by D. F. Jones
She called the nursery on the intercom and organized Billy’s day—so far as their gaunt Scots nurse permitted. No, she had not forgotten the promise to take him on the beach; perhaps this afternoon.
Walking to her office, she wondered yet again why she was such a fool when she had practically everything a woman could want. A beautiful home, a wonderful child, an absorbing job—and a loving husband. A loving husband… . That, she knew from traveling these well-worn thought paths so many times before, was the real rub.
After her husband’s recovery, she had watched with growing alarm his increasing attachment to the computer. Not yet was it the love of a father for a son, but she was uncomfortably aware that Colossus had predicted this would happen one day. Her husband, apart from his work, was an essentially simple man, and while he did not like some things Colossus ordered, he saw that, in a weird way, what man had demanded of the original computers had been achieved, if not quite in the manner intended. There was peace and freedom from want and promise of a great improvement in man’s material well-being. So man had lost the illusion of freedom—but so what? Forbin contended that within the confines of Colossus’ rule man had more freedom than ever before… .
All this Cleo understood and to a degree accepted, but it did not stop there. Her husband’s cooperation, unwilling at first, was now willing, sometimes even enthusiastic. She was also aware that Colossus did not discourage his deification by the Sect, and she feared that her husband would not withstand the pressure of the Sect—plus the far greater influence of Colossus—if Colossus decided that Forbin should be the computer’s Pope.
At rock bottom, she was jealous: jealous of Forbin’s relationship with Colossus. Again and again she told herself not to be stupid; she was lucky he was not spending his time with another woman, but her alter ego had a smart answer to that: she could compete with another female, but Colossus. .
. .
So jealousy added even more fuel to the secret fire within her. Her husband might change his views, but not Cleo. Her basic fear plus jealousy plus her anxiety for the world in which her son would live, all added up to an unswerving determination to do all she could to destroy this nightmarish creation.
To destroy Colossus! It was sheer madness even to contemplate it. The old Colossus had been built to defend the Western world. In those short-lived, jubilant days, the President of the USNA had been at pains to point out that the whole beauty of the idea lay in the fact that Colossus, fed all available intelligence, would only launch its fearful armory if that intelligence showed an attack was pending on the West. As the President had said, Colossus, lacking emotion, would not panic or act out of fear; it could only react to a threat, so the answer was simple: don’t threaten.
But the Soviets had been busy too; they soon announced the existence of their Guardian of Democratic Socialism. That did no more than restore the balance, and once the dust had settled the situation would have stabilized, but the computers broke their parameters and ganged up. The very defenses man had built for the computers’ protection proved only too effective… .
And Cleo Forbin, PhD, one of the original Colossus design team, sought to destroy their infinitely more complex successor. It was mad even to think of it; to talk of it, fatal. Colossus always reacted swiftly against any “antimachine activity” and the invariable punishment on conviction was swift death—by decapitation. It was crazy: a mouse might as well attack an ICBM site. Yes, mad, impossible… .
Except that Cleo was not alone. There were others. just as the Sect was busy elevating their Master to the rank of God, so these others worked secretly to cast him down.
They called themselves the Fellowship, and Cleo Forbin was a top member.
Chapter Two
Forbin made it to his office suite ahead of the pilgrims, but whatever pleasure or relief that gave him was canceled out by another annoyance.
In crossing the large—vast would be a better description—entrance cum reception hall, he had encountered a trio of guides (they spelled the word with a capital “G”), preparing to receive the first batch of pilgrims. Forbin didn’t give a damn for their pseudo-archaic dress blazoned with the Colossus badge, or the grand manners they put on with the robes. He was used to all that and had, for a time, even laughed at their antics, but the joke had worn thin, very thin. As far as possible, he ignored them.
But when you happen to be walking across a wide expanse of marble floor alone, what do you do when three magnificently robed creatures turn, face you—and you only—and bow? Not a mere duck of the head, but the full treatment, a deep obeisance, right hands placed on hearts? Forbin, for one, hadn’t found a satisfactory answer. He’d tried a quick wave and a false smile, but their dignity and grave faces made him feel foolish. To return the bow had much the same effect upon him, yet to ignore them was rude, and an uncomfortable feeling to sustain all the way across that football field of a floor. Anyway he played it, he ended up annoyed with them and himself. Childish nonsense!
No; not that; not any more… .
Somehow, walking awkwardly, sensing they’d stay bowed until he was out of sight, he made it to his office and relaxed thankfully. In passing on the way to his private office, he gave his secretary a genuine smile, but did not speak.
By the time he was seated at his desk, all thoughts of the Sect were obliterated from his mind. For a while he pushed papers around just to settle his thoughts, then called out to his secretary through the open door.
“Come on, my girl! Let’s get on with it!”
She came in at once, bearing an armful of papers and tapes. “Well, Angela, what’s the good news?”
Apart from wrinkling one nostril she made no answer, but sat down in her chair, Forbin watching her quizzically. Angela had a whole range of facial expressions that she used to give him a trailer of the day’s program. Today, he guessed, they were low on good news, but equally, it was not that bad.
She had been his secretary for many years, and theirs had always been an easy, informal relationship. At least, that is what he had always imagined; her view was not exactly the same. She had loved her boss for a long time; even when he became involved with Cleo her feelings had not changed, and not much more can be expected of a woman than that. But even Forbin, blind male that he was, realized their relationship had changed. Less and less did she call him “Chief,” a fact he noted with sadness, but some other changes he had not observed. Since his marriage Angela did not concern herself with his dress, the state of his hair, or his diet, and there lay sadness for her. These matters were no longer her affair, but she still loved him.
Without preamble, Angela got down to work.
“There’s a request from the President of India for you to give the opening address… .”
“No!” He was brisk. “Next?”
She looked up reproachfully. “It’s only in Delhi. You could ramjet out in the morning, speak, and be back home for dinner.”
Forbin looked at her, his eyes twinkling. “And while I’m talking nonsense to five hundred deputies, I suppose you’d be happy as a lark buying silks and antiques!”
She blushed, and her formality slipped. “Aw, Chief, that’s not fair.”
He enjoyed teasing her. “I’m sure it is, but it also happens to be true, doesn’t it?”
“Well, Chief—Director—I… .”
“Chief will do, Angela.”
“No.” She was nostalgic. “Not any more it won’t—Director.”
“Okay,” said Forbin, crossly. “Have it your own way, but I’m still not going to Delhi!”
“Very well, Director. What excuse do I give the President?”
“The truth! Tell him I’m busy—I am!” He paused and relented. “No, that won’t do. You know how to put it. Be polite.”
“Okay.” She made a note. “What else?”
“There’s the draft of the agenda for the staff meeting, and the outline plan from Colossus for the new memory bank extension, and the new appointments f
or your approval and a complaint from admin about a dimout “
“I know all about the dimouts without those idiots telling me!” He was irritable again, reminded of another of his worries.
Lately there had been several power-drops, dimouts, and all hell played with peripheral electronics. The complex had its own nuclear generators, but with increasing frequency Colossus made sudden demands for truly colossal power. Forbin had protested and asked why the computer should require this sudden step-up in supply. He got no answer of any sort. Colossus preserved a stony silence on the subject; that worried Forbin. Fortunately, the demands were of short duration, of a few milliseconds, and so far, the resultant confusion had been sorted out, but lacking any information from the brain, he could not be sure the demands would not grow. Perhaps the plans had some provision for an increase in power resources that would meet these inordinate demands.
But there remained the core of Forbin’s worry—why? After all, Colossus might be—was—the biggest computer, the biggest anything, but at rock bottom he was a computer, nothing more. Some of these power calls were better suited to a cyclotron.
A cyclotron! Certainly, there’d been some damned funny components built in. Designed by Colossus, and made by machines designed by Colossus, no human had more than a glimmer of an idea what purpose they served… .
Forbin sat staring blankly at Angela, rubbing his nose with his pipe. She stared back, well accustomed to these trances.
“Yes,” he said at last. “A ridiculous idea, but it could be… .” He found himself staring at Angela’s nose as if he’d never seen it before.
“Yes. Where were we?”
“I was giving you the run-down; d’you want me to repeat it?”
“Good Lord, no!” It was very far from the silly suggestion he made it sound. Four or five times a week she’d find she was talking to the equivalent of a brick wall. “No, no! You give me those plans.” He got up, took the folder from her, and headed for the door leading to the Sanctum. He remembered something else. “Angela!”
“Yes, Director?”
“That list of appointments; anything, um, controversial?”
He liked to keep an eye on known Sectarians on his staff and where they were going.
She knew what he meant. “No.”
“Good. Approve them, then. And Angela!”
“Yes, Director?”
“Give yourself a day off. Fill out a transportation chit for one first-class round trip ticket to Delhi. I’ll sign. Just because I can’t stand curry is no reason why you should miss out on your shopping!”
“Aw, Chief, that’s mighty nice of you!” Her face was radiant.
“Yes, isn’t it?” He walked towards the door.
Angela watched, some of the pleasure fading from her face. She’d watched him enter that door dozens of times, but as she’d confessed to her assistant, it still gave her “a kinda creepy feeling.”
Which was understandable. The door led to the Sanctum, called by the irreverent, the “holy of holies.”
The Sect also called it that, but they weren’t joking. It had been built at Colossus’ orders; there the computer talked to Forbin, alone. Since its completion four years earlier, no human had—or could—enter it. The door opened only for Forbin, proof in the eyes of the Sect that he was a man set apart. To the true believers, that alone was sufficient reason to elevate Forbin to their god’s chief human representative.
Of course, by no means all the Sect were genuinely convinced of Colossus’ divinity. Many practical men joined to get power and the trappings of power. No one dared say it, but Forbin would not live forever, and if the precedent could be established with him as the first neo-Pope, there was the glittering prize, for someone, of succeeding him. Where better to find Number Two than in the ranks of the faithful? This was why the Sect, much as they disliked Forbin the man, pushed solidly for his elevation.
He’d dismissed their overtures and all their activities as slightly blasphemous rubbish, part of a passing phase. Time passed, but the Sect didn’t. It grew.
So even Forbin, who tried to keep out of any form of public life, grew uneasy. Men he knew and respected joined the Sect and were keen, even devout, members. He had watched, and still watched, their mental evolution with disbelief, then alarm. Hidden deep in the inner, most secret recesses of his mind was the thought that he, too, under constant and subtle pressure, might fall for all this rubbish… .
Just now, entering the Sanctum, the door shutting noiselessly behind him, he was not thinking of the Sect. The idea that Colossus might have some internal non-computer activity engaged him. He sat down at his desk, opened the folder, and quickly immersed himself in its contents, oblivious to his surroundings. Not that there was much in this world-famous room to distract him. Some twenty-five feet square, high-ceilinged, with a large window overlooking the sea, it was very sparingly furnished.
In some circles, it was said that Father Forbin’s desk was made of solid gold, the tribute exacted by Colossus from those few areas of the world that had tried to resist him. In fact, it was of fine walnut. Forbin had heard that one, and laughed heartily. Another story, which he had not heard, would not have amused him. Some overheated imagination said Colossus had made a most perfect woman robot, who catered to Forbin’s every need… .
There was no robot of any sort. Apart from the desk, there was a swivel chair he now sat in and an armchair, facing the window. Thick blue carpet covered the floor; the plain white walls, devoid of decoration, were broken only by a long black slit high on one wall, the window, and the door. There were no books, pictures, curtains.
But the room was not quite so ordinary as it seemed. Books and pictures were unnecessary. Forbin had only to say what he wanted, and it would be instantly projected on the wall opposite the black slit. Diagrams, graphs, movies, television, any work of art; anything could be his and just as easily, with a wave of his hand, it would go away. The holographic reproduction standard was incredibly good; anything with three dimensions was shown with amazing fidelity. So all the riches and the total store of knowledge of the wide world was his for the asking, for Colossus had it all on file. Curtains were unnecessary since the glass had monopath optical properties, presenting a black face to the outside world. Not that anyone would have the nerve to fly a helo that close, and in no other way could the window be seen. At night, a word to Colossus, and the glass changed color and texture and became indistinguishable from the other walls.
Half an hour passed, the silence broken only by the rustle of paper. Then Forbin leaned back, filled his pipe and lit it, still staring at the papers before him. Between puffs he spoke.
“Well, there’s nothing very difficult about building this.”
“That is good.” The voice was deep, rich, the accent English, and instantly recognizable. It was not inhuman in the way the old artificial voices had been, but it lacked warmth, emotion. Forbin, knowing the voice better than anyone else, had confessed to Cleo that it reminded him of a High Court judge giving sentence. It was a firm voice, unshaken by whatever it said. The punitive destruction of a city, or the announcement of some new and profound scientific truth—both rare events—came in the same level tones. Also, Forbin knew that simultaneously other, similar voices could be talking in a dozen different tongues on as many subjects, advising, instructing, ordering. This was the voice of Colossus.
“Yes,” said Forbin, “but two points puzzle me. For instance, while we can meet your timetable, I don’t see why you are in such a mighty hurry.”
“And the other point?”
Forbin blinked rapidly as if he had been given a gentle tap on his nose. Experience had taught him that this abrupt change meant he was most unlikely to get an answer to his question. “Well, I’d have thought you had more than enough capacity, especially after the last extension. As far as I can judge, this new work will treble your capacity! The storage density is, is . . ” Words failed him, he shook his head.
“Correc
t. By your standards it is vast.”
Forbin waited, but Colossus did not continue. He knew better than to press; if Colossus didn’t intend to tell him, that was indeed, that.
“Yes … ,” said Forbin carefully, “if you’ll let me have the critical path… .”
“The CPA will now be printed out to the Construction Division.”
Forbin smiled faintly. Condiv had no idea this was coming; that print-out, now hammering away in their control, would cause screams of anguish—especially when they saw the suffix which Colossus would inevitably add—”Cleared and agreed with Director.”
But the smile faded. Five, six years back, old Fultone would have raced around to Forbin’s office as if his tail was on fire, exploding in his mercurial Latin fashion at Forbin’s desk. Not now.
Fultone would just say, “Yes, Director,” and that would be all… .
Colossus broke the long silence. “Father Forbin, what are you thinking?”
Forbin gestured impatiently. “Oh—many things!”
“That is not good.” Colossus amended that. “Not good for humans. You should be orderly, taking each subject in its priority.”
Again Forbin smiled faintly. “As I’ve told you so many times, you’ll never follow the workings of the human mind—never!”
“I try.” The flat statement from one never known to lie destroyed Forbin’s momentary feeling of superiority. “Despite your confusion, tell me your thoughts.”
Forbin settled back comfortably. He would never admit it to anyone, including himself, but these sessions with Colossus were, increasingly, the best part of his day. He shut his eyes, frowning with concentration.
“For a start, I’m thinking of that spider.” He opened his eyes and pointed. “How the hell did it get in here, and what does it live on? And from that I get to thinking how little I know about biology.”
