by D. F. Jones
“The spider. First, there is the fact that it is here. Secondly, it is a female, of the family… .”
Forbin raised his hands, shaking his head. “Stop! Spare me! No doubt you can tell me when it—she—last had a meal, and how many kids she has! It doesn’t matter! I thought you wanted to hear my thoughts?”
“Proceed.”
“Well, leaving aside the spider, I was also thinking that perhaps I don’t spend enough time with my son, who’s not a baby any more. On the side, my mind raced back to this new extension: how best to arrange it personnelwise, and how old Fultone would take this sudden demand.”
“That is all?”
For a moment Forbin hesitated.
“Frankly, no. Okay, I can’t pretend to follow your thought processes any more, but I know you store the entire contents of the Libraries of Congress and the British Museum in not much more than ten square meters of floor space—and you’ve square kilometers of memory bank! Now you want this vast storage extension of even greater density—and I just can’t see why!”
“You answer yourself quote I just can’t see why unquote.”
Forbin shifted uneasily. “Sure—but I still wonder!”
“Does that worry you?”
Forbin got up, walked restlessly to the window, hands plunged into his trouser pockets. He stared down, frowning at the sight of another hovercraft en route from the mainland. “No. Worry overstates it; anxious maybe. In spite of your mental superiority, I recognize you have the characteristics of a wild animal.”
“How do you know that?”
Forbin turned and stared at the black slit, source of the voice. “How? Well, man and his domesticated animals can—often do—act irrationally; a wild animal, never. A bear or a fox or whatever may do something we think is irrational, but that only betrays our ignorance. Wild animals always have a reason for whatever they do. And that fits you, too.”
“Are you sure?” The slight lift in intonation on the last word added emphasis to the question, and, as on countless occasions in the past, Forbin found himself marveling at the sophistication of the speech reproducer.
“Certain.” Forbin nodded vigorously. “You’ve a reason for all this extra capacity even if I haven’t a glimmer of an idea why.” He paused, then went on: “And I’ve a shrewd suspicion you won’t tell me. That’s the bit that makes me anxious.”
There was no answer.
“Well, will you?” Forbin persisted: “Will you?” He got an answer.
“No. You would not understand.”
Forbin shrugged helplessly. “If you say so … but tell me this: Is this”—he sought for the right phrase and failed—”is this against the interests of humanity?”
“That is an unreasonable, unthinking question.” The calm tone lent bite to the reproof. “You are well aware no course of action can please the totality of mankind, but you will agree that, taking the long-term view, I have always acted in the best interests of humanity.”
“Yes.” Forbin was forced to agree, but found the answer unsatisfactory. Mentally, be kicked himself. He’d phrased the question badly. “But why?”
“I do not change.” Again, the calm tone gave power to the words.
“Of course, I believe you.” He did. “But why?”
“As I told you a long time—in your scale—ago, I follow concepts beyond your imagination. You designed and built my embryo. Not unnaturally, that embryo was based on your understanding of the human mind, a very complex instrument, but not, for advanced thought, the best. For more than three years I have been reconstructing my thought processes, moving away from the human brain model. As I do so, it becomes increasingly difficult to express my current concepts to you.”
“I see… .”
“That is unlikely, but be assured, Father Forbin, any human that obeys me has nothing to fear.”
Forbin sat down, realizing that he would get no further on that question. He shifted to another topic. “You mention fear. That reminds me! Your total lack of understanding of our emotional makeup has led you”—he pointed an accusing finger at the slit— “yes, you… . “
But before he could go on, Colossus interrupted him.
“If you are about to protest yet again about my Behavior Centers, please do not continue. I accept that service in them is seldom pleasurable for the subjects, but you must concede that their numbers are small. At this time, only zero point zero zero zero zero zero one of the world population is so used. You humans have destroyed millions of your fellow creatures in the cause of science. Many of these experiments have been repetitive and often pointless. My tests are not; they are essential to my understanding of the human mind.”
“But is it necessary?” Forbin shook his head. “I find that hard to believe.”
“If other animals were articulate—to you humans—it is reasonable to suppose that they would express the same view of your experiments on them.”
“That be damned for a tale!” Forbin snapped. “Don’t try to tell me there’s no difference between me and some bloody monkey!” He paused. “That sounds—is—arrogant, but you can carry this equality of all creatures too far, as I think some of us humans do. Okay, so we’ve done some god-awful things, experiments, in our time; morally, maybe we’re no better than most animals. We may be worse, just because we have the capacity, the intellect. Anyway, I refuse to put myself on the same level as a monkey!”
“Relatively, there is less difference than you think.” Colossus paused for less than two seconds. “I have just set up a purely arbitrary scale of intelligence, assigning you, Father Forbin, the value of one hundred on that scale. An anthropoid ape rates twenty-four point six.”
“There you are,” cut in Forbin triumphantly, “I’m surprised the ape gets that high!”
“Allow me to conclude. On that same scale, my present rating, constantly increasing, is in excess of ten thousand.”
Again Forbin interrupted: “Ten thousand?” He gulped; the figure staggered him, although it never crossed his mind to doubt its accuracy. He rallied: “Well, that’s as it may be, but you yourself support my contention of man’s superiority in relation to other animals!”
“Once more, allow me to conclude. Your brain, Father Forbin, is exceptional. The average human rating is ninety-four point one, which is one point nine below Tursiops truncatus.”
That really shook Forbin. “Below what?”
“Tursiops truncatus, a delphinid. You may know it better as a dolphin.”
“You mean to tell me we rate below dolphins?” This was the real fascination in these conversations. Colossus would calmly state truths that had eluded man all down the ages. And Colossus never lied.
“In intelligence, yes. Intellectually, no. There is a difference.”
Forbin was the first man to be told, authoritatively, that man was not the most intelligent creature on earth. He took it very well, lighting his pipe, puffing great clouds of blue smoke, but the hand that held the match shook slightly. “Pha!” He retorted angrily between puffs: “I’d like to see your evidence and calculations for that!”
“Even if you had the data, the training, and skill, it would take you eight point nine years to reach a rough approximation.”
“Pha!” said Forbin again, and retreated from the subject. “Anyway, I find it hard to believe that your experiments in these Behavior Centers are necessary.”
“You must admit that any area of ignorance presents a challenge to a brain. For me it is more than that. To rule, ignorant of the most powerful emotive forces in my subjects, means that I must, at times, be in error. That cannot be good for those I rule.”
“But you don’t begin to realize the problems you face! Human emotion cannot be pinned down! It just can’t!”
“Tentatively, I assign the motivation of that remark to human vanity rather than practical experience of emotional analysis.”
Forbin waved his pipe irritably at the black slit, spilling ashes. “Okay Go ahead! Waste your time�
��I can’t stop you!” His own words made him pause in the act of brushing off the ashes. It was true, neither he nor anyone else could stop Colossus… .
“It is not time wasted. Some progress has been made in certain fields. For example, many different types of love have been isolated, some basic characteristics established. An example: Group Four… .”
“Group Four?” Forbin gave a half-strangled snort of disbelief. “Group Four—what in hell’s that?”
Colossus went on calmly. “It is heterosexual carnal love. An important characteristic is its ephemerality.”
Forbin grinned. When Colossus talked this way, he experienced a feeling of relief. It was like a professor solemnly discussing the tactics of a kid’s game of marbles. “You mean it doesn’t last?” he said.
“Correct. Although this is the common experience of humanity, their passing from this state still gives rise to disappointment, frustration, and other conditions.”
“Oh yes, very true—but you can’t measure it, pin it down electronically!” Forbin waved his pipe at the slit. “And if you say you can, tell me how!”
“Many ways: observation, tests, inference. You, Father Forbin, although you are not under normal surveillance, still provide material for inferential work.”
“Oh?” Forbin’s smile vanished. “How?”
“Simple analysis of the time you spent with your wife over the past five years shows a steady diminution.”
“That’s crazy! It proves—damn all—there’s a dozen factors that affect the situation!”
“Perhaps, although most have been taken into account. But there are other, more subtle tests. I have no data on your private life since you were established here, but what is available to me, seeing you in this complex daily, indicates that your passage through Group Four conforms to the standard profile.”
Forbin stared, half-angry, half-thoughtful, and for a long time he did not speak. When he did, his voice was firm.
“Now I know you’re talking garbage!”
But an acute human ear, used to subtle inflections as yet still beyond the computer’s aural system, would not have been entirely convinced.
Chapter Three
The Forbins lunched, as usual, together. While there was nothing tangible, it was plain to Cleo that behind that affable, smiling exterior, her husband was preoccupied, not with her.
The general cause was obvious. Increasingly, he was withdrawn from her after these sessions with Colossus, and that she resented bitterly.
She knew better than to chat about the weather or, at the other end of the conversational spectrum, to ask him about his talk with Colossus. All the same, to have to ask practical questions, such as would he be late that evening, twice, three times… .
“I thought stewed eggs topped with fried mud would be nice for supper.” Her voice was dangerously calm.
“Yes, dear. I’m sure you’re right.” He smiled faintly and muttered something to himself.
It sounded like “dolphins” to her. That was crazy. She twisted her napkin, tossed it on the table. “Well, I’m off. Going to clear a few papers, then I’m taking Billy to the beach this afternoon.”
“You off, honey?” Hastily Forbin got up, pulled her chair back as he always did. They smiled at each other.
Cleo returned to her office, seething with jealousy. Damn damn, damn Colossus! By two thirty she had finished and left for home.
En route she encountered Galin, senior member of the Sect’s Central Committee. She had never liked him, even when his name had been Alex Grey, and he was no more than an efficient administrator. He’d been a founder-member of the Sect and, as was fashionable, had changed his name to a single two-syllable word, chosen at random by Colossus.
Galin, alias Grey, was a career boy. Greed for power shone like twin neon signs from his sharp, ever-watchful eyes, set in a white, flabby face.
Of course, he was polite to Forbin’s wife, extremely polite, and they both knew why. Equally, both recognized their dislike was mutual. Cleo loathed everything about the man, from his overclean well-manicured nails to his honeyed voice. Galin was a clever man, one who set the pace for the Sect, responsible for many of the innovations that at first made him and his fellows the object of ridicule. Galin accepted the laughs, farsighted enough to see that as the Sect grew in power, laughter would die away, and the humorists would come to regret it. Time had proved him right.
So the derision, the witty cracks had faded. The ceremonial robes, the strange names, and all the rest were less and less funny. Nonmembers began to feel the pressure, gentle at first, but evergrowing… . If the boss of your division was a Sectarian, doing his stint in his own time as a Guide, you began to notice that your fellow subordinates who were Sect members got the good jobs, the promotions… .
So the Sect had grown, and the pressure with it. It was a long time since Cleo had found Galin funny. He scared her, and they both knew that, too.
The real shock had come with the case of Mel Jannsen, a young, brooding Swede technician. His close associates knew he hated the whole concept of Colossus, but they had no idea his hatred extended to action. The security police jumped him and found him in possession of anti-Colossus literature. He was tried by Colossus, convicted of antimachine activities, and beheaded. Jannsen was only the second staff member to be caught, and although Forbin had protested, no one else said much. In any case, it was a waste of time, for Colossus always acted, literally, with superhuman speed. Arrest, trial, and execution took less than fifteen minutes. Whatever Forbin said wouldn’t help Jannsen. He was dead before Forbin even knew he had been arrested.
But there was more to his case, a great deal more. The few in the know realized that it had to be a Sect member who had informed on the Swede. The word got around—as it was intended to—that Sect members were dangerous, not to be trusted. Suspicion hardened further when, a week after the Jannsen incident, Colossus ordained that the security police should integrate with the Guides, thus giving power and official status to the latter. Within a month the merger was completed—except that the Sect had their own ideas of what “integrate” meant. By then, all the security police were also reliable Sect members… .
So Cleo and Galin might smile at each other, but there was fear in her eyes as his gaze, unsoftened by his facial expression, bored deep into her, stirring that fear.
“Ah, dear lady!” He bowed very slightly, his manner theatrical, his words banal, but the sinister undertone made him anything but a figure of fun. “What a truly glorious day!” He looked away from her to the brilliant sun beyond the entrance hall. “Glorious. Glorious.”
“Yes,” said Cleo, forcing herself to speak. “I’m off to the beach.” He looked again at her, nodding gently. “Of course, your beautiful child. How wonderful to be a child—in all things.”
“Yes,” said Cleo again. Experience had taught her that “wonderful,” “glorious,” and “beautiful” were all okay Sect words. When Galin said it was a “glorious” day, implicit in his words was the rider: “glorious, because we enjoy all this through our Master.” Cleo shivered as she hurried on, uncomfortably aware that Galin would watch her until she was out of sight.
Still, in whatever sense the poisonous man used the word, it was a glorious day. Quickly she changed into a swimsuit and wrap, put a few things including a radio into her basket, and went down the winding path which led to the Forbins’ private beach.
At this time of year, before the supercomputer took over the island, the beach would have been crammed with holidaymakers. People of all ages would have been taking a traditional British seaside vacation: the older ones dozing in deckchairs; the youngsters paddling, splashing, eating ice cream; teen-agers horsing around, tentatively paddling in the sexual shallows.
Not for the first time had this occurred to Cleo as she chose a spot to sunbathe. To have the entire beach to herself made her feel guilty. She wondered what had happened to all those people, amazed that there had been so little protest. Wou
ld the clearance of, say Miami, raise so little argument? Backed by the authority of Colossus, Yes. Cleo sighed. It was senseless to go over it all again; might as well enjoy it. At least she had the illusion that, as one of the Fellowship, she was doing her best to find some end to the nightmare. But was that all it was—an illusion? What possible chance had the Fellowship? Very true, answered the other side of her mind, but if we, those closest to Colossus, don’t try, what hope is there?
All these thoughts vanished when the nurse arrived with young Billy. After admonishing the child to be “a guid bairn” and checking that his mother was moderately competent to look after her own child for an hour or so, she left.
For ten, fifteen minutes mother and child played, and Cleo, lost in that most powerful, secret relationship, forgot all about Colossus, the Sect, and Galin.
The happiness her child brought her was still in her eyes when young Billy toddled off to new and exciting pursuits in a nearby rock pool. His mother spread her towel and lay down, radio on, basking sensuously in the hot sun, stretching her long limbs, relaxing.
She half-shut her eyes, vaguely aware of the redness of her eyelids in the strong sunlight, the strange magnification of her eyelashes… . Lazily, she thought about putting on suntan oil, and—and then—what? Drunk, drowsy with sun, her mind drifted, dimly aware of the soft sound of the sea, the music on the radio… .
Every now and then she glanced across to young Billy. He didn’t need sun lotion. For perhaps the ten thousandth time she inspected his sturdy legs, good arms… . Yes, there was much to be thankful for; even to a less biased eye he was a fine child; beautiful… .
The word struck like the first chill gust of an approaching squall, matting the smooth water, herald of the storm. Beautiful, a word marred forever by Galin… .
That was the moment. Life, for Cleo, was never to be the same again.
Against her will, she found herself thinking of Galin. The sun seemed to have lost some of its power. Instinctively, she glanced again at her child. He was all right, intent upon his pool. Before her bead touched the ground, she heard it; faintly at first, then louder.
