I ran my eyes over the paper, and murmured:
“Suicide? For what reason?”
“Nervous troubles, depression, call it what you like. You know more about that sort of thing than I do.”
I was still seated; Snow was standing over me.
Looking him in the eye, I said:
“I only know what I’ve seen for myself.”
“What are you trying to say?” he asked calmly.
“He injected himself with pernostal and hid in the locker, right? In that case, it’s not a question of nervous troubles or a fit of depression, but of a very serious paranoid condition.” Speaking more and more deliberately and continuing to look him in the eyes, I added: “What is certain is that he thought he saw something.”
Snow began fiddling with the transmitter again.
After a moment’s silence, I went on.
“Your signature’s here. What about Sartorius’s?”
“As I told you, he’s in the laboratory. He never shows his face. I suppose he’s . . .”
“What?”
“Locked himself in.”
“Locked himself in? I see . . . you mean he’s barricaded himself in?”
“Possibly.”
“Snow, there’s someone on the Station. Someone apart from us.”
He had stopped playing with the knobs and was leaning sideways, staring at me.
“You’ve seen it!”
“You warned me. Against what? Against whom? An hallucination?”
“What did you see?”
“Shall we say . . . a human being?”
He remained silent. Turning his back as though to hide his face from me, he tapped the metal plating with his finger-tips. I looked at his hands; there was no longer any trace of blood between the fingers. I had a brief moment of dizziness.
In scarcely more than a whisper, as though I were imparting a secret and afraid of being overhead, I said:
“It’s not a mirage, is it? It’s a real person, someone you can touch, someone you can . . . draw blood from. And what’s more, someone you’ve seen only today.”
“How do you know?”
He had not moved; his face was still obstinately turned to the wall and I was addressing his back.
“It was before I arrived, just before I arrived, wasn’t it?”
His whole body contracted, and I could see his panic-stricken expression.
“What about you?” he said in a strangled voice, “who are you?”
I thought he was about to attack me. It was not at all the reaction I had expected. The situation was becoming grotesque. Obviously, he did not believe that I was who I claimed to be. But what could this mean? He was becoming more and more terrified of me. Was he delirious? Could he have been affected by unfiltered gases from the planet’s atmosphere? Anything seemed possible. And then again, I too had seen this . . . creature, so what about me?
“Who is she?” I asked.
These words reassured him. For a moment, he looked at me searchingly, as though he was still doubtful of me; then he collapsed into his chair and put his head in his hands. Even before he opened his mouth, I knew that he had still not made up his mind to give me a direct answer.
“I’m worn out,” he said weakly.
“Who is she?” I insisted.
“If you don’t know . . .”
“Go on, know what?”
“Nothing.”
“Listen, Snow! We are isolated, completely cut off. Let’s put our cards on the table. Things are confused enough as it is. You’ve got to tell me what you know!”
“What about you?” he retorted, suspiciously.
“All right, I’ll tell you and then you tell me. Don’t worry, I shan’t think you’re mad.”
“Mad! Good God!” He tried to smile. “But you haven’t understood a thing, not a single thing. He never for one moment thought that he was mad. If he had he would never have done it. He would still be alive.”
“In other words, your report, this business of nervous troubles, is a fabrication.”
“Of course.”
“Why not write the truth?”
“Why?” he repeated.
A long silence followed. It was true that I was still completely in the dark. I had been under the impression that I had overcome his doubts and that we were going to pool our resources to solve the enigma. Why, then, was he refusing to talk?
“Where are the robots?”
“In the store-rooms. We’ve locked them all away; only the reception robots are operational.”
“Why?”
Once more, he refused to answer.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“I can’t.”
He seemed constantly on the point of unburdening himself, only to pull himself up at the last moment. Perhaps I would do better to tackle Sartorius. Then I remembered the letter and, as I thought of it, realized how important it was.
“Do you intend continuing with the experiments?”
He gave a contemptuous shrug:
“What good would that do?”
“Oh – in that case, what do you suggest we do?”
He was silent. In the distance, there was a faint noise of bare feet padding over the floor. The muffled echo of these shuffling steps reverberated eerily among the nickel-plated and laminated equipment and the tall shafts, furrowed with glass tubes, which encased the complicated electronic installations.
Unable to control myself any longer, I stood up. As I listened to the approaching footsteps, I watched Snow. Behind the drooping lids, his eyes showed no fear. Was he not afraid of her, then?
“Where does she come from?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
The sound of the footsteps faded, then died away.
“Don’t you believe me?” he said. “I swear to you that I don’t know.”
In the silence that followed, I opened a locker, pushed the clumsy atmosphere suits aside and found, as I expected, hanging at the back, the gas pistols used for manoeuvering in space. I took one out, checked the charge, and slung the harness over my shoulder. It was not strictly speaking, a weapon, but it was better than nothing.
As I was adjusting a strap, Snow showed his yellow teeth in a mocking grin.
“Good hunting!” he said.
I turned towards the door.
“Thanks.”
He dragged himself out of his chair.
“Kelvin!”
I looked at him. He was no longer smiling. I have never seen such an expression of weariness on anyone’s face.
He mumbled:
“Kelvin, it isn’t that . . . Really, I . . . I can’t . . .”
I waited; his lips moved, but uttered no sound. I turned on my heel and went out.
4 SARTORIUS
I followed a long, empty corridor, then forked right. I had never lived on the Station, but during my training on Earth I had spent six weeks in an exact replica of it; when I reached a short aluminum stairway, I knew where it led.
The library was in darkness, and I had to fumble for the light switch. I first consulted the index, then dialled the coordinates for the first volume of the Solarist Annual and its supplement. A red light came on. I turned to the register: the two books were marked out to Gibarian, together with _The Little Apocrypha_. I switched the lights off and returned to the lower deck.
In spite of having heard the footsteps receding, I was afraid to re-enter Gibarian’s room. _She_ might return. I hesitated for some time outside the door; finally, pressing down the handle, I forced myself to go in.
There was no one in the room. I began rummaging through the books scattered beneath the window, interrupting my search only to close the locker door: I could not bear the sight of the empty space among the work-suits.
The supplement was not in the first pile, so, one by one, I started methodically picking up the rest of the books around the room. When I reached the final pile, between the bed and the wardrobe, I found the volume I was looking for.
I was hoping to find some sort of clue and, sure enough, a book-marker had been slipped between the pages of the index. A name, unfamiliar to me, had been underlined in red: André Berton. The corresponding page numbers indicated two different chapters; glancing at the first, I learnt that Berton was a reserve pilot on Shannahan’s ship. The second reference appeared about a hundred pages further on.
At first, it seemed, Shannahan’s expedition had proceeded with extreme caution. When, however, after sixteen days, the plasmatic ocean had not only shown no signs of aggression, but appeared to shun any direct contact with men and machines, recoiling whenever anything approached its surface, Shannahan and his deputy, Timolis, discontinued some of the precautions which were hindering the progress of their work. The force fences which had been used to demarcate and protect the working areas were taken back to base, and the expedition split up into groups of two or three men, some groups making reconnaissance flights over a radius of some several hundred miles.
Apart from some unexpected damage to the oxygen-supply systems – the atmosphere had an unusually corrosive effect on the valves, which had to be replaced almost daily – four days passed without mishap. On the morning of the fifth day – 21 days after the arrival of the expedition – two scientists, Carucci and Fechner (the first a radiobiologist, the second a physicist), left on a mission aboard a hovercraft. Six hours later, the explorers were overdue. Timolis, who was in charge of the base in Shannahan’s absence, raised the alarm and diverted every available man into search-parties.