Fall of Colossus

by D. F. Jones

  “Cleo Forbin. Cleo Forbin. Cleo Forbin.”

  She sat up, surprised. Eyes narrowed against the glittering glare of the sea, she looked around. No one. Now fully alert, she looked sharply around her again.

  “Cleo Forbin. Cleo Forbin. Cleo Forbin.”

  With the first repetition of her name she got it. The soft, dreamy music had gone, replaced by a faint background mush. The voice came from the radio.

  For a moment she stared at it, unbelievingly. It was the dry, rustling voice of an old man, sexless with age, drained of emotion.

  Again her name was repeated three times in that desiccated voice, overlaid by a faintly Bostonian academic accent.

  … Cleo Forbin.”

  She was startled, puzzled, not yet afraid. Was this some sort of joke? But who—what?

  “Cleo Forbin. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Only you can hear this transmission. Only you. Colossus cannot hear. Do not be afraid.”

  At the mention of Colossus, she was deeply fearful. Thoughts of some practical joke, however improbable, faded. She reached for her wrap.

  “Cleo Forbin. Do not be afraid. We can see you; we think you hear us. You cannot answer, but if you do hear this message, please walk once, slowly, in a circle around your radio, then resume your present position and wait.”

  Cleo sat, frozen, frightened to act, yet too frightened not to. The message was repeated. Slowly, reluctantly, she got up, glancing quickly, apprehensively, at the cliffs behind the beach, the empty sea, the sky. Pretending, half to herself, that she was looking for seashells, she made the circuit, fighting down the impulse to snatch up Billy, and run, run…

  .

  Time dragged by. She watched Billy, waiting… .

  “That is good, Cleo Forbin. We know you hear and understand. Now you must listen with care. As you cannot speak to us, we must try to answer the questions you would ask.”

  She stared, mesmerized by the radio, a small, familiar thing she’d had around for months. Now it looked alien; it was as if she was seeing it for the first time. Again she fought off the desire to grab the unheeding Billy and run, screaming. The voice went on.

  “First, what we say can be proved, some of it by yourself. All you have to do is to listen carefully and not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Accept this—it is the hardest fact you will have to accept—this transmission does not originate from Earth, an Earth satellite, or a moon station. We speak from the planet you know as Mars.”

  At once, Cleo relaxed. This had to be a joke. A stupid one, but a joke. The reference to Colossus had been silly, dangerous, but… . She reached for her wrap again, wondering who could be such a fool as to do this to her. A clever fool, but a fool nevertheless. The voice continued.

  “We appreciate that you may be inclined to dismiss this message as a hoax. You must not do so. We told you Colossus cannot hear us. You are a scientist: you must know that with your technology such a transmission is not possible. For us it is, just as it is possible, Cleo Forbin, for us to help you and the rest of your Fellowship to overcome Colossus.”

  It was like an icy steel hand clutching her heart. She could hardly breathe for fear.

  “Oh, no! No!” She whispered to herself, anxious not to disturb Billy. To hear this said—on the radio! The voice went on, quavering now, as if it was an effort to talk so much.

  “Do not fear, Cleo Forbin. You know that if Colossus heard that message, you, despite your position, would be required for interrogation within an earth-hour. It will not happen; proof that what we say about this transmission is true.” The voice paused. “Think.”

  She shivered uncontrollably, but the scientific side of her mind kept working. Two hundred years back, more, there had been a popular belief that Mars supported life. Early probes had dispelled such notions, but later exploration had made astronomers think again—but that was back in the pre-Colossus days! Man had lost interest in the stars, along with much else. So far as she knew, nothing had been done since the machines took over. Could it be there was life? Not comic green dwarfs, UFO’s, and all the rest, but real life? Yet, if this voice did come from Mars, how could they know of her, of the Fellowship?

  The voice came again, stronger after having rested.

  “Cleo Forbin, we have given you a short time to think. Listen again. We Martians are different, quite unlike you. We do not have the same technological powers you humans possess, although in some subjects we are far in advance of you. We are greatly your superiors in mathematics, pure thought, and we have developed optics and radio well beyond your present abilities.” Again the voice rested.

  Cleo felt less fearful. The idea of Martians still struck her as such corny, old hat stuff, yet… . Supposing, just supposing… . “We have developed a very high resolution radio/optical ray, which we are using now to talk to you. It is like a narrow, powerful beam of light and can only be picked up within a radius of six meters of your radio set. Within that circle we can also see in high definition. There are limitations; we cannot see through solid objects, or when you are in the dark, but cloud, vapor, present no problem.

  “You will wonder that we speak your tongue. For over two hundred earth-years we have listened to your radio and television transmissions, learning all we know of your planet from those sources. We also have read and understood the transmissions between the various stations which form your ruler, Colossus. This, we suspect, you humans cannot do, but in mathematics we equal Colossus. From the machine’s low-level data links we have learned of the Sect and the Fellowship, and of those humans suspected of belonging to that latter organization. You are one. For that reason, and because of your famous husband, we knew your location and we have tried many times to contact you. Now we have done it.”

  Cleo’s mind raced. Fantastic it might be, but the explanation hung together. It was an unpleasant although not entirely surprising shock to learn that she was on the suspect list. She glanced at her watch; well, she’d soon know if this transmission had been intercepted… . She felt slightly sick.

  Billy was showing signs of tiredness; he came stumbling to her, and she clasped him, thankful that he was far too young to know what was going on.

  “You know who we are, how we came to contact you. Now—why. Your ruler, Colossus, has been, as far as we were concerned, just another item in your planet’s tragic history—until recently. Your master shows a growing interest in other planets, notably ours. We do not want Colossus to extend its power to us; that could happen. We want to stop it, now. So does your Fellowship. Given certain data, we can help you. Our aims are the same, even if our reasons are different.

  “Cleo Forbin, you have twenty-three earth-hours to decide and act. If you accept our help, be in the same position in twenty-three hours. Consult with your Fellowship. Bring one of them with you, if you wish.” The dry voice stumbled, almost exhausted.

  “Remember, Cleo Forbin, if you want our help to destroy Colossus, be there.”

  The nurse’s doubts about Cleo’s maternal abilities were strongly reinforced when mother and child returned. Billy was, in her opinion, “over-tired,” beyond question wet, and furthermore, “like to catch a cold” and a variety of other ailments as well.

  But Cleo was not there to listen. Billy got a perfunctory peck of a kiss, and no audience for his bath. His mother left the nursery practically running, followed by a massively disapproving stare from the nurse. Cleo forced herself to slow down, to think, to keep control. Again and again she told herself not to panic. If the Sect police were coming for her, she must be ready. She would say she thought it was a hoax. Whatever else, Colossus always wanted hard evidence and would not convict without it.

  She showered, dressed, and had a lengthy makeup session. The familiar routine helped to stabilize her and to pass the rest of that chilling hour of reaction time. If nothing happened by five o’clock, it was reasonable to assume the transmission had not been intercepted. It wouldn’t be complete proof, but Colossus did not play cat and mouse. If those mes
sages were on file, the Sect police would be alerted in minutes. Undoubtedly they’d approach her husband, if not her, and he’d be on the phone or with her in no time. An hour was plenty.

  By five thirty nothing had happened, except in Cleo’s mind. She was convinced that, fantastic as it was, that message had to be genuine. So the action lay with her. Desperately she needed help; the one person above all that she wanted, her husband, she couldn’t ask. There was only one other choice—Teddy Blake.

  Edward Blake, Doctor of Cybernetics, one of the original Colossus design team, now Director of Input, responsible for the smooth, unimpeded flow of the vast torrent of information constantly fed to the computer, was superficially a genial man. Superficially. Behind his indestructible grin lay a keen brain backed by a tough, determined character. In the short-lived days of the abortive resistance to Colossus/Guardian when Forbin had been caged, he had led the small band that tried to fight back. Afterwards, the battle won, Colossus showed no signs of suspicion towards Blake, and it was assumed that his role remained secret. Defeat had made no difference to Blake’s determination. He had not changed in his outlook or aim, however hopeless or impossible the achievement of that aim might be. He led the Fellowship.

  Cleo called his office, praying he’d be in; he so easily could have left early. Thirty-eight, unmarried, he seldom had less than two women in tow, and common gossip credited him with a lurid private life. Cleo knew all about that and a good deal which others didn’t. What was more natural than for Blake the womanizer, to take his latest bird of passage out in his sailboat? And where better than from there—or swimming from that boat—to pass messages to a Fellowship courier?

  He was in. Cleo tried to keep her voice steady, light.

  “Hello, Edward! How about dropping by for a drink? Young Billy actually asked where his uncle was! You’ve missed his bath time, but maybe you could tuck him in, tell him one of your cleaner bedtime stories.”

  “Yeah-fine! I was just leaving. I’ll be right by—you tell Billy!” Blake switched off, keeping his gaze on his papers. All human areas within the complex were subject to visual and sonic surveillance; Colossus’ ability to evaluate facial expression might be weak, but it was unwise to take chances, unless you wanted to wind up with your head in a basket.

  Behind his hard, impassive mask Blake’s mind was working fast. As a family friend and an honorary uncle he was often in the Forbin residence. Cleo sometimes roped him in to fill in at a dinner party. So the invitation was okay, but one thing was for sure; Billy wanted him like a hole in the head… . The second point was much more disturbing.

  Cleo had called him “Edward,” not “Ted.” That had set his heart racing and his mind flickering over a variety of unpleasant possibilities, for the name change was their secret alarm signal, never before used. Something was up—but what?

  If she was in trouble, it could spread to others faster than a forest fire.

  …

  He had to think quickly; to delay until he had seen her could be dangerous. They were up against an enemy who, along with other superhuman talents, possessed one of dreadful power: immediate, devastating reaction. Colossus could evaluate evidence, reach a conclusion and a decision in less than a second. Implementation was slower, for the computer’s instruments of reaction were human, the Sect. All the same, as the Jannsen case had shown, a traitor could be dead fifteen minutes after the case against him started. Execution might be delayed if the prisoner was thought to have worthwhile intelligence, but even then the reprieve would not be much more than another twenty minutes. With Sect examination techniques, that was plenty of time… . So, before going, should he warn the rest of his cell? All Fellows had self-determination capsules, but they weren’t devices anyone cared to keep permanently in their mouths. Given warning, they’d be ready.

  Casually Blake opened a drawer and took out a pack of candies, and just as casually, slipped one into his mouth. His fingers told him he’d got the right one.

  On the other hand, giving the warning was, in itself, risky. Once used, a code word had to be changed, for Colossus would certainly note the slight change in phraseology, and to use it twice could be madness. In the conditions under which they lived that change could take weeks… .

  He could feel the disguised capsule, hard in his mouth, and the sense of relief it gave. He was fireproof: from what little the Fellowship had gleaned, execution was a small matter after brain examination by the Sect. How can a raving lunatic care what happens?

  He turned a page, frowned, then pressed a switch. It might not get him an International TV Award, but he reckoned it would do.

  “Tafara? Blake. Look, there’s a piece of this report—you know the goddamn thing—which I don’t get. If you can find the time, maybe you can tell me where in hell I’m wrong. It’s for sure Cleo will ask me, and I’d rather look like a dumbbell to you than to her. How about eight thirty tomorrow, in my office? Fine!”

  Now Tafara had the alarm and was aware that Cleo had it already. Leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world, Blake cleared up his desk, told his secretary, with his usual brutal charm, that she could get lost, and left.

  Within ten minutes he was in the sanctuary of the Forbin home, listening stony-faced as Cleo poured out her incredible tale. He remained that way for some time after she had finished. Then he took the capsule from his mouth, placed it carefully in his pocket, and got out a cigar.

  Cleo watched him nervously, and with growing impatience. Finally, she could contain herself no longer.

  “Well—what d’you think, Ted?” She was taut as a bowstring, fingers plucking nervously at a loose thread in her dress. “Come on, Ted! You must go before Charles gets in—you may have to come again tomorrow.”

  He remained silent, not being rushed by anyone; then he grinned. “If our situation wasn’t so bloody serious, this could be funny! Listen, Cleo honey, you must see this is a fantastic story—say, you’re not pregnant or anything?”

  “Don’t talk rubbish!” She snapped angrily: “I didn’t dream it. I’ve not got the vapors, religion, or change of life! You must believe me!”

  “Sure, I believe you, but can I believe what you believe? I need time.”

  “We don’t have much.”

  He looked at her appraisingly and rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “Time! That’s the story of our lives since the tin brain took over!” Her mounting impatience registered, and he moved to the door. “We’ve got a little time—and I’ll use it. Okay, here’s your story: I came over to see Billy and he was already tucked in—okay?”

  She nodded.

  “So I missed him. We’ve arranged to meet on the beach tomorrow. I’ll see him then—right?”

  She nodded assent again, anxious for him to be gone.

  “Cool it, Cleo. I’m as anxious as you not to raise Charles’ suspicions.”

  “Don’t be a damned fool!” She flared up again, her nerves on edge.

  Blake smiled coldly. The slangy mode of speech he frequently affected had gone, replaced by a voice with the hard ring of authority.

  “You miss the point, my girl. Take a grip on yourself! Charles might—unwittingly—arouse Colossus’ suspicions. I cannot believe that I am not on the short list of suspects; I certainly don’t want to add to the evidence!” His tone softened fractionally. “As for the message, I’m dragging my feet right now, because this just could be a trap set by Galin.” He smiled again, but this time it was touched by grim humor. “If you want to keep your head, Cleo—keep your head! “Bye!”

  Cleo stared unseeingly at the closed door. It had occurred to her that it might be a trap, but she’d discarded the idea. Colossus didn’t work that way. Blake’s suggestion that this was an operation set up by Galin—that was new, chilling. In her mind’s eye she saw that flabby white face, smiling. .

  . .

  She shivered.

  Chapter Four

  She endured a restless night; snatches
of shallow, unrestful sleep shot through with half-remembered nightmares in which the dry, rustling voice and Galin’s sinister face figured prominently. She got up tired, and her husband’s solicitous inquiries did nothing for her frayed nerves.

  “I’m all right, Charles!” Her anger blazed: “I’ve just had a bad night—that’s all!” His hurt expression made her immediately relent. “I’m sorry, darling. Don’t worry—we women get like this at times.”

  Forbin, whose experience of women apart from Cleo was virtually zero, was moderately satisfied. He nodded and blinked a few times and left for his office.

  Cleo tried to stay within her normal routine, well aware that Blake’s grim little joke about “keep your head” was terrifyingly good advice. She lingered over a third cup of coffee on the terrace, her thoughts going like a ball on a pinball machine, always ending up in the same place with the same question: Was it really the Martians? And if so, what could they do? She hardly dared think that they might offer effective help, that Colossus might be beaten, that her son might have a real future as a free man… .

  Suppose it was a deadly game dreamed up by Galin? Suppose he’d had her under surveillance yesterday? Suppose he saw her and Blake today?

  She walked up and down the terrace restlessly, the bright sun mocking her mood. If it was a trap, she was already deep in it. If Galin could produce evidence she’d heard the message, he’d have her cold. Colossus would only have to ask one question: Why had she not reported it? To say she’d thought it a joke would be very thin. Mighty thin.

  And at some sleepless moment during the night she’d thought of another angle which did her fearful mind no good at all.

  If it was a Galin trap, he’d only have to wait for her and Blake today, and catch them on the beach. Given the evidence of the transmissions plus her failure to report the first one, and he’d really have them both sewn up. Cleo stopped, poured more coffee, and drank it in two or three gulps, watching the sky anxiously. Suppose it rained? If it did, she couldn’t possibly take Billy to the beach. She half-hoped it would, but the other, stronger mother-half with a stake in the next generation, held on. The weather just had to stay good. “God,” she prayed in her mind, “let it stay fine. Please… .”