“… and we will have been the baby’s toys for a while. It is possible. And do you know what you have just done? You’ve produced a completely new hypothesis about Solaris — congratulations! Everything suddenly falls into place: the failure to achieve contact, the absence 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 into view 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 who simply 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 good opportunity. 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 I don’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 on silently. 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 first flight over the ocean?”
Snow muttered something, but I could not make out what. I was in a hurry to get the rest of the gear together.
He accompanied me to the hangar deck, and helped me drag the flitter out onto the elevator disc. 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 he set the lift going. I emerged onto the Station roof; the motor burst into life; the three blades turned and the machine rose — strangely light — into the air. Soon the Station had fallen far behind.
Alone over the ocean, I saw it with a different eye. I was flying quite low, at about a hundred feet, and for the first time I felt a sensation often described by the explorers but which I had never noticed from the height of the Station: the alternating motion of the gleaming waves was not at all like the undulation of the sea or the billowing of clouds. It was like the crawling skin of an animal — the incessant, slow-motion contractions of muscular flesh secreting a crimson foam.
When I started to bank towards the drifting mimoid, the sun shone into my eyes and blood-red flashes struck the curved canopy. The dark ocean, flickering with sombre flames, was tinged with blue.
The flitter came around too wide, and I was carried a long way down wind from the mimoid, a long irregular silhouette looming out of the ocean. Emerging from the mist, the mimoid was no longer 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 ancient zeppelin. I changed course, and the sheer mass of the mimoid grew in my line of vision — a baroque sculpture. I was afraid of crashing into the bulbous swellings, and pulled the flitter up so brutally that it lost speed and started to lurch; but my caution was unnecessary, for the rounded 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 was a few hundred yards wide. In some places, it was close to splitting apart. This mimoid was obviously a fragment of a far larger formation. On the scale of Solaris it was only a tiny splinter, weeks or perhaps months old.
Among the mottled crags overhanging the ocean, I found a kind of beach, a sloping, fairly even surface a few yards square, and steered towards it. The rotors almost hit a cliff that reared up suddenly in my path, but I landed safely, cut the motor and slid back the canopy. Standing on the fuselage I made sure that there was no chance of the flitter sliding into the ocean. Waves were licking at the jagged bank about fifteen paces away, but the machine rested solidly on its legs, and I jumped to the ‘ground.’
The cliff I had almost hit was a huge bony membrane pierced with holes, and full of knotty swellings. A crack several yards wide split this wall diagonally and enabled me to examine the interior of the island, already glimpsed through the apertures in the membrane. I edged warily onto the nearest ledge, but my boots showed no tendency to slide and the suit did not impede my movements, and I went on climbing until I had reached a height of about four storeys above the ocean, and could see a broad stretch of petrified landscape stretching back until it was 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 winding sidestreets choked with debris, and alleyways which fell abruptly towards the oily foam that floated close to the shore. In the middle distance, great battlements stood intact, sustained by ossified buttresses. There were dark openings in the swollen, sunken walls — traces of windows or loop-holes. The whole of this floating town canted to one side or another like a foundering ship, pitched and turned slowly, and the sun cast continually moving shadows, which crept among the ruined alleys. Now and again a polished surface caught and reflected the light. I took the risk of climbing higher, then stopped; rivulets of fine sand were beginning to trickle down the rocks above my head, cascading into ravines and alleyways and rebounding in swirling clouds of dust. The mimoid is not made of stone, and to dispel the illusion one only has 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, propelled by the dark muscles of the ocean towards an unknown destination, but its inclination varied. It rolled from side to side, and the languid oscillation was accompanied by the gentle rustling sound of the yellow and grey foam which streamed off the emerging shore. The mimoid had acquired its swinging motion long before, probably at its birth, and even while it grew and broke 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 had flown 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 wave broke over the edge of the bank and spread out, not black, but a dirty green. The ebbing wave left 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 reproduction of a phenomenon which had been analyzed a century before: the wave hesitated, recoiled, then enveloped my hand without touching it, so that a thin covering of ‘air’ separated my glove inside a cavity which had been fluid a moment previously, and now had a fleshy consistency. I raised 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 my hand still higher, and the gelatinous substance stretched like a rope, but did not break. The main body of the wave remained motionless on the shore, surrounding my feet without touching them, like some strange beast patiently waiting for the experiment to finish. A flower had grown out of the ocean, and its calyx was moulded to my fingers. I stepped back. The stem trembled, stirred uncertainly and fell back into the wave, which gathered it and receded.