8 THE MONSTERS

I woke up in the middle of the night to find the light on and Rheya crouched at the end of thebed, wrapped in a sheet, her shoulders shaking with silent tears. I called her name and askedher what was wrong, but she only curled up tighter.

Still half asleep, and barely emerged from the nightmare which had been tormenting me only amoment before, I pulled myself up to a sitting position and shielded my eyes against the glareto look at her. The trembling continued, and I stretched out my arms, but Rheya pushed meaway and hid her face.

"Rheya…""Don't talk to me!""Rheya, what's the matter?"I caught a glimpse of her tear-stained face, contorted with emotion. The big childish tearsstreamed down her face, glistened in the dimple above her chin and fell onto the sheets.

"You don't want me.""What are you talking about?""I heard…"My jaw tightened: "Heard what? You don't understand.""Yes I do. You said I wasn't Rheya. You wanted me to go, and I would, I really would…but Ican't. I don't know why. I've tried to go, but I couldn't do it. I'm such a coward.""Come on now…." I put my arms round her and held her with all my strength. Nothingmattered to me except her: everything else was meaningless. I kissed her hands, talked,begged, excused myself and made promise after promise, saying that she had been havingsome silly, terrible dream. Gradually she grew calmer, and at last she stopped crying and hereyes glazed, like a woman walking in her sleep. She turned her face away from me.

"No," she said at last, "be quiet, don't talk like that. It's no good, you're not the same person anymore." I started to protest, but she went on: "No, you don't want me. I knew it before, but Ipretended not to notice. I thought perhaps I was imagining everything, but it was true…you'vechanged. You're not being honest with me. You talk about dreams, but it was you who weredreaming, and it was to do with me. You spoke my name as if it repelled you. Why? Just tellme why.""Rheya, my little….""I won't have you talking to me like that, do you hear? I won't let you. I'm not your littleanything, I'm not a child. I'm…."She burst into tears and buried her face in the pillow. I got up. The ventilation hummed quietly.

It was cold, and I pulled a dressing-gown over my shoulders before sitting next to her andtaking her arm: "Listen to me, I'm going to tell you something. I'm going to tell you the truth."She pushed herself upright again. I could see the veins throbbing beneath the delicate skin ofher neck. My jaw tightened once more. The air seemed to be colder still, and my head wascompletely empty.

"The truth?" she said. "Word of honor?" I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came.

'Word of honor'…it was our special catch-phrase, our old way of making an unconditionalpromise. Once these words had been spoken, neither of us was permitted to lie, or even to takerefuge behind a half-truth. I remembered the period when we used to torture each other in anexaggerated striving for sincerity, convinced that this ingenuous honesty was the preconditionof our relationship.

"Word of honor, Rheya," I answered gravely, and she waited for me to continue. "You havechanged too—we all change. But that is not what I wanted to say. For some reason that neitherof us understands, it seems that…you are forced to stay near me. And that's fine with me,because I can't leave you either…""No, Kris. The change is not in you," Rheya whispered. "It's me. Something is wrong. Perhapsit has to do with the accident?"She looked at the dark, empty rectangle of the door. The previous evening, I had removed theshattered remains—a new one would have to be fitted. Another thought struck me:

"Have you been managing to sleep?""I don't know.""What do you mean?""I have dreams…I don't know whether they really are dreams. Perhaps I'm ill. I lie there andthink, and…""What?""I have strange thoughts. I don't know where they come from."It took all my self-control to steady my voice and tell her to go on, and I found myself tensingfor her answer as if for a blow in the face.

"They are thoughts…" She shook her head helplessly. "…all around me.""I don't understand.""I get a feeling as if they were not from inside myself, but somewhere further away. I can'texplain it, can't put words to it…"I broke in almost involuntarily: "It must be some kind of dream." Then, back in control again:

"And now, we put the light out and we forget our problems until morning. Tomorrow we caninvent some new ones if you like. OK?"She pressed the switch, and darkness fell between us. Stretched out on the bed, I felt her warmbreathing beside me, and put my arms round her.

"Harder!" she whispered, and then, after a long pause:

"Kris!""What?""I love you."I almost screamed.

In the red morning, the sun's swollen disc was rising over the horizon.

An envelope lay in the doorway, and I tore it open. I could hear Rheya humming to herself inthe bath, and from time to time she looked into the room and I would see her face, half hiddenby her wet hair.

I went to the window, and read:

"Kelvin, things are looking up. Sartorius has decided that it may be possible to use some formof energy to destabilize the neutrino structure. He wants to examine some Phi plasma in orbit.

He suggests that you make a reconnaissance flight and take a certain quantity of plasma in thecapsule. It's up to you, but let me know what you decide. I have no opinion. I feel as if I nolonger have anything. If I am more in favor of your going, it's because we would at least bemaking some show of progress. Otherwise, we can only envy G.

SnowP.S. All I ask is for you to stay outside the cabin. You can call me on the videophone."I felt a stir of apprehension as I read the letter, and went over it again carefully before tearing itup and throwing the pieces into the disposal unit.

I went through the same terrible charade that I had begun the previous day, and made up astory for Rheya's benefit. She did not notice the deception, and when I told her that I had tomake an inspection and suggested that she come with me she was delighted. We stopped at thekitchen for breakfast—Rheya ate very little—and then made for the library.

Before venturing on the mission suggested by Sartorius, I wanted to glance through theliterature dealing with magnetic fields and neutrino structures. I did not yet have any clear ideaof how I would set about it, but I had made up my mind to make an independent check onSartorius's activities. Not that I would prevent Snow and Sartorius from 'liberating' themselveswhen the annihilator was completed: I meant to take Rheya out of the Station and wait for theconclusion of the operation in the cabin of an aircraft. I set to work with the automaticlibrarian. Sometimes it answered my queries by ejecting a card with the laconic inscription"Not on file," sometimes it practically submerged me under such a spate of specialist physicstextbooks that I hesitated to use its advice. Yet I had no desire to leave the big circularchamber. I felt at ease in my egg, among the rows of cabinets crammed with tape andmicrofilm. Situated right at the center of the Station, the library had no windows: It was themost isolated area in the great steel shell, and made me feel relaxed in spite of finding myresearches held up.

Wandering across the vast room, I stopped at a set of shelves as high as the ceiling, andholding about six hundred volumes—all classics on the history of Solaris, starting with the ninevolumes of Giese's monumental and already relatively obsolescent monograph. Display for itsown sake was improbable in these surroundings. The collection was a respectful tribute to thememory of the pioneers. I took down the massive volumes of Giese and sat leafing throughthem. Rheya had also located some reading matter. Looking over her shoulder, I saw that shehad picked one of the many books brought out by the first expedition, the InterplanetaryCookery Book. which could have been the personal property of Giese himself. She was poringover the recipes adapted to the arduous conditions of interstellar flight. I said nothing, andreturned to the book resting on my knees. Solaris—Ten Years of Exploration had appeared asvolumes 4-12 of the Solariana collection whose most recent additions were numbered in thethousands.

Giese was an unemotional man, but then in the study of Solaris emotion is a hindrance to theexplorer. Imagination and premature theorizing are positive disadvantages in approaching aplanet where—as has become clear—anything is possible. It is almost certain that the unlikelydescriptions of the 'plasmatic' metamorphoses of the ocean are faithful accounts of thephenomena observed, although these descriptions are unverifiable, since the ocean seldomrepeats itself. The freakish character and gigantic scale of these phenomena go too far outsidethe experience of man to be grasped by anybody observing them for the first time, and whowould consider analogous occurrences as 'sports of nature,' accidental manifestations of blindforces, if he saw them on a reduced scale, say in a mud-volcano on Earth.

Genius and mediocrity alike are dumbfounded by the teeming diversity of the oceanicformations of Solaris; no man has ever become genuinely conversant with them. Giese was byno means a mediocrity, nor was he a genius. He was a scholarly classifier, the type whosecompulsive application to their work utterly divorces them from the pressures of everyday life.

Giese devised a plain descriptive terminology, supplemented by terms of his own invention,and although these were inadequate, and sometimes clumsy, it has to be admitted that nosemantic system is as yet available to illustrate the behavior of the ocean. The 'tree-mountains,'

'extensors,' 'fungoids,' 'mimoids,' 'symmetriads' and 'asymmetriads,' 'vertebrids' and 'agilus' areartificial, linguistically awkward terms, but they do give some impression of Solaris to anyonewho has only seen the planet in blurred photographs and incomplete films. The fact is that inspite of his cautious nature the scrupulous Giese more than once jumped to prematureconclusions. Even when on their guard, human beings inevitably theorize. Giese, who thoughthimself immune to temptation, decided that the 'extensors' came into the category of basicforms. He compared them to accumulations of gigantic waves, similar to the tidal movementsof our Terran oceans. In the first edition of his work, we find them originally named as 'tides.'

This geocentrism might be considered amusing if it did not underline the dilemma in which hefound himself.

As soon as the question of comparisons with Earth arises, it must be understood that the'extensors' are formations that dwarf the Grand Canyon, that they are produced in a substancewhich externally resembles a yeasty colloid (during this fantastic 'fermentation,' the yeast setsinto festoons of starched open-work lace; some experts refer to 'ossified tumors'), and thatdeeper down the substance becomes increasingly resistant, like a tensed muscle which fifty feetbelow the surface is as hard as rock but retains its flexibility. The 'extensor' appears to be anindependent creation, stretching for miles between membranous walls swollen with 'ossifiedgrowths,' like some colossal python which after swallowing a mountain is sluggishly digestingthe meal, while a slow shudder occasionally ripples along its creeping body. The 'extensor'

only looks like a lethargic reptile from overhead. At close quarters, when the two 'canyonwalls' loom hundreds of yards above the exploring aircraft, it can be seen that this inflatedcylinder, reaching from one side of the horizon to the other, is bewilderingly alive withmovement. First you notice the continual rotating motion of a greyish-green, oily sludge whichreflects blinding sunlight, but skimming just above the 'back of the python' (the 'ravine'

sheltering the 'extensor' now resembles the sides of a geological fault), you realize that themotion is in fact far more complex, and consists of concentric fluctuations traversed by darkercurrents. Occasionally this mantle turns into a shining crust that reflects sky and clouds andthen is riddled by explosive eruptions of the internal gases and fluids. The observer slowlyrealizes that he is looking at the guiding forces that are thrusting outward and upward the twogradually crystallizing gelatinous walls. Science does not accept the obvious without furtherproof, however, and virulent controversies have reverberated down the years on the keyquestion of the exact sequence of events in the interior of the 'extensors that furrow the vastliving ocean in their millions.

Various organic functions have been ascribed to the 'extensors.' Some experts have argued thattheir purpose is the transformation of matter; others suggested respiratory processes; still othersclaimed that they conveyed alimentary materials. An infinite variety of hypotheses nowmoulder in library basements, eliminated by ingenious, sometimes dangerous experiments.

Today, the scientists will go no further than to refer to the 'extensors' as relatively simple,stable formations whose duration is measurable in weeks—an exceptional characteristic amongthe recorded phenomena of the planet.

The 'mimoid' formations are considerably more complex and bizarre, and elicit a morevehement response from the observer, an instinctive response, I mean. It can be stated withoutexaggeration that Giese fell in love with the 'mimoids' and was soon devoting all his time tothem. For the rest of his life, he studied and described them and brought all his ingenuity tobear on defining their nature. The name he gave them indicates their most astonishingcharacteristic, the imitation of objects, near or far, external to the ocean itself.

Concealed at first beneath the ocean surface, a large flattened disc appears, ragged, with a tar-like coating. After a few hours, it begins to separate into flat sheets which rise slowly. Theobserver now becomes a spectator at what looks like a fight to the death, as massed ranks ofwaves converge from all directions like contorted, fleshy mouths which snap greedily aroundthe tattered, fluttering leaf, then plunge into the depths. As each ring of waves breaks andsinks, the fall of this mass of hundreds of thousands of tons is accompanied for an instant by aviscous rumbling, an immense thunderclap. The tarry leaf is overwhelmed, battered and tornapart; with every fresh assault, circular fragments scatter and drift like feebly fluttering wingsbelow the ocean surface. They bunch into pear-shaped clusters or long strings, merge and riseagain, and drag with them an undertow of coagulated shreds of the base of the primal disc. Theencircling waves continue to break around the steadily expanding crater. This phenomenonmay persist for a day or linger on for a month, and sometimes there are no furtherdevelopments. The conscientious Giese dubbed this first variation a 'stillbirth,' convinced thateach of these upheavals aspired towards an ultimate condition, the 'major mimoid,' like a polypcolony (only covering an area greater than a town) of pale outcroppings with the faculty ofimitating foreign bodies. Uyvens, on the other hand, saw this final stage as constituting adegeneration or necrosis: according to him, the appearance of the 'copies' corresponded to alocalized dissipation of the life energies of the ocean, which was no longer in control of theoriginal forms it created.

Giese would not abandon his account of the various phases of the process as a sustainedprogression towards perfection, with a conviction which is particularly surprising coming froma man of such a moderate, cautious turn of mind in advancing the most trivial hypothesis onthe other creations of the ocean. Normally he had all the boldness of an ant crawling up aglacier.

Viewed from above, the mimoid resembles a town, an illusion produced by our compulsion tosuperimpose analogies with what we know. When the sky is clear, a shimmering heat-hazecovers the pliant structures of the clustered polyps surmounted by membranous palisades. Thefirst cloud passing overhead wakens the mimoid. All the outcrops suddenly sprout new shoots,then the mass of polyps ejects a thick tegument which dilates, puffs out, changes color and inthe space of a few minutes has produced an astonishing imitation of the volutes of a cloud. Theenormous 'object' casts a reddish shadow over the mimoid, whose peaks ripple and bendtogether, always in the opposite direction to the movement of the real cloud. I imagine thatGiese would have been ready to give his right hand to discover what made the mimoids behavein this way, but these 'isolated' productions are nothing in comparison to the frantic activity themimoid displays when 'stimulated' by objects of human origin.

The reproduction process embraces every object inside a radius of eight or nine miles. Usuallythe facsimile is an enlargement of the original, whose forms are sometimes only roughlycopied. The reproduction of machines, in particular, elicits simplifications that might beconsidered grotesque—practically caricatures. The copy is always modelled in the samecolorless tegument, which hovers above the outcrops, linked to its base by flimsy umbilicalcords; it slides, creeps, curls back on itself, shrinks or swells and finally assumes the mostcomplicated forms. An aircraft, a net or a pole are all reproduced at the same speed. Themimoid is not stimulated by human beings themselves, and in fact it does not react to anyliving matter, and has never copied, for example, the plants imported for experimentalpurposes. On the other hand, it will readily reproduce a puppet or a doll, a carving of a dog, ora tree sculpted in any material.

The observer must bear in mind that the 'obedience' of the mimoid does not constitute evidenceof cooperation, since it is not consistent. The most highly evolved mimoid has its off-days,when it 'lives' in slow-motion, or its pulsation weakens. (This pulsation is invisible to the nakedeye, and was only discovered after close examination of rapid-motion film of the mimoid,which revealed that each 'beat' took two hours.)During these 'off-days,' it is easy to explore the mimoid, especially if it is old, for the baseanchored in the ocean, like the protuberances growing out of it, is relatively solid, and providesa firm footing for a man. It is equally possible to remain inside the mimoid during periods ofactivity, except that visibility is close to nil because of the whitish colloidal dust continuallyemitted through tears in the tegument above. In any case, at close range it is impossible todistinguish what forms the tegument is assuming, on account of their vast size—the smallest'copy' is the size of a mountain. In addition, a thick layer of colloidal snow quickly covers thebase of the mimoid: this spongy carpet takes several hours to solidify (the 'frozen' crust willtake the weight of a man, though its composition is much lighter than pumice stone). Theproblem is that without special equipment there is a risk of being lost in the maze of tangledstructures and crevasses, sometimes reminiscent of jumbled colonnades, sometimes of petrifiedgeysers. Even in daylight it is easy to lose one's direction, for the sun's rays cannot pierce thewhite ceiling ejected into the atmosphere by the 'imitative explosions.'

On gala days (for the scientist as well as for the mimoid), an unforgettable spectacle developsas the mimoid goes into hyperproduction and performs wild flights of fancy. It plays variationson the theme of a given object and embroiders 'formal extensions' that amuse it for hours onend, to the delight of the non-figurative artist and the despair of the scientist, who is at a loss tograsp any common theme in the performance. The mimoid can produce 'primitive'

simplifications, but is just as likely to indulge in 'baroque' deviations, paroxysms ofextravagant brilliance. Old mimoids tend to manufacture extremely comic forms. Looking atthe photographs, I have never been moved to laughter; the riddle they set is too disquieting tobe funny.

During the early years of exploration, the scientists literally threw themselves upon themimoids, which were spoken of as open windows on the ocean and the best opportunity toestablish the hoped-for contact between the two civilizations. They were soon forced to admitthat there was not the slightest prospect of communication, and that the entire process beganand ended with the reproduction of forms. The mimoids were a dead end.

Giving way to the temptations of a latent anthropomorphism or zoomorphism, there were manyschools of thought which saw various other oceanic formations as 'sensory organs,' even as'limbs,' which was how experts like Maartens and Ekkonai classified Giese's 'vertebrids' and'agilus' for a time. Anyone who is rash enough to see protuberances that reach as far as twomiles into the atmosphere as limbs, might just as well claim that earthquakes are thegymnastics of the Earth's crust!

Three hundred chapters of Giese catalogue the standard formations which occur on the surfaceof the living ocean and which can be seen in dozens, even hundreds, in the course of any day.

The symmetriads—to continue using the terminology and definitions of the Giese school—arethe least 'human' formations, which is to say that they bear no resemblance whatsoever toanything on Earth. By the time, the symmetriads were being investigated, it was already clearthat the ocean was not aggressive, and that its plasmatic eddies would not swallow any but themost foolhardy explorer (of course I am not including accidents resulting from mechanicalfailures). It is possible to fly in complete safety from one part to another of the cylindrical bodyof an extensor, or of the vertebrids, Jacob's ladders oscillating among the clouds: the plasmaretreats at the speed of sound in the planet's atmosphere to make way for any foreign body.

Deep funnels will open even beneath the surface of the ocean (at a prodigious expenditure ofenergy, calculated by Scriabin at around 10^19 ergs). Nevertheless the first venture into theinterior of a symmetriad was undertaken with the utmost caution and discipline, and involved ahost of what turned out to be unnecessary safety measures. Every schoolboy on Earth knows ofthese pioneers.

It is not their nightmare appearance that makes the gigantic symmetriad formations dangerous,but the total instability and capriciousness of their structure, in which even the laws of physicsdo not hold. The theory that the living ocean is endowed with intelligence has found its firmestadherents among those scientists who have ventured into their unpredictable depths.

The birth of a symmetriad comes like a sudden eruption. About an hour beforehand, an area oftens of square miles of ocean vitrifies and begins to shine. It remains fluid, and there is noalteration in the rhythm of the waves. Occasionally the phenomenon of vitrification occurs inthe neighbourhood of the funnel left by an agilus. The gleaming sheath of the ocean heavesupwards to form a vast ball that reflects sky, sun, clouds and the entire horizon in a medley ofchanging, variegated images. Diffracted light creates a kaleidoscopic play of color.

The effects of light on a symmetriad are especially striking during the blue day and the redsunset. The planet appears to be giving birth to a twin that increases in volume from onemoment to the next. The immense flaming globe has scarcely reached its maximum expansionabove the ocean when it bursts at the summit and cracks vertically. It is not breaking up; this isthe second phase, which goes under the clumsy name of the 'floral calyx phase' and lasts only afew seconds. The membranous arches soaring into the sky now fold inwards and merge toproduce a thick-set trunk enclosing a scene of teeming activity. At the center of the trunk,which was explored for the first time by the seventy-man Hamalei expedition, a process ofpolycrystallization on a giant scale erects an axis commonly referred to as the 'backbone,' aterm which I consider ill-chosen. The mind-bending architecture of this central pillar is held inplace by vertical shafts of a gelatinous, almost liquid consistency, constantly gushing upwardsout of wide crevasses. Meanwhile, the entire trunk is surrounded by a belt of snow foam,seething with great bubbles of gas, and the whole process is accompanied by a perpetual dullroar of sound. From the center towards the periphery, powerful buttresses spin out and arecoated with streams of ductile matter rising out of the ocean depths Simultaneously thegelatinous geysers are converted into mobile columns that proceed to extrude tendrils thatreach out in clusters towards points rigorously predetermined by the over-all dynamics of theentire structure: they call to mind the gills of an embryo, except that they are revolving atfantastic speed and ooze trickles of pinkish 'blood' and a dark green secretion.

The symmetriad now begins to display its most exotic characteristic—the property of'illustrating,' sometimes contradicting, various laws of physics. (Bear in mind that no twosymmetriads are alike, and that the geometry of each one is a unique 'invention' of the livingocean.) The interior of the symmetriad becomes a factory for the production of 'monumentalmachines,' as these constructs are sometimes called, although they resemble no machine whichit is within the power of mankind to build: the designation is applied because all this activityhas finite ends, and is therefore in some sense 'mechanical.'

When the geysers of oceanic matter have solidified into pillars or into three-dimensionalnetworks of galleries and passages, and the 'membranes' are set into an inextricable pattern ofstoreys, panels and vaults, the symmetriad justifies its name, for the entire structure is dividedinto two segments, each mirroring the other to the most infinitesimal detail.

After twenty or thirty minutes, when the axis may have tilted as much as eight to ten degreesfrom the horizontal, the giant begins slowly to subside. (Symmetriads vary in size, but as thebase begins to submerge even the smallest reach a height of half a mile, and are visible frommiles away.) At last, the structure stabilizes itself, and the partly submerged symmetriad ceasesits activity. It is now possible to explore it in complete safety by making an entry near thesummit, through one of the many syphons which emerge from the dome. The completedsymmetriad represents a spatial analogue of some transcendental equation.

It is a commonplace that any equation can be expressed in the figurative language of non-Euclidean geometry and represented in three dimensions. This interpretation relates thesymmetriad to Lobachevsky's cones and Riemann's negative curves, although its unimaginablecomplexity makes the relationship highly tenuous. The eventual form occupies an area ofseveral cubic miles and extends far beyond our whole system of mathematics. In addition, thisextension is four-dimensional, for the fundamental terms of the equations use a temporalsymbolism expressed in the internal changes over a given period.

It would be only natural, clearly, to suppose that the symmetriad is a 'computer' of the livingocean, performing calculations for a purpose that we are not able to grasp. This was Fremont'stheory, now generally discounted. The hypothesis was a tempting one, but it proved impossibleto sustain the concept that the living ocean examined problems of matter, the cosmos andexistence through the medium of titanic eruptions, in which every particle had an indispensablefunction as a controlled element in an analytical system of infinite purity. In fact, numerousphenomena contradict this over-simplified (some say childishly na.ve) concept.

Any number of attempts have been made to transpose and 'illustrate' the symmetriad, andAverian's demonstration was particularly well received. Let us imagine, he said, an edificedating from the great days of Babylon, but built of some living, sensitive substance with thecapacity to evolve: the architectonics of this edifice pass through a series of phases, and we seeit adopt the forms of a Greek, then of a Roman building. The columns sprout like branches andbecome narrower, the roof grows lighter, rises, curves, the arch describes an abrupt parabolathen breaks down into an arrow shape: the Gothic is born, comes to maturity and gives way intime to new forms. Austerity of line gives way to a riot of exploding lines and shapes, and theBaroque runs wild. If the progression continues—and the successive mutations are to be seenas stages in the life of an evolving organism—we finally arrive at the architecture of the spaceage, and perhaps too at some understanding of the symmetriad.

Unfortunately, no matter how this demonstration may be expanded and unproved (there havebeen attempts to visualize it with the aid of models and films), the comparison remainssuperficial. It is evasive and illusory, and side-steps the central fact that the symmetriad is quiteunlike anything Earth has ever produced.

The human mind is only capable of absorbing a few things at a time. We see what is takingplace in front of us in the here and now, and cannot envisage simultaneously a succession ofprocesses, no matter how integrated and complementary. Our faculties of perception areconsequently limited even as regards fairly simple phenomena. The fate of a single man can berich with significance, that of a few hundred less so, but the history of thousands and millionsof men does not mean anything at all, in any adequate sense of the word. The symmetriad is amillion—a billion, rather—raised to the power of N: it is incomprehensible. We pass throughvast halls, each with a capacity of ten Kronecker units, and creep like so many ants clinging tothe folds of breathing vaults and craning to watch the flight of soaring girders, opalescent in theglare of searchlights, and elastic domes which criss-cross and balance each other unerringly,the perfection of a moment, since everything here passes and fades, The essence of thisarchitecture is movement synchronized towards a precise objective. We observe a fraction ofthe process, like hearing the vibration of a single string in an orchestra of supergiants. Weknow, but cannot grasp, that above and below, beyond the limits of perception or imagination,thousands and millions of simultaneous transformations are at work, interlinked like a musicalscore by mathematical counterpoint. It has been described as a symphony in geometry, but welack the ears to hear it.

Only a long-distance view would reveal the entire process, but the outer covering of thesymmetriad conceals the colossal inner matrix where creation is unceasing, the createdbecomes the creator, and absolutely identical 'twins' are born at opposite poles, separated bytowering structures and miles of distance. The symphony creates itself, and writes its ownconclusion, which is terrible to watch. Every observer feels like a spectator at a tragedy or apublic massacre, when after two or three hours—never longer—the living ocean stages itsassault. The polished surface of the ocean swirls and crumples, the desiccated foam liquefiesagain, begins to seethe, and legions of waves pour inwards from every point of the horizon,their gaping mouths far more massive than the greedy lips that surround the embryonicmimoid. The submerged base of the symmetriad is compressed, and the colossus rises as if onthe point of being shot out of the planet's gravitational pull. The upper layers of the oceanredouble their activity, and the waves surge higher and higher to lick against the sides of thesymmetriad. They envelop it, harden and plug the orifices, but their attack is nothing comparedto the scene in the interior. First the process of creation freezes momentarily; then there is'panic.' The smooth interpenetration of moving forms and the harmonious play of planes andlines accelerates, and the impression is inescapable that the symmetriad is hurrying to completesome task in the face of danger. The awe inspired by the metamorphosis and dynamics of thesymmetriad intensifies as the proud sweep of the domes falters, vaults sag and droop, and'wrong notes'—incomplete, mangled forms—make their appearance. A powerful moaning roarissues from the invisible depths like a sigh of agony, reverberates through the narrow funnelsand booms through the collapsing domes. In spite of the growing destructive violence of theseconvulsions, the spectator is rooted to the spot. Only the force of the hurricane streaing out ofthe depths and howling through the thousands of galleries keeps the great structure erect. Soonit subsides and starts to disintegrate. There are final flutterings, contortions, and blind, randomspasms. Gnawed and undermined, the giant sinks slowly and disappears, and the space where itstood is covered with whirlpools of foam.

So what does all this mean?

I remembered an incident dating from my spell as assistant to Gibarian. A group ofschoolchildren visiting the Solarist Institute in Aden were making their way through the mainhall of the library and looking at the racks of microfilm that occupied the entire left-hand sideof the hall. The guide explained that among other phenomena immortalized by the image, thesecontained fragmentary glimpses of symmetriads long since vanished—not single shots, butwhole reels, more than ninety thousand of them!

One plump schoolgirl (she looked about fifteen, peering inquisitively over her spectacles)abruptly asked: "And what is it for?"In the ensuing embarrassed silence, the school mistress was content to dart a reproving look ather wayward pupil. Among the Solarists whose job was to act as guides (I was one of them),no one would produce an answer. Each symmetriad is unique, and the developments in its heartare, generally speaking, unpredictable. Sometimes there is no sound. Sometimes the index ofrefraction increases or diminishes. Sometimes, rhythmic pulsations are accompanied by localchanges in gravitation, as if the heart of the symmetriad were beating by gravitating.

Sometimes the compasses of the observers spin wildly, and ionized layers spring up anddisappear. The catalogue could go on indefinitely. In any case, even if we did ever succeed insolving the riddle of the symmetriads, we would still have to contend with the asymmetriads!

The asymmetriads are born in the same manner as the symmetriads but finish differently, andnothing can be seen of their internal processes except tremors, vibrations and flickering. We doknow, however, that the interior houses bewildering operations performed at a speed that defiesthe laws of physics and which are dubbed 'giant quantic phenomena.' The mathematicalanalogy with certain three-dimensional models of the atom is so unstable and transitory thatsome commentators dismiss the resemblance as of secondary importance, if not purelyaccidental. The asymmetriads have a very short life-span of fifteen to twenty minutes, and theirdeath is even more appalling than that of the symmetriads: with the howling gale that screamsthrough its fabric, a thick fluid gushes out, gurgles hideously, and submerges everythingbeneath a foul, bubbling foam. Then an explosion, coinciding with a muddy eruption, hurls upa spout of debris which rains slowly down into the seething ocean. This debris is sometimesfound scores of miles from the focus of the explosion, dried up, yellow and flattened, likeflakes of cartilage.

Some other creations of the ocean, which are much more rare and of very variable duration,part company with the parent body entirely. The first traces of these 'independents' wereidentified—wrongly, it was later proved—as the remains of creatures inhabiting the oceandeeps. The free-ranging forms are often reminiscent of many-winged birds, darting away fromthe moving trunks of the agilus, but the preconceptions of Earth offer no assistance inunravelling the mysteries of Solaris. Strange, seal-like bodies appear now and then on therocky outcrop of an island, sprawling in the sun or dragging themselves lazily back to mergewith the ocean.

There was no escaping the impressions that grew out of man's experience on Earth. Theprospects of Contact receded.

Explorers travelled hundreds of miles in the depths of symmetriads, and installed measuringinstruments and remote-control cameras. Artificial satellites captured the birth of mimoids andextensors, and faithfully reproduced their images of growth and destruction. The librariesoverflowed, the archives grew, and the price paid for all this documentation was often veryheavy. One notorious disaster cost one hundred and six people their lives, among them Giesehimself: while studying what was undoubtedly a symmetriad, the expedition was suddenlydestroyed by a process peculiar to the asymmetriads. In two seconds, an eruption of glutinousmud swallowed up seventy-nine men and all their equipment. Another twenty-seven observerssurveying the area from aircraft and helicopters were also caught in the eruption.

Following the Eruption of the Hundred and Six, and for the first time in Solarist studies, therewere petitions demanding a thermo-nuclear attack on the ocean. Such a response would havebeen more cruelty than revenge, since it would have meant destroying what we did notunderstand. Tsanken's ultimatum, which was never offically acknowledged, probablyinfluenced the negative outcome of the vote. He was in command of Giese's reserve team, andhad survived owing to a transmission error that took him off his course, to arrive in the disasterarea a few minutes after the explosion, when the black mushroom cloud was still visible.

Informed of the proposal for a nuclear strike, he threatened to blow up the Station, togetherwith the nineteen survivors sheltering inside it.

Today, there are only three of us on the Station. Its construction was controlled by satellites,and was a technical feat on which the human race has a right to pride itself, even if the oceanbuilds far more impressive structures in the space of a few seconds. The Station is a disc of onehundred yards radius, and contains four decks at the center and two at the circumference. It ismaintained at a height of from five to fifteen hundred yards above the ocean by gravitorsprogrammed to compensate for the ocean's own field of attraction. In addition to all themachines available to ordinary Stations and the large artificial satellites that orbit other planets,the Solaris Station is equipped with specialized radar apparatus sensitive to the smallestfluctuations of the ocean surface, which trips auxiliary power-circuits capable of thrusting thesteel disc into the stratosphere at the first indication of new plasmatic upheavals.

But today, in spite of the presence of our faithful 'visitors,' the Station was strangely deserted.

Ever since the robots had been locked away in the lower-deck store-rooms—for a reason I hadstill not discovered—it had been possible to walk around without meeting a single member ofthe crew of our ghost ship.

As I replaced the ninth volume of Giese on the shelf, the plastic-coated steel floor seemed toshudder under my feet. I stood still, but the vibration had stopped. The library was completelyisolated from the other rooms, and the only possible source of vibration must be a shuttleleaving the Station. This thought jerked me back to reality. I had not yet decided to acceptSartorius's suggestion and leave the Station. By feigning approval of his plan, I had been moreor less postponing the outbreak of hostilities, for I was determined to save Rheya. All the same,Sartorius might have some chance of success. He certainly had the advantage of being aqualified physicist, while I was in the ironic position of having to count on the superiority ofthe ocean. I pored over microfilm texts for an hour, and made myself wrestle with theunfamiliar language of neutrino physics. The undertaking seemed hopeless at first: there wereno less than five current theories dealing with neutrino fields, an obvious indication that nonewas definitive. Eventually I struck promising ground, and was busily copying down equationswhen there was a knock at the door. I got up quickly and opened it a few inches, to see Snow'sperspiring face, and behind him an empty corridor.

"Yes, it's me." His voice was hoarse, and there were dark pouches under the bloodshot eyes.

He wore an antiradiation apron of shiny rubber, and the same worn old trousers held up byelastic braces.

Snow's gaze flickered round the circular chamber and alighted on Rheya where she stood by anarmchair at the other end. Then it returned to me, and I lowered my eyelids imperceptibly. Henodded, and I spoke casually:

"Rheya, come and meet Dr. Snow…Snow—my wife.""I…I'm just a minor member of the crew. Don't get about much…" He faltered, but managed toblurt out: "That's why I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before…"Rheya smiled and held out her hand, which he shook in some surprise. He blinked severaltimes and stood looking at her, tongue-tied, until I took him by the arm.

"Excuse me," he said to Rheya. "I wanted a word with you, Kelvin…""Of course." (My composure was an ugly charade, but what else could I do?) "Take no noticeof us, Rheya. We'll be talking shop…"I guided Snow over to the chairs on the far side of the room, and Rheya sat in the armchair Ihad occupied earlier, swivelling it so that she could glance up at us from her book. I loweredmy voice:

"Any news?""I'm divorced," he whispered. If anybody had quoted this to me as the opening of aconversation a few days before, I would have burst out laughing, but the Station had bluntedmy sense of humor. "It feels like years since yesterday morning," he went on. "And you?""Nothing." I was at a loss for words. I liked Snow, but I distrusted him, or rather I distrustedthe purpose of his visit.

"Nothing? Surely…""What?" I pretended not to understand.

Eyes half shut, he leaned so close to me that I could feel his breath on my face:

"This business has all of us confused, Kelvin. I can't make contact with Sartorius. All I know iswhat I wrote to you, which is what he told me after our little conference…"Has he disconnected his videophone?""No, there's been a short-circuit at his end. He could have done it on purpose, but there'salso…" He clenched his fist and mimed somebody aiming a punch, curling his lips in anunpleasant grin. "Kelvin, I came here to…What do you intend doing?""You want my answer to your letter. All right, I'll go on the trip, there's no reason for me torefuse. I've only been getting ready…""No," he interrupted. "It isn't that.""What then? Go on.""Sartorius thinks he may be on the right track," Snow muttered. His eyes never left me, and Ihad to stay still and try to look casual. "It all started with that X-ray experiment that he andGibarian arranged, you remember. That could have produced some alteration…""What kind of alteration?""They beamed the rays directly into the ocean. The intensity was only modulated according toa pre-set program.""I know. It's already been done by Nilin and a lot of others.""Yes, but the others worked on low power. This time they used everything we had.""That could lead to trouble…violating the four-power convention, and the United Nations…""Come on, Kelvin, you know as well as I do that it doesn't matter now. Gibarian is dead.""So Sartorius makes him the scapegoat?""I don't know. We haven't talked about that. Sartorius is intrigued by the visiting hours. Theyonly come as we wake up, which suggests that the ocean is especially interested in our sleepinghours, and that that is when it locates its patterns. Sartorius wants to send our waking selves—our conscious thoughts. You see?""By mail?""Keep the jokes to yourself. The idea is to modulate the X-rays by hooking in an electroencephalographtaken from one of us.""Ah!" Light was beginning to dawn. "And that one of us is me?""Yes, Sartorius had you in mind.""Tell him I'm flattered.""Will you do it?"I hesitated. Snow darted a look at Rheya, who seemed absorbed in her book. I felt my face turnpale.

"Well?""The idea of using X-rays to preach sermons on the greatness of mankind seems absolutelyridiculous to me. Don't you think so?""You mean it?""Yes.""Right," he said, smiling as if I had fallen in with some idea of his own, "then you're opposedto the plan?"His expression told me that he had somehow been a step ahead of me all the time.

"Okay," he went on. "There is a second plan—to construct a Roche apparatus.""An annihilator?""Yes. Sartorius has already made the preliminary calculations. It is feasible, and it won't evenrequire any great expenditure of energy. The apparatus will generate a negative field twenty-four hours a day, and for an unlimited period.""And its effect?""Simple. It will be a negative neutrino field. Ordinary matter will not be affected at all. Onlythe…neutrino structures will be destroyed. You see?"Snow gave me a satisfied grin. I stood stock-still and gaping, so that he stopped smiling,looked at me with a frown, and waited a moment before speaking:

"We abandon the first plan then, the 'Brainwave' plan? Sartorius is working on the other oneright now. We'll call it 'Project Liberation.'"I had to make a quick decision. Snow was no physicist, and Sartorius's videophone wasdisconnected or smashed. I took the chance:

"I'd rather call the second idea 'Operation Slaughterhouse.'""And you ought to know! Don't tell me you haven't had some practice lately. Only there'll be aradical difference this time—no more visitors, no more Phi-creatures—they will disintegrate assoon as they appear."I nodded, and managed what I hoped was a convincing smile:

"You haven't got the point. Morality is one thing, but self-preservation…I just don't want to getus killed, Snow."He stared back at me suspiciously, as I showed him my scribbled equations:

"I've been working along the same lines. Don't look so surprised. The neutrino theory was myidea in the first place, remember? Look. Negative fields can be generated all right. Andordinary matter is unaffected. But what happens to the energy that maintains the neutrinostructure when it disintegrates? There must be a considerable release of that energy. Assuminga kilogram of ordinary matter represents 10^8 ergs, for a Phi-creation we get 5^7 multiplied by10^8. That means the equivalent of a small atomic bomb exploding inside the Station.""You mean to tell me Sartorius won't have been over all this?"It was my turn to grin maliciously:

"Not necessarily. Sartorius follows the Frazer-Cajolla school. Their theories would indicatethat the energy potential would be given off in the form of light—powerful, yes, but notdestructive. But that isn't the only theory of neutrino fields. According to Cayatte, and Avalov,and Sion, the radiation-spectrum would be much broader. At its maximum, there would be astrong burst of gamma radiation. Sartorius has faith in his tutors. I don't say we can't respectthat, but there are other tutors, and other theories. And another thing, Snow,"—I could see himbeginning to waver—"we have to bear in mind the ocean itself! It is bound to have used theoptimum means of designing its creations. It seems to me that we can't afford to back Sartoriusagainst the ocean as well as the other theories.""Give me that paper, Kelvin."I passed it to him, and he poured over my equations.

"What's this?" He pointed to a line of calculations.

"That? The transformation tensor of the magnetic field.""Give it here.""Why?" (I already knew his reply.)"I'll have to show Sartorius.""If you say so," I shrugged. "You're welcome to it, naturally, provided you realize that thesetheories have never been tested experimentally: neutrino structures have been abstractions untilnow. Sartorius is relying on Frazer, and I've followed Sion's theory. He'll say I'm no physicist,or Sion either, not from his point of view, at least. He will dispute my figures, and I'm notgoing to get into the kind of argument where he tries to browbeat me for his own satisfaction.

You, I can convince. I couldn't begin to convince Sartorius, and I have no intention of trying.""Then what do you want to do? He's already started work…"All his earlier animation had subsided, and he spoke in a monotone. I did not know if hetrusted me, and I did not much care:

"What do I want to do? Whatever a man does when his life is in danger.""I'll try to contact him. Maybe he can develop some kind of safety device…And then there'sthe first plan. Would you cooperate? Sartorius would agree, I'm sure of it. At least it's worth atry.""You think so?""No," he snapped back. "But what have we got to lose?"I was in no hurry to accept. It was time that I needed, and Snow could help me to prolong thedelay:

"I'll think about it.""Okay, I'm going." His bones creaked as he got up. "We'll have to begin with theencephalogram," he said, rubbing at his overall as if to get rid of some invisible stain.

Without a word to Rheya, he walked to the door, and after it had closed behind him I got upand crumpled the sheet of paper in my hand. I had not falsified the equations, but I doubtedwhether Sion would have agreed with my extensions of his theory. I started abruptly, asRheya's hand touched my shoulder.

"Kris, who is he?""I told you, Dr. Snow.""What's he like?""I don't know him very well…why?""He was giving me such a strange look.""So you're an attractive woman….""No, this was a different sort of look…as if…." She trembled, looked up at me momentarily,then lowered her eyes. "Let's go back to the cabin."