Fall of Colossus

by D. F. Jones

  Cassard jumped back, screaming. “Stop! Stop! The painting, this heat … !” In spite of vents and extractors the temperature was already building up. He sweated; mumbling, then louder, shouting.

  Colossus’ voice grew in volume to overcome the roar of the gas.

  “The stand holding the painting is mounted on a track. This will move it slowly towards the flames. Tests have shown that irreversible damage will occur in four minutes time, total destruction in five. If you value the painting more than life, you have only to cross the barrier of fire and reach the stand, the flames will go out. Alternatively, you may stay where you are and watch it burn. You will then be allowed to return to your home and will not be subject to any further tests.”

  Cassard tore at his cravat, already a parody of the dapper figure he had been.

  “The test begins … now.”

  For some seconds the Frenchman remained still, little bubbling noises in his throat, sweat and tears coursing down his face. Then he moved hesitantly forward, but at ten feet the heat was too great. He rushed back to the door, tugging and screaming.

  “No. You cannot leave until the test is completed.”

  Cassard may not have heard. He pounded, screaming, on the door. His pince-nez had gone, trampled underfoot.

  “The painting will enter the irreversible damage zone in one minute thirty seconds.”

  Slowly Cassard turned, seeing only the shimmering black mass, larger now. He pressed himself against the wall, shaking. A thin trickle of urine coursed down his trousers and boots to the rough, hard floor.

  “There is now forty-five seconds to the irreversible zone.”

  He pressed back against the wall, one cheek hard against it, watching wild-eyed, sideways. His hands clawed at the cement, nails breaking.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  With one mad scream, Cassard thrust himself away from the wall in a shambling run; with one arm over his face he entered the flames. The scream reached a new intensity. He was through, burning. The flames behind him went out; the picture stopped its inexorable movement.

  Cassard staggered and fell, hitting the easel. The painting jerked, toppled slowly on his burning back. They died together.

  Two men, white-clothed, were loading the body on a trolley. The younger spoke.

  “Where to-crematorium?”

  “Nao, yer bleedin’ ijit! The ‘ead’s wanted.”

  “Why?” The speaker looked incuriously at the twisted, anguished face. With a rubber-gloved finger he pushed the grotesque dentures back in place. “That’s better, matey! Funnylooking little tyke, ain’t ‘e?”

  “You’d look bleedin’ funny after that lot! Still, ‘e ‘ad guts. Lot more ‘n me or yew.”

  “Cor, yes! Is that why they want ‘is ‘ead?”

  “Dunno. Per’aps they want to take a butcher’s at ‘is brain.”

  The young man picked up the charred remnants of wood and canvas. “Might as well ‘eave this lot in wif ‘im, pore bugger.”

  “Year.” The older man stared speculatively at the debris piled on Cassard’s chest. “Pity, that. Only bleeding pitcher I could reckernize.”

  “Wot?”

  “That one, you solid bastard! You’re as thick as a nun’s knickers!” He started wheeling. “The Mona bleedin’ Lisa!”

  The young man sat uneasily in the easy chair, nervously fingering his lace cuffs. He had cause to be nervous. Twelve hours before he had been an up-and-coming managerial man in his electronics factory, then the sure hand of Colossus had plucked him out, and here he was, a thousand, two thousand miles from home, in this strange, silent building. As he was escorted in, he noticed a sign, ESC-7. It meant nothing to him.

  By birth Indian, he had trained at the regional electronics complex at Manaar. From there he had moved to Kandy U, Central Sri Lanka, qualified, and been sent to China, then Outer Mongolia for practical experience. So, after only fifteen years’ training, he had gone back to his native Deccan, and for the past year worked very hard, sometimes twenty-five hours a week, setting up a new factory.

  He had an incentive for his labor. He’d met her in China; Tatyana, a Russian graduate. She was a girl in a thousand, a million; so beautiful… . Skin like old ivory yet glowing with life, perfect eyes, perfect figure. Above all, she loved him, and he was mad about her. Tatyana had somehow followed when he returned, bending regulations, breaking laws to be with him. She was programmed to finish her training in Japan, yet here she was “gaining experience” in the Deccan.

  This move was their undoing.

  The untrained cannot train the untrained, which was roughly the situation in the Deccan. She’d managed to convince the local regional director in Li Pu, but that was done with charm, not facts. Colossus, however, was completely unmoved. Her record, like one card in a pack protruding slightly beyond its fellows, departed fractionally from the norm, and that set off an automatic check. The answer was unsatisfactory. Colossus instructed the local Sect lodge to investigate.

  Their findings were also unsatisfactory. Tatyana was well on the way to wrecking her professional career for love of this handsome young Indian, Sudabanda. Once again Colossus was up against this blank wall of human emotion. So Colossus checked Sudabanda’s record. He appeared to be a reasonably promising specimen. The back-up Sect report said he was deeply in love with Tatyana, and had been in this baffling state for over a year.

  This information caused Colossus to pass—the process took far less than a second—all information on both of them to an experimental prediction sector, which played with the material for a few microseconds, balancing probabilities, averages against known facts: parents, their health, his health, environment, social status, and a host of other factors. The result was flashed back to Colossus Main, which promptly rerouted it to Emotional Investigation Sector.

  Sudabanda’s probable fate was no more than a few thousand electrical impulses, but if available to human eyes—it wasn’t—it would have printed out something like this:

  Sudabanda da Silva Perera: Zone 10/BX/D2798834 Expectation of life; 61. Probable cause of death: heart failure (proviso: if granted driving permit, high probability of fatal accident between 32, and 34). IQ 195. Highest predicted post: area manager.

  Low antimachine risk, but unlikely to join Sect. Very high marriage probability (70%) to Tatyana Polmiga Zone 26/QP/R8787452; cause, mutual love.

  The word “love” plus the relative rarity of marriage in the twenty-second century, triggered Colossus Emotional. Here was a man predicted for that rare state, and to a woman prepared to wreck her career for him—and her potential was considerably higher than his, regional manager.

  So while he might be shocked, frightened, it was not surprising he was in ESC-7, a modest establishment on the outskirts of New Singapore, United Southern Asia.

  Colossus spoke.

  “You are Sudabanda da Silva Perera?”

  Sudabanda gulped and nodded.

  “Place your hand on the screen.”

  He did so.

  “Verified. Listen carefully. There is no cause for alarm. You are in no danger except from your own mind. Answer all questions honestly.”

  The set speech did nothing for Sudabanda. Here, in this cool, pleasant room, he was alone with the Master of the world!

  “You consider you are in love with this woman, Tatyana Polymiga?”

  Sudabanda took a deep breath. “Yes!”

  “That is the reason why you are here. I wish to assess your love.”

  Sudabanda would talk at the drop of a hat to anybody about his Tatyana, even to Colossus. “She is wonderful! She has only to look at me, and I shake.”

  “Physiological evidence is not required. Confine yourself to answering my questions. Do you favor any other woman?”

  The question was so laughable, the Indian felt at once more at ease. “Oh, no! In all the world, she is the one—only her!” He spoke with passionate sincerity.

  “Yes,” replied Colossus, noncommittally, “w
atch the screen before you.”

  A bolo-film sprang into vivid, colorful life. It showed a very passé woman, maybe thirty-five, dressed in a diaphanous gown. She smiled a little fixedly out at him. Then she turned slowly, raising her arms. Her breasts were overblown, pendulous; he had a glimpse of a slightly blotched thigh. She turned her head, smiled invitingly over her shoulder. Not a bad face, and good teeth, but… .

  Sudabanda laughed.

  Colossus spoke while the woman continued to turn, displaying herself. “This woman. She is classified as morally good. A highly qualified secretarial worker, and a childless widow. She is not barren. Take her, and I will allow you two extra children and arrange your instant promotion to area manager”

  Again Sudabanda laughed. Admittedly, area manager was beyond his wildest dreams, and the prestige of extra children was immense, but… .

  “Oh no! Never!”

  “I will increase my offer. In addition, I will award you one thousand international units.”

  A thousand units! That was vast wealth; visions of a private house, possibly his own vehicle. He paused, unaware that the duration of his hesitation was being measured down to a millisecond.

  “No! Not for ten thousand!”

  “The offer is raised to eleven thousand.”

  Colossus’ pause—duration measurements were badly upset, for the subject was incapable of speech, even to save his sanity, for several seconds.

  With that money, it would be a large, imposing house. The vehicle would match. He’d be the most important man for miles. But he’d lose Tatyana, and this woman, although she now looked more acceptable in his eyes, must be a good ten years older. He shook his head.

  “NO!”

  “You would prefer Tatyana with nothing?”

  “Yes!”

  “The offer is canceled. Study the projection.”

  The woman had gone, along with his dreams of wealth. He stared resentfully at the projection. It was the same blue background. Another woman walked into view, wearing a gown of similar material to the last one. There the resemblance ended.

  This one was a girl of his own age, an Arab. To Sudabanda’s dazzled eyes, she had everything. A shade thinner than Tatyana, she had the most wonderful long legs he’d ever seen. She went through exactly the same routine as the previous woman, but added her own sensual grace. In holograph, it was difficult to resist the desire to reach out and stroke that beautiful bottom… .

  “A good, but untried woman. Take her, and you may have two extra children, and be area manager.”

  Hypnotized by the graceful form, it took time for the words to sink into Sudabanda’s mind. It was a long, long time before he mumbled reluctantly, “No.”

  “Very well.” Colossus was tireless. “I will add one thousand units. If you refuse, do not assume I will automatically raise the offer. I may cancel it.”

  Watching that figure, Sudabanda was in some personal discomfort. He crossed his legs. What a woman! Any female who could move like that must be fantastic in bed—or on the floor, anywhere… .

  “I … I.” He stopped, sweat pouring from his face, his gaze still riveted to the girl. Her skin shone… .

  “The offer expires in ten seconds.”

  “Yes!” shouted Sudabanda “Yes!”

  What else could he do?

  Unknown to Sudabanda, in another part of ESC-7, Tatyana was undergoing a similar test, but Colossus did not waste time with substandard models. She was offered men whose physique was close to Apollo himself. On the side she was given details. All were guaranteed for virility and potency, all were clever and intelligent and of good record. She stared, embarrassed, at the awkwardly posing men. There were six in all, each of a different type and degree of hairiness.

  It was a ridiculous test to give a woman, and it showed Colossus sad ignorance of the female mind even to try it. Tatyana was offered regional—not area—managership anywhere she chose, two extra children and, at the highest point, thirty thousand units. Only her pause—duration figures were regarded by Colossus as significant; it was a standard one to one and one quarter seconds to each vehement “No!”

  They were both released. Sudabanda got his Arab, and soon forgot his Tatyana, in the bliss he found between her thighs. Colossus might not understand emotion, but he was learning something. Tatyana was immediately transferred to Japan, heartbroken and a vicious life-enemy of Colossus. On Colossus’ instructions, she had been told Sudabanda had died under test.

  After all, what were a few more curses to Colossus?

  Chapter Eight

  Next morning, without a word to Angela, Forbin strode purposefully past her into the Sanctum. She watched the door close behind him and sighed. He might be fooling himself, but not her. She knew him backwards; the Chief was upset, badly.

  In fact, Forbin was not fooling himself that much. He just didn’t want to speak to anybody; not for the moment.

  It had been a disastrous night. Cleo had sharply rejected his advances, and both had spent a sleepless, restive, and silent night. At one point he thought she was crying, but lacked the courage to investigate, for she was about as cozy as a wildcat. She had not appeared for breakfast, and he had left without seeing her. The whole thing was completely unlike her. He did not know what to do, except to talk to Colossus—and what help could he get there? This was, with a vengeance, an emotional problem.

  He stared at a paper for a long time and did not read a word of it. He smoked steadily, wondering what would be the best way of asking for advice, details… .

  “What is wrong, Father Forbin?”

  Forbin looked up in entirely bogus surprise. “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong—what makes you think there is?”

  “Statistics show that there is a significant correlation between your mental state and the number of matches you expend. Your match-rate at the moment is extremely high.”

  “Utter rubbish!” Forbin put his pipe down.

  “No, it is not rubbish,” contradicted Colossus. “Emotional disturbance is clearly evident, and it caused excessive activity in that part of me assigned to you. Tell me what is wrong.”

  Forbin shifted uncomfortably, absentmindedly took up and lit his pipe once more. “If you must know, it’s about my wife and—and Blake.” There, he’d got it out, and found it easier to go on. “Because of your emotional limitations, you and I placed entirely different constructions on their behavior.”

  “In what way? Be precise.”

  Forbin was very embarrassed. “Of course, it must seem very trivial to you, but from what you’ve said—and other things—I suspect they may be having an affair.”

  For once, he was glad of Colossus’ cold, impersonal manner. “Do you suspect love or a transient sexual relationship?”

  “Love… . I don’t know. No. I can’t imagine it. Cleo and I—she’s not a shallow woman; I can’t see her—just for mere physical gratification. Could be she was lonely… .” He rounded in sudden fury. “God! You’ve an awful lot to answer for!”

  “Restrain yourself. It is clear you have no conclusive evidence, yet you speak as if you had. I have now reevaluated the evidence, and as far as I am able to judge, the wife/lover relationship is of low probability.”

  “How the hell would you know?”

  “I said quote as far as I am able to judge unquote. My appreciation may be wrong. Possibly we are both right: it is improbable that we are both wrong.”

  “I just can’t believe it! Cleo, my wife, a clandestine conspirator and Blake’s mistress! It’s crazy!” And as he said it, he felt it was. For the first time he gave thought to the idea that she might be mixed up in some mad antimachine activity… .

  “You display one human emotion that, while I find it very difficult to understand, I begin to recognize. That is vanity. The fact that she is your wife is quite irrelevant. My statistics, while not completely reliable, suggest that marital infidelity in her age group… .

  “Oh no! For God’s sake don’t tell me!” Forbin was plea
ding. “I don’t want to know!”

  Blake was sitting at his desk at his ease, feet on a chair, cigar puffing clouds of foul blue smoke. He was watching it as it was sucked up and disappeared into the extractor, his face impassive. A messenger came in.

  “Ah, there you are.” He flapped a casual hand at a couple of files on his desk. “Top one for Admin Two, the other for Admin One.” As the girl left Blake thumbed the intercom.

  “Cleo? Ted Blake here. The confidential reports on my personnel are on their way around. Sorry they’re late, but you know how it is. And thanks a lot for the dinner invite. I look forward to meeting this Chinese number. Could be she’s just what I’m looking for! Yeah! “Bye!”

  He leaned back and tried a few smoke rings, his face no clue to his thoughts.

  Forbin felt he needed a drink, and never mind how early in the day it was. He slopped brandy into a glass and walked over to the window. The weather had changed and matched his mood; gray, gloomy, and thunder not far off. He drank, then addressed Colossus.

  “You really have got to listen to me. I think all this is entirely your fault for trying to judge human emotions! I tell you, you can’t do it—you just can’t.”

  “You have said so before, and your protest has been noted.” Colossus’ voice went on in the same level manner.”A change of subject. Cleopatra Forbin, your wife, has just been arrested by a Sect member. In her possession was a confidential circuit diagram and other secret material.”

  “Cleo!” Forbin was whispering her name. “Cleo! She can’t—it’s not possible—where is she?” The glass tumbler slipped unregarded from his hand. “Where is she?” He shouted.”Tell me!”

  “She is in custody. I have examined the evidence. Beyond doubt she is guilty of antimachine activities. As you are aware, the mandatory penalty is decapitation.”

  “God—you can’t!” Forbin had sunk on his knees before the black slit. “Please, Colossus-please!”

  “Because she is your wife and necessary to your well-being, which, in turn, is important to me, I have adjusted her sentence as far as I can. She will not be subject to extreme interrogation, although without her evidence I cannot implicate Doctor Blake, whose guilt is self-evident but inactionable, lacking proof. She will serve three months in an Emotional Study Center. I cannot entirely condone her action.”