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

"Come back in an hour."
I turned and went out. As I closed the door behind me, I took a last
look at him. Tiny, shrunken, his head in his hands and his elbows resting on
his stained knees, he sat there, motionless. It was only then that I noticed
the dried bloodstains on the backs of his hands.



2 THE SOLARISTS

In the empty corridor I stood for a moment in front of the closed door.
I noticed a strip of plaster carelessly stuck on one of the panels. Pencilled
on it was the word "Man!" At the sight of this faintly scribbled word, I had
a sudden longing to return to Snow for company; but I thought better of it.
His crazy warnings still ringing in my ears, I started off down the
narrow, tubular passage which was filled with the moaning of the wind, my
shoulders bowed under the weight of the spacesuit. On tip-toe, half-
consciously fleeing from some invisible watcher, I found two doors on my left
and two more on my right. I read the occupants' names: Dr. Gibarian, Dr.
Snow, Dr. Sartorius. On the fourth, there was no nameplate. I hesitated,
then pressed the handle down gently and slowly opened the door. As I did so,
I had a premonition, amounting almost to a certainty, that there was someone
inside. I went in.
There was no one. Another wide panoramic window, almost as large as the
one in the cabin where I had found Snow, overhung the ocean, which, sunlit on
this side, shone with an oleaginous gleam, as though the waves secreted a
reddish oil. A crimson glow pervaded the whole room, whose lay-out suggested
a ship's cabin. On one side, flanked by book-filled shelves, a retractable
bed stood against the wall. On the other, between the numerous lockers, hung
nickel frames enclosing a series of aerial photographs stuck end to end with
adhesive tape, and racks full of test-tubes and retorts plugged with cotton-
wool. Two tiers of white enamel boxes took up the space beneath the window.
I lifted some of the lids; the boxes were crammed with all kinds of
instruments, intertwined with plastic tubing. The corners of the room were
occupied by a refrigerator, a tap and a demisting device. For lack of space
on the big table by the window, a microscope stood on the floor. Turning
round, I saw a tall locker beside the entrance door. It was half-open, filled
with atmosphere suits, laboratory smocks, insulated aprons, underclothing,
boots for planetary exploration, and aluminum cylinders: portable oxygen gear.
Two sets of this equipment, complete with masks, hung down from one of the
knobs of the vertical bed. Everywhere there was the same chaos, a general
disorder which someone had made a hasty attempt to disguise. I sniffed the
air. I could detect a faint smell of chemical reagents and traces of
something more acrid — chlorine? Instinctively I searched the ceiling for the
grills over the air-vents: strips of paper attached to the bars were
fluttering gently; the air was circulating normally. In order to make a
relatively free space around the bed, between the bookshelves and the locker,
I cleared two chairs of their litter of books, instruments, and tools, which I
piled haphazardly on the other side of the room.
I pulled out a bracket to hang up my spacesuit, took hold of the zip-