possibility that I was behaving
exactly as in a dream. Neither Snow nor Sartorius having any real
existence, it would be pointless to put questions to them.
I thought of taking some powerful drug, peyotl for example, or
another preparation inducing vivid hallucinations. If visions
ensued, this would prove that I had really experienced these recent
events and that they were part and parcel of the surrounding
material reality. But then, no, I thought, this would not
constitute the proof I needed, since I knew the effects of the drug
(which I should have chosen for myself) and my imagination could
suggest to me the double illusion of having taken the drug and of
experiencing its effects.
I was going around in circles; there seemed to be no escape. It
was not possible to think except with one's brain, no one could
stand outside himself in order to check the functioning of his
inner processes. Suddenly an idea struck me, as simple as it was
effective.
I leapt to my feet and ran to the radio-cabin. The room was
deserted. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall. Nearly four
o'clock, the fourth hour of the Station's artificial night-time.
Outside, the red sun was shining. I quickly plugged in the
long-range transmitter, and while the valves warmed up, I went over
in my mind the principal stages of the experiment.
I could not remember the call-sign for the automatic station on
the satellite, but I found it on a card hanging above the main
instrument panel, sent it out in Morse, and received the answering
signal eight seconds later. The satellite, or rather its electronic
brain, identified itself by a rhythmic pulse.
I instructed the satellite to give me the figures of the
galactic meridians it was traversing at 22-second intervals while
orbiting Solaris, and I specified an answer to five decimal
points.
Then I sat and waited for the reply. Ten minutes later, it
arrived. I tore off the strip of freshly printed paper and hid it
in a drawer, taking care not to look at it. I went to the bookcase
and took out the big galactic charts, the logarithm tables, a
calendar giving the daily path of the satellite, and various other
textbooks. Then I sat down to work out for myself the answer to the
question I had posed.
For an hour or more, I integrated the equations. It was a long
time since I had tackled such elaborate calculations. My last major
effort in this direction must have been my practical astronomy
exam.
I worked at the problem with the help of the Station's giant
computer. My reasoning went as follows: by making my calculations
from the galactic charts, I would obtain an approximate cross-check
with the results provided by the satellite. Approximate because the
path of the satellite was subject to very complex variations due to
the effects of the gravitational forces of Solaris and its two
suns, as well as to the local variations in gravity caused by the
ocean. When I had the two series of figures, one furnished by the
satellite and the other calculated theoretically on the basis of
the galactic charts, I would make the necessary adjustments and the
two groups would then coincide up to the fourth decimal point,
discrepancies due to the unforeseeable influence of the ocean
arising only at the fifth.
If the figures obtained from the satellite were simply the
product of my deranged mind, they could not possibly coincide with
the second series. My brain might be unhinged, but it could not
conceivably compete with the Station's giant computer and secretly
perform calculations requiring several months' work. Therefore if
the figures corresponded, it would follow that the Station's
computer really existed, that I had really used it, and that I was
not delirious.
My hands trembled as I took the telegraphic tape out of the
drawer and laid it alongside the wide band of paper from the
computer. As I had predicted, the two series of numbers
corresponded up to the fourth decimal point.
I put all the papers away in the drawer. So the
exactly as in a dream. Neither Snow nor Sartorius having any real
existence, it would be pointless to put questions to them.
I thought of taking some powerful drug, peyotl for example, or
another preparation inducing vivid hallucinations. If visions
ensued, this would prove that I had really experienced these recent
events and that they were part and parcel of the surrounding
material reality. But then, no, I thought, this would not
constitute the proof I needed, since I knew the effects of the drug
(which I should have chosen for myself) and my imagination could
suggest to me the double illusion of having taken the drug and of
experiencing its effects.
I was going around in circles; there seemed to be no escape. It
was not possible to think except with one's brain, no one could
stand outside himself in order to check the functioning of his
inner processes. Suddenly an idea struck me, as simple as it was
effective.
I leapt to my feet and ran to the radio-cabin. The room was
deserted. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall. Nearly four
o'clock, the fourth hour of the Station's artificial night-time.
Outside, the red sun was shining. I quickly plugged in the
long-range transmitter, and while the valves warmed up, I went over
in my mind the principal stages of the experiment.
I could not remember the call-sign for the automatic station on
the satellite, but I found it on a card hanging above the main
instrument panel, sent it out in Morse, and received the answering
signal eight seconds later. The satellite, or rather its electronic
brain, identified itself by a rhythmic pulse.
I instructed the satellite to give me the figures of the
galactic meridians it was traversing at 22-second intervals while
orbiting Solaris, and I specified an answer to five decimal
points.
Then I sat and waited for the reply. Ten minutes later, it
arrived. I tore off the strip of freshly printed paper and hid it
in a drawer, taking care not to look at it. I went to the bookcase
and took out the big galactic charts, the logarithm tables, a
calendar giving the daily path of the satellite, and various other
textbooks. Then I sat down to work out for myself the answer to the
question I had posed.
For an hour or more, I integrated the equations. It was a long
time since I had tackled such elaborate calculations. My last major
effort in this direction must have been my practical astronomy
exam.
I worked at the problem with the help of the Station's giant
computer. My reasoning went as follows: by making my calculations
from the galactic charts, I would obtain an approximate cross-check
with the results provided by the satellite. Approximate because the
path of the satellite was subject to very complex variations due to
the effects of the gravitational forces of Solaris and its two
suns, as well as to the local variations in gravity caused by the
ocean. When I had the two series of figures, one furnished by the
satellite and the other calculated theoretically on the basis of
the galactic charts, I would make the necessary adjustments and the
two groups would then coincide up to the fourth decimal point,
discrepancies due to the unforeseeable influence of the ocean
arising only at the fifth.
If the figures obtained from the satellite were simply the
product of my deranged mind, they could not possibly coincide with
the second series. My brain might be unhinged, but it could not
conceivably compete with the Station's giant computer and secretly
perform calculations requiring several months' work. Therefore if
the figures corresponded, it would follow that the Station's
computer really existed, that I had really used it, and that I was
not delirious.
My hands trembled as I took the telegraphic tape out of the
drawer and laid it alongside the wide band of paper from the
computer. As I had predicted, the two series of numbers
corresponded up to the fourth decimal point.
I put all the papers away in the drawer. So the
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