Stanislaw Lem - The Invincible

“Those words?”

“No. Not those words. A dying man might think of anything. If he had been thinking of his mother, those words would have been quite normal. But his auditory memory bank was absolutely empty. Do you understand?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. What do you mean by empty?”

“As a rule we cannot obtain any useful results when we search the occipital lobe,” explained Nygren. “Too many engrams there, too many stored words. It’s as if you would attempt to read one hundred books simultaneously. Sheer chaos. But this one,” he glanced over in the direction of the elongated shape under the white sheet, “he had nothing in it. No words, only those couple of syllables.”

“Yes, you are right. I have examined everything thoroughly from the sensory speech center to the sulcus Rolandi,” said Sax. “And the same syllables kept recurring. These were the only phonemes that have been left in there.”

“And what happened to the rest?”

“There aren’t any others.” Sax seemed to lose patience. He jerked the heavy aparatus violently upwards and off the floor, making the leather handle squeak. “They aren’t there and that’s all there is to it. Don’t ask me what happened to all the other words. This man must have totally lost his acoustical memory bank.”

“But how about the image?”

“That’s something entirely different. This he saw. He did not even have to understand what he perceived. Just like a camera that does not comprehend but still registers whatever object you aim it at. I have no idea whether he understood it or not.”

“Could you help me with this, please, Nygren?” The two physicians carried their gear out of the hibernator, and the door fell shut behind them.

Rohan was alone in the room. He felt so desperate that he stepped over to the table, flung back the white sheet, unbuttoned the dead man’s shirt and carefully examined his chest. He trembled when he touched the body, for the skin had become supple again. As the tissues were thawing out, a general relaxation of all the muscles had taken place. The head, which until now had been propped up in an unnatural position, had sunk down limply. Now it seemed indeed as if he were sleeping. Rohan searched the body for evidence of some mysterious epidemic, some kind of poisoning or insect bites, but he could find nothing. Two fingers of the left hand spread apart and a small, gaping wound became visible. A few drops of blood began to ooze out of the torn flesh, and began to drip on the white foam rubber cover of the table. That was more than Rohan could stand. He did not even bother to pull the sheet back over the corpse; he ran out of the cabin, pushed aside the men who stood in his way and rushed toward the main exit as if he were being pursued. He was stopped by Jarg in the airlock, who helped him strap on the oxygen gear and pushed the mouthpiece between Rohan’s lips.

“You didn’t find anything, Navigator?”

“No, Jarge. Nothing, nothing at all.”

He was unaware of the others beside him as he descended in the elevator. Outside the motors howled. The storm had grown stronger; sand clouds whizzed past and pelted the rough surface of the Condor’s hull.

Suddenly Rohan remembered something. He walked over to the stern, raised himself on his toes and palpated the thick metal. The armored plate felt like rock, old weathered rock, dotted with hard nodules. Over near the tranporters he noticed the tall figure of engineer Ganong, but he did not even try to ask him what he might think of that strange phenomenon. The engineer would know no more than he did himself: namely, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He rode back in the largest vehicle, together with a dozen other men. From his seat in the far corner of the cabin, he heard their voices as if from a great distance. Terner brought up the question of poisoning, but he was shouted down.

“Poisoned? With what? All the filters are in top shape, the water supply untouched, oxygen tanks all full, an abundance of food…”

“Did you see what the man looked like that we found in the navigation room?” asked Blank. “I used to know him. But I would never have recognized him if I hadn’t seen his signet ring.”

Nobody answered. Back at the Invincible Rohan went directly to Horpach, who had been kept up to date on everything via television, and the oral reports of the group that had returned earlier. They had also brought along with them several hundred photos. Unconsciously, Rohan was relieved that he did not have to describe to the commander what he had seen.

The astrogator gave him a piercing glance and rose from the table where a large map of the area was spread out and partially covered by stacks of photographs. They were alone in the large command center.

“Pull yourself together, Rohan,” he said. “I can sympathize with the way you feel right now, but we need cold reason, a clear head, no emotions. Well get to the bottom of this damned story.”

“But they had every imaginable safety device: energo-robots, laser beam protectors and particle throwers. The big antimatter mortar is right there in front of the ship. They had all the same things to protect themselves that we do,” said Rohan in a toneless voice. He slumped down into a chair. “Forgive me.”

The astrogator took a bottle of cognac from a small cupboard.

“An old home remedy. Sometimes it does a lot of good. Drink that, Rohan. A long time ago people used this on battle fields.”

Rohan took the drink and swallowed it in one gulp.

“I checked the counters of all the energy aggregates,” he said in a reproachful tone. “The crew was never attacked. They never fired a single shot. They simply, simply — ”

“Went stark raving mad,” completed the unruffled commander.

“If only we could be sure of that! But how could that happen?”

“Did you see the log book?”

“No. Gaarb took it along with him. Do you have it here now?”

“Yes, I do. There’s the date of landing and only four entries, concerning the ruins, the same ones you men examined, and — the flies.”

“What flies?”

“I don’t know. This is the exact text here…”

He picked up the open book from the table.

“ ‘No sign of any life on land. Composition of the air…’ Then the result of the air analysis follows. But then — here it is: ‘At 18:40, the second armored patrol unit returned from the ruins. They encountered a local sandstorm with strong activity of atmospheric electrical discharges. Could restore communication by radio despite these disturbances. The patrol reports large swarms of tiny flies…’ “

The astrogator put down the book.

“And what else? Why don’t you go on?”

“That’s all there is. This is the end of the last entry.”

“And there’s nothing after that?”

“You had better look at the rest of this yourself.”

He pushed the log book over to Rohan. The page was covered with illegible scrawls. Rohan inspected the crazy doodling with amazement.

“This one here looks like a B,” he said softly.

“Yes. And this one like a G, a capital G. As if a small child had tried to write this. Don’t you agree?”

Rohan was silent. He still clutched the empty glass in his hand; he had forgotten to put it down on the table.

He was thinking of the ambitions he had harbored until recently, of his dream to himself to become commander of the Invincible some day. Now he was grateful that he did not have to decide what the future fate of this expedition should be.

“Please summon the leaders of the specialist groups. Rohan, wake up, will you!”

“I’m sorry. A conference, Astrogator?”

“Yes. Have them all come to the library.”