"My face and hands were badly burnt. I remembered noticing a jar of anti-burn ointment when Iwas looking for sleeping pills for Rheya (I was in no mood to laugh at my na.vete), so I wentback to my room.

I opened the door. The room was glowing in the red twilight. Someone was sitting in thearmchair where Rheya had knelt. For a second or two, I was paralysed with terror, filled withan overwhelming desire to turn and run. Then the seated figure raised its head: it was Snow.

His legs crossed, still wearing the acid-stained trousers, he was looking through some papers, apile of which lay on a small table beside him. He put down those he was holding in his hand,let his glasses slide down his nose, and scowled up at me.

Without saying a word, I went to the basin, took the ointment out of the medicine chest andapplied it to my forehead and cheeks. Fortunately my face was not too swollen and my eyes,which I had closed instinctively, did not seem to be inflamed. I lanced some large blisters onmy temples and cheekbones with a sterilized needle; they exuded a serous liquid, which Imopped up with an antiseptic pad. Then I applied some gauze dressing.

Snow watched me throughout these first-aid operations, but I paid no attention to him. When atlast I had finished (and my burns had become even more painful), I sat myself down in theother chair. I had first to remove Rheya's dress—that apparently quite normal dress which wasnevertheless devoid of fastenings.

Snow, his hands clasped around one bony knee, continued to observe me with a critical air.

"Well, are you ready to have a chat?" he asked.

I did not answer; I was busy replacing a piece of gauze which had slipped down one cheek.

"You've had a visitor, haven't you?""Yes," I answered curtly.

He had begun the conversation on a note which I found displeasing.

"And you've rid yourself of it already? Well, well! That was quick!"He touched his forehead, which was still peeling and mottled with pink patches of new skim. Iwas thunderstruck. Why had I not realized before the implications of Snow's and Sartorius's'sunburn'? No one exposed himself to the sun here.

Without noticing my sudden change of expression he went on:

"I imagine you didn't try extreme methods straight away. What did you use first—drugs,poison, judo?""Do you want to discuss the thing seriously or play the fool? If you don't want to help, you canleave me in peace."He half-closed his eyes.

"Sometimes one plays the fool in spite of oneself. Did you try the rope, or the hammer? Or thewell-aimed ink-bottle, like Luther? No?" He grimaced, "Aren't you a fast worker! The basin isstill intact, you haven't banged your head against the walls, you haven't even turned the roomupside down. One, two and into the rocket, just like that!" He looked at his watch.

"Consequently, we have two or three hours at our disposal…. Am I getting on your nerves?" headded, with a disagreeable smile.

"Yes," I said curtly.

"Really? Well, if I tell you a little story, will you believe me?"I said nothing.

Still with that hideous smile, he went on:

"It started with Gibarian. He locked himself in his cabin and refused to talk to us exceptthrough the door. And can you guess what we thought?"I remained silent.

"Naturally, we thought he had gone mad. He let a bit of it out—through the locked door—butnot everything. You may wonder why he didn't tell us that there was someone with him. Oh,suum cuique! But he was a true scientist. He begged us to let him take his chance!""What chance?""He was obviously doing his damnedest to solve the problem, to get to the bottom of it. Heworked day and night. You know what he was doing? You must know.""Those calculations, in the drawer of the radio-cabin—were they his?""Yes.""How long did it go on?""This visit? About a week…We thought he was suffering from hallucinations, or having anervous breakdown. I gave him some scopolamine.""Gave him?""Yes. He took it, but not for himself. He tried it out on someone else.""What did you do?""On the third day we had decided, if all else failed, to break down the door, maybe injuring hisself-esteem, but at least curing him.""Ah…""Yes.""So, in that locker….""Yes, my friend, quite. But in the meantime, we too had received visitors. We had our handsfull, and didn't have a chance to tell him what was going on. Now it's…it's become a routine."He spoke so softly that I guessed rather than heard the last few words.

"I still don't understand!" I exclaimed. "If you listened at his door, you must have heard twovoices.""No, we heard only his voice. There were strange noises, but we thought they came from himtoo.""Only his voice! But how is it that you didn't hear…her?""I don't know. I have the rudiments of a theory about it, but I've dropped it for the moment. Nopoint getting bogged down in details. But what about you? You must already have seensomething yesterday, otherwise you would have taken us for lunatics.""I thought it was I who had gone mad.""So you didn't see anyone?""I saw someone.""Who?"I gave him a long look—he no longer wore even the semblance of a smile—and answered:

"That…that black woman…" He was leaning forward, and as I spoke his body almostimperceptibly relaxed. "You might have warned me.""I did warn you.""You could have chosen a better way!""It was the only way possible. I didn't know what you would see. No one could know, no oneever knows…""Listen, Snow, I want to ask you something. You've had some experience of this…phenomenon. Will she…will the person who visited me today…?""Will she come back, do you mean?"I nodded.

"Yes and no," he said.

"What does that mean?""She…this person will come back as though nothing had happened, just as she was at thebeginning of her first visit. More precisely, she will appear not to realize what you did to getrid of her. If you abide by the rules, she won't be aggressive.""What rules?""That depends on the circumstances.""Snow!""What?""Don't let's waste time talking in riddles.""In riddles? Kelvin, I'm afraid you still don't understand." His eyes glittered. "All right, then!"he went on, brutally. "Can you tell me who your visitor was?"I swallowed my saliva and turned away. I did not want to look at him. I would have preferredto be dealing with anyone else but him; but I had no choice. A piece of gauze came unstuckand fell on my hand. I gave a start.

"A woman who…" I stopped. "She died. An injection…""Suicide?""Yes.""Is that all?"He waited. Seeing that I remained silent, he murmured:

"No, it's not all…"I looked up quickly; he was not looking at me.

"How did you guess?" He said nothing. "It's true, there's more to it than that." I moistened mylips. "We quarrelled. Or rather, I lost my temper and said a lot of things I didn't mean. I packedmy bags and cleared out. She had given me to understand…not in so many words—when one'slived together for years it's not necessary. I was certain she didn't mean it, that she wouldn'tdare, she'd be too afraid, and I told her so. Next day, I remembered I'd left these…theseampoules in a drawer. She knew they were there. I'd brought them back from the laboratorybecause I needed them, and I had explained to her that the effect of a heavy dose would belethal. I was a bit worried. I wanted to go back and get them, but I thought that would give theimpression that I'd taken her remarks seriously. By the third day I was really worried and madeup my mind to go back. When I arrived, she was dead.""You poor innocent!"I looked up with a start. But Snow was not making fun of me. It seemed to me that I was seeinghim now for the first time. His face was grey, and the deep lines between cheek and nose wereevidence of an unutterable exhaustion: he looked a sick man.

Curiously awed, I asked him:

"Why did you say that?""Because it's a tragic story." Seeing that I was upset, he added, hastily: "No, no, you still don'tunderstand. Of course it's a terrible burden to carry around, and you must feel like a murderer,but…there are worse things.""Oh, really?""Yes, really. And I'm almost glad that you refuse to believe me. Certain events, which haveactually happened, are horrible, but what is more horrible still is what hasn't happened, whathas never existed.""What are you saying?" I asked, my voice faltering.

He shook his head from side to side.

"A normal man," he said. "What is a normal man? A man who has never committed adisgraceful act? Maybe, but has he never had uncontrollable thoughts? Perhaps he hasn't. Butperhaps something, a phantasm, rose up from somewhere within him, ten or thirty years ago,something which he suppressed and then forgot about, which he doesn't fear since he knows hewill never allow it to develop and so lead to any action on his part. And now, suddenly, inbroad daylight, he comes across this thing…this thought, embodied, riveted to him,indestructible. He wonders where he is…Do you know where he is?""Where?""Here," whispered Snow, "on Solaris.""But what does it mean? After all, you and Sartorius aren't criminals….""And you call yourself a psychologist, Kelvin! Who hasn't had, at some moment in his life, acrazy daydream, an obsession? Imagine…imagine a fetishist who becomes infatuated with,let's say, a grubby piece of cloth, and who threatens and entreats and defies every risk in orderto acquire this beloved bit of rag. A peculiar idea, isn't it? A man who at one and the same timeis ashamed of the object of his desire and cherishes it above everything else, a man who isready to sacrifice his life for his love, since the feeling he has for it is perhaps as overwhelmingas Romeo's feeling for Juliet. Such cases exist, as you know. So, in the same way, there arethings, situations, that no one has dared to externalize, but which the mind has produced byaccident in a moment of aberration, of madness, call it what you will. At the next stage, theidea becomes flesh and blood. That's all."Stupefied, my mouth dry, I repeated:

"That's all?" My head was spinning. "And what about the Station? What has it got to do withthe Station?""It's almost as if you're purposely refusing to understand," he groaned. "I've been talking aboutSolaris the whole time, solely about Solaris. If the truth is hard to swallow, it's not my fault.

Anyhow, after what you've already been through, you ought to be able to hear me out! We takeoff into the cosmos, ready for anything: for solitude, for hardship, for exhaustion, death.

Modesty forbids us to say so, but there are times when we think pretty well of ourselves. Andyet, if we examine it more closely, our enthusiasm turns out to be all sham. We don't want toconquer the cosmos, we simply want to extend the boundaries of Earth to the frontiers of thecosmos. For us, such and such a planet is as arid as the Sahara, another as frozen as the NorthPole, yet another as lush as the Amazon basin. We are humanitarian and chivalrous; we don'twant to enslave other races, we simply want to bequeath them our values and take over theirheritage in exchange. We think of ourselves as the Knights of the Holy Contact. This is anotherlie. We are only seeking Man. We have no need of other worlds. We need mirrors. We don'tknow what to do with other worlds. A single world, our own, suffices us; but we can't accept itfor what it is. We are searching for an ideal image of our own world: we go in quest of aplanet, of a civilization superior to our own but developed on the basis of a prototype of ourprimeval past. At the same time, there is something inside us which we don't like to face up to,from which we try to protect ourselves, but which nevertheless remains, since we don't leaveEarth in a state of primal innocence. We arrive here as we are in reality, and when the page isturned and that reality is revealed to us—that part of our reality which we would prefer to passover in silence—then we don't like it any more."I had listened to him patiently.

"But what on earth are you talking about?""I'm talking about what we all wanted: contact with another civilization. Now we've got it!

And we can observe, through a microscope, as it were, our own monstrous ugliness, our folly,our shame!" His voice shook with rage.

"So…you think it's…the ocean? That the ocean is responsible for it all? But why? I'm notasking how, I'm simply asking why? Do you seriously think that it wants to toy with us, orpunish us—a sort of elementary demonomania? A planet dominated by a huge devil, whosatisfies the demands of his satanic humors by sending succubi to haunt the members of ascientific expedition…? Snow, you can't believe anything so absurd!"He muttered under his breath.

"This devil isn't such a fool as all that…"I looked at him in amazement. Perhaps what had happened, assuming that we had experiencedit in our right minds, had finally driven him over the edge? A reaction psychosis?

He was laughing to himself.

"Making your diagnosis? Don't be in too much of a hurry! You've only been through oneordeal—and that a reasonably mild one.""Oh, so the devil had pity on me!"I was beginning to weary of this conversation.

"What is it you want exactly?" Snow went on. "Do you want me to tell you what this mass ofmetamorphic plasma—x-billion tons of metamorphic plasma—is scheming against us? Perhapsnothing.""What do you mean, nothing?"Snow smiled.

"You must know that science is concerned with phenomena rather than causes. The phenomenahere began to manifest themselves eight or nine days after that X-ray experiment. Perhaps theocean reacted to the irradiation with a counter-irradiation, perhaps it probed our brains andpenetrated to some kind of psychic tumor."I pricked up my ears.

"Tumor?""Yes, isolated psychic processes, enclosed, stifled, encysted—foci smouldering under the ashesof memory. It deciphered them and made use of them, in the same way as one uses a recipe ora blue-print. You know how alike the asymmetric crystalline structures of a chromosome are tothose of the DNA molecule, one of the constituents of the cerebrosides which constitute thesubstratum of the memory-processes? This genetic substance is a plasma which 'remembers.'

The ocean has 'read' us by this means, registering the minutest details, with the result that…well, you know the result. But for what purpose? Bah! At any rate, not for the purpose ofdestroying us. It could have annihilated us much more easily. As far as one can tell, given itstechnological resources, it could have done anything it wished—confronted me with yourdouble, and you with mine, for example.""So that's why you were so alarmed when I arrived, the first evening!""Yes. In fact, how do you know it hasn't done so? How do you know I'm really the same oldRatface who landed here two years ago?"He went on laughing silently, enjoying my discomfiture, then he growled:

"No, no, that's enough of that! We're two happy mortals; I could kill you, you could kill me.""And the others, can't they be killed?""I don't advise you to try—a horrible sight!""Is there no means of killing them?""I don't know. Certainly not with poison, or a weapon, or by injection…""What about a gamma pistol?""Would you risk it?""Since we know they're not human…""In a certain subjective sense, they are human. They know nothing whatsoever about theirorigins. You must have noticed that?""Yes. But then, how do you explain…?""They…the whole thing is regenerated with extraordinary rapidity, at an incredible speed—inthe twinkling of an eye. Then they start behaving again as…""As?""As we remember them, as they are engraved on our memories, following which…""Did Gibarian know?" I interrupted.

"As much as we do, you mean?""Yes.""Very probably.""Did he say anything to you?""No. I found a book in his room…"I leapt to my feet.

"The Little Apocrypha!""Yes." He looked at me suspiciously. "Who could have told you about that?"I shook my head.

"Don't worry, you can see that I've burnt my skin and that it's not exactly renewing itself. No,Gibarian left a letter addressed to me in his cabin.""A letter? What did it say?""Nothing much. It was more of a note than a letter, with bibliographic references—allusions tothe supplement to the Annual and to the Apocrypha. What is this Apocrypha?""An antique which seems to have some relevance to our situation. Here!" He drew from hispocket a small, leatherbound volume, scuffed at the edges, and handed it to me.

I grabbed the little book.

"And what about Sartorius?""Him! Everyone has his own way of coping. Sartorius is trying to remain normal—that is, topreserve his respectability as an envoy of an official mission.""You're joking!""No, I'm quite serious. We were together on another occasion. I won't bother you with thedetails, but there were eight of us and we were down to our last 1000 pounds of oxygen. Oneafter another, we gave up our chores, and by the end we all had beards except Sartorius. Hewas the only one who shaved and polished his shoes. He's like that. Now, of course, he canonly pretend, act a part—or else commit a crime.""A crime?""Perhaps that isn't quite the right word. 'Divorce by ejection!' Does that sound better?""Very funny!""Suggest something else if you don't like it.""Oh, leave me alone!""No, let's discuss the thing seriously. You know pretty well as much as I do by now. Have yougot a plan?""No, none. I haven't the least idea what I'll do when…when she comes back. She will return, ifI've understood you correctly?""It's on the cards.""How do they get in? The Station is hermetically sealed. Perhaps the layer on the outer hull…"He shook his head.

"The outer hull is in perfect condition. I don't know where they get in. Usually, they're therewhen you wake up, and you have to sleep eventually!""Could you barricade yourself securely inside a cabin?""The barricades wouldn't survive for long. There's only one solution, and you can guess whatthat is…"We both stood up.

"Just a minute, Snow! You're suggesting we liquidate the Station and you expect me to take theinitiative and accept the responsibility?""It's not as simple as that. Obviously, we could get out, if only as far as the satellite, and sendan SOS from there. Of course, we'll be regarded as lunatics; we'll be shut up in a mad-house onEarth—unless we have the sense to retract. A distant planet, isolation, collective derangement—our case won't seem at all out of the ordinary. But at least we'd be better off in a mentalhome than we are here: a quiet garden, little white cells, nurses, supervised walks…"Hands in his pockets, staring fixedly at a corner of the room, he spoke with the utmostseriousness.

The red sun had disappeared over the horizon and the ocean was a sombre desert, mottled withdying gleams, the last rays lingering among the long tresses of the waves. The sky was ablaze.

Purple-edged clouds drifted across this dismal red and black world.

"Well, do you want to get out, yes or no? Or not yet?""Always the fighter! If you knew the full implications of what you're asking, you wouldn't beso insistent. It's not a matter of what I want, it's a matter of what's possible.""Such as what?""That's the point, I don't know.""We stay here then? Do you think we'll find some way…?"Thin, sickly-looking, his peeling face deeply lined, he turned towards me:

"It might be worth our while to stay. We're unlikely to learn anything about it, but aboutourselves…"He turned, picked up his papers, and went out. I opened my mouth to detain him, but no soundescaped my lips.

There was nothing I could do now except wait. I went to the window and ran my eyes absentlyover the dark-red glimmer of the shadowed ocean. For a moment, I thought of locking myselfinside one of the capsules on the hangar-deck, but it was not an idea worth considering forlong: sooner or later, I should have to come out again.

I sat by the window, and began to leaf through the book Snow had given me. The glowingtwilight lit up the room and colored the pages. It was a collection of articles and treatises editedby an Otho Ravintzer, Ph.D., and its general level was immediately obvious. Every scienceengenders some pseudo-science, inspiring eccentrics to explore freakish by-ways; astronomyhas its parodists in astrology, chemistry used to have them in alchemy. It was not surprising,therefore, that Solaristics, in its early days, had set off an explosion of marginal cogitations.

Ravintzer's book was full of this sort of intellectual speculation, prefaced, it is only fair to add,by an introduction in which the editor dissociated himself from some of the texts reproduced.

He considered, with some justice, that such a collection could provide an invaluable perioddocument as much for the historian as for the psychologist of science.

Berton's report, divided into two parts and complete with a summary of his log, occupied theplace of honor in the book.

From 14.00 hours to 16.40 hours, by expedition time, the entries in the log were laconic andnegative.

Altitude 3000—or 3500—2500 feet; nothing visible; ocean empty. The same words recurredover and over again.

Then, at 16.40 hours: A red mist rising. Visibility 700 yards. Ocean empty.

17.00 hours: fog thickening; visibility 400 yards, with clear patches. Descending to 600 feet.

17.20 hours: in fog. Altitude 600. Visibility 20-40 yards. Climbing to 1200.

17.45: altitude 1500. Pall of fog to horizon. Funnel-shaped openings through which I can seeocean surface. Attempting to enter one of these clearings; something is moving.

17.52: have spotted what appears to be a waterspout; it is throwing up a yellow foam.

Surrounded by a wall of fog. Altitude 300. Descending to 60 feet.

The extract from Berton's log stopped at this point. There followed his case-history, or, moreprecisely, the statement dictated by Berton and interrupted at intervals by questions from themembers of the Commission of Enquiry.

BERTON: When I reached 100 feet it became very difficult to maintain altitude because of theviolent gusts of wind inside the cone. I had to hang on to the controls and for a short period—about ten or fifteen minutes—I did not look outside. I realized too late that a powerfulundertow was dragging me back into the fog. It wasn't like an ordinary fog, it was a thickcolloidal substance which coated my windows. I had a lot of trouble cleaning them; that fog—or glue rather—was obstinate stuff. Due to this resistance, the speed of my rotor-blades wasreduced by thirty percent and I began losing height. I was afraid of capsizing on the waves; but,even at full power, I could maintain altitude but not increase it. I still had four booster-rocketsleft but felt the situation was not yet desperate enough to use them. The aircraft was shaken byshuddering vibrations that grew more and more violent. Thinking my rotor-blades must havebecome coated with the gluey substance, I glanced at the overload indicator, but to my surpriseit read zero. Since entering the fog, I had not seen the sun—only a red glow. I continued to flyaround in the hope of emerging into one of the funnels, which, after half an hour, was whathappened. I found myself in a new 'well,' perfectly cylindrical in shape, and several hundredyards in diameter. The walls of the cylinder were formed by an enormous whirlpool of fog,spiralling upwards. I struggled to keep in the middle, where the wind was less violent. It wasthen that I noticed a change in the ocean's surface. The waves had almost completelydisappeared, and the upper layer of the fluid—or whatever the ocean is made of—wasbecoming transparent, with murky streaks here and there which gradually dissolved until,finally, it was perfectly clear. I could see distinctly to a depth of several yards. I saw a sort ofyellow sludge which was sprouting vertical filaments. When these filaments emerged abovethe surface, they had a glassy sheen. Then they began to exuam—they frothed—until the foamsolidified; it was like a very thick treacle. These glutinous filaments merged and becameintertwined; great bubbles swelled up on the surface and slowly began to change shape.

Suddenly I realized that my machine was being driven towards the wall of fog. I had tomanoeuver against the wind, and when I was able to look down again, I saw something whichlooked like a garden. Yes, a garden. Trees, hedges, paths—but it wasn't a real garden; it was allmade of the same substance, which had hardened and by now looked like yellow plaster.

Beneath this garden, the ocean glittered. I came down as low as I dared in order to take a closerlook.

QUESTION: Did the trees and plants you saw have leaves on them?

BERTON: No, the shapes were only approximate, like a model garden. That's exactly what itwas like: a model, but lifesize. All of a sudden, it began to crack; it broke up and split into darkcrevices; a thick white liquid ran out and collected into pools, or else drained away. The'earthquake' became more violent, the whole thing boiled over and was buried beneath thefoam. At the same time, the walls of the fog began to close in. I gained height rapidly and cameclear at 1000 feet.

QUESTION: Are you absolutely sure that what you saw resembled a garden—there was noother possible interpretation?

BERTON: Yes. I noticed several details. For example, I remember seeing a place where therewere some boxes in a row. I realized later that they were probably beehives.

QUESTION: You realized later? But not at the time, not at the moment when you actually sawthem?

BERTON: No, because everything looked as though it were made of plaster. But I sawsomething else.

QUESTION: What was that?

BERTON: I saw things which I can't put a name to, because I didn't have time to examine themcarefully. Under some bushes I thought I saw tools, long objects with prongs. They might havebeen plaster models of garden tools. But I'm not absolutely certain. Whereas I'm sure, quitecertain, that I recognized an apiary.

QUESTION: It didn't occur to you that it might be an hallucination?

BERTON: No. I thought it was a mirage. It never occurred to me that it was an hallucinationbecause I felt perfectly well, and I had never seen anything like it before. When I reached 1000feet and took another look at the fog, it was pitted with more irregularly shaped holes, ratherlike a piece of cheese. Some of these holes were completely hollow, and I could see the oceanwaves; others were only shallow saucers in which something was bubbling. I descendedanother well and saw—the altimeter read 120 feet—I saw a wall lying beneath the oceansurface. It wasn't very deep and I could see it clearly beneath the waves. It seemed to be thewall of a huge building, pierced with rectangular openings, like windows. I even thought Icould see something moving behind them, but I couldn't be absolutely certain of that. The wallslowly broke the surface and a mucous bubbling liquid streamed down its sides. Then itsuddenly broke in half and disappeared into the depths.

I regained height and continued to fly above the fog, the machine almost touching it, until Idiscovered another clearing, much larger than the previous one.

While I was still some distance away, I noticed a pale, almost white, object floating on thesurface. My first thought was that it was Fechner's flying-suit, especially as it looked vaguelyhuman in form. I brought the aircraft round sharply, afraid of losing my way and being unableto find the same spot again. The shape, the body, was moving; sometimes it seemed to bestanding upright in the trough of the waves. I accelerated and went down so low that themachine bounced gently. I must have hit the crest of a huge wave I was overflying. The body—yes, it was a human body, not an atmosphere-suit—the body was moving.

QUESTION: Did you see its face?

BERTON: Yes.

QUESTION: Who was it?

BERTON: A child.

QUESTION: What child? Did you recognize it?

BERTON: No. At any rate, I don't remember having seen it before. Besides, when I got closer—when I was forty yards away, or even sooner—I realized that it was no ordinary child.

QUESTION: What do you mean?

BERTON: I'll explain. At first, I couldn't understand what worried me about it; it was onlyafter a minute or two that I realized: this child was extraordinarily large. Enormous, in fact.

Stretched out horizontally, its body rose twelve feet above the surface of the ocean, I swear. Iremembered that when I touched the wave, its face was a little higher than mine, even thoughmy cockpit must have been at least ten feet above the ocean.

QUESTION: If it was as big as that, what makes you say it was a child?

BERTON: Because it was a tiny child.

QUESTION: Do you realize, Berton, that your answer doesn't make sense?

BERTON: On the contrary. I could see its face, and it was a very young child. Besides, itsproportions corresponded exactly to the proportions of a child's body. It was a…babe in arms.

No, I exaggerate. It was probably two or three years old. It had black hair and blue eyes—enormous blue eyes! It was naked—completely naked—like a newborn baby. It was wet, or Ishould say glossy; its skin was shiny. I was shattered. I no longer thought it was a mirage. Icould see this child so distinctly. It rose and fell with the waves; but apart from this generalmotion, it was making other movements, and they were horrible!

QUESTION: Why? What was it doing?

BERTON: It was more like a doll in a museum, only a living doll. It opened and closed itsmouth, it made various gestures, horrible gestures.

QUESTION: What do you mean?

BERTON: I was watching it from about twenty yards away—I don't suppose I went any closer.

But, as I've already told you, it was enormous. I could see very clearly. Its eyes sparkled andyou really would have thought it was a living child, if it hadn't been for the movements, thegestures, as though someone was trying…It was as though someone else was responsible forthe gestures…QUESTION: Try to be more explicit.

BERTON: It's difficult. I'm talking of an impression, more of an intuition. I didn't analyze it,but I knew that those gestures weren't natural.

QUESTION: Do you mean, for example, that the hands didn't move as human hands wouldmove, because the joints were not sufficiently supple?

BERTON: No, not at all. But…these movements had no meaning. Each of our movementsmeans something, more or less, serves some purpose…QUESTION: Do you think so? The movements of an infant don't have much meaning!

BERTON: I know. But an infant's movements are confused, random, uncoordinated. Themovements I saw were…er…yes, that's it, they were methodical movements. They wereperformed one after another, like a series of exercises; as though someone had wanted to makea study of what this child was capable of doing with its hands, its torso, its mouth. The facewas more horrifying than the rest, because the human face has an expression, and this face…Idon't know how to describe it. It was alive, yes, but it wasn't human. Or rather, the features as awhole, the eyes, the complexion, were, but the expression, the movements of the face, werecertainly not.

QUESTION: Were they grimaces? Do you know what happens to a person's face during anepileptic fit?

BERTON: Yes. I've watched an epileptic fit. I know what you mean. No, it was somethingquite different. Epilepsy provokes spasms, convulsions. The movements I'm talking about werefluid, continuous, graceful…melodious, if one can say that of a movement. It's the nearestdefinition I can think of. But this face…a face can't divide itself into two—one half gay, theother sad, one half scowling and the other amiable, one half frightened and the othertriumphant. But that's how it was with this child's face. In addition to that, all these movementsand changes of expression succeeded one another with unbelievable rapidity. I stayed downthere a very short time, perhaps ten seconds, perhaps less.

QUESTION: And you claim to have seen all that in such a short time? Besides, how do youknow how long you were there? Did you check your chronometer?

BERTON: No, but I've been flying for seventeen years and, in my job, one can measureinstinctively, to the nearest second, the duration of what would be called an instant of time. It'san acquired faculty, and essential for successful navigation. A pilot isn't worth his salt if hecan't tell whether a particular phenomenon lasts five or ten seconds, whatever thecircumstances. It's the same with observation. We learn, over the years, to take in everything ata glance.

QUESTION: Is that all you saw?

BERTON: No, but I don't remember the rest so precisely. I suppose I must already have seenmore than enough; my attention faltered. The fog began to close in, and I had to climb. Iclimbed, and for the first time in my life I all but capsized. My hands were shaking so muchthat I had difficulty in handling the controls. I think I shouted something, called up the base,even though I knew we were not in radio contact.

QUESTION: Did you then try and get back?

BERTON: No. In the end, having gained height, I thought to myself that Fechner was probablyin the bottom of one of the wells. I know it sounds crazy, but that's what I thought. I toldmyself that everything was possible, and that it would also be possible for me to find Fechner. Idecided to investigate every clearing I came across along my route. At the third attempt I gaveup. When I had regained height, I knew it was useless to persist after what I had just seen onthis, the third, occasion. I couldn't go on any longer. I should add, as you already know, that Iwas suffering from bouts of nausea and that I vomited in the cockpit. I couldn't understand it; Ihave never been sick in my life.

COMMENT: It was a symptom of poisoning.

BERTON: Perhaps. I don't know. But what I saw on this third occasion I did not imagine. Thatwas not the effect of poisoning.

QUESTION: How can you possibly know?

BERTON: It wasn't an hallucination. An hallucination is created by one's own brain, wouldn'tyou say?

COMMENT: Yes.

BERTON: Well, my brain couldn't have created what I saw. I'll never believe that. My brainwouldn't have been capable of it.

COMMENT: Get on with describing what it was!

BERTON: Before I do so, I should like to know how the statements I've already made will beinterpreted.

QUESTION: What does that matter?

BERTON: For me, it matters very much indeed. I have said that I saw things which I shallnever forget. If the Commission recognizes, even with certain reservations, that my testimonyis credible, and that a study of the ocean must be undertaken—I mean a study orientated in thelight of my statements—then I'll tell everything. But if the Commission considers that it is alldelusions, then I refuse to say anything more.

QUESTION: Why?

BERTON: Because the contents of my hallucinations belong to me and I don't have to give anaccount of them, whereas I am obliged to give an account of what I saw on Solaris.

QUESTION: Does that mean that you refuse to answer any more questions until the expeditionauthorities have announced their findings? You realize, of course, that the Commission isn'tempowered to take an immediate decision?

BERTON: Yes.

The first minute ended here. There followed a fragment of the second minute drawn up elevendays later.

PRESIDENT:…after due consideration, the Commission, composed of three doctors, threebiologists, a physicist, a mechanical engineer and the deputy head of the expedition, hasreached the conclusion that Berton's report is symptomatic of hallucinations caused byatmospheric poisoning, consequent upon inflammation of the associative zone of the cerebralcortex, and that Berton's account bears no, or at any rate no appreciable, relation to reality.

BERTON: Excuse me, what does "no appreciable relation" mean? In what proportion is realityappreciable or not?

PRESIDENT: I haven't finished. Independently of these conclusions, the Commission has dulyregistered a dissenting vote from Dr. Archibald Messenger, who considers the phenomenadescribed by Berton to be objectively possible and declares himself in favor of a scrupulousinvestigation.

BERTON: I repeat my question.

PRESIDENT: The answer is simple. "No appreciable relation to reality" means thatphenomena actually observed may have formed the basis of your hallucinations. In the courseof a nocturnal stroll, a perfectly sane man can imagine he sees a living creature in a bush stirredby the wind. Such illusions are all the more likely to affect an explorer lost on a strange planetand breathing a poisonous atmosphere. This verdict is in no way prejudicial to you, Berton.

Will you now be good enough to let us know your decision?

BERTON: First of all, I should like to know the possible consequences of this dissenting voteof Dr. Messenger's.

PRESIDENT: Virtually none. We shall carry on our work along the lines originally laid down.

BERTON: Is our interview on record?

PRESIDENT: Yes.

BERTON: In that case, I should like to say that although the Commission's decision may notbe prejudicial to me personally, it is prejudicial to the spirit of the expedition itself.

Consequently, as I have already stated, I refuse to answer any further questions.

PRESIDENT: Is that all?

BERTON: Yes. Except that I should like to meet Dr. Messenger. Is that possible?

PRESIDENT: Of course.

That was the end of the second minute. At the bottom of the page there was a note inminuscule handwriting to the effect that, the following day, Dr. Messenger had talked toBerton for nearly three hours. As a result of this conversation, Messenger had once morebegged the expedition Council to undertake further investigations in order to check the pilot'sstatements. Berton had produced some new and extremely convincing revelations, whichMessenger could not divulge unless the Council reversed its negative decision. The Council—Shannahan, Timolis and Trahier—rejected the motion and the affair was closed.

The book also reproduced a photocopy of the last page of a letter, or rather, the draft of a letter,found by Messenger's executors after his death. Ravintzer, in spite of his researches, had beenunable to discover if this letter had ever been sent.

"…obtuse minds, a pyramid of stupidity,"—the text began. "Anxious to preserve its authority,the Council—more precisely Shannahan and Timolis (Trahier's vote doesn't count)—hasrejected my recommendations. Now I am taking the matter up directly with the Institute; but,as you can well imagine, my protestations won't convince anybody. Bound as I am by oath, Ican't, alas, reveal to you what Berton told me. If the Council disregarded Berton's testimony, itwas basically because Berton has no scientific training, although any scientist would envy thepresence of mind and the gift of observation shown by this pilot. I should be grateful if youcould send me the following information by return post:

i) Fechner's biography, in particular details about his childhood.

ii) Everything you know about his family, facts and dates—he probably lost his parents whilestill a child.

iii)The topography of the place where he was brought up.

I should like once more to tell you what I think about all this. As you know, some time afterthe departure of Fechner and Carucci, a spot appeared in the centre of the red sun. Thischromospheric eruption caused a magnetic storm chiefly over the southern hemisphere, whereour base was situated, according to the information provided by the satellite, and the radio linkswere cut. The other parties were scouring the planet's surface over a relatively restricted area,whereas Fechner and Carucci had travelled a considerable distance from the base.

Never, since our arrival on the planet, had we observed such a persistent fog or such anunremitting silence.

I imagine that what Berton saw was one of the phases of a kind of 'Operation Man' which thisviscous monster was engaged in. The source of all the various forms observed by Berton isFechner—or rather, Fechner's brain, subjected to an unimaginable 'psychic dissection' for thepurposes of a sort of re-creation, an experimental reconstruction, based on impressions(undoubtedly the most durable ones) engraved on his memory.

I know this sounds fantastic; I know that I may be mistaken. But do please help me. At themoment, I am on the Alaric, where I look forward to receiving your reply.

Yours, A."It was growing dark, and I could scarcely make out the blurred print at the top of the grey page—the last page describing Berton's adventure. For my part, my own experience led me toregard Berton as a trustworthy witness.

I turned towards the window. A few clouds still glowed like dying embers above the horizon.

The ocean was invisible, blanketed by the purple darkness.

The strips of paper fluttered idly beneath the air-vents. There was a whiff of ozone in the still,warm air.

There was nothing heroic in our decision to remain on the Station. The time for heroism wasover, vanished with the era of the great interplanetary triumphs, of daring expeditions andsacrifices. Fechner, the ocean's first victim, belonged to a distant past. I had almost stoppedcaring about the identity of Snow's and Sartorius's visitors. Soon, I told myself, we would ceaseto be ashamed, to keep ourselves apart. If we could not get rid of our visitors, we wouldaccustom ourselves to their presence, learn to live with them. If their Creator altered the rulesof the game, we would adapt ourselves to the new rules, even if at first we jibbed or rebelled,even if one of us despaired and killed himself. Eventually, a certain equilibrium would bereestablished.

Night had come; no different from many nights on Earth. Now I could make out only the whitecontours of the basin and the smooth surface of the mirror.

I stood up. Groping my way to the basin, I fumbled among the objects which cluttered up theshelf, and found the packet of cotton wool. I washed my face with a damp wad and stretchedout on the bedA moth fluttered its wings…no, it was the ventilator-strip. The whirring stopped, then startedup again. I could no longer see the window; everything had merged into darkness. Amysterious ray of light pierced the blackness and lingered in front of me—against the wall, orthe black sky? I remembered how the blank stare of the night had frightened me the day before,and I smiled at the thought. I was no longer afraid of the night; I was not afraid of anything. Iraised my wrist and looked at the ring of phosphorescent figures; another hour, and the blueday would dawn.

I breathed deeply, savoring the darkness, my mind empty and at rest.

Shifting my position, I felt the flat shape of the tape-recorder against my hip: Gibarian, hisvoice immortalized on the spools of tape. I had forgotten to resurrect him, to listen to him—theonly thing I could do for him any more. I took the tape-recorder out of my pocket in order tohide it under the bed.

I heard a rustling sound; the door opened.

"Kris?" An anxious voice whispered my name. "Kris, are you there? It's so dark…."I answered:

"Yes, I'm here. Don't be frightened, come!"