Stanislaw Lem - The Invincible

The astrogator averted his eyes. It seemed difficult to make a start.

“I am still undecided,” he began suddenly. “Some people in my place would simply flip a coin: leave or remain. But I don’t want to resort to that. I know you don’t always agree with me.”

Rohan was just about to answer but Horpach cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“No, no… This is your chance. I’ll leave the decision up to you. I’ll do whatever you decide.”

Horpach looked him straight in the face, then quickly hid his eyes again under his heavy eyelids.

“What… me?” Rohan stammered. He had expected anything but this.

“Quite right, son. You. This is confidential, of course. It’s a deal, then. You make the decision and I will execute your orders. I’ll justify everything before the executive board at the space station. It’s a good deal, isn’t it?”

“Are you serious?” asked Rohan, trying to stall for time, for he knew what the answer would be.

“Of course I am. If I didn’t know you, I would give you more time to make up your mind. But I know that you have your own thoughts about things and that you’ve already come to a decision. Since I can’t wheedle it out of you, I insist that you tell me what it is, now, on the spot. That’s an order. At this moment, you are the commander of the Invincible … Is this too sudden for you? All right, I’ll give you one more minute to think it over.”

Horpach got up, walked over to the wash basin, rubbed his palm across his cheeks so that his stubbly beard rustled under his fingers, and without further ado started shaving with his electric razor. He looked into the mirror.

Rohan’s first reaction was to feel furious at Horpach for being so ruthlessly inconsiderate, for giving him the right — no, rather forcing the obligation on him — to make a decision, but at the same time tying his tongue and relieving him of all responsibility right from the start. He knew Horpach well enough to realize that everything had been thoroughly planned in advance and that nothing could be changed now. The seconds passed, and he had to speak up, now, at once, but nothing came to mind. All the arguments he would liked to have flung in the commander’s face, all the objections he had prepared like so many brick-bats during his nocturnal ruminations, had suddenly vanished into thin air. The four men were no longer alive — that was almost a certainty. If only that “almost” did not exist, then they need not consider anything, need not deliberate back and forth. They simply could fly away at dawn. But now this “almost” assumed ever larger proportions in his mind. As long as he had been on a par with Horpach, he had felt they should leave immediately. Now he felt incapable of forcing from his lips the order to take off. He knew that would not mean the end of the affair with Regis III, but really just the beginning. It had nothing to do with justification before the executive board at the space station. These four men would haunt the spaceship and things could never be the same again. The crew wanted to go back. But then he remembered his nocturnal roamings through the Invincible and realized that after a certain time the men would start thinking of it again and discuss it among themselves. They would say: “You see? He took off and left four men behind.” Nothing else would count. Each man needed the certainty that the others would not abandon him under any circumstances. Everything else was expendable, except for the crew. It did not really matter what else one might have lost, but the entire crew had to be back on board — the dead as well as the living. This was not one of the rules to be found in the official service manual. Yet spaceflight would not be possible without such an unwritten code.

“I’m listening,” said Horpach as he put away his electric razor and sat down across the table from Rohan.

Rohan moistened his lips. “We ought to try…”

“What?”

“To find them.”

Finally it was out. He knew the astrogator would not contradict him. Rohan was now actually firmly convinced that Horpach must have counted on this, that he had even arranged it this way. In order not to have to bear the risk all by himself.

“The four men. I understand. Good.”

“But we need some plan. Something sensible.”

“We’ve been sensible all along,” countered Horpach. “And you are well aware with what result.”

“May I say something?”

“Go ahead.”

“A little earlier tonight I listened in to the deliberations of the strategists. I heard — no, never mind, it doesn’t matter. They’re figuring out various ways to annihilate the cloud, but it isn’t our task to destroy the cloud. We should rather concentrate on searching for the men. If we go ahead with an antiproton massacre, not one can possibly live through such a hell, if any of them are still alive. Not one. It isn’t possible.”

“That’s what I think, too,” the astrogator said with emphasis.

“You too? That’s good… Well, then?”

Horpach was silent. Then he asked, “Have they found some other solution?”

“The strategists? No.”

Rohan wanted to ask another question, but he could not muster up sufficient courage. The words would not pass his lips. Horpach looked at him, as if he were waiting for something. But Rohan did not know what to say. Could the commander possibly assume that he, Rohan, would come up with something better, more perfect than the scientists, than the cyberneticists and the strategists with their electronic computers to help them? That was sheer nonsense. Yet the commander kept patiently staring at him. Neither of them spoke. At regular intervals came the drip-drip-drip of the faucets, uncommonly loud in this complete stillness. And out of this silence that hovered between the two men something rose, brushing against Rohan’s cheeks with its icy breath. And now his whole face, from his neck to his jaws, cramped together, shrank, became too narrow, as he gazed into Horpach’s watery, ancient eyes. He saw nothing but these eyes and he knew what he had to do.

Slowly he nodded his head, as if he had said yes. Do you understand? the astrogator asked with his eyes. I understand, replied Rohan with a silent glance. But the clearer things became to Rohan, the more he felt that no one had the right to request something like this from him, no one, not even he himself. He maintained his silence, he did not speak, but now he pretended not to know anything, not to have even the faintest idea. He clung to the naive hope that he would be able to deny what had passed back and forth in their glances, for it had never been spoken out loud. He might feign lack of comprehension, for he knew, he could feel it, Horpach would never be the first to speak. But the old man saw through him, he was aware of everything. Thus they sat across from each other without moving. Horpach’s glance softened. It held now neither expectation nor coercive urgency, only compassion, as if he wanted to say: All right, I understand. It’s just as well.

The commander lowered his head. One more second, and the unspoken words, the agreement between them that only silent glances had implied, would vanish. Both could pretend that nothing had ever happened. But the lowered head tipped the balance. Rohan heard himself say: “I’ll go.”

Horpach sighed deeply, but Rohan did not notice. He was aghast at his own words.

“No,” said Horpach, “I won’t let you go this way.” Rohan was silent. “I couldn’t tell you,” the astrogator began. “I could not even look for any volunteers. I have no right to do such a thing. But now you know for yourself that we can’t simply take off from this planet. Only a single person, all alone, can walk into that area and hope to come out again. Without protective helmet, machines or weapons.”