which
deals with the reciprocal interaction of energy and matter,
elements and compounds, the finite and the infinite. This
correspondence convinced the scientists that they were confronted
with a monstrous entity endowed with reason, a protoplasmic
ocean-brain enveloping the entire planet and idling its time away
in extravagant theoretical cognitation about the nature of the
universe. Our instruments had intercepted minute random fragments
of a prodigious and everlasting monologue unfolding in the depths
of this colossal brain, which was inevitably beyond our
understanding.
So much for the mathematicians. These hypotheses, according to
some people, underestimated the resources of the human mind; they
bowed to the unknown, proclaiming the ancient doctrine, arrogantly
resurrected, of ignoramus et ignorabimus . Others
regarded the mathematicians' hypotheses as sterile and dangerous
nonsense, contributing towards the creation of a modern mythology
based on the notion of this giant brain—whether plasmic or
electronic was immaterial—as the ultimate objective of
existence, the very synthesis of life.
Yet others…but the would-be experts were legion and each
had his own theory. A comparison of the 'contact' school of thought
with other branches of Solarist studies, in which specialization
had rapidly developed, especially during the last quarter of a
century, made it clear that a Solarist-cybernetician had difficulty
in making himself understood to a Solarist-symmetriadologist.
Veubeke, director of the Institute when I was studying there, had
asked jokingly one day: "How do you expect to communicate with the
ocean, when you can't even understand one another?" The jest
contained more than a grain of truth.
The decision to categorize the ocean as a metamorph was not an
arbitrary one. Its undulating surface was capable of generating
extremely diverse formations which resembled nothing ever seen on
Earth, and the function of these sudden eruptions of plasmic
'creativity,' whether adaptive, explorative or what, remained an
enigma.
Lifting the heavy volume with both hands, I replaced it on the
shelf, and thought to myself that our scholarship, all the
information accumulated in the libraries, amounted to a useless
jumble of words, a sludge of statements and suppositions, and that
we had not progressed an inch in the 78 years since researches had
begun. The situation seemed much worse now than in the time of the
pioneers, since the assiduous efforts of so many years had not
resulted in a single indisputable conclusion.
The sum total of known facts was strictly negative. The ocean
did not use machines, even though in certain circumstances it
seemed capable of creating them. During the first two years of
exploratory work, it had reproduced elements of some of the
submerged instruments. Thereafter, it simply ignored the
experiments we went on pursuing, as though it had lost all interest
in our instruments and our activities—as though, indeed, it
was no longer interested in us. It did not possess a nervous system
(to go on with the inventory of 'negative knowledge') or cells, and
its structure was not proteiform. It did not always react even to
the most powerful stimuli (it ignored completely, for example, the
catastrophic accident which occurred during the second Giese
expedition: an auxiliary rocket, falling from a height of 300,000
metres, crashed on the planet's surface and the radioactive
explosion of its nuclear reserves destroyed the plasma within a
radius of 2500 metres).
Gradually, in scientific circles, the 'Solaris Affair' came to
be regarded as a lost cause, notably among the administrators of
the Institute, where voices had recently been raised suggesting
that financial support should be withdrawn and research suspended.
No one, until then, had dared to suggest the final liquidation of
the Station; such a decision would have smacked too obviously of
defeat. But in the course of semi-official discussions a number