BERTON: First of all, I should like to know the possible consequences of this dissenting vote of Dr. Messenger’s.

PRESIDENT: Virtually none. We shall carry on our work along the lines originally laid down.

BERTON: Is our interview on record?

PRESIDENT: Yes.

BERTON: In that case, I should like to say that although the Commission’s decision may not be prejudicial to me personally, it is prejudicial to the spirit of the expedition itself. Consequently, as I have already stated, I refuse to answer any further questions.

PRESIDENT: Is that all?

BERTON: Yes. Except that I should like to meet Dr. Messenger. Is that possible?

PRESIDENT: Of course.

That was the end of the second minute. At the bottom of the page there was a note in minuscule handwriting to the effect that, the following day, Dr. Messenger had talked to Berton for nearly three hours. As a result of this conversation, Messenger had once more begged the expedition Council to undertake further investigations in order to check the pilot’s statements. Berton had produced some new and extremely convincing revelations, which Messenger could not divulge unless the Council reversed its negative decision. The Council — Shannahan, Timolis and Trahier — rejected the motion and the affair was closed.

The book also reproduced a photocopy of the last page of a letter, or rather, the draft of a letter, found by Messenger’s executors after his death. Ravintzer, in spite of his researches, had been unable to discover if this letter had ever been sent.

“… obtuse minds, a pyramid of stupidity,” — the text began. “Anxious to preserve its authority, the Council — more precisely Shannahan and Timolis (Trahier’s vote doesn’t count) — has rejected my recommendations. Now I am taking the matter up directly with the Institute; but, as you can well imagine, my protestations won’t convince anybody. Bound as I am by oath, I can’t, alas, reveal to you what Berton told me. If the Council disregarded Berton’s testimony, it was basically because Berton has no scientific training, although any scientist would envy the presence of mind and the gift of observation shown by this pilot. I should be grateful if you could send me the following information by return post:

i) Fechner’s biography, in particular details about his childhood.

ii) Everything you know about his family, facts and dates — he probably lost his parents while still a child.

iii)The topography of the place where he was brought up.

I should like once more to tell you what I think about all this. As you know, some time after the departure of Fechner and Carucci, a spot appeared in the centre of the red sun. This chromospheric eruption caused a magnetic storm chiefly over the southern hemisphere, where our base was situated, according to the information provided by the satellite, and the radio links were cut. The other parties were scouring the planet’s surface over a relatively restricted area, whereas Fechner and Carucci had travelled a considerable distance from the base.

Never, since our arrival on the planet, had we observed such a persistent fog or such an unremitting silence.

I imagine that what Berton saw was one of the phases of a kind of ‘Operation Man’ which this viscous monster was engaged in. The source of all the various forms observed by Berton is Fechner — or rather, Fechner’s brain, subjected to an unimaginable ‘psychic dissection’ for the purposes of a sort of re-creation, an experimental reconstruction, based on impressions (undoubtedly the most durable ones) engraved on his memory.

I know this sounds fantastic; I know that I may be mistaken. But do please help me. At the moment, I am on the Alaric, where I look forward to receiving your reply.

Yours, A.”

It was growing dark, and I could scarcely make out the blurred print at the top of the grey page — the last page describing Berton’s adventure. For my part, my own experience led me to regard Berton as a trustworthy witness.

I turned towards the window. A few clouds still glowed like dying embers above the horizon. The ocean was invisible, blanketed by the purple darkness.

The strips of paper fluttered idly beneath the air-vents. There was a whiff of ozone in the still, warm air.

There was nothing heroic in our decision to remain on the Station. The time for heroism was over, vanished with the era of the great interplanetary triumphs, of daring expeditions and sacrifices. Fechner, the ocean’s first victim, belonged to a distant past. I had almost stopped caring about the identity of Snow’s and Sartorius’s visitors. Soon, I told myself, we would cease to be ashamed, to keep ourselves apart. If we could not get rid of our visitors, we would accustom ourselves to their presence, learn to live with them. If their Creator altered the rules of the game, we would adapt ourselves to the new rules, even if at first we jibbed or rebelled, even if one of us despaired and killed himself. Eventually, a certain equilibrium would be reestablished.

Night had come; no different from many nights on Earth. Now I could make out only the white contours of the basin and the smooth surface of the mirror.

I stood up. Groping my way to the basin, I fumbled among the objects which cluttered up the shelf, and found the packet of cotton wool. I washed my face with a damp wad and stretched out on the bed

A moth fluttered its wings… no, it was the ventilator-strip. The whirring stopped, then started up again. I could no longer see the window; everything had merged into darkness. A mysterious ray of light pierced the blackness and lingered in front of me — against the wall, or the black sky? I remembered how the blank stare of the night had frightened me the day before, and I smiled at the thought. I was no longer afraid of the night; I was not afraid of anything. I raised my wrist and looked at the ring of phosphorescent figures; another hour, and the blue day would dawn.

I breathed deeply, savoring the darkness, my mind empty and at rest.

Shifting my position, I felt the flat shape of the tape-recorder against my hip: Gibarian, his voice immortalized on the spools of tape. I had forgotten to resurrect him, to listen to him — the only thing I could do for him any more. I took the tape-recorder out of my pocket in order to hide it under the bed.

I heard a rustling sound; the door opened.

“Kris?” An anxious voice whispered my name. “Kris, are you there? It’s so dark….”

I answered:

“Yes, I’m here. Don’t be frightened, come!”

7 THE CONFERENCE

I was lying on my back, with Rheya’s head resting on my shoulder.

The darkness was peopled now. I could hear footsteps. Something was piling up above me, higher and higher, infinitely high. The night transfixed me; the night took possession of me, enveloped and penetrated me, impalpable, insubstantial. Turned to stone, I had ceased breathing, there was no air to breathe. As though from a distance, I heard the beating of my heart. I summoned up all my remaining strength, straining every nerve, and waited for death. I went on waiting… I seemed to be growing smaller, and the invisible sky, horizonless, the formless immensity of space, without clouds, without stars, receded, extended and grew bigger all round me. I tried to crawl out of bed, but there was no bed; beneath the cover of darkness there was a void. I pressed my hands to my face. I no longer had any fingers or any hands. I wanted to scream…

The room floated in a blue penumbra, which outlined the furniture and the laden bookshelves, and drained everything of color. A pearly whiteness flooded the window.

I was drenched with sweat. I glanced to one side. Rheya was gazing at me.

She raised her head.

“Has your arm gone to sleep?”