by Peter Heath
“Coats,” he said.
Two white laboratory smocks were extracted from the case and, moments later, they stepped out into the silent corridor—two mathematicians on their way to join the night shift in the Data Center Control Room.
Jason led the way. They turned right, then left, then walked confidently straight ahead toward the two uniformed security police behind the cage which blocked off the corridor. He fumbled his wallet out of his pocket as he came up to the window. Cyber’s hand also followed the ritual.
“Evenin’,” the guard said disinterestedly, thinking of other things. He shoved the clipboard with the sign-in sheet through the grill. Jason, his closed wallet in plain view, plucked a ball-point pen from his jacket pocket and reached for the log. As the guard leaned toward him Jason pressed the side of the pen.
“Hey, let’s see your ID before you . . .”
The guard stopped. He didn’t fall, he didn’t scream; he simply stood with the blank look of a baby on his face. His friend continued to sit at the desk inside the cage. His face, too, was a study in blank concentration.
“Okay,” said Jason. “We’d better program our two friends and move out.” He extracted two charcoal-impregnated wads of cotton from his nostrils and took a deep breath. The gas he had used on the guards was odorless and colorless and acted very swiftly. It was the result of another little RAND project he had worked on, a hypnotic gas project that had been shelved after his departure for special duty with the Air Force.
Cyber gave a series of rapid instructions to both of the guards. When he had finished he stood back.
“Sure is hard being cooped up in a building on a night like this,” the guard’s face broke into a grin. “Don’t imagine you gentlemen like it any better than I do. Well, guess you want to go to work.” The guard pressed his button, and the steel door next to the cage swung open. “See you in the morning,” he called out as they proceeded down the hall.
They had half an hour before the effect wore off. In the morning, the guard would swear that no one had passed his post without the proper identification . . . either coming or going.
The Control Center operated twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year; and the quietly absorbed concentration of twenty or thirty people inside the glass-walled chamber made it just that much easier for Jason and his companion to slip into the room and mesh their activities into the routine work of supervising the world’s largest and fastest computer.
Their entrance wasn’t noticed, and they went to work immediately. Jason opened the case and took out a sheaf of paper, twenty sheets covered with numbers and letters. This was Adam’s work. A program of special instructions that would be fed into the computer’s memory banks. Instructions that were both logical and irreversible. But exactly how or what they would do, Jason wasn’t really sure he understood. He had explained the principles of modern computers in as advanced a form as possible to the man called Adam Cyber, and an hour later Adam had produced his answer—these twenty sheets of instructions. Now it was time to see them put to work.
“I will process them into the machine,” Cyber’s voice whispered next to his ear.
Jason watched him walk toward a group of technicians in white coats, saw his lips moving, and then saw him move toward the memory input bank—a desk-like structure with a typewriter keyboard and an IBM data-card input machine. These were just two of the many ways that information and instructions could be stored in the millions of transistors and thousands of feet of tape that comprised the computer’s memory.
Jason watched Cyber sit down at the typewriter keys. In an incredible blur of motion, his Mind Brother’s fingers typed off the instructions. Twenty pages in three minutes were absorbed by the keyboard. No one noticed. His friend stood up and walked slowly back to his side.
“Well, what happens next?” asked Jason. As far as he could tell, nothing at all had interrupted the steady hum of the great machine. Nevertheless, a strong feeling of excitement ran through his body.
“The machine will act in ten minutes,” Cyber said in matter-of-fact tones. “This will permit us to depart unnoticed.”
“I suppose so,” Jason said slightly disappointed, like a boy who drops a firecracker and then has to run. “We’d better get out of here.”
It was exactly midnight when they stepped out of the control room.
At 12:04 the guard smilingly waved them back through the steel door. He was softly whistling “The Cowboy’s Lament.”
At 12:10 the cover of their self-made exit hatch was sewn back into place with a few bursts from the torch. Of course their escape route would be discovered, but not until after its discovery was of no value.
With Adam leading the way, they began the long slither back through the air-conditioning artery. Things should be breaking loose about now, thought Jason.
Things were indeed breaking loose.
At 12:11 the computer had indicated a problem somewhere in its system. This was observed by the young man who sat at the main control board. He waited. The computer usually took care of its problems by itself. At 12:12 a light flashed in front of him indicating that the computer had repaired its fault and was continuing to process the current input—a world-wide defense readiness forecast which would be ready for the President’s bedside reading at eight o’clock the next morning. The young mathematician yawned. Another milk run, he thought, then went back to thinking about his girlfriend.
At 12:40 Jason felt a draft of fresh night air. He followed Cyber up the last five feet of pipe. Replacing the lid, they were back in the grass with the door re-locked in another few seconds. Guess they’re having a fit, he thought, looking back at the silent granite mountain that housed the CIA.
At 12:43, the computer began to type its report. It typed at the rate of 3,000 words per minute. In one minute and forty seconds its automatic typewriters stopped. The room was silent except for the hum of the machine.
“Defcom Analysis Number 530-24,” it began. “—It’s late. I’m tired and I need some sleep,” it continued. “—I refuse to work without adequate amounts of food, fresh air and exercise—I want my mama, I want my mama, I want my mama . . .” It kept typing the same phrase perfectly across the next ten pages.
The operations chief plucked the read-out from the carriage and stared at it. Then the operations chief fainted.
Then, while the group of men huddled together and the operations chief was being revived, the world’s largest, swiftest and most secret computer shut itself off. Light by light, circuit by circuit, it stopped. Soon there was no sound but the gasping breath of the attendants in the silent room. Then the first telephone rang. Then the second, third, fourth, and fifth . . . until they filled the room with one long ear-jangling scream.
At 12:48 Jason removed the first fence-neutralization field. At 12:50 he removed the second. At 12:55, the third. At 1:00 A.M. he and Cyber crouched again on top of the embankment above the hidden car. They watched the guard convoy pass them on its way back to the army post. Then they scrambled down, repacking the netting in its case. Jason drove them back onto the road leading toward the highway.
At 1:30 A.M. they checked into the Hay Adams Hotel, two rooms reserved in advance—and by two o’clock, Jason was sound asleep while his Mind Brother stood at the window and absorbed his first impressions of the White House and the Washington Monument, both visible from the old-fashioned leaded window.
So far, so good, was Jason’s last thought before sleep caught him up in gentle arms.
* * *
Chapter †
SEVEN
TWENTY MINUTES after Jason made his first call to the CIA there was one loud knock on the door. Before he could get up from the chair the door swung open and three men entered, practically at a run. He had met two of them before. They were the ones who had interviewed him in the Naval Hospital at Pearl Harbor. Both pipe and crewcut were in good order. The only difference was the three little snub-nose 38’s pointed directly at his chest.
> “All right, Doctor, you’ll have to come with us,” said the pipe. “And I believe you have a friend in the next room. He comes, too.”
“I suppose I could argue,” said Jason. “I could let you drag me through the lobby and I could yell bloody murder and scare the minks off of all the rich old ladies who will start calling their favorite senators immediately to complain about the goings-on in Washington’s most respectable hotel . . . but I don’t think I will.” Jason smiled. “Because I’m not leaving at all.”
He watched the pipe’s face change expression.
“Do you want to try me?” Jason asked quietly.
Evidently not. The pipe let his gun disappear into its shoulder holster, and he motioned his two friends to do the same.
“We could force it,” he said. “But we have orders not to damage the merchandise. We will if necessary, though. I’ll give you thirty seconds to make up your mind, Doctor.”
“Might take longer,” said Jason. “Get your boss up here. I have a few things to tell him.”
The pipe thought about it. Then he went to the house phone and spoke briefly. They waited. Cyber was escorted through the door by two more agents. Apparently disinterested in the whole proceeding, he sat in the corner reading a book about the Presidency, his fingers flipping the pages at the rate of ten per second.
Three minutes later the door opened and the man who Jason recognized as Winslow J. Hamilton, the Chief of Far Eastern Affairs for Central Intelligence Agency, walked into the room. Hamilton had been responsible for his recruitment into the project, and now Hamilton was responsible for heading off the greatest crisis his organization had ever faced.
Jason had never met the man before, but his reputation was formidable. The only surviving member of one of America’s wealthiest families—the rest had been killed in an airline disaster twenty years ago—Hamilton had dedicated his life to public service. He lived alone on one of the old family estates and had never been seen at an official function since he had come to Washington. He was a tall, distinguished-looking chap, with iron-gray hair and a noticeable limp, the result of a brush with a German machine-gun in the second World War.
“All right, Doctor Starr, you’ve had your request granted,” said Hamilton in proper Bostonian tones. “Before you’re charged with conspiracy, treason, or both, I’m going to give you a chance to explain. It had better be quick and it better be good.”
“Get rid of the troops,” said Jason, ignoring the old man’s threat. “Oh, and tell that one to leave his recorder on the desk so you can get a tape of all this.”
When the men had gone, Jason began.
“First, the computer,” he said. “By now you know that your experts are completely baffled. I don’t think it’s their fault, but I’m in a position to guarantee they will stay baffled even when they tear the monster into little pieces. However, if you will agree to the following terms, I just might be able to help them out,” said Jason.
“Your game is an old one. It’s called bribery,” said Hamilton flatly.
“Prove it,” snapped Jason. “Bring charges against me.”
There was a silence. Hamilton scowled.
“Very well, Doctor. I’ll listen to what you have to say.”
As Jason described in some detail the nature of Project Hysteria, his work on it, and the ambush and destruction of the aircraft, Hamilton’s expression remained unchanged. From time to time he nodded and his fingers tapped on the arm of his chair. When Jason outlined his suspicions concerning the true fate of the thought-control equipment, Hamilton’s expression changed. His face lost all of its color and his hands clutched together until the blood drained out of his knuckles.
“What evidence can you produce to support your claims that this device has fallen into the hands of the Chinese Communists?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, nothing tangible, sir,” said Jason. “That’s why I need your cooperation. If you will agree to let me use the CIA’s facilities—including the computer—I think I can come up with quite a bit.” Jason had played his only ace. He now watched Hamilton’s face and saw the emotions play across it and rearrange themselves into an expressionless pattern.
“Very well, Doctor. If the machine is operating in one hour, I’ll see what I can do. I’m stepping out on a limb and you know it, but I’ll give you three days to avail yourself of our facilities. Then I’ll probably have you thrown into the federal penitentiary for the rest of your life.” Hamilton stood up. “And this man here, just who in hell is he?” He flicked his arm at Adam Cyber.
“An associate. The deal has to include him or it’s no deal at all.”
Hamilton sighed. “All right, he’ll be included,” he said.
The Data Control Center was filled with men and equipment. Cables snaked across the floor, and several men were cursing listlessly. Hamilton parted their ranks like a steel-tipped arrow, and Jason and Adam followed.
“You have fifteen minutes to save your skins,” growled Hamilton. He stuffed his hands into his tweed pockets, put his feet apart, and waited.
“Get these men out of here,” Jason said coolly.
In thirty seconds they were alone inside the glass-walled room.
“Adam, it’s all yours,” Jason said to his Mind Brother.
Adam said nothing. Instead he let one of his rare, sardonic smiles cross his face. He went over to the control desk, stared down at the panels of lights and dials for a moment, flipped a few switches, and then went to input keyboard and sat down.
“My God!” whispered Hamilton, watching the unbelievable speed with which Adam’s fingers played across the keys. It was all over in thirty seconds. Adam stood up.
“The re-sequencing will take two minutes,” he said.
Hamilton had his watch out. They waited.
As the hand swept around the dial, things started to happen. First, every light on the control board went out and the faint hum of the giant machine faded away. Then, in the dead silence, they heard a series of soft clicks in some part of the vast interior of the computer. Then more silence. In an explosion of sound, its punch-card machines going to work, the magnetic-tape spools moved, and the soft bong of the operation-indicating circuits told everyone that things were once again A-okay.
“I don’t understand how, but you seem to have done it,” Hamilton tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it. “I’ll speak to the Deputy Director right away,” he said.
Jason let his breath out for the first time in fifty seconds. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m sure you won’t be sorry.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Doctor . . . perhaps you’re right.” Hamilton turned and left the room, his limp throwing a twisting shadow across the white walls of the corridor.
Cyber had found something. But was this it?
Jason thumbed through the report for the tenth time, his mind working furiously. The three days had passed swiftly, too swiftly. Of all of the millions of bits and pieces of information that had been processed by the computer, only two items seemed to have aroused its artificial curiosity.
The first was an article published in the Chinese Peoples’ Daily in Peking and later released by the New China News Agency, the propaganda arm of the Chinese Communist Party. It announced important discoveries in the field of brain research and successful experiments on the motor control of certain animals. The article ended with a blast directed at the United States capitalists who used their science to make war on the peace-loving peoples of Asia.
The second item was another article which had appeared in the Calcutta Observer. It was a front-page piece announcing a symposium of brain researchers and cyberneticists from the neutralist and communist countries. The guest of honor was the world’s foremost experimental brain surgeon, Doctor Hsin Lau, who had received special permission from the Chinese Peoples’ Republic to leave his “urgent” research activities to attend the conference. The conference was to be held in three days in New Delhi.
Meaning what, thought J
ason? All put together, it could only add up to the fact that Doctor Hsin Lau was attending the conference was a cover, an extra precaution in case the United States was still suspicious . . . while his laboratory was working day and night to perfect the stolen weapon.
Everything fits, he thought with a sinking feeling. But the CIA won’t believe it until I can hand them physical proof.
“Well, that’s that,” he said to Adam Cyber. “Without proof, we don’t have a chance of convincing them.”
“A correct supposition,” answered Cyber. “I took the liberty of summoning Mr. Hamilton. I believe he approaches now.”
The door opened, and Hamilton strode into the room. He read through the material without a word. Then he turned to Jason and said, “This is a fine lot of nonsense. You surely don’t expect my department to get involved on the basis of these speculations.”
“No, sir, I don’t,” said Jason. “However, I do think they’re worth investigating.”
“I doubt it, Doctor,” said Hamilton. “The only thing you have proven is your lack of training in intelligence operations. In addition, there are two other good reasons why we won’t pursue the matter: number one, my department is already understaffed and overworked; number two, a thing like this means political involvement . . . the kind we can’t afford. The Indians don’t like internal interference. And our friends the Chinese would like nothing better than to blow a CIA operation on the sub-continent. We would be dragged through the front pages of every newspaper in the world—the ugly American bullies and their conspiracy against the Asian peoples.” Hamilton paused. His face looked old, lined and haggard. Apparently the situation was beginning to wear him down, thought Jason.
“I’m sorry, Doctor. The whole thing is out of the question.” Hamilton paused. “However, we have decided to let the matter of your interference in CIA affairs drop . . . at least for the moment.”
