Solaris

by Stanisław Lem

  I came to my senses again lying on a metal table in the little workshop and gasping for breath. My throat and nostrils were burning with some alcoholic vapor, my shirt was soaked in water, and my hair plastered over my skull.

  Snow was busy at a medicine cupboard, shifting instruments and glass vessels which clattered with an unbearable din. Then his face appeared, looking gravely down into my eyes.

  "Where is she?"

  "She is not here."

  "But … Rheya…"

  He bent over me, brought his face closer, and spoke very slowly and clearly:

  "Rheya is dead."

  "She will come back," I whispered.

  Instead of dreading her return, I wanted it. I did not attempt to remind myself why I myself had once tried to drive her away, and why I had been so afraid of her return.

  "Drink this."

  Snow held out a glass, and I threw it in his face. He staggered back, rubbing his eyes, and by the time he opened them again I was on my feet and standing over him. How small he was…

  "It was you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Come on Snow, you know what I mean. It was you who met her the other night. You told her to give me a sleeping pill… What has happened to her? Tell me!"

  He felt in his shirt-pocket and took out an envelope. I snatched it out of his hand. It was sealed, and there was no inscription. Inside was a sheet of paper folded twice, and I recognized the sprawling, rather childish handwriting:

  "My darling, I was the one who asked him. He is a good man. I am sorry I had to lie to you. I beg you to give me this one wish—hear him out, and do nothing to harm yourself. You have been marvellous."

  There was one more word, which she had crossed out, but I could see that she had signed "Rheya."

  My mind was now absolutely clear. Even if I had wanted to scream hysterically, my voice had gone, and I did not even have the strength to groan.

  "How…?"

  "Later, Kelvin. You've got to calm down."

  "I'm calm now. Tell me how."

  "Disintegration."

  "But … what did you use?"

  "The Roche apparatus was unsuitable. Sartorius built something else, a new destabilizer. A miniature instrument, with a range of a few yards."

  "And she…"

  "She disappeared. A pop, and a puff of air. That's all."

  "A short-range instrument…"

  "Yes, we didn't have the resources for anything bigger."

  The walls loomed over me, and I shut my eyes.

  "She will come back."

  "No."

  "What do you know about it?"

  "You remember the wings of foam? Since that day, they do not come back."

  "You killed her," I whispered.

  "Yes … In my place, what else would you have done?"

  I turned away from him and began pacing up and down the room. Nine steps to the corner. About turn. Nine more rapid steps, and I was facing Snow again.

  "Listen, we'll write a report. We'll ask for an immediate link with the Council. It's feasible, and they'll accept—they must. The planet will no longer be subject to the four-power convention. We'll be authorized to use any means at our disposal. We can send for anti-matter generators. Nothing can stand up against them, nothing…" I was shouting now, and blinded with tears.

  "You want to destroy it? Why?"

  "Get out, leave me alone!"

  "No, I won't get out."

  "Snow!" I glared at him, and he shook his head. "What do you want? What am I supposed to do?"

  He walked back to the table.

  "Fine, we'll draw up a report."

  I started pacing again.

  "Sit down!"

  "I'll do what I like!"

  "There are two distinct questions. One, the facts. Two, our recommendations."

  "Do we have to talk about it now?"

  "Yes, now."

  "I won't listen, you hear? I'm not interested in your distinctions."

  "We sent our last message about two months ago, before Gibarian's death. We'll have to establish exactly how the 'visitor' phenomena function…"

  I grabbed his arm:

  "Will you shut up!"

  "Hit me if you like, but I will not shut up."

  "Oh, talk away, if it gives you pleasure…" I let him go.

  "Good, listen. Sartorius will want to conceal certain facts. I'm almost certain of it."

  "And what about you? Won't you conceal anything?"

  "No. Not now. This business goes further than individual responsibilities. You know that as well as I do. 'It' has given a demonstration of considered activity. It is capable of carrying out organic synthesis on the most complex level, a synthesis we ourselves have never managed to achieve. It knows the structure, micro-structure and metabolism of our bodies…"

  "All right … But why stop there? It has performed a series of … experiments on us. Psychic vivisection. It has used knowledge which it stole from our minds without our consent."

  "Those are not facts, Kelvin. They are not even propositions. They are theories. You could say that it has taken account of desires locked into secret recesses of our brains. Perhaps it was sending us … presents."

  "Presents! My God!" I shook with a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

  "Take it easy!" Snow took hold of my hand, and I tightened my grip until I heard bones cracking. He went on looking at me without any change of expression. I let go, and walked over to a corner of the workshop:

  "I'll try to get hold of myself."

  "Yes, of course. I understand. What do we ask them?"

  "I leave it to you… I can't think straight right now. Did she say anything—before?"

  "No, nothing. If you want my opinion, from now on we stand a chance."

  "A chance? What chance?" I stared at him, and light suddenly dawned. "Contact? Still Contact? Haven't you had enough of this madhouse? What more do you need? No, it's out of the question. Count me out!"

  "Why not," he asked quietly. "You yourself instinctively treat it like a human being, now more than ever. You hate it."

  "And you don't?"

  "No, Kelvin. It is blind."—I thought that I might not have heard him correctly.—"…or rather it 'sees' in a different way from ourselves. We do not exist for it in the same sense that we exist for each other. We recognize one another by the appearance of the face and the body. That appearance is a transparent window to the ocean. It introduces itself directly into the brain."

  "Right, what if it does? What are you driving at? It succeeded in recreating a human being who exists only in my memory, and so accurately that her eyes, her gestures, her voice…"

  "Don't stop. Talk."

  "I'm talking… Her voice … because it is able to read us like a book. You see what I mean?"

  "Yes, that it could make itself understood."

  "Doesn't that follow?"

  "No, not necessarily. Perhaps it used a formula which is not expressed in verbal terms. It may be taken from a recording imprinted on our minds, but a man's memory is stored in terms of nucleic acids etching asynchronous large-moleculed crystals. 'It' removed the deepest, most isolated imprint, the most 'assimilated' structure, without necessarily knowing what it meant to us. Suppose, I'm capable of reproducing the architecture of a symmetriad, and I know its composition and have the requisite technology… I create a symmetriad and I drop it into the ocean. But I don't know why I'm doing so, I don't know its function, and I don't know what the symmetriad means to the ocean…"

  "Yes. You may be right. In that case it wished us no harm, and it was not trying to destroy us. Yes, it's possible … and with no intention…"

  My mouth began to tremble.

  "Kelvin!"

  "All right, don't get worried. You are kind, the ocean is kind. Everybody is kind. But why? Explain that. Why has it done this? What did you say … to her?"

  "The truth."

  "I asked you what you said."

  "You know very wel
l. Come back to my cabin and we'll write out the report. Come on."

  "Wait. What exactly do you want? You can't be intending to remain on the Station."

  "Yes, I want to stay."

  The Old Mimoid

  I sat by the panoramic window, looking at the ocean. There was nothing to do now that the report, which had taken five days to compile, was only a pattern of waves in space. It would be months before a similar pattern would leave earth to create its own line of disturbance in the gravitational field of the galaxy towards the twin suns of Solaris.

  Under the red sun, the ocean was darker than ever, and the horizon was obscured by a reddish mist. The weather was unusually close, and seemed to be building up towards one of the terrible hurricanes which broke out two or three times a year on the surface of the planet, whose sole inhabitant, it is reasonable to suppose, controlled the climate and willed its storms.

  There were several months to go before I could leave. From my vantage point in the observatory I would watch the birth of the days—a disc of pale gold or faded purple. Now and then I would come upon the light of dawn playing among the fluid forms of some edifice risen from the ocean, watch the sun reflected on the silver sphere of a symmetriad, follow the oscillations of the graceful agiluses that curve in the wind, and linger to examine old powdery mimoids.

  And eventually, the screens of all the videophones would start to blink and all the communications equipment would spring to life again, revived by an impulse originating billions of miles away and announcing the arrival of a metal colossus. The Ulysses, or it might be the Prometheus, would land on the Station to the piercing whine of its gravitors, and I would go out onto the flat roof to watch the squads of white, heavy-duty robots which proceed in all innocence with their tasks, not hesitating to destroy themselves or to destroy the unforeseen obstacle, in strict obedience to the orders echoed into the crystals of their memory. Then the ship would rise noiselessly, faster than sound, leaving a sonic boom far behind over the ocean, and every passenger's face would light up at the thought of going home.

  What did that word mean to me? Earth? I thought of the great bustling cities where I would wander and lose myself, and I thought of them as I had thought of the ocean on the second or third night, when I had wanted to throw myself upon the dark waves. I shall immerse myself among men. I shall be silent and attentive, an appreciative companion. There will be many acquaintances, friends, women—and perhaps even a wife. For a while, I shall have to make a conscious effort to smile, nod, stand and perform the thousands of little gestures which constitute life on Earth, and then those gestures will become reflexes again. I shall find new interests and occupations; and I shall not give myself completely to them, as I shall never again give myself completely to anything or anybody. Perhaps at night I shall stare up at the dark nebula that cuts off the light of the twin suns, and remember everything, even what I am thinking now. With a condescending, slightly rueful smile I shall remember my follies and my hopes. And this future Kelvin will be no less worthy a man than the Kelvin of the past, who was prepared for anything in the name of an ambitious enterprise called Contact. Nor will any man have the right to judge me.

  Snow came into the cabin, glanced around, then looked at me again. I went over to the table:

  "You wanted me?"

  "Haven't you got anything to do? I could give you some work … calculations. Not a particularly urgent job…"

  "Thanks," I smiled, "you needn't have bothered."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, I was thinking a few things over, and…"

  "I wish you'd think a little less."

  "But you don't know what I was thinking about! Tell me something. Do you believe in God?"

  Snow darted an apprehensive glance in my direction:

  "What? Who still believes nowadays…"

  "It isn't that simple. I don't mean the traditional God of Earth religion. I'm no expert in the history of religions, and perhaps this is nothing new—do you happen to know if there was ever a belief in an … imperfect god?"

  "What do you mean by imperfect?" Snow frowned. "In a way all the gods of the old religions were imperfect, considering that their attributes were amplified human ones. The God of the Old Testament, for instance, required humble submission and sacrifices, and was jealous of other gods. The Greek gods had fits of sulks and family quarrels, and they were just as imperfect as mortals…"

  "No," I interrupted. "I'm not thinking of a god whose imperfection arises out of the candor of his human creators, but one whose imperfection represents his essential characteristic: a god limited in his omniscience and power, fallible, incapable of foreseeing the consequences of his acts, and creating things that lead to horror. He is a … sick god, whose ambitions exceed his powers and who does not realize it at first. A god who has created clocks, but not the time they measure. He has created systems or mechanisms that served specific ends but have now overstepped and betrayed them. And he has created eternity, which was to have measured his power, and which measures his unending defeat."

  Snow hesitated, but his attitude no longer showed any of the wary reserve of recent weeks:

  "There was Manicheanism…"

  "Nothing at all to do with the principle of Good and Evil," I broke in immediately. "This god has no existence outside of matter. He would like to free himself from matter, but he cannot…"

  Snow pondered for a while:

  "I don't know of any religion that answers your description. That kind of religion has never been … necessary. If I understand you, and I'm afraid I do, what you have in mind is an evolving god, who develops in the course of time, grows, and keeps increasing in power while remaining aware of his powerlessness. For your god, the divine condition is a situation without a goal. And understanding that, he despairs. But isn't this despairing god of yours mankind, Kelvin? It is man you are talking about, and that is a fallacy, not just philosophically but also mystically speaking."

  I kept on:

  "No, it's nothing to do with man. Man may correspond to my provisional definition from some points of view, but that is because the definition has a lot of gaps. Man does not create gods, in spite of appearances. The times, the age, impose them on him. Man can serve his age or rebel against it, but the target of his cooperation or rebellion comes to him from outside. If there was only a single human being in existence, he would apparently be able to attempt the experiment of creating his own goals in complete freedom—apparently, because a man not brought up among other human beings cannot become a man. And the being—the being I have in mind—-cannot exist in the plural, you see?"

  "Oh, then in that case…" He pointed out of the window.

  "No, not the ocean either. Somewhere in its development it has probably come close to the divine state, but it turned back into itself too soon. It is more like an anchorite, a hermit of the cosmos, not a god. It repeats itself, Snow, and the being I'm thinking of would never do that. Perhaps he has already been born somewhere, in some corner of the galaxy, and soon he will have some childish enthusiasm that will set him putting out one star and lighting another. We will notice him after a while…"

  "We already have," Snow said sarcastically. "Novas and supernovas. According to you they are the candles on his altar."

  "If you're going to take what I say literally…"

  "And perhaps Solaris is the cradle of your divine child," Snow went on, with a widening grin that increased the number of lines round his eyes. "Solaris could be the first phase of the despairing God. Perhaps its intelligence will grow enormously. All the contents of our Solarist libraries could be just a record of his teething troubles…"

  "…and we will have been the baby's toys for a while. It is possible. And do you know what you have just done? You've produced a completely new hypothesis about Solaris—congratulations! Everything suddenly falls into place: the failure to achieve contact, the absence of responses, various … let's say various peculiarities in its behavior towards ourselves.
Everything is explicable in terms of the behaviour of a small child."

  "I renounce paternity of the theory," Snow grunted, standing at the window.

  For a long instant, we stood staring out at the dark waves. A long pale patch was coming into view to the east, in the mist obscuring the horizon.

  Without taking his eyes off the shimmering waste, Snow asked abruptly:

  "What gave you this idea of an imperfect god?"

  "I don't know. It seems quite feasible to me. That is the only god I could imagine believing in, a god whose passion is not a redemption, who saves nothing, fulfils no purpose—a god who simply is."

  "A mimoid," Snow breathed.

  "What's that? Oh yes, I'd noticed it. A very old mimoid."

  We both looked towards the misty horizon.

  "I'm going outside," I said abruptly. "I've never yet been off the Station, and this is a good opportunity. I'll be back in half an hour."

  Snow raised his eyebrows:

  "What? You're going out? Where are you going?"

  I pointed towards the flesh-colored patch half-hidden by the mist:

  "Over there. What is there to stop me? I'll take a small helicopter. When I get back to Earth I don't want to have to confess that I'm a Solarist who has never set foot on Solaris!"

  I opened a locker and started rummaging through the atmosphere-suits, while Snow looked on silently. Finally he said:

  "I don't like it."

  I had selected a suit. Now I turned towards him:

  "What?" I had not felt so excited for a long time. "What are you worrying about? Out with it! You're afraid that I … I promise you I have no intention … it never entered my mind, honestly."

  "I'll go with you."

  "Thanks, but I'd rather go alone." I pulled on the suit. "Do you realize this will be my first flight over the ocean?"

  Snow muttered something, but I could not make out what. I was in a hurry to get the rest of the gear together.