Memoirs of a Space Traveler

“The truth. I immediately shielded both rooms — did you notice the sheet metal on the doors? The walls are also covered with it, but they are painted. This prevented radio contact. The activity of both fungoids increased, then fell almost to zero after a few hours. But the next day it was the same as before. Do you know what happened? They had switched to ultrasonic vibrations — they sent signals through the walls and ceilings…”

“That’s why you have the cork!”

“Exactly. I could have destroyed them, of course, but what good would that have done me? I placed both containers on sound-absorbing insulation. In this way I broke off their communication again. Then they started growing… until they reached their present size. They became almost four times larger.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

Diagoras stood by the metal cylinder. He did not look at me; as he spoke, he repeatedly put his hand on the arched lid, as though to check the temperature.

“Their electrical activity returned to normal after a few days, as if they had succeeded in re-establishing contact. I eliminated thermal and radioactive radiation, installed every possible shield, screen, and proofing, used ferromagnetic sensors — all to no avail. I even moved this one down to the basement for a week, then took it out to a shed, which you might have seen — it’s a hundred feet from the house. But their activity during the whole time did not undergo the slightest change. The ‘questions’ and ‘answers’ that I registered and which I am still registering” — he pointed to the oscillograph under the shaded window — “have gone on continuously in series, night and day. They work incessantly. I tried to break in on their signaling with false ‘messages.’ “

“You faked the signals? Then you know what they mean?”

“Not for the life of me. But you can record on tape what one person says in an unknown language and replay it for someone else who also speaks that language. That’s what I tried to do, and failed. They still send each other the same impulses, those damned signals — but in what manner, I have no idea.”

“It could be an independent, spontaneous activity,” I observed. “You have no conclusive proof, after all.”

“In a sense I do. You see, the time is also recorded on the tapes. Thus a clear correlation exists: when one is broadcasting the other is silent, and vice versa. Lately the intervals have increased considerably, but the pattern hasn’t changed. Do you realize what I’ve done? One can guess the plans, the good or bad intentions, the innermost thoughts of a silent person from his facial expression and his behavior. But my creations have no face or body — just as you postulated before — and now I stand helpless, without a chance of understanding. Should I destroy them? That would be an admission of failure! They don’t want contact with man — or is that as impossible as contact between an ameba and a turtle? I don’t know. I don’t know anything!”

He stood by the gleaming cylinder, his hand on its lid. It was no longer me he was speaking to; he could even have forgotten I was there. Nor did I hear his last words — my attention had been drawn by something odd. As he spoke, with increasing vehemence, he kept lifting his right hand and placing it on the copper surface; something about the hand seemed not right. Its movement was unnatural. Whenever his fingers came near the metal, they shook for a second — shook rapidly, unlike a nervous tremor. But before, when he gestured, his movement had been steady and decisive, with no trace of shakiness. I looked at his hand more closely now; amazed and shocked, yet hoping that I was mistaken, I stammered:

“Diagoras, what is wrong with your hand?”

“What? What hand?” He looked at me in surprise. I had interrupted his train of thought.

“That,” I pointed. He brought his hand near the shiny surface. It began shaking. Open-mouthed, he held it up to his eyes. The shaking immediately stopped. Once more he looked at his hand, then at me, and very cautiously, millimeter by millimeter, brought it up to the metal. When the fingertips touched the surface, the muscles started twitching slightly, and the twitching spread to the entire hand. He stood still, an indescribable expression on his face. Then he clenched his fist, propped it on his hip, and moved his elbow toward the copper surface. The muscles of the forearm twitched where the skin came in contact with the cylinder. He stepped back, raised his hands to his eyes, and examined them in turn, whispering: “So it was I…? I myself… through me… then I was… the subject of the experiment…”

I thought he would burst into hysterical laughter, but he thrust his hands into his apron pockets, walked silently across the room, and said in a changed voice:

“I don’t know whether that has any — but enough. You’d better go now. I have nothing else to show, and besides…”

He broke off, went up to the window, tore away the black paper covering it, and threw open the shutters. Breathing loudly, he looked out into the darkness.