out at me from behind the frightful blood-stained mask of her face.
"Kris … how long … how long?"
She choked. Pink foam appeared at her mouth, and the convulsions racked her again. With my last reserves of strength I bore down on her shoulders, and she fell back. Her teeth chattered loudly.
"No, no, no," she whimpered suddenly, and I thought that death was near.
But the spasms resumed, and again I had to hold her down. Now and then she swallowed drily, and her ribs heaved. Then the eyelids half closed over the unseeing eyes, and she stiffened. This must be the end. I did not even try to wipe the foam from her mouth. A distant ringing throbbed in my head. I was waiting for her final breath before my strength failed and I collapsed to the ground.
She went on breathing, and the rasp was now only a light sigh. Her chest, which had stopped heaving, moved again to the rapid rhythm of her heartbeat. Color was returning to her cheeks. Still I did not realize what was happening. My hands were clammy, and I heard as if through layers of cotton wool, yet the ringing sound continued.
Rheya's eyelids moved, and our eyes met.
I could not speak her name from behind the mask of my face. All I could do was look at her.
She turned her head and looked round the room. Somewhere behind me, in another world, a tap dripped. Rheya levered herself up on her elbow. I recoiled, and again our eyes met.
"It … it didn't work," she stammered. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Then she screamed out loud: "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Still I could say nothing. She examined her hands, moved her fingers…
"Is this me?"
My lips formed her name, and she repeated it as a question—"Rheya?"
She let herself slide off the operating table, staggered, regained her balance and took a few steps. She was moving in a daze, and looking at me without appearing to see me.
"Rheya? But … I am not Rheya. Who am I then? And you, what about you?" Her eyes widened and sparkled, and an astonished smile lit up her face. "And you, Kris. Perhaps you too…"
I had backed away until I came up against the wall. The smile vanished.
"No. You are afraid. I can't take any more of this, I can't … I didn't know, I still don't understand. It's not possible." Her clenched fists struck her chest. "What else could I think, except that I was Rheya! Maybe you believe this is all an act? It isn't, I swear it isn't."
Something snapped in my mind, and I went to put my arms round her, but she fought free:
"Don't touch me! Leave me alone! I disgust you, I know I do. Keep away! I'm not Rheya…"
We screamed at each other and Rheya tried to keep me at arms' length. I would not let her go, and at last she let her head fall to my shoulder. We were on our knees, breathless and exhausted.
"Kris … what do I have to do to put a stop to this?"
"Be quiet!"
"You don't know!" She lifted her head and stared at me. "It can't be done, can it?"
"Please…"
"I really tried… No, go away. I disgust you—and myself, I disgust myself. If I only knew how…"
"You would kill yourself."
"Yes."
"But I want you to stay alive. I want you here, more than anything."
"You're lying."
"Tell me what I have to do to convince you. You are here. You exist. I can't see any further than that."
"It can't possibly be true, because I am not Rheya."
"Then who are you?"
There was a long silence. Then she bowed her head and murmured:
"Rheya… But I know that I am not the woman you once loved."
"Yes. But that was a long time ago. That past does not exist, but you do, here and now. Don't you see?"
She shook her head:
"I know that it was kindness that made you behave as you did, but there is nothing to be done. That first morning when I found myself waiting by your bed for you to wake up, I knew nothing. I can hardly believe it was only three days ago. I behaved like a lunatic. Everything was misty. I didn't remember anything, wasn't surprised by anything. It was like recovering from a drugged sleep, or a long illness. It even occurred to me that I might have been ill and you didn't want to tell me. Then a few things happened to set me thinking—you know what I mean. So after you met that man in the library and you refused to tell me anything, I made up my mind to listen to that tape. That was the only time I have lied to you, Kris. When you were looking for the tape-recorder, I knew where it was. I'd hidden it. The man who recorded the tape—what was his name?"
"Gibarian."
"Yes, Gibarian—he explained everything. Although I still don't understand. The only thing missing was that I can't … that there is no end. He didn't mention that, or if he did it was after you woke up and I had to switch off. But I heard enough to realize that I am not a human being, only an instrument."
"What are you talking about?"
"That's what I am. To study your reactions—something of that sort. Each one of you has a … an instrument like me. We emerge from your memory or your imagination, I can't say exactly—anyway you know better than I. He talks about such terrible things … so far fetched … if it did not fit in with everything else I would certainly have refused to believe him."
; "The rest?"
"Oh, things like not needing sleep, and being compelled to go wherever you go. When I think that only yesterday I was miserable because I thought you detested me. How stupid! But how could I have imagined the truth? He—Gibarian—didn't hate that woman, the one who came to him, but he refers to her in such a dreadful way. It wasn't until then that I realized that I was helpless whatever I did, and that I couldn't avoid torturing you. More than that though, an instrument of torture is passive, like the stone that falls on somebody and kills them. But an instrument of torture which loves you and wishes you nothing but good—it was too much for me. I wanted to tell you the little that I had understood. I told myself that it might be useful to you. I even tried to make notes…"
"That time when you had the light switched on?"
"Yes. But I couldn't write anything. I searched myself for … you know, some sign of 'influence' … I was going mad. I felt as if there was no body underneath my skin and there was something else instead: as if I was just an illusion meant to mislead you. You see?"
"I see."
"When you can't sleep at night and your mind keeps spinning for hours on end, it can take you far away; you find yourself moving in strange directions…"
"I know what you mean."
"But I could feel my heart beating. And then I remembered that you had made an analysis of my blood. What did you find? You can tell me the truth now."
"Your blood is like my own."
"Truly?"
"I give you my word."
"What does that indicate? I had been telling myself that the … unknown force might be concealed somewhere inside me, and that it might not occupy very much space. But I did not know whereabouts it was. I think now that I was evading the real issue because I didn't have the nerve to make a decision. I was afraid, and I looked for a way out. But Kris, if my blood is like yours … if I really … no, it's impossible. I would already be dead, wouldn't I? That means there really is something different—but where? In the mind? Yet it seems to me that I think as any human being does … and I know nothing! If that alien thing was thinking in my head, I would know everything. And I would not love you. I would be pretending, and aware that I was pretending. Kris, you've got to tell me everything you know. Perhaps we could work out a solution between us."
"What kind of solution?" She fell silent. "Is it death you want?"
"Yes, I think it is."
Again silence. Rheya sat on the floor, her knees drawn up under her chin. I looked around at the white-enamelled fittings and gleaming instruments, perhaps looking for some unsuspected clue to suddenly materialize.
"Rheya, I have something to say, too." She waited quietly. "It is true that we are not exactly alike. But there is nothing wrong with that. In any case, whatever else we might think about it, that … difference … saved your life."
A painful smile flickered over her face: "Does that mean that I am … immortal?"
"I don't know. At any rate, you're far less vulnerable than I am."
"It's horrible…"
"Perhaps not as horrible as you think."
"But you don't envy me."
"Rheya, I don't know what your fate will be. It cannot be predicted, any more than my own or any other member's of the Station's personnel. The experiment will go on, and anything can happen…"
"Or nothing."
"Or nothing. And I have to confess that nothing is what I would prefer. Not because I'm frightened—though fear is undeniably an element of this business—but because there can't be any final outcome. I'm quite sure of that."
"Outcome? You mean the ocean?"
"Yes, contact with the ocean. As I see it, the problem is basically very simple. Contact means the exchange of specific knowledge, ideas, or at least of findings, definite facts. But what if no exchange is possible? If an elephant is not a giant microbe, the ocean is not a giant brain. Obviously there can be various approaches, and the consequence of one of them is that you are here, now, with me. And I am trying my hardest to make you realize that I love you. Just your being here cancels out the twelve years of my life that went into the study of Solaris, and I want to keep you.
"You may have been sent to torment me, or to make my life happier, or as an instrument ignorant of its function, used like a microscope with me on the slide. Possibly you are here as a token of friendship, or a subtle punishment, or even as a joke. It could be all of those at once, or—which is more probable—something else completely. If you say that our future depends on the ocean's intentions, I can't deny it. I can't tell the future any more than you can. I can't even swear that I shall always love you. After what has happened already, we can expect anything. Suppose tomorrow it turns me into a green jellyfish! It's out of our hands. But the decision we make today is in our hands. Let's decide to stay together. What do you say?"
"Listen Kris, there's something else I must ask you… Am I … do I look very like her?"
"You did at first. Now I don't know."
"I don't understand."
"Now all I see is you."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. If you really were her, I might not be able to love you."
"Why?"
"Because of what I did."
"Did you treat her badly?"
"Yes, when we…"
"Don't say any more."
"Why not?"
"So that you won't forget that I am the one who is here not her."
Conversation
The following morning, I received another note from Snow: Sartorius had left off working on the disruptor and was getting ready for a final experiment with high-power X-rays.
"Rheya, darling, I have to pay a visit to Snow."
The red dawn blazing through the window divided the room in two. We were in an area of blue shadow. Everything outside this shadow-zone was burnished copper: if a book had fallen from a shelf, my ear would have listened instinctively for a metallic clang.
"It's to do with the experiment. Only I don't know what to do about it. Please understand, I'd rather…"
"You needn't justify yourself, Kris. If only it doesn't go on too long."
"It's bound to take a while. Look, do you think you could wait in the corridor?"
"I can try. But what if I lose control?"
"What does it feel like? I'm not asking just out of curiosity, believe me, but if we can discuss how it works you might find some way of keeping it in check."
Rheya had turned pale, but she tried to explain:
"I feel afraid, not of some thing or some person—there's no focus, only a sense of being lost. And I am terribly ashamed of myself. Then, when you come back, it stops. That's what made me think I might have been ill."
"Perhaps it's only inside this damned Station that it works. I'll make arrangements for us to get out as soon as possible."
"Do you think you can?"
"Why not? I'm not a prisoner here. I'll have to talk it over with Snow. Have you any idea how long you could manage to remain by yourself?"
"That depends… If I could hear your voice, I think might be able to hold out."
"I'd rather you weren't listening. Not that I have anything to hide, but there's no telling what Snow might say."
"You needn't go on. I understand. I'll just stand close enough to hear the sound of your voice."
"I'm going to the operating room to phone him. The doors will be open."
Rheya nodded agreement.
I crossed the red zone. The corridor seemed dark by contrast, in spite of the lighting. Inside the open door of the operating room, fragments of the Dewar bottle, the last traces of the previous night's events, gleamed from under a row of liquid oxygen containers. When I took the phone off the hook, the little screen lit up, and I tapped out the number of the radio-cabin. Behind the dull glass, a spot of bluish light grew, burst, and Snow was looking at me perched on the edge of his chair.
"I got your note and I want to talk to you. Can I come over?"
"Yes.
Right away?"
"Yes."
"Excuse me, but are you coming alone or … accompanied?"
"Alone."
His creased forehead and thin, tanned face filled the screen as he leant forward to scrutinize me through the convex glass. Then he appeared to reach an abrupt decision:
"Fine, fine, I'll be expecting you."
I went back to the cabin, where I could barely make the shape of Rheya behind the curtain of red sunlight. She was sitting in an armchair, with her hands clutching the armrests. She must have failed to hear my footsteps, and I saw her for a moment fighting the inexplicable compulsion that possessed her and wrestling with the fierce contractions of her entire body which stopped immediately she saw me. I choked back a feeling of blind rage and pity.
We walked in silence down the long corridor with its polychromed walls; the designers had intended the variations in color to make life more tolerable inside the armored shell of the Station. A shaft of red light ahead of us meant that the door of the radio-cabin was ajar, and I looked at Rheya. She made no attempt to return my smile, totally absorbed in her preparations for the coming battle with herself. Now that the ordeal was about to begin, her face was pinched and white. Fifteen paces from the door, she stopped, pushing me forward gently with her fingertips as I started to turn around. Suddenly I felt that Snow, the experiment, even the Station itself were not worth the agonizing price that Rheya was ready to pay, with myself as assistant torturer. I would have retraced my steps, but a shadow fell across the cabin doorway, and I hurried inside.
Snow stood facing me with the red sun behind him making a halo of purple light out of his grey hair. We confronted one another without speaking, and he was able to examine me at his leisure in the sunlight that dazzled me so that I could hardly see him.
I walked past him and leaned against a tall desk bristling with microphones on their flexible stalks. Snow pivoted slowly and went on staring at me with his habitual cheerless smile, in which there was no amusement, only overpowering fatigue. Still with his eyes on mine, he picked his way through the piles of objects littered about the cabin—thermic cells, instruments, spare parts for the electronic equipment—pulled a stool up against the door of a steel cabinet, and sat down.
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