I heard footsteps. Someone was walking through the dome. In two silent strides, I reached the door. The footsteps slowed down; whoever it was was behind it. The handle moved. Automatically, without thinking, I gripped it. The pressure did not increase, but nor did it relax. Neither of us, on either side of the door, said a word. We remained there, motionless, each of us holding the handle. Suddenly it straightened up again, freeing itself from my grasp. The muffled footsteps receded. With my ear glued to the panel, I went on listening. I heard nothing more.
3 THE VISITORS
I hastily pocketed Gibarian’s notes and went over to the locker. Work-suits and clothes had been pushed to one side as though someone had hidden himself at the back. On the floor I saw the corner of an envelope sticking out from a heap of papers and picked it up. It was addressed to me. Dry-mouthed with apprehension, I tore it open; I had to force myself to unfold the note inside.
In his even handwriting, small but perfectly legible, Gibarian had written two lines:
_Supplement Dir. Solar. Vol 1.: Vot. Separat._
_Messenger ds aff. F.; Ravintzer: The Little Apocrypha._
That was all, not another word. Did these two lines contain some vital piece of information? When had he written them? I told myself that the first thing to do was to consult the library index. I knew the supplement to the first volume of the annual of Solarist studies; or rather, without having read it, I knew of its existence – but was it not a document of purely historical interest? As for Ravintzer and _The Little Apocrypha_, I had never heard of them.
What next?
I was already a quarter of an hour late for my meeting with Snow. With my back to the door, I looked the room over carefully once more. Only then did I notice the bed standing up against the wall, half concealed by a large map of Solaris. Something was hanging down behind the map; it was a pocket tape-recorder, and I noted that nine tenths of the tape had been used. I took the machine out of its case (which I hung back where I had found it) and slipped it into my pocket.
Before leaving, I listened intently with my eyes closed. There was no sound from outside. I opened the door on to a yawning gulf of darkness – until it occurred to me to remove my dark glasses. The dome was feebly lit by the glowing filaments in the ceiling.
A number of corridors spread out in a star-shaped pattern between the four doors of the sleeping quarters and the narrow passage leading to the radio-cabin. Suddenly, looming up in the opening which led to the communal bathroom, a tall silhouette appeared, barely distinguishable in the surrounding gloom. I stood stock still, frozen to the spot. A giant Negress was coming silently towards me with a smooth, rolling gait. I caught a gleam from the whites of her eyes and heard the soft slapping of her bare feet. She was wearing nothing but a yellow skirt of plaited straw; her enormous breasts swung freely and her black arms were as thick as thighs. Less than a yard separated us as she passed me, but she did not give me so much as a glance. She went on her way, her grass skirt swinging rhythmically, resembling one of those steatopygous statues in anthropological museums. She opened Gibarian’s door and on the threshold her silhouette stood out distinctly against the bright light from inside the room. Then she closed the door behind her and I was alone.
Terror-stricken, I stared blankly round the big, empty hall. What had happened? What had I seen? Suddenly, my mind reeled as I recalled Snow’s warnings. Who was this monstrous Aphrodite? I took a step, a single pace, in the direction of Gibarian’s room, but I knew perfectly well that I would not go in.
I do not know how long I remained leaning against the cool metal wall, hearing nothing except the distant, monotonous whine of the air-conditioners. Eventually I pulled myself together and made my way to the radio-cabin. As I pressed down the door handle, I heard a harsh voice:
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Kelvin.”
Snow was seated at a table between a pile of aluminum crates and the transmitter, eating meat concentrate straight out of a tin. Did he then never leave the place? Dazedly, I watched him chewing until I realized that I, too, was famished. I went to a cupboard, selected the least dusty plate I could find, and sat down opposite Snow. We ate in silence.
Snow got up, uncorked a vacuum flask and filled two tumblers with clear, hot soup. Then he put the flask down on the floor; there was no room on the table.
“Have you seen Sartorius?” he asked.
“No. Where is he?”
“Upstairs.”
Upstairs: that meant the laboratory. We finished our meal without exchanging another word, Snow dutifully scraping the bottom of his tin. The outer shutter was in place over the window and reflections from the four ceiling lights gleamed on the laminated surface of the transmitter. Snow had put on a loose black sweater, frayed at the wrists. The taut skin over his cheekbones was marbled with tiny blood-vessels.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing, why?”
“You’re pouring with sweat.”
I wiped my forehead. It was true, I was dripping wet; it must have been reaction, after my unexpected encounter. Snow gave me a questioning glance. Should I tell him? If only he had taken me into his confidence . . . What incomprehensible game was being played here, and who was whose enemy?
“It’s hot. I should have expected your air-conditioning to work better than this!”
“It adjusts itself automatically every hour.” He looked at me closely. “Are you sure it’s only the heat?”
I did not answer. He tossed the utensils and the empty tins into the sink, returned to his armchair and went on with his interrogation.
“What are your plans?”
“That depends on you,” I answered coolly. “I suppose you have a research programme? A new stimulus, X-rays, that sort of thing . . .”
He frowned.
“X-rays? Who’s been talking to you about that?”
“I don’t remember. Someone dropped a hint – on the _Prometheus_ perhaps. Why, have you begun?”
“I don’t know the details, it was an idea of Gibarian’s. He and Sartorius set it up together. I wonder how you could have heard of it.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Funny that you shouldn’t know the details. You ought to, since you’re the one who . . .”
I left the sentence unfinished; Snow said nothing.
The whining of the air-conditioners had stopped. The temperature stayed at a bearable level, but a high-pitched drone persisted, like the buzzing of a dying insect.
Snow got up from his chair and leaned over the console of the transmitter. He began to press knobs at random, and to no effect, since he had left the activating switch off. He went on fidgeting with them for a moment, then he remarked:
“There are certain formalities to be dealt with concerning . . .”
“Yes?” I prompted, to his back.
He turned round and gave me a hostile look. Involuntarily, I had annoyed him; but ignorant of the role he was playing. I could only wait and see. His Adam’s apple rose and fell inside the collar of his sweater:
“You’ve been into Gibarian’s room,” he blurted out accusingly.
I looked at him calmly.
“You _have_ been in there, haven’t you?”
“If you say so . . .”
“Was there anyone there?”
So he had seen her, or, at least, knew of her existence!
“No, no one. Who could there have been?”
“Why didn’t you let me in, then?”
“Because I was afraid. I thought of your warnings and when the handle moved, I automatically hung on to it. Why didn’t you say it was you? I would have let you in.”
“I thought it was Sartorius,” he answered, in a faltering voice.
“And suppose it had been?”
Once again, he parried my question with one of his own.
“What do you think happened in there?”
I hesitated.
“You’re the one who should know. Where is he?”
“Gibarian? In the cold store. We took him there straight away this morning, after we’d found him in the locker.”
“The locker? Was he dead?”
“His heart was still beating, but he had stopped breathing.”
“Did you try resuscitation?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t have the chance,” he mumbled. “By the time I’d moved him, he was dead.”
Snow picked up a sheet of paper from the fitted desk in the corner and held it out to me.
“I have drafted a post-mortem report. I’m not sorry you’ve seen the room, as a matter of fact. Cause of death – pernostal injection, lethal dose. It’s all here . . .”