conversation.
"What is it you want exactly?" Snow went on. "Do you want me to
tell you what this mass of metamorphic
plasma— x -billion tons of metamorphic plasma—is
scheming against us? Perhaps nothing."
"What do you mean, nothing?"
Snow smiled.
"You must know that science is concerned with phenomena rather
than causes. The phenomena here began to manifest themselves eight
or nine days after that X-ray experiment. Perhaps the ocean reacted
to the irradiation with a counter-irradiation, perhaps it probed
our brains and penetrated to some kind of psychic tumor."
I pricked up my ears.
"Tumor?"
"Yes, isolated psychic processes, enclosed, stifled,
encysted—foci smouldering under the ashes of memory. It
deciphered them and made use of them, in the same way as one uses a
recipe or a blue-print. You know how alike the asymmetric
crystalline structures of a chromosome are to those of the DNA
molecule, one of the constituents of the cerebrosides which
constitute the substratum 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 of destroying us. It could have
annihilated us much more easily. As far as one can tell, given its
technological resources, it could have done anything it
wished—confronted me with your double, 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 old Ratface 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 their origins. 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—in the 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 to the 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 his pocket 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, to preserve 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 the details, but there were eight of us and
we were down to our last 1000 pounds of oxygen. One after another,
we gave up our chores, and by the end we all had beards except
Sartorius. He was the only one who shaved and polished his shoes.
He's like that. Now, of course, he
"What is it you want exactly?" Snow went on. "Do you want me to
tell you what this mass of metamorphic
plasma— x -billion tons of metamorphic plasma—is
scheming against us? Perhaps nothing."
"What do you mean, nothing?"
Snow smiled.
"You must know that science is concerned with phenomena rather
than causes. The phenomena here began to manifest themselves eight
or nine days after that X-ray experiment. Perhaps the ocean reacted
to the irradiation with a counter-irradiation, perhaps it probed
our brains and penetrated to some kind of psychic tumor."
I pricked up my ears.
"Tumor?"
"Yes, isolated psychic processes, enclosed, stifled,
encysted—foci smouldering under the ashes of memory. It
deciphered them and made use of them, in the same way as one uses a
recipe or a blue-print. You know how alike the asymmetric
crystalline structures of a chromosome are to those of the DNA
molecule, one of the constituents of the cerebrosides which
constitute the substratum 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 of destroying us. It could have
annihilated us much more easily. As far as one can tell, given its
technological resources, it could have done anything it
wished—confronted me with your double, 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 old Ratface 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 their origins. 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—in the 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 to the 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 his pocket 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, to preserve 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 the details, but there were eight of us and
we were down to our last 1000 pounds of oxygen. One after another,
we gave up our chores, and by the end we all had beards except
Sartorius. He was the only one who shaved and polished his shoes.
He's like that. Now, of course, he
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