Stanislaw Lem - The Invincible

“Yes. No contact.”

“Send: Stop immediately!”

The technicians at the console got busy. Two, three, four times, streaks of light flashed under their hands.

“No reply, Astrogator.”

Why doesn’t he start? Rohan was puzzled by the astrogator’s reluctance. Maybe he won’t admit defeat? What nonsense! Horpach! He made a move… and… now… he’s going to issue the order to take off…

But the astrogator simply took a step backward.

“Kronotos?”

The cyberneticist came closer. “Here.”

“Whatever have they done to that Cyclops?” Rohan felt consternation. Horpach had said “they” — as if he were actually dealing with thinking opponents.

“The autonomous circuits are running on cryotrons,” began Kronotos with a voice which revealed that he was merely voicing theories. “The temperature has gone up. The circuits have lost their supraconductivity…”

“Do you know this for sure or are you just guessing?” asked the astrogator.

What a strange conversation! Everybody stared at the videoscreen on which the Cyclops could now be seen in direct transmission. It was creeping forward, its movements fluid yet somewhat unsteady. Now and then it deviated from its course as if it were still in doubt about its real destination. It fired several times at the teleprobe before hitting its target. Then the men saw the probe plummet to the ground like a ball of fire.

“The only thing I can imagine that would explain its strange behavior would be resonance,” said the cyberneticist after a moment’s hesitation. “If their field has overlapped with the brain’s own — ”

“How about the force field?”

“A force field can’t screen out a magnetic field.”

“Too bad,” the astrogator remarked dryly.

Gradually the tension eased inside the Invincible’s control center. The Cyclops was obviously no longer steering for its homeport. The distance between them, that had been very slight, increased again. No longer subject to human control, the vehicle ambled off to the wide expanses of the northern desert.

“Chief engineer, take over for me for a while,” requested Horpach. “The rest of you will accompany me downstairs.”

The intense cold woke Rohan up. Drugged with sleep, he curled up under his blanket and pressed his face into the pillow. Then he placed his hands over his face, trying to shield it from the biting cold, but it was no use. He realized that he had to wake up completely. But he kept putting the moment off without knowing why. Suddenly he sat up. The cabin was pitch black. An icy blast of air hit him directly in the face. He jumped off his bunk, cursing softly as he groped his way in the dark toward the air conditioning. As he had gone to bed, he had felt so warm that he had turned the knob to “cold.”

Little by little the air in the small cabin heated up, but Rohan, huddling under his blanket, could not go back to sleep again. He glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch — 3:00 A.M. Only three hours of sleep again, he thought furiously and still freezing. The conference had lasted a long time. It was almost midnight when they had finally broken up. All that useless talk, he thought. Now, enveloped by this darkness, he would give anything to be back at the space station, not to have to see or hear any more of this damned Regis III and its dead nightmare of a world. Most of the strategists had been in favor of going into orbit, except for the chief engineer and the head physicist. From the beginning the latter had strongly supported Horpach’s opinion: remain here as long as possible. The probability of finding the men of Regnar’s group was one in a million, or not even that much. If they weren’t already dead, only the great distance between them and the battle scene could have saved them from this atomic inferno. Rohan wished he knew whether the astrogator had stayed solely because of the four lost men, or if other considerations had played a role in his decision. The way it appeared from Regis III was just one side of the story; it would look very different indeed in the dry words of some report and in the bright calm of the space station. The report would simply state that the Invincible had lost half its overland vehicles and its main weapon, the Cyclops (which would represent a future threat for any spacecraft landing on the planet). In addition, they had suffered six casualties, and more than half the crew had to be hospitalized and would most likely remain unfit for duty for many years to come. And because of these losses in human lives, machines and their most valuable instruments, they had run away from microscopic crystals, the creatures of a small desert planet, the dead remainder of the Lyre civilization that had long since been surpassed by Earth. What else but flight would it be, if they turned back now? But was Horpach the kind of man who would take such motives into consideration? Maybe he himself did not know why he had not ordered them to take off? Was he waiting for something? Surely, the biologists had discussed the possibility of defeating the inorganic insects with their own weapons. If that species had already undergone evolution, they concluded, it should be possible to introduce further changes. To begin with, the scientists would need to experiment with a considerable quantity of captured specimens and bring about certain genetic changes that would reappear in future insect generations, changes that would render harmless this whole crystalline race. Such genetic changes would have to be of an extremely specific nature; they would need to offer an immediate, exploitable effect, and ensure that succeeding generations would develop an Achilles heel, a vulnerable feature that could be attacked. But this was just the usual, speculative, idle talk of the theoreticists: they hadn’t the faintest idea what type of a mutation this would require, how to produce it, how many of these cursed crystals could be captured without risking another battle whose outcome might mean an even more serious defeat than on the previous day. Even if everything should go smoothly, how long would they have to wait for the results of this new evolution? Not just days or weeks, surely. Were they supposed to circle around Regis III like children on a merry-go-round, for one or two or even ten years? The whole thing was totally absurd.

Rohan noticed that he had turned the heat up too high: it had become uncomfortably hot in his cabin. He threw back his blanket, got up, took a shower, dressed quickly and left the cabin.

The elevator was not there. While he waited in the semi-darkness, broken only by the moving lights of the indicator, he listened to the nocturnal quiet enveloping the spaceship. His temples were throbbing, his head felt heavy with the torment of sleepless nights and days filled with tension. Occasionally a blubbering sound could be heard in the pipe lines. From the levels below came the muffled murmurings of the idling engines, which were ready for takeoff at any moment. Dry metallic air wafted from the ventilation shafts next to the platform on which he was standing. When the door slid open, he entered the elevator. He got off on the eighth level. Here the corridor made a turn and followed the curve of the main hull. Rohan walked ahead without really knowing where he was going. Mechanically he lifted his feet in the right spots in order to step over the high thresholds of the separating walls that could be hermetically sealed off, until finally he caught sight of the shadows of the crew working at the main reactor. The room was dark; only a few dozen luminescent hands flickered over the control panels.

“They can’t possibly be alive any more,” said one of the men sitting at the instrument panel. Rohan could not recognize who he was. “A thousand Roentgen went out to a radius of five miles. They’re dead by now, you can bet on that.”