"Stanislaw Lem - Solaris2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lem Stanislaw)

"Yes; yes, indeed. Only, you see, we're a bit disorganized at the
moment."
"So I see," I answered dryly.
Snow walked around me, inspecting my atmosphere suit, which was standard
issue with the usual harness of wires and cables attached to the chest. He
coughed, and rubbed his bony nose:
"Perhaps you would like a bath? It would do you good. It’s the blue
door, on the other side.”
"Thanks — I know the Station lay-out."
"You must be hungry."
"No. Where's Gibarian?"
Without answering, he went over to the window. From behind he looked
considerably older. His close-cropped hair was grey, and deep wrinkles
creased his sunburnt neck.
The wave-crests glinted through the window, the colossal rollers rising
and falling in slow-motion. Watching the ocean like this one had the illusion
— it was surely an illusion — that the Station was moving imperceptibly, as
though teetering on an invisible base; then it would seem to recover its
equilibrium, only to lean the opposite way with the same lazy movement. Thick
foam, the color of blood, gathered in the troughs of the waves. For a
fraction of a second, my throat tightened and I thought longingly of the
_Prometheus_ and its strict discipline; the memory of an existence which
suddenly seemed a happy one, now gone forever.
Snow turned around, nervously rubbing his hands together.
"Listen," he said abruptly, "except for me there's no one around for the
moment. You'll have to make do with my company for today. Call me Ratface;
don't argue. You know me by my photograph, just imagine we're old friends.
Everyone calls me Ratface, there's nothing I can do about it."
Obstinately, I repeated my question:
"Where is Gibarian?"
He blinked again.
 "I'm sorry to have received you like that. It's . . . it's not exactly
my fault. I had completely forgotten . . . A lot has been happening here, you
see . . ."
"It's all right. But what about Gibarian? Isn't he on the Station? Is
he on an observation flight?"
Snow was gazing at a tangled mass of cables.
"No, he hasn't left the Station. And he won't be flying. The fact is .
. . ."
My ears were still blocked, and I was finding it more and more difficult
to hear.
"What? What do you mean? Where is he then?"
"I should think you might guess," he answered in a changed voice, looking
me coldly in the eyes. I shivered. He was drunk, but he knew what he was
saying.
"There's been an accident?"
He nodded vigorously, watching my reactions closely.
"When?"
"This morning, at dawn."
By now, my sensations were less violent; this succinct exchange of