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 neve............