I sat by the panoramic window, looking at the ocean. There was nothing to do now that thereport, which had taken five days to compile, was only a pattern of waves in space. It would bemonths before a similar pattern would leave earth to create its own line of disturbance in thegravitational 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 reddishmist. The weather was unusually close, and seemed to be building up towards one of theterrible 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 theobservatory I would watch the birth of the days—a disc of pale gold or faded purple. Now andthen I would come upon the light of dawn playing among the fluid forms of some edifice risenfrom the ocean, watch the sun reflected on the silver sphere of a symmetriad, follow theoscillations of the graceful agiluses that curve in the wind, and linger to examine old powderymimoids.
And eventually, the screens of all the videophones would start to blink and all thecommunications equipment would spring to life again, revived by an impulse originatingbillions of miles away and announcing the arrival of a metal colossus. The Ulysses, or it mightbe the Prometheus, would land on the Station to the piercing whine of its gravitors, and Iwould go out onto the flat roof to watch the squads of white, heavy-duty robots which proceedin all innocence with their tasks, not hesitating to destroy themselves or to destroy theunforeseen 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 overthe 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 wouldwander and lose myself, and I thought of them as I had thought of the ocean on the second orthird night, when I had wanted to throw myself upon the dark waves. I shall immerse myselfamong men. I shall be silent and attentive, an appreciative companion. There will be manyacquaintances, friends, women—and perhaps even a wife. For a while, I shall have to make aconscious effort to smile, nod, stand and perform the thousands of little gestures whichconstitute life on Earth, and then those gestures will become reflexes again. I shall find newinterests and occupations; and I shall not give myself completely to them, as I shall never againgive myself completely to anything or anybody. Perhaps at night I shall stare up at the darknebula that cuts off the light of the twin suns, and remember everything, even what I amthinking now. With a condescending, slightly rueful smile I shall remember my follies and myhopes. And this future Kelvin will be no less worthy a man than the Kelvin of the past, whowas prepared for anything in the name of an ambitious enterprise called Contact. Nor will anyman 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 particularlyurgent 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 thehistory of religions, and perhaps this is nothing new—do you happen to know if there was evera belief in an…imperfect god?""What do you mean by imperfect?" Snow frowned. "In a way all the gods of the old religionswere imperfect, considering that their attributes were amplified human ones. The God of theOld Testament, for instance, required humble submission and sacrifices, and was jealous ofother gods. The Greek gods had fits of sulks and family quarrels, and they were just asimperfect as mortals…""No," I interrupted. "I'm not thinking of a god whose imperfection arises out of the candor ofhis human creators, but one whose imperfection represents his essential characteristic: a godlimited in his omniscience and power, fallible, incapable of foreseeing the consequences of hisacts, and creating things that lead to horror. He is a…sick god, whose ambitions exceed hispowers and who does not realize it at first. A god who has created clocks, but not the time theymeasure. He has created systems or mechanisms that served specific ends but have nowoverstepped and betrayed them. And he has created eternity, which was to have measured hispower, 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 godhas 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 neverbeen…necessary. If I understand you, and I'm afraid I do, what you have in mind is anevolving god, who develops in the course of time, grows, and keeps increasing in power whileremaining aware of his powerlessness. For your god, the divine condition is a situation withouta 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 alsomystically speaking."I kept on:
"No, it's nothing to do with man. Man may correspond to my provisional definition from somepoints of view, but that is because the definition has a lot of gaps. Man does not create gods, inspite of appearances. The times, the age, impose them on him. Man can serve his age or rebelagainst it, but the target of his cooperation or rebellion comes to him from outside. If there wasonly a single human being in existence, he would apparently be able to attempt the experimentof creating his own goals in complete freedom—apparently, because a man not brought upamong other human beings cannot become a man. And the being—the being I have in mind—cannotexist 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 thedivine state, but it turned back into itself too soon. It is more like an anchorite, a hermit of thecosmos, 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 willhave some childish enthusiasm that will set him putting out one star and lighting another. Wewill notice him after a while…""We already have," Snow said sarcastically. "Novas and supernovas. According to you they arethe 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 grinthat increased the number of lines round his eyes. "Solaris could be the first phase of thedespairing God. Perhaps its intelligence will grow enormously. All the contents of our Solaristlibraries 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 whatyou have just done? You've produced a completely new hypothesis about Solaris—congratulations! Everything suddenly falls into place: the failure to achieve contact, theabsence 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 intoview to the east, in the mist obscuring the horizon.
Without talcing 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 whosimply 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 goodopportunity. 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 Idon'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 onsilently. 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 firstflight over the ocean?"Snow muttered something, but I could not make out what. I was in a hurry to get the rest of thegear together.
He accompanied me to the hangar deck, and helped me drag the flitter out onto the elevatordisc. As I was checking my suit, he asked me abruptly:
"Can I rely on your word?""Still fretting? Yes, you can. Where are the oxygen tanks?"We exchanged no further words. I slid the transparent canopy shut, gave him the signal, and heset the lift going. I emerged onto the Station roof; the motor burst into life; the three bladesturned and the machine rose—strangely light—into the air. Soon the Station had fallen farbehind.
Alone over the ocean, I saw it with a different eye. I was flying quite low, at about a hundredfeet, and for the first time I felt a sensation often described by the explorers but which I hadnever noticed from the height of the Station: the alternating motion of the gleaming waves wasnot at all like the undulation of the sea or the billowing of clouds. It was like the crawling skinof an animal—the incessant, slow-motion contractions of muscular flesh secreting a crimsonfoam.
When I started to bank towards the drifting mimoid, the sun shone into my eyes and blood-redflashes struck the curved canopy. The dark ocean, flickering with sombre flames, was tingedwith blue.
The flitter came around too wide, and I was carried a long way down wind from the mimoid, along irregular silhouette looming out of the ocean. Emerging from the mist, the mimoid was nolonger pink, but a yellowish grey. I lost sight of it momentarily, and glimpsed the Station,which seemed to be sitting on the horizon, and whose outline was reminiscent of an ancientzeppelin. I changed course, and the sheer mass of the mimoid grew in my line of vision—abaroque sculpture. I was afraid of crashing into the bulbous swellings, and pulled the flitter upso brutally that it lost speed and started to lurch; but my caution was unnecessary, for therounded peaks of those fantastic towers were subsiding.
I flew past the island; and slowly, yard by yard, I descended to the level of the eroded peaks.
The mimoid was not large. It measured about three quarters of a mile from end to end, and wasa few hundred yards wide. In some places, it was close to splitting apart. This mimoid wasobviously a fragment of a far larger formation. On the scale of Solaris it was only a tinysplinter, weeks or perhaps months old.
Among the mottled crags overhanging the ocean, I found a kind of beach, a sloping, fairly evensurface a few yards square, and steered towards it. The rotors almost hit a cliff that reared upsuddenly in my path, but I landed safely, cut the motor and slid back the canopy. Standing onthe fuselage I made sure that there was no chance of the flitter sliding into the ocean. Waveswere licking at the jagged bank about fifteen paces away, but the machine rested solidly on itslegs, and I jumped to the 'ground.'
The cliff I had almost hit was a huge bony membrane pierced with holes, and full of knottyswellings. A crack several yards wide split this wall diagonally and enabled me to examine theinterior of the island, already glimpsed through the apertures in the membrane. I edged warilyonto the nearest ledge, but my boots showed no tendency to slide and the suit did not impedemy movements, and I went on climbing until I had reached a height of about four storeysabove the ocean, and could see a broad stretch of petrified landscape stretching back until itwas lost from sight in the depths of the mimoid.
It was like looking at the ruins of an ancient town, a Moroccan city tens of centuries old,convulsed by an earthquake or some other disaster. I made out a tangled web of windingsidestreets choked with debris, and alleyways which fell abruptly towards the oily foam thatfloated close to the shore. In the middle distance, great battlements stood intact, sustained byossified buttresses. There were dark openings in the swollen, sunken walls—traces of windowsor loop-holes. The whole of this floating town canted to one side or another like a founderingship, pitched and turned slowly, and the sun cast continually moving shadows, which creptamong the ruined alleys. Now and again a polished surface caught and reflected the light. Itook the risk of climbing higher, then stopped; rivulets of fine sand were beginning to trickledown the rocks above my head, cascading into ravines and alleyways and rebounding inswirling clouds of dust. The mimoid is not made of stone, and to dispel the illusion one onlyhas to pick up a piece of it: it is lighter than pumice, and composed of small, very porous cells.
Now I was high enough to feel the swaying of the mimoid. It was moving forward, propelledby the dark muscles of the ocean towards an unknown destination, but its inclination varied. Itrolled from side to side, and the languid oscillation was accompanied by the gentle rustlingsound of the yellow and grey foam which streamed off the emerging shore. The mimoid hadacquired its swinging motion long before, probably at its birth, and even while it grew andbroke up it had retained its initial pattern.
Only now did I realize that I was not in the least concerned with the mimoid, and that I hadflown here not to explore the formation but to acquaint myself with the ocean.
With the flitter a few paces behind me, I sat on the rough, fissured beach. A heavy black wavebroke over the edge of the bank and spread out, not black, but a dirty green. The ebbing waveleft viscous streamlets behind, which flowed back quivering towards the ocean. I went closer,and when the next wave came I held out my hand. What followed was a faithful reproductionof a phenomenon which had been analyzed a century before: the wave hesitated, recoiled, thenenveloped my hand without touching it, so that a thin covering of 'air' separated my gloveinside a cavity which had been fluid a moment previously, and now had a fleshy consistency. Iraised my hand slowly, and the wave, or rather an outcrop of the wave, rose at the same time,enfolding my hand in a translucent cyst with greenish reflections. I stood up, so as to raise myhand still higher, and the gelatinous substance stretched like a rope, but did not break. Themain body of the wave remained motionless on the shore, surrounding my feet withouttouching them, like some strange beast patiently waiting for the experiment to finish. A flowerhad grown out of the ocean, and its calyx was moulded to my fingers. I stepped back. The stemtrembled, stirred uncertainly and fell back into the wave, which gathered it and receded.
I repeated the game several times, until—as the first experimenter had observed—a wavearrived which avoided me indifferently, as if bored with a too familiar sensation. I knew that torevive the 'curiosity' of the ocean I would have to wait several hours. Disturbed by thephenomenon I had stimulated, I sat down again. Although I had read numerous accounts of it,none of them had prepared me for the experience as I had lived it, and I felt somehow changed.
In all their movements, taken together or singly, each of these branches reaching out of theocean seemed to display a kind of cautious but not feral alertness, a curiosity avid for quickapprehension of a new, unexpected form, and regretful at having to retreat, unable to exceedthe limits set by a mysterious law. The contrast was inexpressible between that lively curiosityand the shimmering immensity of the ocean that stretched away out of sight…I had never feltits gigantic presence so strongly, or its powerful changeless silence, or the secret forces thatgave the waves their regular rise and fall. I sat unseeing, and sank into a universe of inertia,glided down an irresistible slope and identified myself with the dumb, fluid colossus; it was asif I had forgiven it everything, without the slightest effort of word or thought.
During that last week, I had been behaving so normally that Snow had stopped keeping awatchful eye on me. On the surface, I was calm: in secret, without really admitting it, I waswaiting for something. Her return? How could I have been waiting for that? We all know thatwe are material creatures, subject to the laws of physiology and physics, and not even thepower of all our feelings combined can defeat those laws. All we can do is detest them. Theage-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that finis vitae sednon amoris, is a lie, useless and not even funny. So must one be resigned to being a clock thatmeasures the passage of time, now out of order, now repaired, and whose mechanism generatesdespair and love as soon as its maker sets it going? Are we to grow used to the idea that everyman relives ancient torments, which are all the more profound because they grow comic withrepetition? That human existence should repeat itself, well and good, but that it should repeatitself like a hackneyed tune, or a record a drunkard keeps playing as he feeds coins into thejukebox…That liquid giant had been the death of hundreds of men. The entire human race had tried invain to establish even the most tenuous link with it, and it bore my weight without noticing meany more than it would notice a speck of dust. I did not believe that it could respond to thetragedy of two human beings. Yet its activities did have a purpose…True, I was not absolutelycertain, but leaving would mean giving up a chance, perhaps an infinitesimal one, perhaps onlyimaginary…Must I go on living here then, among the objects we both had touched, in the airshe had breathed? In the name of what? In the hope of her return? I hoped for nothing. And yetI lived in expectation. Since she had gone, that was all that remained. I did not know whatachievements, what mockery, even what tortures still awaited me. I knew nothing, and Ipersisted in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past.
The End