Stanislaw Lem - Return from the Stars

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Return From The Stars

by Stanislaw Lem

Translated by Barbara Marszal and Frank Simpson

a.b.e-book v3.0 / Notes at EOF

Back Cover:

Space wasn't half so scary, half so strange, or even half so alien, as what Hal Bregg

returned to. He had been away from Planet Earth for ten years space-time. But that was 127 years

back home and a lot of things had changed. Sex. Money. Transit. Violence. There's no more

violence. Everyone gets it "betrizated" out of them in childhood. And that's just the beginning. . .

Naturally, Hal refuses to be acclimated by the "Adapt" people. He prefers to figure it out

all by himself, be a stranger in a strange land, draw his own conclusions. And he does.

"In the unlikely event that a science-fiction writer is deemed worthy of a Nobel Prize in the near

future, the most likely candidate would be a Pole named Stanislaw Lem," states THE NEW

YORK TIMES. And FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION writes, "One of the world's finest

writers. . . Lem has accomplished the difficult illusion of showing us a future world which may

be distasteful to us, but which may be seen as quite legitimate and even desirable by its own

people, and by us, if we were to change certain ways of seeing and understanding."

Return from the Stars

AVON BOOKS

A division of

The Hearst Corporation

959 Eighth Avenue

New York, New York 10019

Published by arrangement with Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 79-3358

ISBN: 0-380-58578-2

portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the

U. S. Copyright Law. For information address Harcourt Brace

Jovanovich, Inc., 757 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017

First Bard Printing, May, 1982

Printed in the U. S. A.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ONE

I took nothing with me, not even a coat. Unnecessary, they said. They let me keep my

black sweater: it would pass. But the shirt I had to fight for. I said that I would leam to do without

things gradually. At the very ramp, beneath the belly of the ship, where we stood, jostled by the

crowd, Abs offered me his hand with an understanding smile: "Easy, now. . ."

That, too, I remembered. I didn't crush his fingers. I was quite calm. He wanted to say

something more. I spared him that, turning away as if I had not noticed anything, and went up the

stairs and inside. The stewardess led me between the rows of seats to the very front. I hadn't

wanted a private compartment. I wondered if they had told her. My seat unfolded without a

sound. She adjusted the back of it, gave me a smile, and left. I sat down. The cushions were

engulfingly soft, as everywhere. The back of my seat was so high that I could barely see the other

passengers. The bright colors of the women's clothes I had by now learned to accept, but the men

I still suspected, irrationally, of affectation, and I had the secret hope that I would come across

some dressed normally -- a pitiful reflex. People were seated quickly, no one had luggage. Not

even a briefcase or a package. The women, too. There seemed to be more of them. In front of me:

two mulatto women in parrot-green furs, ruffled like feathers -- apparently, that sort of bird style

was in fashion. Farther away, a couple with a child. After the garish selenium lights of the

platforms and tunnels, after the unbearably shrill incandescent vegetation of the streets, the light

from the concave ceiling seemed practically a glow. I did not know what to do with my hands, so

I put them on my knees. Everyone was seated now.

Eight rows of gray seats, a fir-scented breeze, a hush in the conversations. I expected an

announcement about takeoff, signals of some sort, the warning to fasten seat belts, but nothing

happened. Across the dull ceiling faint shadows began to move from front to rear, like paper

cutouts of birds. What the hell is it with these birds? I wondered, perplexed. Does it mean

something? I was numb from the strain of trying not to do anything wrong. This, for four days

now. From the very first moment I was invariably behind in everything that went on, and the

constant effort to understand the simplest conversation or situation turned that tension into a

feeling horribly like despair. I was certain that the others were experiencing the same things, but

we did not talk about it, not even when we were alone together. We only joked about our brawn,

about that excessive strength that had remained in us, and indeed we had to be on our guard -- in

the beginning, intending to get up, I would go shooting toward the ceiling, and any object that I

held in my hand seemed to be made of paper, empty. But I quickly learned to control my body. In

greeting people, I no longer crushed their hands. That was easy. But, unfortunately, the least

important.

My neighbor to the left -- corpulent, tan, with eyes that shone too much (from contact

lenses?) -- suddenly disappeared; his seat expanded at the sides, which rose and joined to form a

kind of egg-shaped cocoon. A few other people disappeared into such cubicles. Swollen

sarcophagi. What did they do in them? But such things I encountered all the time, and tried not to

stare, as long as they did not concern me directly. Curiously, the people who gaped at us on

learning what we were I treated with indifference. Their dumbfoundedness did not concern me

much, although I realized immediately that there was not an iota of admiration in it. What did

arouse my antipathy were the ones who looked after us -- the staff of Adapt. Dr. Abs most of all,

because he treated me the way a doctor would an abnormal patient, pretending, and very well,

too, that he was dealing with someone quite ordinary. When that became impossible, he would

joke. I had had enough of his direct approach and joviality. If asked about it (or so, at least, I

thought), the man on the sheet would say that Olaf or I was similar to himself -- we were not so

outlandish to him, it was just our past existence that was unusual. Dr. Abs, on the other hand, and

all the workers at Adapt, knew better -- that we were decidedly different. This differentness was

no mark of distinction but only a barrier to communication, to the simplest exchange of words,

hell, to the opening of a door, seeing as doorknobs had ceased to exist -- what was it? -- some

fifty or sixty years earlier.

The takeoff came unexpectedly. There was no change at all in gravity, no sound reached

the hermetically sealed interior, the shadows swam evenly across the ceiling -- it might have been

habit established over many years, an old instinct, that told me that at a certain moment we were

in space, because it was certainty, not a guess.

But something else was occupying me. I sat half supine, my legs stretched out,

motionless. They had let me have my way too easily. Even Oswamm did not oppose my decision

too much. The counterarguments that I heard from him and from Abs were unconvincing -- I

myself could have come up with better. They insisted on one thing only, that each of us fly

separately. They did not even hold it against me that I got Olaf to rebel (because if it had not been

for me, he definitely would have agreed to stay there longer). That had been odd. I had expected

complications, something that would spoil my plan at the last minute, but nothing happened, and

now here I was flying. This final journey was to end in fifteen minutes.

Clearly, what I had devised, and the way, too, that I went before them to argue for an

earlier departure, did not surprise them. They must have had a reaction of this type catalogued, it

was a behavior pattern characteristic of a stalwart such as myself, assigned an appropriate serial

number in their psycho-technical tables. They permitted me to fly -- why? Because experience

had told them that I would not be able to manage on my own? But how could that be, when this

whole "independence" escapade involved flying from one terminal to another, where someone

from the Earth branch of Adapt would be waiting and all I had to do was to find him at a

prearranged location?

Something happened. I heard raised voices. I leaned out of my seat. Several rows in front

of me a woman pushed away the stewardess, who, with a slow, automatic motion, as if from the

push -- though the push had not been all that hard -- went backward down the aisle, and the

woman repeated, "I won't have it! Don't let that touch me." I did not see the face of the speaker.

Her companion pulled at her arm, was saying something to calm her. What was the meaning of

this little scene? The other passengers paid no attention to her. For the hundredth time I was

possessed by a feeling of incredible alienation. I looked up at the stewardess, who had stopped by

my side and was smiling as before. It was not merely an external smile of official politeness, a

smile to cover an upsetting incident. She was not pretending to be calm, she truly was calm.

"Something to drink? Prum, extran, morr, cider?"

A melodious voice. I shook my head. I wanted to say something nice to her, but all I

could come up with was the stereotyped question:

"When do we land?"

"In six minutes. Would you care for something to eat? There is no need to hurry. You can

stay on after we land."

"No, thank you."

She left. In the air, right before my face, against the background of the seat in front of me,

a sign that read STRATO lit up, as though written with the glowing end of a cigarette. I bent

forward to see where the sign came from, and flinched. The back of my seat moved with my

shoulders and clung to them elastically. I knew already that furniture accommodated every

change in position, but I kept forgetting. It was not pleasant -- as if someone were following my

every move. I wanted to return to my former position but apparently overdid it. The seat

misunderstood and nearly flattened itself out like a bed. I jumped up. This was idiotic! More

control. I sat, finally. The pink letters of STRATO flickered and flowed into others: TERMINAL. No

jolt, no warning, no whistle. Nothing. A distant voice resounded like the horn of a postilion, four

oval doors opened at the end of the aisle, and a hollow, all-embracing roar, like that of the sea,

rushed in. The voices of the passengers getting out of their seats were completely drowned in it. I

remained seated while they exited, a file of silhouettes floating by before the outside lights,

green, lilac, purple -- a veritable masked ball. Then they were gone. I stood up. Mechanically

straightened my sweater. Feeling stupid, somehow, with my hands empty. Through the open door

came cooler air. I turned. The stewardess was standing by the partition wall, not touching it with

her back. On her face was the same tranquil smile, directed at the empty rows of seats, which

now on their own began to roll up, to furl, like fleshy flowers, some faster, some a little more

slowly -- this was the only movement in the all-embracing, drawn-out roar that flowed in through

the oval openings and brought to mind the open sea. "Don't let that touch me!" Suddenly I found

something not right in her smile. From the exit I said:

"Good-bye. . ."

"Acknowledged."

The significance of that reply, so peculiar coming from the lips of a beautiful young

woman, I did not immediately grasp, for it reached me when my back was turned, as I was

halfway out the door. I went to put my foot on a step, but there was no step. Between the metal

hull and the edge of the platform yawned a meter-wide crevice. Caught off balance, unprepared

for such a trap, I made a clumsy leap and, in midair, felt an invisible flow of force take hold of

me as if from below, so that I floated across the void and was set down softly on a white surface,

which yielded elastically. In flight, I must have had a none-too-intelligent expression on my face

-- I felt a number of amused stares, or so it seemed to me. I quickly turned away and walked

along the platform. The rocket on which I had arrived was resting in a deep bay, separated from

the edge of the platforms by an unprotected abyss. I drew close to this empty space, as if

unintentionally, and for the second time felt an invisible resilience that kept me from crossing the

white border. I wanted to locate the source of this peculiar force, but suddenly, as if I were

waking up, it occurred to me: I was on Earth.

A wave of pedestrians caught me up; jostled, I moved forward in the crowd. It took a

moment for me really to see the size of the hall. But was it all one hall? No walls: a glittering

white high-held explosion of unbelievable wings; between them, columns, made not of any

substance but of dizzying motion. Rushing upward, enormous fountains of a liquid denser than

water, illuminated from inside by colored floodlights? No -- vertical tunnels of glass through

which a succession of blurred vehicles raced upward? Now I was completely at a loss. Constantly

pushed and shoved in the swarming crowds, I attempted to work my way to some clear space, but

there were no clear spaces here. Being a head taller than those around me, I was able to see that

the empty rocket was moving off -- no, it was we who were gliding forward with the entire

platform. From above, lights flared, and in them the people sparkled and shimmered. Now the flat

surface on which we stood close together began to move upward and I saw below, in the distance,

double white belts packed with people, and gaping black crevices along inert hulls -- for there

were dozens of ships like ours. The moving platform made a turn, accelerated, continued to

higher levels. Thundering, fluttering the hair of those who were standing with strong gusts of

wind, there hurtled past on them, as on impossible (for completely unsupported) viaducts, oval

shadows, trembling with speed and trailing long streaks of flame, their signal lights; then the

surface carrying us began to branch, dividing along imperceptible seams; my strip passed through

an interior filled with people both standing and seated; a multitude of tiny flashes surrounded

them, as though they were engaged in setting off colored fireworks.

I did not know where to look. In front of me stood a man in something fluffy like fur,

which, when touched by light, opalesced like metal. He supported by the arm a woman in scarlet.

What she had on was all in large eyes, peacock eyes, and the eyes blinked. It was no illusion --

the eyes on her dress actually opened and closed. The walkway, on which I stood behind the two

of them and among a dozen other people, picked up speed. Between surfaces of smoke-white

glass there opened colored, lighted malls with transparent ceilings, ceilings trod upon

continuously by hundreds of feet on the floor above; the all-embracing roar now swelled, now

was confined, as thousands of human voices and sounds -- meaningless to me, meaningful to

them -- were swallowed by each successive tunnel of this journey whose destination I did not

know. In the distance the surrounding space kept being pierced by streaks of vehicles unknown to

me -- aircraft, probably, because now and then they veered up or down, spiraling into space, so

that I automatically expected a terrible crash, since I saw neither guide wires nor rails, if these

were elevated trains. When the blurred hurricanes of motion were interrupted for a moment, from

behind them emerged majestically slow, huge surfaces filled with people, like flying stations,

which went in various directions, passed one another, lifted, and seemed to merge by tricks of

perspective. It was hard to rest the eye on anything that was not in motion, because the

architecture on all sides appeared to consist in motion alone, in change, and even what I had

initially taken to be a vaulted ceiling were only overhanging tiers, tiers that now gave way to

other, higher tiers and levels. Suddenly a heavy purple glare, as though an atomic fire had flared

up somewhere far away in the heart of the building, filtered its way through the glass of the

ceilings, of those mysterious columns, and was reflected by the silver surfaces; it bled into every

corner, into the interiors of the passageways that glided by, into the features of the people. The

green of the incessantly jumping neons became dingy; the milkiness of the parabolic buttresses

grew pink. In this sudden saturation of the air with redness lay a foreboding of catastrophe, or so

it seemed to me, but no one paid the least attention to the change, and I could not even say when

it cleared away.

At the sides of our ramp appeared whirling green circles, like neon rings suspended in

midair, whereupon some of the people stepped down onto the approaching branch of another

ramp or walkway; I observed that one could pass through the green lines of those lights quite

freely, as if they were not material.

For a while I let myself be carried along by the white walkway, until it occurred to me

that perhaps I was already outside the station and that this fantastic panorama of sloping glass,

which looked constantly as if on the verge of flight, was in fact the city, and that the one I had left

behind existed now only in my memory.

"Excuse me." I touched the arm of the man in fur. "Where are we?"

They both looked at me. Their faces, when they raised them, took on a startled expression.

I had the faint hope that it was only because of my height

"On the polyduct," said the man. "Which is your switch?"

I did not understand.

"Are. . . are we still in the station?"

"Obviously," he replied with a certain caution.

"But. . . where is the Inner Circle?"

"You've already missed it. You'll have to backtrack."

"The rast from Merid would be better," said the woman. All the eyes of her dress seemed

to stare at me with suspicion and amazement.

"Rast?" I repeated helplessly.

"Right over there." She pointed to an unoccupied elevation with black-and-silver-striped

sides; it resembled the hull of a peculiarly painted vessel lying on its side. This, visible through

an approaching green circle. I thanked them and stepped off the walkway, probably at the wrong

spot, because the momentum made me stumble. I caught my balance but was spun around, so that

I did not know in which direction to go. I considered what to do, but by this time my transfer

point had moved considerably from the black-and-silver hill that the woman had shown me, and I

could not find it now. Since most of the people around me were stepping onto an upward ramp, I

did the same. On it, I noticed a giant stationary sign burning in the air: DUCT CENT. The rest of

the letters, on either side, were not visible because of their magnitude. Noiselessly I was carried

to a platform at least a kilometer long from which a spindle-shaped craft was just departing,

showing, as it rose, a bottom riddled with lights. But perhaps that leviathan shape was the

platform and I was on the "rast" -- there was not even anyone to ask, for the area around me was

deserted. I must have taken a wrong turn. One part of my "platform" held flattened buildings

without front walls. Approaching them, I found low, dimly lit cubicles, in which stood rows of

black machines. I took these for cars. But when the two nearest me emerged and, before I had

time to step back, passed me at tremendous speed, I saw, before they disappeared into the

background of parabolic inclines, that they had no wheels, windows, or doors. Streamlined, like

huge black drops of liquid. Cars or not -- I thought -- in any case this appears to be some kind of

parking lot. For the "rasts"? I decided that it would be better for me to wait for someone to come

along, and go with him: at least I would learn something. My platform lifted lightly, like the wing

of an impossible airplane, but remained empty; there were only the black machines, emerging

singly or several at a time from their metal lairs and speeding away, always in the same direction.

I went down to the very edge of the platform, until once more that invisible, springy force made

itself felt, assuring complete safety. The platform truly hung in the air, not supported by anything.

Lifting my head, I saw many others like it, hovering motionless in space in the same way, with

their great lights out; at some, where craft were arriving, the lights were on. But those rockets or

projectiles were not like the one that had brought me in from Luna.

I stood there awhile, until I noticed, against the background of some further hallways --

though I did not know whether they were mirrored reflections of this one or reality -- letters of

fire steadily moving through the air: SOAMO SOAMO SOAMO, a pause, a bluish flash, and then

NEONAX NEONAX NEONAX. These might have been the names of stations, or possibly of

advertised products. They told me nothing.

It's high time I found that fellow, I thought. I tumed on my heel and, seeing a walkway

moving in the opposite direction, took it back down. This turned out to be the wrong level, it was

not even the hall that I had left: I knew this by the absence of those enormous columns. But, then,

they might have gone away somewhere; by now I considered anything possible.

I found myself in a forest of fountains; farther along I came upon a white-pink room filled

with women. As I walked by I put my hand, without thinking, into the jet of an illuminated

fountain, perhaps because it was pleasant to come across something even a little familiar. But I

felt nothing, the fountain was without water. After a moment it seemed to me that I smelled

flowers. I put my hand to my nostrils. It smelled like a thousand scented soaps at once.

Instinctively I rubbed my hand on my trousers. Now I was standing in front of that room filled

with women, only women. It did not appear to me to be a powder room, but I had no way of

knowing. I preferred not to ask, so I turned away. A young man, wearing something that looked

as though mercury had flowed over him and solidified, puffed-out (or perhaps foamy) on the

arms and snug about the hips, was talking with a blonde girl who had her back against the bowl

of a fountain. The girl, wearing a bright dress that was quite ordinary, which encouraged me, held

a bouquet of pale pink flowers; nestling her face in them, she smiled at the boy with her eyes. At

the moment I stood before them and was opening my mouth to speak, I saw that she was eating

the flowers -- and my voice failed me. She was calmly chewing the delicate petals. She looked up

at me. Her eyes froze. But to that I had grown accustomed. I asked where the Inner Circle was.

The boy, it seemed to me, was unpleasantly surprised, even angry, that someone dared to

interrupt their tête-à-tête. I must have committed some impropriety. He looked me up and down,

as if expecting to find stilts that would account for my height. He did not say a word.

"Oh, there," cried the girl, "the rast on the vuk, your rast, you can make it, hurry!"

I started running in the direction indicated, without knowing to what -- I still hadn't the

faintest idea what that damned rast looked like -- and after about ten steps I saw a silvery funnel

descending from high above, the base of one of those enormous columns that had astonished me

so much before. Could they be flying columns? People were hurrying toward it from all

directions; then suddenly I collided with someone. I did not lose my balance, I merely stood

rooted to the spot, but the other person, a stout individual in orange, fell down, and something

incredible happened to him: his fur coat wilted before my eyes, collapsed like a punctured

balloon! I stood over him, astounded, unable even to mutter an apology. He picked himself up,

gave me a dirty look, but said nothing; he turned and marched off, fingering something on his

chest -- and his coat filled out and lit up again. . .

By now the place that the girl had pointed out to me was deserted. After this incident I

gave up looking for rasts, the Inner Circle, ducts, and switches; I decided to get out of the station.

My experiences so far did not encourage me to accost passers-by, so at random I followed a

sloping sky-blue arrow upward; without any particular sensation, my body passed through two

signs glowing in the air: LOCAL CIRCUITS. I came to an escalator that held quite a few people.

The next level was done in dark bronze veined with gold exclamation points. Fluid joinings of

ceilings and concave walls. Ceilingless corridors, at the top enveloped in a shining powder. I

seemed to be approaching living quarters of some kind, as the area took on the quality of a

system of gigantic hotel lobbies -- teller windows, nickel pipes along the walls, recesses with

clerks; maybe these were offices for currency exchange, or a post office. I walked on. I was now

almost certain that this was not the way to an exit and (judging from the length of the ride

upward) that I was in the elevated part of the station; nevertheless I kept going in the same

direction. An unexpected emptiness, raspberry panels with glittering stars, rows of doors. The

nearest was open. I looked in. A large, broad-shouldered man looked in from the opposite side.

Myself in a mirror. I opened the door wider. Porcelain, silver pipes, nickel. Toilets.

I felt a little like laughing, but mainly I was nonplused. I quickly turned around: another

corridor, bands, white as milk, flowing downward. The handrail of the escalator was soft, warm; I

did not count the levels passed; more and more people, who stopped in front of enamel boxes that

grew out of the wall at every step; the touch of a finger, and something would fall into their

hands; they put this into their pockets and walked on. For some reason I did exactly as the man in

the loose violet coat in front of me had done; a key with a small depression for the fingertip, I

pressed, and into my palm fell a colored, translucent tube, slightly warm. I shook it, held it up to

one eye; pills of some kind? No. A vial? It had no cork, no stopper. What was it for? What were

the other people doing? Putting the things in their pockets. The sign on the dispenser: LARGAN. I

stood there; I was jostled. And suddenly I felt like a monkey that has been given a fountain pen or

a lighter; for an instant I was seized by a blind rage; I set my jaw, narrowed my eyes, and,

shoulders hunched, joined the stream of pedestrians. The corridor widened, became a hall. Fiery

letters: REAL AMMO REAL AMMO.

Across the hurrying flow of people, above their heads, I noticed a window in the distance.

The first window. Panoramic, enormous.

All the firmaments of the night flung onto a flat plane. On a horizon of blazing mist --

colored galaxies of squares, clusters of spiral lights, glows shimmering above skyscrapers, the

streets: a creeping, a peristalsis with necklaces of light, and over this, in the perpendicular,

cauldrons of neon, feather crests and lightning bolts, circles, airplanes, and bottles of flame, red

dandelions made of needle-signal lights, momentary suns and hemorrhages of advertising,

mechanical and violent. I stood and watched, hearing, behind me, the steady sough of hundreds

of feet. Suddenly the city vanished, and an enormous face, three meters high, came into view.

"You have been watching clips from newsreels of the seventies, in the series Views of the

Ancient Capitals. Now the news. Transtel is currently expanding to include cosmolyte studios. .

I practically fled. It was no window. A television screen. I quickened my pace. I was

perspiring a little.

Down. Faster. Gold squares of lights. Inside, crowds, foam on glasses, an almost black

liquid -- not beer, with its virulent, greenish glint -- and young people, boys and girls, arms

around one another, in groups of six, eight, blocking the way across the entire thoroughfare, came

toward me; they had to separate to let me through. I was buffeted. Without realizing it, I stepped

onto a moving walkway. Quite close to me, a pair of startled eyes flashed by -- a lovely dark girl

in something that shone like phosphorized metal. The fabric clung to her: she was as if naked.

White faces, yellow, a few tall blacks, but I was still the tallest. People made way for me. High

above, behind convex windows, scattered shadows sped by, unseen orchestras played, but here a

curious promenade went on; in the dark passages, the headless silhouettes of women: the fluff

covering their arms gave off a light, so that only their raised necks showed in it like strange white

stems, and the scattered glow in their hair -- a luminescent powder? A narrow passage led me to a

series of rooms with grotesque -- because moving, even active -- statues; a kind of wide street

with raised sides boomed with laughter. People were being amused, but what was amusing them -

- the statues?

Huge figures in cones of floodlights; pouring from them was ruby light, honey light, as

thick as syrup, an unusual concentration of colors. I walked on passively, squinting, abstracted. A

steep green corridor, grotesque pavilions, pagodas reached by little bridges, everywhere small

cafés, the sharp, persistent smell of fried food, rows of gas flames behind windows, the clinking

of glass, metallic sounds, repeated, incomprehensible. The crowd that had carried me here

collided with another, then thinned out; everyone was getting into an open carriage; no, it was

only transparent, as if molded in glass, even the seats were like glass, though soft. Without

knowing how, I found myself inside -- we were moving. The carriage tore along, the people

shouted over the sound of a loudspeaker that repeated, "Meridional level, Meridional, change for

Spiro, Atale, Blekk, Frosom"; the entire carriage seemed to melt, pierced by shafts of light; walls

flew by in strips of flame and color; parabolic arches, white platforms. "Forteran, Forteran,

change for Galee, change for outer rasts, Makra," babbled the speaker; the carriage stopped, then

sped on. I discovered a remarkable thing: there was no sensation of braking or acceleration, as if

inertia had been annulled. How was this possible? I checked, bending my knees slightly, at three

consecutive stops. Nothing on the turns, either. People got off, got on. At the front stood a

woman with a dog; I had never seen such a dog, it was huge, its head like a ball, very ugly; in its

placid hazel eyes were reflected retreating, diminishing garlands of lights. RAMBRENT

RAMBRENT. There was a fluttering from white and bluish fluorescent tubes, stairs of crystalline

brilliance, black façades; the brilliance gave way slowly to stone; the carriage stopped. I got off

and was dumbstruck. Above the amphitheater-like sunken dial of the stop rose a multistory

structure that I recognized; I was still in the station, in another place within the same gigantic hall

magnified in white sweeping surfaces. I made for the edge of the geometrically perfect

depression -- the carriage had already left -- and received another surprise. I was not at the

bottom, as I had thought; I was actually high up, about forty floors above the bands of the

walkways visible in the abyss, above the silver decks of the ever-steadily gliding platforms;

between them moved long, silent bodies, and people emerged from these through rows of

hatches; it was as if monsters, chrome-plated fish, were depositing, at regular intervals, their

black and colored eggs. Above all this, through the mist of the distance, I saw words of gold

moving in a line:

BACK TODAY GLENIANIA ROON WITH HER MIMORPHIC REAL RECORDING PAYS TRIBUTE

IN THE ORATORIUM TO THE MEMORY OF RAPPER KERX POLITR. TERMINAL NEWS BULLETIN:

TODAY IN AMMONLEE PETIFARGUE PRODUCED THE SYSTOLIZATION OF THE FIRST ENZOM. THE

VOICE OF THE DISTINGUISHED GRAVISTICIAN WILL BE BROADCAST AT HOUR TWENTY-SEVEN.

ARRAKER LEADS. ARRAKER REPEATED HIS SUCCESS AS THE FIRST OBLITERATOR OF THE

SEASON AT THE TRANSVAAL STADIUM.

I turned away. So even the way of telling time had changed. Hit by the light of the

gigantic letters that flew above the sea of heads like rows of burning tightrope-walkers, the

metallic fabrics of the women's dresses flared up in sudden flames. I walked, oblivious, and

something inside me kept repeating: So even time has changed. That somehow did me in. I saw

nothing, though my eyes were open. I wanted one thing only, to get away, to find a way out of

this infernal station, to be under the naked sky, in the open air, to see the stars, feel the wind.

I was attracted to an avenue of elongated lights. On the transparent stone of the ceilings,

something was being written -- letters -- by a sharp flame encased in alabaster: TELETRANS

TELEPORT TELETHON. Through a steeply arched doorway (but it was an impossible arch, pried

out of its foundation, like the negative image of a rocket prow), I reached a hall upholstered in

frozen gold fire. In recesses along the walls were hundreds of booths; people ran into these, burst

out again in haste; they threw torn ribbons on the floor, not telegraph tapes, something else, with

punched-out projections; others walked over these shreds. I wanted to leave; by mistake I went

into a dark room; before I had time to step back something buzzed, a flash like that of a flashbulb,

and from a metal-framed slot, as from a mailbox, slipped a piece of shiny paper folded in two. I

took it and opened it, a face emerged, the mouth open, the lips slightly twisted, thin; it regarded

me through half-closed eyes: myself! I folded the paper in two and the plastic specter vanished. I

slowly parted the edges: nothing. Wider: it appeared again, popping out of nowhere, a head

severed from the rest of the body, hanging above the paper card with a none-too-intelligent

expression. For a moment I contemplated my own face -- what was this, three-dimensional

photography? I put the paper into my pocket and left. A golden hell seemed to descend on the

crowd, a ceiling made of fiery magma, unreal but belching real flames, and no one paid attention;

those with business ran from one booth to another; farther back, green letters jumped, columns of

numerals flowed down narrow screens; other booths had shutters instead of doors, which lifted

rapidly at anyone's approach; at last I found an exit.

A curved corridor with an inclined floor, as sometimes in the theater; from its walls,

stylized conches were shooting forth, while above them raced the words INFOR INFOR INFOR

without end.

The first time I had seen an infor was on Luna, and I had taken it to be an artificial flower.

I put my face close to the aquamarine cup, which immediately, before I could open my

mouth, froze in readiness.

"How do I get out of here?" I asked, none too brightly.

"Where are you going?" a warm alto answered immediately.

"To the city."

"Which district?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Which level?"

"It doesn't matter; I just want to get out of the station!"

"Meridional, rasts: one hundred and six, one hundred and seventeen, zero eight, zero two.

Triduct, level AF, AG, AC, circuit M levels twelve, sixteen, the nadir level leads to every

direction south. Central level -- gleeders, red local, white express, A, B, and V. Ulder level,

direct, all escals from the third up. . ." a singsong female voice recited.

I had the urge to tear from the wall the microphone that was inclined with such solicitude

to my face. I walked away. Idiot! Idiot! droned in me at every step. EX EX EX EX -- repeated a

sign that was rising, bordered by a lemon haze. Exit? A way out?

The huge sign said EXOTAL. A sudden rush of warm air made the legs of my trousers flap.

I found myself beneath the open sky. But the blackness of the night was kept at a great distance,

pushed back by the multitude of lights. An immense restaurant. Tables whose tops blazed with

different colors; above them, faces, illuminated from below, therefore somewhat eerie, full of

deep shadows. Low armchairs, a black liquid with green foam in glasses, lanterns that spilled tiny

sparks, no, fireflies, swarms of burning moths. The chaos of lights extinguished the stars. When I

lifted my head I saw only a black void. Yet, strangely enough, at that moment its blind presence

gave me courage. I stood and looked. Someone brushed by me; I caught the fragrance of

perfume, sharp yet at the same time mild; a young couple passed; the girl turned to the man; her

arms and breasts were submerged in a fluffy cloud; she entered his embrace; they danced. They

still dance, I thought to myself. That's good. The pair took a few steps, a pale, mercurylike ring

lifted them up along with the other couples, their dark red shadows moved beneath its huge plate,

which rotated slowly, like a record. It was not supported by anything, did not even have an axis,

but, hanging in the air, it turned to the music. I walked among the tables. The soft plastic

underfoot ended, gave way to porous rock. I passed through a curtain of light and found myself

inside a rocky grotto. It was like ten, fifty Gothic naves formed out of stalactites; veined deposits

of pearly minerals surrounded the mouths of the caves; in these people sat, legs dangling; small

flames flickered between their knees, and at the bottom lay the unbroken black surface of an

underground lake, which reflected the vaults of the rocks. There, too, on flimsy little rafts, people

were reclining, all facing the same way. I went down to the water's edge and saw, on the other

side, on the sand, a female dancer. She appeared to be naked, but the whiteness of her body was

not natural. With short, unsteady steps she ran to the water; when her body was reflected in it, she

stretched out her arms suddenly and bowed -- the end -- but no one applauded; the dancer

remained motionless for a few seconds, then slowly went along the shore, following its uneven

line. She was perhaps thirty paces from me when something happened to her. One moment I saw

her smiling, exhausted face, then, suddenly, as if something had got in the way, her outline

trembled and disappeared.

"A raft for you, sir?" came a courteous voice behind me. I turned around; no one, only a

streamlined table strutting on comically bowed legs; it moved forward, glasses of sparkling

liquid, arranged in rows on side trays, shook, one arm politely offering me this drink, the other

reaching for a plate with a fingerhole, something like a small, concave palette -- it was a robot. I

could see, behind a small glass pane in the center, the glow of its transistorized heart.

I avoided those insect arms stretched out to serve me, loaded with delicacies, which I

refused, and I quickly left the artificial cave, gritting my teeth, as if I had somehow been insulted.

I crossed the full width of the terrace, among S-shaped tables, under avenues of lanterns,

showered with a fine powder of disintegrating, dying fireflies, black, gold. At the very edge, a

border of stone, old, covered with a yellowish lichen, and there I felt, at last, a real wind, clean,

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ReturnFromTheStarsbyStanislawLemTranslatedbyBarbaraMarszalandFrankSimpsona.b.e-bookv3.0/NotesatEOFBackCover:Spacewasn'thalfsoscary,halfsostrange,orevenhalfsoalien,aswhatHalBreggreturnedto.HehadbeenawayfromPlanetEarthfortenyearsspace-time.Butthatwas127yearsbackhomeandalotofthingshadchanged.Sex.Money....

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Stanislaw Lem - Return from the Stars

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