by D. F. Jones
Galin heard the news in his office. For no good reason that he could discover, he found it faintly disquieting. He hurried to greet the Father, but the Father had gone straight from pad to residence, waving aside any who sought to welcome him.
Angela was also disturbed, but in a different way. She had intended to spend the evening washing her hair, but once she heard Forbin was back she canceled the idea and stayed close by her communicator, ready.
What Colossus made of it, no one, of course, knew.
Forbin, desperately tired, yet spurred on by his need for action, headed for a bath and a change of clothes. Freshened, but feeling extremely frail and very edgy, he called and questioned the nurse about his sleeping son. The wooden-faced McGrigor assured him all was well with “the bairn,” and took time out to stare with heavy disapproval at the drink in Forbin’s hand. Dismissed, she told Forbin she was fixing him a meal, and that he would eat it.
Forbin stared in anger after the nurse. How could he eat—how could anyone expect him to eat—when Cleo might, at this very moment, be slipping forever from his grasp?
But caution counseled him to stay as calm as possible. He had been—still was—engaged in the highest treason, and totally ignorant of recent events in the complex. If Colossus had any faint hint of his American activity, he must be ready to refute it. Meanwhile, he must appear relatively normal. His sudden return was bad enough, but that couldn’t be helped.
More than anything, he wanted to send for Blake, but that would be plain madness. It would be equally crazy if he tried to insert the Martian formula himself—but how could he let a whole night slip past in dull inaction?
So he forced the supper down, assisted by a certain amount of brandy, and then he felt very tired. He was not made of steel; had not slept for what—one, two nights? Not much before that either, and ramjet travel … his head drooped slowly, then he jerked back to wakefulness. He must think… . Blake… . How… .
Forbin slept.
Blake, on the other hand, got very little sleep. While he liked a regular supply of women, Blake was by no means the human goat of popular opinion. He would have been reasonably happy to settle for one, but to do that would foul up his one secure courier contact point. Even before Cleo’s capture, Blake had realized that his sailboat, any transportation he used, and his private flat were all subject to covert bugging. Add to that the almost complete overt surveillance in all working spaces, and what chance had he? As he saw it, the only time he could be still reasonably sure of his security was swimming naked at night with the courier. That was all very well, but midnight nude bathing with a girl, even in the twenty-second century, implied a certain degree of intimacy. Not that anyone was coy about that, not anyone normal, anyway. The majority preferred to conduct their sex in private, but if a couple, overcome by urgency, coupled in the open, it attracted about as much attention as if they had been playing electronic tennis. Casual sex was nothing; with a standard twelve-hour working week, there was a lot of it about.
Of course, Blake appreciated that Colossus suspected the reason for his midnight gambols, but suspicion was not evidence. Also, to confuse the picture, by no means all the girls who bore gooseflesh for the sake of a good lay—Blake had fostered the impression that sea water toned him up—were couriers.
Fortunately, Blake was a good performer in bed and good company out of it. Any new arrival soon learned in the girl’s room that he was worthwhile, and apart from this sea bathing act, without the kinks so common in many bored males.
This girl was not a courier. They’d swum, eaten, and gone to bed. She was a distressing mixture of keenness of desire and dullness of performance. Slight novelty made the first time tolerable, but thereafter Blake’s interest faded. By the fourth time, in the early morning, he was running some of his very best mental fantasies to stay in business. Not that he worried about a knock to his reputation; it was the Colossus bugs that kept him going. The girl never knew that in the highest transports of simulated delight, Blake’s mind was also working on the problem of contact with Forbin, or that in the solution of that problem, she helped. Even as she panted to her climax, Blake saw a possible answer.
Hell! To make it realistic, he’d have to go through this performance yet again. Still, a quick drink of water and a Phalirect pill would see him through. And if that didn’t give him an excuse to oversleep, what would?
Apart from a stiff neck, Forbin slept well in his chair. He showered and changed and went straight to his office, still a little tired, but his desire for action was boosted by his sense of guilt that he had slept at all.
To the waiting Angela, the Chief looked older, thinner, and the strange haircut added to his unfamiliarity. Forbin strode past her with no more than a nod, but left his door open. Allowing him a few minutes, she followed.
The coldness of his eyes shocked her; she saw she had to be very careful. Without preamble, Forbin got down to business, dispatching much with unusual speed and decision, then he waved her out and made a collective call to the heads of all divisions before she was out of her chair.
All came up in turn on his screen, except one; Blake.
Forbin could have screamed, and it took a lot of effort to control himself. In a voice tight with anger he dealt summarily with the rest, then called Blake’s deputy.
“Where is Doctor Blake?”
The deputy was apprehensive. “I—I don’t know, Director, but I’ve sent to find out. He doesn’t answer our calls. I guess—uh—he may have overslept.”
“Overslept!” Forbin nearly choked with rage. “Over … ! When Doctor Blake does arrive, tell him I would be greatly obliged if he reported to me—in person!” He snapped off his microphone.
At the same moment, he guessed, and felt enormous relief. The cunning bastard! Thank God he’d been too angry to see it earlier! He’d never have acted so convincingly.
It was a genuinely seedy Blake who a half hour later presented himself, bleary-eyed, at the Director’s door. First, he made a big scene asking Angela about the Director’s temper. Unwittingly, Angela played up to him, treating him with great coldness.
“The Director is very tired, Doctor. As to his temper, I suggest you find out—right away!”
Blake rubbed his face wearily. “How was I to know he’d be back so soon?”
Angela made no comment.
“Aw, hell! He can only eat me!”
He tapped on the door, praying Forbin would remember his clothes were bugged.
“Come in.”
As he entered, Blake ran one hand casually over his breast, staring hard at Forbin. Forbin’s eyes flickered; mentally, Blake gave thanks.
“Ah, Doctor Blake, at last!”
“I’m very sorry, Director. It was like this… .”
“I do not wish to hear, Doctor!”
“Aw—hell, Charles! How was I to know you’d be back?” This was a deadly charade; even if visual surveillance was unlikely, both men’s faces were set, expressionless.
“That,” said Forbin carefully, “is beside the point. In my absence my senior staff should show even more sense of responsibility!”
“Yes, Director. I’m very sorry.”
“Very well. Consider the matter closed. Now: what is the input situation?”
“Generally, good. There’s still a big backlog, but now Colossus has allocated subject priorities, we’re clearing all four-star material on receipt, and a good deal more. Maybe seventy-five percent of the intake is getting in. The rest… .” He shrugged. “Well, I can’t see that going this side of New Year’s Day… .” He kept talking, but he was watching Forbin’s hands.
The Director was deliberately pinning a slip of paper to an inner page of a report.
“… so that is the situation, as of now.”
“I see.” Forbin looked up. Two tired pairs of eyes regarded each other, speaking a language well beyond any computer.
“Yes. If Colossus is satisfied, well—although twenty-five percent holdup due to
power surges strikes me as inordinately high.” He stared meaningly at Blake. “I have in mind an early staff meeting to discuss this report of Fultone’s.” He tossed it casually across the table. “I’m tired, Blake. I’d appreciate it if you studied it. It seems to touch your province in particular. When you’ve digested it,” he pushed the paper slowly to Blake, “let me know. I’d like a briefing before the meeting.”
“Yes, Director. I’ll get on with it right away. Once again, I’m sorry.
“I told you, Blake.” He was looking at the paper, now in Blake’s grasp. “The matter is ended! Get on with that report.”
“Yes, Director.” Blake wished for time to get that slip out, but dared not hang around.
Forbin sat back, limp. He’d done his part; now it was up to Blake. If he failed, they were both in for the ultimate punishment, for Forbin had written the Martian instructions for internal input on the back of the paper.
“Why have you returned so soon, Father?” Forbin gripped the arms of his chair convulsively.
“Later, please. I will come to the Sanctum. Right now I want to collect my thoughts, think. My mind is confused.”
“Confusion was not evident when talking to your staff.”
“Maybe not, but talking to you is different. Give me time!”
“As you wish.”
Forbin sank back, pale, breathing deeply.
In Forbin’s outer office Blake paused to mop his brow—and to gain time. He looked hopefully, uselessly, at Angela for sympathy. He grinned, but there was a faint tic in his cheek. Even his iron nerves felt the strain, but he tried to pitch his voice just right. “Has the Director ever bitten your ear, Angela?”
“The Director only bites ears that deserve it, Doctor.”
“Never bit yours—hey?” His meaning was clear.
Angela, who could run some pretty prurient movies in her mind, was shocked. Shocked, and aware that there was some untypical strain in Ted Blake’s manner.
“The Director’s code of conduct to his staff is not the same as yours!”
“No? That’s a shame!” His fingers had located the slip. He moved closer to her desk. “You know, honey, I can’t think how I never got around to your ear!” He had the slip; as he leaned towards Angela, he eased it free of the clip.
She wondered what the hell had gotten into him. Years back, in the old Secure Zone, when she was too young to know better, she’d had one session with Blake. It had been mutually unsatisfying and never repeated. She liked men she could mother; Blake was not in that category. He was a ram, first class, and no more. Blowing the top off a girl’s head wasn’t everything.
“Leave my ears out of this!”
“Angela, you make me sad.” Slowly he was twisting the paper in his hand. “Guess we’re too much alike!”
“If that’s a compliment, keep it!” She was really angry.
“Sorry! Should keep my big mouth shut. You know, Angela, it’s just not my day. Let’s really louse it up!” Swiftly he leaned over, kissed her, covering the transfer of the slip of paper to his pocket.
Angela slapped his face.
Blake straightened up, still grinning. “Like I said—it’s not my day!”
Or was it?
Blake had serious doubts. En route to his office, his heart exulting, he met Galin.
“Ah—the tardy Doctor Blake!” News traveled fast in the complex.
“Ah—the bloody Mister Galin!”
Galin took that, smiling: he reckoned he could afford to. “I’m glad—yes, glad—to see you, albeit somewhat late, hurrying!”
“I’m glad you’re glad … I think,” replied Blake with mock amiability.
Galin’s manner slipped. “Make the most of your time, Blake, for be sure of one thing; I’ll get you!”
Strained, tired, but reckless in the belief he held the ace in his pocket, Blake needled Galin further.
“You’ll have me, buddy? Surely, I’m a bit old for you? I thought your specialty was teen-age boys? That lets me out, Mister Archie bloody Galin Grey!” He moved up close to Galin’s face, mockery gone, speaking softly. “Don’t threaten me, buddy-boy!” His grin was vicious. “I’ve dropped better specimens than you down the john—and take a tip, buddy-boy! Get yourself a new deodorant!”
Galin gave him a long venomous look, turned, and walked away.
Blake went on to his office. He wanted to sing. Like hell it wasn’t his day! If Galin had had the nerve to have him searched then and there, he and Forbin would now have less than twenty minutes to live. Blake grinned. He wasn’t going to get caught—he was sure of it! Computers had no corner in fast action.
Colossus had no heart, not yet one single central core. Diagrammatically, the control chain could be expressed as a truncated pyramid. At the bottom, uncounted nodal points, controlling crossroads in a dark, silent city where only energy moved at the speed of light. Higher up, increasingly selective and complicated switching points numbered in the thousands, and so on up to that top, supreme level of some twenty sector controllers, working in total amity. And this was, in itself, the heart, the core of the brain, for this had nothing to do with the scanning and injection of material received at inputs. That was another, even vaster, conglomeration of electronics existing to support and maintain the life energy and intelligence of the core. Nor was that all. Lines, circuits reached out from the sector controls to the executive and speech section where decision was translated into action.
It is not possible to give an accurate picture or layout of the brain at any one time, for it was constantly evolving, changing. Experimental sectors were set up and might grow or be wiped clean in seconds, and their very existence never be known to the human servants of Colossus.
Humans, like Forbin and Blake, were aware of the three main divisions of their master. To them they were Collection, Evaluation, and Direction.
Ideally, Blake would have wished to feed the Martian proposition directly to Evaluation, but this was not possible. It had to go via Collection, which meant through Blake’s Input Services.
The Martian warning that it must not go through one of the external inputs, which Colossus controlled himself, surprised Blake as much as it had Forbin. He, too, had never considered the possible existence of defensive circuits. Yet it was obvious, if one thought about it.
It left him with the nasty feeling that there might be some other, obvious snag which he also couldn’t see. However, there was no point in worrying. It was far too late for that. Blake made the insert himself, teletyping it in with unsteady fingers, sweating… .
Forbin, sitting silent and outwardly inactive in his office, was only too aware of the dragging feet of time. As far as he was concerned, he had done it: Blake must have got the significance of the word “digested.” He wondered, without much interest, how Blake would make the insertion. There would be camera surveillance in the transmission room, but Forbin did not think it was very intensive at the input bays. After all, why bother to watch what would be known in nanoseconds? Colossus would be more interested in seeing material was not taken from the room, rather than brought in. No; insertion should not be difficult.
His mind shied off the enormity of his action. Repeatedly, he told himself that until Cleo had been taken, he had been blind. Her arrest had forced him to see. Humanity must be free; Cleo must be free.
But Forbin was being less than honest with himself. Deep down, he reluctantly recognized that what he wanted was his wife, and to hell with the rest. Goddamnit! He was not God! Why should he shoulder the responsibility of the world? He thrust the whole business aside, including a faint, niggling, and cloudy doubt. It was done, anyway.
Abruptly, he got up and paced the room. If this Martian solution worked, what would he do? The first move was easy: he’d jet out to Cleo, get her back. Beyond that his mind refused to go.
Cleo. To break her free before it was too late was all that mattered. His seeking mind came up with a memory of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. Yes, a
nother Cleo. Cleo and Antony… . Antony, the “plated Mars” who had, at the battle of Actium, followed the fleeing Cleopatra, deserting his forces, not in cowardice, but to be with her. Till this moment, he had always thought that a highly improbable act, totally out of character. Antony, a tough, professional Roman general, tossing his chance of being Emperor out of the nearest window without a second thought.
Yet, now he began to see that Shakespeare, the supreme genius of the human heart, was right. Maybe it didn’t happen then, but now, twenty centuries later… .
Angela brought him a cup of coffee and some documents to sign. She didn’t speak or look at her boss. Something mighty odd was going on: Blake acting that way, and the Chief… ! She was puzzled, worried, but being the sort of girl she was, she kept her feelings to herself.
Forbin forced himself to pay attention to the papers. Yes, he would be greatly honored if the new Sydney habitat for ten thousand souls was named for him, but no, he regretted he could not open it. Yes, he was greatly honored by the USSA’s proposal to name a battleship for him, but he understood, and had recently agreed to, the naming of a similar ship by the State of France, USE, who it seemed had a prior claim to this name, having used it some three hundred years ago.
So the letters went on with Forbin frowning, muttering to himself. State after state wanted some small part of him, if only his name. It was all damned nonsense, but he had to go along with the bulk of it. At one thing he did balk: letters beginning “Holy Father” were not answered.
Each time he signed a letter he allowed himself to glance at the clock. By the time he had finished the pile, Blake had been gone fifty minutes. He sat and stared. One hour.
A wave of irritation swept over him. What the hell was Blake playing at? Surely to God he’d had time enough to make the insert? In the wake of the irritation Forbin felt a tinge of fear, personal fear. Had Blake failed, been caught—or was the formula so much garbage? Had Colossus recognized the insert for what it was, defeated it?
