Solaris Page 3
Just when a measure of success had been achieved in unravelling this problem, it turned out, as often happened subsequently in the field of Solarist studies, that the explanation replaced one enigma by another, perhaps even more baffling.
Observations showed, at least, that the ocean did not react according to the same principles as our gravitors (which, in any case, would have been impossible), but succeeded in controlling the orbital periodicity directly. One result, among others, was the discovery of discrepancies in the measurement of time along one and the same meridian on Solaris. Thus the ocean was not only in a sense "aware" of the Einstein-Boëvia theory; it was also capable of exploiting the implications of the latter (which was more than we could say of ourselves).
With the publication of this hypothesis, the scientific world was torn by one of the most violent controversies of the century. Revered and universally accepted theories foundered; the specialist literature was swamped by outrageous and heretical treatises; 'sentient ocean' or 'gravity-controlling colloid'—the debate became a burning issue.
All this happened several years before I was born. When I was a student—new data having accumulated in the meantime—it was already generally agreed that there was life on Solaris, even if it was limited to a single inhabitant.
The second volume of Hughes and Eugel, which I was still leafing through mechanically, began with a systematization that was as ingenious as it was amusing. The table of classification comprised three definitions: Type: Polythera; Class: Syncytialia; Category: Metamorph.
It might have been thought that we knew of an infinite number of examples of the species, whereas in reality there was only the one—weighing, it is true, some seven hundred billion tons.
Multicolored illustrations, picturesque graphs, analytical summaries and spectral diagrams flickered through my fingers, explaining the type and rhythm of the fundamental transformations as well as chemical reactions. Rapidly, infallibly, the thick tome led the reader on to the solid ground of mathematical certitude. One might have assumed that we knew everything there was to be known about this representative of the category Metamorph, which lay some hundreds of metres below the metal hull of the Station, obscured at the moment by the shadows of the four-hour night.
In fact, by no means everybody was yet convinced that the ocean was actually a living 'creature,' and still less, it goes without saying, a rational one. I put the heavy volume back on the shelf and took up the one next to it, which was in two parts. The first part was devoted to a resumé of the countless attempts to establish contact with the ocean. I could well remember how, when I was a student, these attempts were the subject of endless anecdotes, jokes and witticisms. Compared with the proliferation of speculative ideas which were triggered off by this problem, medieval scholasticism seemed a model of scientific enlightenment. The second part, nearly 1500 pages long, was devoted exclusively to the bibliography of the subject. There would not have been enough room for the books themselves in the cabin in which I was sitting.
The first attempts at contact were by means of specially designed electronic apparatus. The ocean itself took an active part in these operations by remodelling the instruments. All this, however, remained somewhat obscure. What exactly did the ocean's 'participation' consist of? It modified certain elements in the submerged instruments, as a result of which the normal discharge frequency was completely disrupted and the recording instruments registered a profusion of signals—fragmentary indications of some outlandish activity, which in fact defeated all attempts at analysis. Did these data point to a momentary condition of stimulation, or to regular impulses correlated with the gigantic structures which the ocean was in the process of creating elsewhere, at the antipodes of the region under investigation? Had the electronic apparatus recorded the cryptic manifestation of the ocean's ancient secrets? Had it revealed its innermost workings to us? Who could tell? No two reactions to the stimuli were the same. Sometimes the instruments almost exploded under the violence of the impulses, sometimes there was total silence; it was impossible to obtain a repetition of any previously observed phenomenon. Constantly, it seemed, the experts were on the brink of deciphering the ever-growing mass of information. Was it not, after all, with this object in mind that computers had been built of virtually limitless capacity, such as no previous problem had ever demanded?
And, indeed, some results were obtained. The ocean as a source of electric and magnetic impulses and of gravitation expressed itself in a more or less mathematical language. Also, by calling on the most abstruse branches of statistical analysis, it was possible to classify certain frequencies in the discharges of current. Structural homologues were discovered, not unlike those already observed by physicists in that sector of science which deals with the reciprocal interaction of energy and matter, elements and compounds, the finite and the infinite. This correspondence convinced the scientists that they were confronted with a monstrous entity endowed with reason, a protoplasmic ocean-brain enveloping the entire planet and idling its time away in extravagant theoretical cognitation about the nature of the universe. Our instruments had intercepted minute random fragments of a prodigious and everlasting monologue unfolding in the depths of this colossal brain, which was inevitably beyond our understanding.
So much for the mathematicians. These hypotheses, according to some people, underestimated the resources of the human mind; they bowed to the unknown, proclaiming the ancient doctrine, arrogantly resurrected, of ignoramus et ignorabimus. Others regarded the mathematicians' hypotheses as sterile and dangerous nonsense, contributing towards the creation of a modern mythology based on the notion of this giant brain—whether plasmic or electronic was immaterial—as the ultimate objective of existence, the very synthesis of life.
Yet others … but the would-be experts were legion and each had his own theory. A comparison of the 'contact' school of thought with other branches of Solarist studies, in which specialization had rapidly developed, especially during the last quarter of a century, made it clear that a Solarist-cybernetician had difficulty in making himself understood to a Solarist-symmetriadologist. Veubeke, director of the Institute when I was studying there, had asked jokingly one day: "How do you expect to communicate with the ocean, when you can't even understand one another?" The jest contained more than a grain of truth.
The decision to categorize the ocean as a metamorph was not an arbitrary one. Its undulating surface was capable of generating extremely diverse formations which resembled nothing ever seen on Earth, and the function of these sudden eruptions of plasmic 'creativity,' whether adaptive, explorative or what, remained an enigma.
Lifting the heavy volume with both hands, I replaced it on the shelf, and thought to myself that our scholarship, all the information accumulated in the libraries, amounted to a useless jumble of words, a sludge of statements and suppositions, and that we had not progressed an inch in the 78 years since researches had begun. The situation seemed much worse now than in the time of the pioneers, since the assiduous efforts of so many years had not resulted in a single indisputable conclusion.
The sum total of known facts was strictly negative. The ocean did not use machines, even though in certain circumstances it seemed capable of creating them. During the first two years of exploratory work, it had reproduced elements of some of the submerged instruments. Thereafter, it simply ignored the experiments we went on pursuing, as though it had lost all interest in our instruments and our activities—as though, indeed, it was no longer interested in us. It did not possess a nervous system (to go on with the inventory of 'negative knowledge') or cells, and its structure was not proteiform. It did not always react even to the most powerful stimuli (it ignored completely, for example, the catastrophic accident which occurred during the second Giese expedition: an auxiliary rocket, falling from a height of 300,000 metres, crashed on the planet's surface and the radioactive explosion of its nuclear reserves destroyed the plasma within a radius of 2500 metres).
Gr
adually, in scientific circles, the 'Solaris Affair' came to be regarded as a lost cause, notably among the administrators of the Institute, where voices had recently been raised suggesting that financial support should be withdrawn and research suspended. No one, until then, had dared to suggest the final liquidation of the Station; such a decision would have smacked too obviously of defeat. But in the course of semi-official discussions a number of scientists recommended an 'honorable' withdrawal from Solaris.
Many people in the world of science, however, especially among the young, had unconsciously come to regard the 'affair' as a touchstone of individual values. All things considered, they claimed, it was not simply a question of penetrating Solarist civilization; it was essentially a test of ourselves, of the limitations of human knowledge. For some time, there was a widely held notion (zealously fostered by the daily press) to the effect that the 'thinking ocean' of Solaris was a gigantic brain, prodigiously well-developed and several million years in advance of our own civilization, a sort of 'cosmic yogi,' a sage, a symbol of omniscience, which had long ago understood the vanity of all action and for this reason had retreated into an unbreakable silence. The notion was incorrect, for the living ocean was active. Not, it is true, according to human ideas—it did not build cities or bridges, nor did it manufacture flying machines. It did not try to reduce distances, nor was it concerned with the conquest of Space (the ultimate criterion, some people thought, of man's superiority). But it was engaged in a never-ending process of transformation, an 'ontological autometamorphosis.' (There were any amount of scientific neologisms in accounts of Solarist activities.) Moreover, any scientist who devotes himself to the study of Solariana has the indelible impression that he can discern fragments of an intelligent structure, perhaps endowed with genius, haphazardly mingled with outlandish phenomena, apparently the product of an unhinged mind. Thus was born the conception of the 'autistic ocean' as opposed to the 'ocean-yogi.'
These hypotheses resurrected one of the most ancient of philosophical problems: the relation between matter and mind, and between mind and consciousness. Du Haart was the first to have the audacity to maintain that the ocean possessed a consciousness. The problem, which the methodologists hastened to dub metaphysical, provoked all kinds of arguments and discussions. Was it possible for thought to exist without consciousness? Could one, in any case, apply the word thought to the processes observed in the ocean? Is a mountain only a huge stone? Is a planet an enormous mountain? Whatever the terminology, the new scale of size introduced new norms and new phenomena.
The question appeared as a contemporary version of the problem of squaring the circle. Every independent thinker endeavored to register his personal contribution to the hoard of Solarist studies. New theories proliferated: the ocean was evidence of a state of degeneration, of regression, following a phase of 'intellectual repletion'; it was a deviant neoplasm, the product of the bodies of former inhabitants of the planet, whom it had devoured, swallowed up, dissolving and blending the residue into this unchanging, self-propagating form, supracellular in structure.
By the white light of the fluorescent tubes—a pale imitation of terrestrial daylight—I cleared the table of its clutter of apparatus and books. Arms outstretched and my hands gripping the chromium edging, I unrolled a map of Solaris on the plastic surface and studied it at length. The living ocean had its peaks and its canyons. Its islands, which were covered with a decomposing mineral deposit, were certainly related to the nature of the ocean bed. But did it control the eruption and subsidence of the rocky formations buried in its depths? No one knew. Gazing at the big flat projection of the two hemispheres, colored in various tones of blue and purple, I experienced once again that thrill of wonder which had so often gripped me, and which I had felt as a schoolboy on learning of the existence of Solaris for the first time.
Lost in contemplation of this bewildering map, my mind in a daze, I temporarily forgot the mystery surrounding Gibarian's death and the uncertainty of my own future.
The different sections of the ocean were named after the scientists who had explored them. I was examining Thexall's swell, which surrounded the equatorial archipelagos, when I had a sudden sensation of being watched.
I was still leaning over the map, but I no longer saw it; my limbs were in the grip of a sort of paralysis. The crates and a small locker still barricaded the door, which was in front of me. It's only a robot, I told myself—yet I had not discovered any in the room and none could have entered without my knowledge. My back and my neck seemed to be on fire; the sensation of this relentless, fixed stare was becoming unbearable. With my head shrinking between my hunched shoulders, I leant harder and harder against the table, until it began slowly to slide away. The movement released me; I spun round.
The room was empty. There was nothing in front of me except the wide convex window and, beyond it, the night. But the same sensation persisted. The night stared me in the face, amorphous, blind, infinite, without frontiers. Not a single star relieved the darkness behind the glass. I pulled the thick curtains. I had been in the Station less than an hour, yet already I was showing signs of morbidity. Was it the effect of Gibarian's death? In so far as I knew him, I had imagined that nothing could shake his nerve: now, I was no longer so sure.
I stood in the middle of the room, beside the table. My breathing became more regular, I felt the sweat chill on my forehead. What was it I had been thinking about a moment ago? Ah, yes, robots! It was surprising that I had not come across one anywhere on the Station. What could have become of them all? The only one with which I had been in contact—at a distance—belonged to the vehicle reception services. But what about the others?
I looked at my watch. It was time to rejoin Snow.
I left the room. The dome was feebly lit by luminous filaments running the length of the ceiling. I went up to Gibarian's door and stood there, motionless. There was total silence. I gripped the handle. I had in fact no intention of going in, but the handle went down and the door opened, disclosing a chink of darkness. The lights went on. In one quick movement, I entered and silently closed the door behind me. Then I turned round.
My shoulders brushed against the door panels. The room was larger than mine. A curtain decorated with little pink and blue flowers (not regulation Station equipment, but no doubt brought from Earth with his personal belongings) covered three-quarters of the panoramic window. Around the walls were bookshelves and cupboards, painted pale green with silvery highlights. Both shelves and cupboards had been emptied of their contents, which were piled into heaps, amongst the furniture. At my feet, blocking the way, were two overturned trolleys buried beneath a heap of periodicals spilling out of bulging brief cases which had burst open. Books with their pages splayed out fanwise were stained with colored liquids which had spilt from broken retorts and bottles with corroded stoppers, receptacles made of such thick glass that a single fall, even from a considerable height, could not have shattered them in such a way. Beneath the window lay an overturned desk, an anglepoise lamp crumpled underneath it; two legs of an upturned stool were stuck in the half-open drawers. A flood of papers of every conceivable size swamped the floor. My interest quickened as I recognized Gibarian's hand-writing. As I stooped to gather together the loose sheets, I noticed that my hand was casting a double shadow.
I straightened up. The pink curtain glowed brightly, traversed by a streak of incandescent, steely-blue light which was gradually widening. I pulled the curtain aside. An unbearable glare extended along the horizon, chasing before it an army of spectral shadows, which rose up from among the waves and dispersed in the direction of the Station. It was the dawn. After an hour of darkness the planet's second sun—the blue sun—was rising in the sky.
The automatic switch cut off the lights as I returned to the heap of papers. The first thing I came across was a detailed description of an experiment, evidently decided upon three weeks before. Gibarian had planned to expose the plasma to an intensive bombardment of X-ra
ys. I gathered from the context that the paper was addressed to Sartorius, whose job it was to organize operations. What I was holding in my hand was a copy of the plan.
The whiteness of the paper hurt my eyes. This new day was different from the previous one. In the warm glow of the red sun, mists overhung a black ocean with blood-red reflections, and waves, clouds and sky were almost constantly veiled in a crimson haze. Now, the blue sun pierced the flower- printed curtain with a crystalline light. My suntanned hands looked grey. The room had changed; all the red-reflecting objects had lost their luster and had turned a greyish-brown, whereas those which were white, green and yellow had acquired a vivid brilliance and seemed to give off their own light. Screwing up my eyes, I risked another glance through a chink in the curtain: an expanse of molten metal trembled and shimmered under a white-hot sky, I shut my eyes and drew back. On the shelf above the wash-basin (which had recently been badly chipped) I found a pair of dark glasses, so big that when I put them on they covered half my face. The curtain appeared to glow with a sodium light. I went on reading, picking up the sheets of paper and arranging them on the only usable table. There were gaps in the text, and I searched in vain for the missing pages.
I came across a report of experiments already carried out, and learned that, for four days running, Gibarian and Sartorius had submitted the ocean to radiation at a point 1400 miles from the present position of the Station. The use of X-rays was banned by a UN convention, because of their harmful effects, and I was certain that no one had sent a request to Earth for authorization to proceed with such experiments.
Looking up, I caught sight of my face in the mirror of a half-open locker door: masked by the dark glasses, it was deathly pale. The room, too, glinting with blue and white reflections, looked equally bizarre; but soon there came a prolonged screech of metal as the air-tight outer shutters slid across the window. There was an instant of darkness, and then the lights came on; they seemed to me to be curiously dim. It grew hotter and hotter. The regular drone of the air-conditioning was now a high-pitched whine: the Station's refrigeration plant was running at full capacity. Nevertheless, the overpowering heat grew more and more intense.