and polished his shoes. He's like that. Now, of course, he can only pretend, act a part—or else commit a crime."
"A crime?"
"Perhaps that isn't quite the right word. 'Divorce by ejection!' Does that sound better?"
"Very funny!"
"Suggest something else if you don't like it."
"Oh, leave me alone!"
"No, let's discuss the thing seriously. You know pretty well as much as I do by now. Have you got a plan?"
"No, none. I haven't the least idea what I'll do when … when she comes back. She will return, if I've understood you correctly?"
"It's on the cards."
"How do they get in? The Station is hermetically sealed. Perhaps the layer on the outer hull…"
He shook his head.
"The outer hull is in perfect condition. I don't know where they get in. Usually, they're there when you wake up, and you have to sleep eventually!"
"Could you barricade yourself securely inside a cabin?"
"The barricades wouldn't survive for long. There's only one solution, and you can guess what that is…"
We both stood up.
"Just a minute, Snow! You're suggesting we liquidate the Station and you expect me to take the initiative and accept the responsibility?"
"It's not as simple as that. Obviously, we could get out, if only as far as the satellite, and send an SOS from there. Of course, we'll be regarded as lunatics; we'll be shut up in a mad-house on Earth—unless we have the sense to retract. A distant planet, isolation, collective derangement—our case won't seem at all out of the ordinary. But at least we'd be better off in a mental home than we are here: a quiet garden, little white cells, nurses, supervised walks…"
Hands in his pockets, staring fixedly at a corner of the room, he spoke with the utmost seriousness.
The red sun had disappeared over the horizon and the ocean was a sombre desert, mottled with dying gleams, the last rays lingering among the long tresses of the waves. The sky was ablaze. Purple-edged clouds drifted across this dismal red and black world.
"Well, do you want to get out, yes or no? Or not yet?"
"Always the fighter! If you knew the full implications of what you're asking, you wouldn't be so insistent. It's not a matter of what I want, it's a matter of what's possible."
"Such as what?"
"That's the point, I don't know."
"We stay here then? Do you think we'll find some way…?"
Thin, sickly-looking, his peeling face deeply lined, he turned towards me:
"It might be worth our while to stay. We're unlikely to learn anything about it , but about ourselves…"
He turned, picked up his papers, and went out. I opened my mouth to detain him, but no sound escaped my lips.
There was nothing I could do now except wait. I went to the window and ran my eyes absently over the dark-red glimmer of the shadowed ocean. For a moment, I thought of locking myself inside one of the capsules on the hangar- deck, but it was not an idea worth considering for long: sooner or later, I should have to come out again.
I sat by the window, and began to leaf through the book Snow had given me. The glowing twilight lit up the room and colored the pages. It was a collection of articles and treatises edited by an Otho Ravintzer, Ph.D., and its general level was immediately obvious. Every science engenders some pseudo-science, inspiring eccentrics to explore freakish by-ways; astronomy has its parodists in astrology, chemistry used to have them in alchemy. It was not surprising, therefore, that Solaristics, in its early days, had set off an explosion of marginal cogitations. Ravintzer's book was full of this sort of intellectual speculation, prefaced, it is only fair to add, by an introduction in which the editor dissociated himself from some of the texts reproduced. He considered, with some justice, that such a collection could provide an invaluable period document as much for the historian as for the psychologist of science.
Berton's report, divided into two parts and complete with a summary of his log, occupied the place of honor in the
"A crime?"
"Perhaps that isn't quite the right word. 'Divorce by ejection!' Does that sound better?"
"Very funny!"
"Suggest something else if you don't like it."
"Oh, leave me alone!"
"No, let's discuss the thing seriously. You know pretty well as much as I do by now. Have you got a plan?"
"No, none. I haven't the least idea what I'll do when … when she comes back. She will return, if I've understood you correctly?"
"It's on the cards."
"How do they get in? The Station is hermetically sealed. Perhaps the layer on the outer hull…"
He shook his head.
"The outer hull is in perfect condition. I don't know where they get in. Usually, they're there when you wake up, and you have to sleep eventually!"
"Could you barricade yourself securely inside a cabin?"
"The barricades wouldn't survive for long. There's only one solution, and you can guess what that is…"
We both stood up.
"Just a minute, Snow! You're suggesting we liquidate the Station and you expect me to take the initiative and accept the responsibility?"
"It's not as simple as that. Obviously, we could get out, if only as far as the satellite, and send an SOS from there. Of course, we'll be regarded as lunatics; we'll be shut up in a mad-house on Earth—unless we have the sense to retract. A distant planet, isolation, collective derangement—our case won't seem at all out of the ordinary. But at least we'd be better off in a mental home than we are here: a quiet garden, little white cells, nurses, supervised walks…"
Hands in his pockets, staring fixedly at a corner of the room, he spoke with the utmost seriousness.
The red sun had disappeared over the horizon and the ocean was a sombre desert, mottled with dying gleams, the last rays lingering among the long tresses of the waves. The sky was ablaze. Purple-edged clouds drifted across this dismal red and black world.
"Well, do you want to get out, yes or no? Or not yet?"
"Always the fighter! If you knew the full implications of what you're asking, you wouldn't be so insistent. It's not a matter of what I want, it's a matter of what's possible."
"Such as what?"
"That's the point, I don't know."
"We stay here then? Do you think we'll find some way…?"
Thin, sickly-looking, his peeling face deeply lined, he turned towards me:
"It might be worth our while to stay. We're unlikely to learn anything about it , but about ourselves…"
He turned, picked up his papers, and went out. I opened my mouth to detain him, but no sound escaped my lips.
There was nothing I could do now except wait. I went to the window and ran my eyes absently over the dark-red glimmer of the shadowed ocean. For a moment, I thought of locking myself inside one of the capsules on the hangar- deck, but it was not an idea worth considering for long: sooner or later, I should have to come out again.
I sat by the window, and began to leaf through the book Snow had given me. The glowing twilight lit up the room and colored the pages. It was a collection of articles and treatises edited by an Otho Ravintzer, Ph.D., and its general level was immediately obvious. Every science engenders some pseudo-science, inspiring eccentrics to explore freakish by-ways; astronomy has its parodists in astrology, chemistry used to have them in alchemy. It was not surprising, therefore, that Solaristics, in its early days, had set off an explosion of marginal cogitations. Ravintzer's book was full of this sort of intellectual speculation, prefaced, it is only fair to add, by an introduction in which the editor dissociated himself from some of the texts reproduced. He considered, with some justice, that such a collection could provide an invaluable period document as much for the historian as for the psychologist of science.
Berton's report, divided into two parts and complete with a summary of his log, occupied the place of honor in the
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