More Tales of Pirx the Pilot

by Stanisław Lem

  He was almost positive now that the Setaur would proceed in precisely this way, and that they could expect him at any moment.

  “Doctor, I fear he will take us by surprise,” he said quickly, jumping to his feet. “What do you think?”

  “You believe he might sneak up on us?” asked McCork and smiled. “That occurred to me, too. Well, yes, it’s even logical, but will he behave logically? That is the question.”

  “We’ll try it one more time,” Pirx muttered. “We have to roll these cylinders down the hill and see what he does.”

  “I understand. Now?”

  “Yes. And be careful!”

  They dragged the cylinders to the top of the rise and, doing their best to remain unseen from the bottom of the basin, pushed both practically at the same time. Unfortunately, the absence of air kept them from hearing whether the things were rolling, or in what way. Pirx made up his mind and—feeling strangely naked, as though there were no steel sphere over his head, nor a heavy three-layered suit covering his body—he pressed himself flat against the rock and cautiously stuck out his head.

  Nothing had changed below. Except that the wrecked machine had ceased to be visible, for its cooling fragments merged with the surrounding darkness. The shadow occupied the same area, the shape of an irregular, elongated triangle, its base abutting the cliffs of the highest, western ridge of rocks. One cylinder had stopped some thirty meters beneath them, having struck a stone that put it in a lengthwise position. The other was still rolling, slowing down, growing smaller, till it stood still. Pirx was not at all pleased that nothing more happened. “He isn’t stupid,” he thought. “He won’t shoot at a target someone sticks under his nose.” He tried to find the place from which the Setaur, some ten minutes before, had betrayed itself with the flash of its laser eye, but that was extremely difficult.

  “Perhaps he’s not there anymore,” Pirx reflected. “Perhaps he’s simply retreating to the north; or going parallel, along the bottom of the basin, or along one of those rifts of magnetic course… If he makes it to the cliffs, to that labyrinth, then we’ve lost him for good…”

  Slowly, groping, he raised the butt of his laser and loosened his muscles. “Dr. McCork!” he said. “Could you come here?”

  And when the doctor had scrambled up to him, he said:

  “You see the two cylinders? One straight ahead, below us, and the other farther on?”

  “I see them.”

  “Fire at the closer one first, then at the other, in an interval, say, of forty seconds… But not from here!” he added quickly. “You’ll have to find a better place. Ah!” He pointed with his hand. “There is not a bad position, in that hollow. And after you shoot, crawl back immediately. All right?”

  McCork asked no questions but set off at once, keeping low, in the direction indicated. Pirx waited impatiently. If he was even a little like a man, he had to be curious. Every intelligent creature was curious—and curiosity prompted it to act when something incomprehensible took place… He couldn’t see the doctor now. He forced himself not to look at the cylinders, which were to explode under McCork’s shots; he focused all his attention on the stretch of sunlit debris between the zone of shadow and the outcrop. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and trained them on that section of the lava flow. In the lenses grotesque shapes filed slowly by, shapes as though formed in the studio of some sculptor-abstractionist; tapering obelisks twisted about like screws, plates furrowed with snaking cracks—the jumble of glaring planes and zigzag shadows had an irritating effect on the eye.

  At the very edge of his vision, far below him, on the slope, there was a burgeoning flash. After a long pause, the second went off. Silence. The only sound was his pulse throbbing inside his helmet, through which the sun was trying to bore its way into his skull. He swept the lenses along a stretch of chaotically interlocking masses.

  Something moved. He froze. Above the razorlike edge of a slab that resembled the fractured blade of some giant stone ax there emerged a shape, hemispherical, in color much like a dark rock, but this shape had arms, which took hold of the boulder from both sides. Now he could see it—the upper half of it. It didn’t look headless, but, rather, like a man wearing the supernatural mask of an African shaman, a mask that covered the face, neck, and chest, but flattened out in a manner that was somewhat monstrous. With the elbow of his right arm Pirx felt the butt of his laser, but he didn’t dream of shooting now. The risk was too great—the chance of getting a hit with a relatively weak weapon, and at such a distance, was minuscule. The other, motionless, seemed to be examining with that head it had, which barely protruded above the shoulders, the remains of the two gas clouds that were drifting along the slope, helplessly expanding into space. This lasted a good while. It looked as if it did not know what had happened, and was unsure of what to do. In that hesitation, that uncertainty, which Pirx could understand full well, there was something so uncannily familiar, so human, that he felt a lump in his throat. What would I do in his place, what would I think? That someone was firing at the very same objects I had fired at before, and therefore this someone would be not an opponent, not an enemy, but instead a kind of ally. But I would know, surely, that I had no ally. Ah, but what if it were a being like myself?

  The other stirred. Its movements were fluid and uncommonly swift. All at once it was in full view, erect on that upended stone, as though still looking for the mysterious cause of the two explosions. Then it turned away, jumped down, and, leaning slightly forward, began to run—now and then it dropped from Pirx’s sight, but never for more than a few seconds, only to break out into the sunlight again on one of the spurs of the magma labyrinth. In this way it approached Pirx, though running the whole time at the bottom of the basin. They were separated now only by the space of the slope, and Pirx wondered whether he shouldn’t shoot, after all. But the other whisked past in narrow strips of light and again dissolved into the blackness—and since it continually had to change direction, picking its way between the rocks and rubble, one could not predict where its arms, working to maintain balance like those of a man running, and where its headless trunk would show up next, to flash metallically and vanish once again.

  Suddenly ragged lightning cut across the mosaic of debris, striking long plumes of sparks among the very blocks where the Setaur was running. Who had fired that? Pirx couldn’t see McCork, but the line of fire had come from the opposite side—it could only have been the cadet, that snot-nosed kid, that idiot! He cursed him, furious, because nothing had been accomplished, of course—the dome of metal flitted on for another fraction of a second, then disappeared for good. “And not only that, but he tried to shoot him in the back!” thought Pirx in a fury, not at all appreciating the absurdity of this reproach.

  The Setaur hadn’t returned fire. Why? Pirx tried to catch a glimpse of it—in vain. Could the bulge of the slope be in the way? That was entirely possible… In which case he could move safely now… Pirx slipped down from his boulder, seeing that nothing was any longer watching from below. He ran, hunched over slightly, along the rim itself; he passed the cadet, who lay prone as if on a rifle range—feet flung-out wide and pressed sideways against the rock—and Pirx felt an unaccountable urge to kick him in his behind, which stuck up ludicrously and was male even more conspicuous by a poorly fitting suit. He slowed down, but only to shout:

  “Don’t you dare shoot, do you hear me? Put away that laser!”

  And before the cadet, turning on his side, began to look around in bewilderment—for the voice had come from his earphones, giving no indication of where Pirx was located—Pirx had already run on; afraid that he was wasting precious time, he hurried as much as he could, till he found himself facing a broad crevasse, which opened up a sudden view all the way to the bottom of the basin.

  It was a type of tectonic trench, so old that its edges had crumbled, lost their sharpness, and resembled a mountain gully widened by erosion. He hesitated. He didn’t see the Setaur, but, then, it was pro
bably impossible to see it anyway from this vantage point. So he ventured into the gully with laser at the ready, well aware that what he was doing was insane, yet unable to resist whatever was driving him; he told himself that he only wanted to take a look, that he would stop at the first place where he could check out the last section of the outcrop and the entire labyrinth of rubble beneath it; and perhaps, even as he ran, still leaning forward, with the gravel shooting out in streams from under his boots, he actually believed this. But at the moment he couldn’t give thought to anything. He was on the Moon and therefore weighed barely fifteen kilograms, but even so the increasing angle tripped him up; he went bounding along eight meters at a time, braking for all he was worth; already he had covered half the length of the slope.

  The gully ended in a shallow pathway—there in the sun stood the first masses of the lava flow, black on the far side and glittering on the southern, about one hundred meters down. “I got myself into it this time,” he thought. From here one could practically reach out and touch the region in which the Setaur was at large. He glanced rapidly to the left and to the right. He was alone; the ridge lay high above him, a broiling steepness against the black sky. Before, he had been able to look down into the narrow places between the rocks almost with a bird’s-eye view, but now that crisscross maze of fissures was blocked out for him by the nearest masses of stone. “Not good,” he thought. “Better go back.” But for some reason he knew that he wasn’t going back.

  However, he couldn’t just stand there. A few dozen steps lower was a solitary block of magma, evidently the end of that long tongue which once had poured red-hot off the great crags at the foot of Toricelli—and which had meandered its way finally to this sinkhole. It was the best cover available. He reached it in a single leap, though he found particularly unpleasant this prolonged lunar floating, this slow-motion flight as in a dream; he could never really get used to it. Crouched behind the angular rock, he peered out over it and saw the Setaur, which came from behind two jagged spires, went around a third, brushing it with a metal shoulder, and halted. Pirx was looking at it from the side, so it was lit up only partially; the right arm glistened, dully like a well-greased machine part, but the rest of its frame lay in shadow.

  Pirx had just raised the laser to his eye when the other, as if in a sudden premonition, vanished. Could it be standing there still, having only stepped back into the shadow? Should he shoot into that shadow, then? He had a bead on it now, but didn’t touch the trigger. He relaxed his muscles; the barrel fell. He waited. No sign of the Setaur. The rubble spread out directly below him in a truly infernal labyrinth. One could play hide-and-seek in there for hours—the glassy lava had split into geometrical yet eerie shapes.

  “Where is he?” Pirx thought. “If it were only possible to hear something, but this damned airless place, it’s like being in a nightmare… I could go down there and hunt him. No, I’m not about to do that, he’s the mad one, after all… But one can at least consider everything—the outcrop extends no more than twelve meters, which would take about two jumps on Earth; I would be in the shadow beneath it, invisible, and could move along the length of it, with my back protected by the rock at all times, and sooner or later he’d walk out straight into my sights.”

  Nothing changed in the labyrinth of stone. On Earth by this time, the sun would have shifted quite a bit, but here the long lunar day held sway, the sun seemed to keep hanging in the very same place, extinguishing the nearest stars, so that it was surrounded by a black void shot through with a kind of orange, radial haze… He leaned out halfway from behind his boulder. Nothing. This was beginning to annoy him. Why weren’t the others showing up? It was inconceivable that radio contact hadn’t been established by now. But perhaps they were planning to drive it out of that rabble… He glanced at the watch beneath the thick glass on his wrist and was amazed: since his last conversation with McCork barely thirteen minutes had elapsed.

  He was preparing to abandon his position when two things happened at once, both equally unexpected. Through the stone arch between the two magma embankments that closed off the basin to the east, he saw transporters moving, one after the other. They were still far away, possibly more than a kilometer, and going at full speed, trailing long, seemingly rigid plumes of swirling dust. At the same time two large hands, human-looking except that they were wearing metal gloves, appeared at the very edge of the precipice, and following them came—so quickly he hadn’t time to back away—the Setaur. No more than ten meters separated them. Pirx saw the massive bulge of the torso that served as a head, set between powerful shoulders, and in which glittered the lenses of the optic apertures, motionless, like two dark, widely spaced eyes, along with that middle, that third and terrible eye, lidded at the moment, of the laser gun. He himself, to be sure, held a laser in his hand, but the machine’s reflexes were incomparably faster than his own. He didn’t even try leveling his weapon. He simply stood stock-still in the full sun, his legs bent, exactly as he had been caught, jumping up from the ground, by the sudden appearance of him, and they looked at each other: the statue of the man and the statue of the machine, both sheathed in metal. Then a terrible light tore the whole area in front of Pirx; pushed by a blast of heat, he went crashing backward. As he fell he didn’t lose consciousness but—in that fraction of a second—felt only surprise, for he could have sworn it wasn’t the Setaur that had shot him, since up to the very last instant he had seen its laser eye dark and blind.

  He landed on his back, for the discharge had passed him—but clearly it had been aimed at him, because the horrible flash was repeated in an instant and chipped off part of the stone spire that had been protecting him before; it sprayed drops of molten mineral, which in flight changed into a dazzling spider web. But now he was saved by the fact that they were aiming at the height of his head while he was lying down.

  It was the first machine; they were firing the laser from it. He rolled over on his side and saw then the back of the Setaur, who, motionless, as if cast in bronze, gave two bursts of lilac sun. Even at that distance one could see the foremost transporter’s entire tread overturn, along with the rollers and guiding wheel; such a cloud of dust and burning gases rose up there that the second transporter, blinded, could not shoot. The giant slowly, unhurriedly, looked at the prone man, who was still clutching his weapon, then turned and bent its legs slightly, ready to jump back where it had come from, but Pirx, awkwardly, sideways, fired at it—he intended only to cut the legs from under it, but his elbow wavered as he pulled the trigger, and a knife of flame cleaved the giant from top to bottom, so that it was only a mass of glowing scrap that tumbled down into the field of rubble.

  The crew of the demolished transporter escaped unhurt, without even bums, and Pirx found out—much later, it’s true—that they had in fact been firing at him, for the Setaur, dark against the dark cliffs, went completely unnoticed. The inexperienced gunner had even failed to notice that the figure in his sights showed the light color of an aluminum suit. Pirx was pretty certain that he would not have survived the next shot. The Setaur had saved him—but had it realized this? Many times he went over those few final seconds in his mind, and each time his conviction grew stronger that from where the Setaur had been standing, it could tell who was the real target of the long-range fire. Did this mean that it had wished to save him? No one could provide an answer. The intellectronicians chalked the whole thing up to “coincidence”—but none of them was able to support that opinion with any proof. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and the professional literature made no mention of such incidents.

  Everyone felt that Pirx had done what he had to do—but he wasn’t satisfied. For many long years afterward there remained etched in his memory that brief scene in which he had brushed with death and come out in one piece, never to learn the entire truth—and bitter was the knowledge that it was in an underhanded way, with a stab in the back, that he had killed his deliverer.

  THE INQUEST

&nbs
p; Translated by Louis Iribarne with the assistance of Magdalena Majcherczyk

  “Next witness—Shennan Quine!”

  “Quine, sir!”

  “You are to testify before the Cosmic Tribunal, now in session, over which I am presiding. You will please address me as ‘Your Honor’ and members of the jury as ‘Your Honors.’ You are to answer promptly all questions put to you by the jury and by myself; those of the prosecution and defense, only with the Tribunal’s prior consent. Only testimony based on first-hand knowledge will be admissible, nothing on hearsay. Are my instructions clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Is Shennan Quine your proper name?”

  “It is, Your Honor.”

  “But aboard the Goliath you used an alias, did you not?”

  “It was one of the conditions of my contract with the shipowners.”

  “Were you aware of the reason for this alias?”

  “I was, Your Honor.”

  “Were you aboard the Goliath on an orbital flight from the eighteenth to the thirtieth of October of this year?”

  “I was, Your Honor.”

  “What were your flight duties?”

  “I was the copilot.”

  “Kindly tell the Tribunal what happened aboard the Goliath on the twenty-first of October, during the afore-mentioned voyage, starting with a description of the ship’s bearings and objectives.”

  “At 0830 hours, ship’s time, we crossed the perimeter of Saturn’s moons at a hyperbolic velocity and commenced braking until 1100 hours. Dropping below the hyperbolic to a double-zero orbital, we prepared to launch the artificial satellites onto the plane of the rings.”