“Get in.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll follow you. I have to close the hatch behind us.”
She gave no sign that she suspected any trickery. When she had disappeared inside, I stuck my head into the opening and asked:
“Are you comfortable?”
I heard a muffled “yes” from inside the confined cockpit. I withdrew my head and slammed the hatch to with all my strength. I slid home the two bolts and tightened the five safety screws with the special spanner I had brought with me. The slender metal cigar stood there, pointing upwards, as though it were really about to take off into space.
Its captive was in no danger: the oxygen-tanks were full and there were food supplies in the cockpit. In any case, I did not intend to keep her prisoner indefinitely. I desperately needed two hours of freedom in order to concentrate on the decisions which had to be taken and to work out a joint plan of action with Snow.
As I was tightening the last screw but one, I felt a vibration in the three-pronged clamp which held the base of the shuttle. I thought I must have loosened the support in my over-eager handling of the heavy spanner, but when I stepped back to take a look, I was greeted by a spectacle which I hope I shall never have to see again.
The whole vehicle trembled, shaken from the inside as though by some superhuman force. Not even a steel robot could have imparted such a convulsive tremor to an 8-ton mass, and yet the cabin contained only a frail, dark-haired girl.
The reflections from the lights quivered on the shuttle’s gleaming sides. I could not hear the blows; there was no sound whatever from inside the vehicle. But the outspread struts vibrated like taut wires. The violence of the shock-waves was such that I was afraid the entire scaffolding would collapse.
I tightened the final screw with a trembling hand, threw down the spanner and jumped off the ladder. As I slowly retreated, I noticed that the shock-absorbers, designed to resist a continuous pressure, were vibrating furiously. It looked to me as though the shuttle’s outer skin was wrinkling.
Frenziedly, I rushed to the control panel and with both hands lifted the starting lever. As I did so the intercom connected to the shuttle’s interior gave out a piercing sound — not a cry, but a sound which bore not the slightest resemblance to the human voice, in which I could nevertheless just make out my name, repeated over and over again: “Kris! Kris! Kris!”
I had attacked the controls so violently, fumbling in my haste, that my fingers were torn and bleeding.
A bluish glimmer, like that of a ghostly dawn, lit up the walls. Swirling clouds of vaporous dust eddied round the launching pad; the dust turned into a column of fierce sparks and the echoes of a thunderous roar drowned all other noise. Three flames, merging instantly into a single pillar of fire, lifted the craft, which rose up through the open hatch in the dome, leaving behind a glowing trail which rippled as it gradually subsided. Shutters slid over the hatch, and the automatic ventilators began to suck in the acrid smoke which billowed round the room.
It was only later that I remembered all these details; at the time, I hardly knew what I was seeing. Clinging to the control-panel, the fierce heat burning my face and singeing my hair, I gulped the acrid air which smelt of a mixture of burning fuel and the ozone given off by ionization. I had instinctively closed my eyes at the moment of lift-off, but the glare had penetrated my eyelids. For some time, I saw nothing but black, red and gold spirals which slowly died away. The ventilators continued to hum; the smoke and the dust were gradually clearing.
The green glow of the radar-screen caught my eye. My hands flew across its controls as I began to search for the shuttle. By the time I had located it, it was already flying above the atmosphere. I had never launched a vehicle in such a blind and unthinking way, with no pre-set speed or direction. I did not even know its range and was afraid of causing some unpredictable disaster. I judged that the easiest thing to do would be to place it in a stationary orbit around Solaris and then cut the engines. I verified from the tables that the required altitude was 725 miles. It was no guarantee, of course, but I could see no other way out.
I did not have the heart to switch on the intercom, which had been disconnected at lift-off. I could not bear to expose myself again to the sound of that horrifying voice, which was no longer even remotely human.
I felt I was justified in thinking that I had defeated the ‘simulacra,’ and that behind the illusion, contrary to all expectation, I had found the real Rheya again — the Rheya of my memories, whom the hypothesis of madness would have destroyed.
At one o’clock, I left the hangar-deck.
6 “THE LITTLE APOCRYPHA”
My face and hands were badly burnt. I remembered noticing a jar of anti-burn ointment when I was looking for sleeping pills for Rheya (I was in no mood to laugh at my naïvete), so I went back to my room.
I opened the door. The room was glowing in the red twilight. Someone was sitting in the armchair where Rheya had knelt. For a second or two, I was paralysed with terror, filled with an 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, a pile 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 and applied 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 on my temples and cheekbones with a sterilized needle; they exuded a serous liquid, which I mopped 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 at last I had finished (and my burns had become even more painful), I sat myself down in the other chair. I had first to remove Rheya’s dress — that apparently quite normal dress which was nevertheless 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. I was 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 can leave 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 the well-aimed ink-bottle, like Luther? No?” He grimaced, “Aren’t you a fast worker! The basin is still intact, you haven’t banged your head against the walls, you haven’t even turned the room upside 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?” he added, with a disagreeable smile.
“Yes,” I said curtly.