Fall of Colossus

by D. F. Jones

  “Cleo—my wife!” He got up, lumbered uncertainly towards the door.

  “Wait. You cannot see her. Be content that, with your well-being in mind, her sentence is so light.”

  Forbin had stopped, uncertain, his mind in chaos. “Blake!” He screamed in anger. Suddenly, it dawned on him that his earlier suspicions of Blake were unfounded… .

  “This event, taking into account earlier nonlegal evidence and inferences, suggests that I was correct. The possibility of clandestine love between your wife and Doctor Blake must now be considered minimal.”

  Forbin ran to the door crying, “Cleo—Cleo!” But the door would not open.

  For Cleo, the only ingredient missing from her waking nightmare was the absence of Galin. Although it did not occur to her tight, frozen mind, he was far too careful to appear. After all, it was just possible that Colossus might be in error, but that was the sort of thought that no Sect member would allow to escape from his mind… .

  To Cleo it was a hideous dream that had all happened before. The polite Sect Guide approached her most courteously in the entrance hall, murmuring in her ear, smiling. Would she be so kind—the outstretched hand indicating a door. She knew then there was no escape. To refuse would be useless; deep down, she had known this would happen… .

  In the room, two other Guides, one female. Was it possible that —inadvertently, of course—Mrs. Forbin had in her possession secret material? She had shaken her head, unable to speak. In that case, she would not object to being searched. Purely a precaution, which all must, now and then, expect

  There she had broken; she had no option. As she had extracted the envelope from the waistband of her trousers—the location was damning in itself—she thought of Billy and Charles. Charles!

  Thereafter the politeness had slipped gradually. Could she explain how this material came to be where it was? Where did she get it? Why? She had stood, trembling, fighting the urge to scream, cry, run… .

  The documents displayed, the quickening crescendo of questions, the hard faces closing in… . Then the voice of Colossus, stopping the interrogation, asking her if she had anything to say. The sentence, which she hardly understood before she was taken, none too gently, down passages she never realized existed. Then the helojet, the ramjet, and now—where?

  She had slept. Perhaps she had been drugged. She did not know; it mattered little. Nothing mattered. Poor Charles… . Thank God for McGrigor!

  Bright sunlight. Hot. Far hotter than in England: a different, fiercer sun. Blue, glittering sea, white sand. Dimly it registered in her bemused, horrified mind.

  An office. Desk. Seated man: white tunic, high collar—and the Sect badge blazoned on the breast. She tried to concentrate, keep a grip… .

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Forbin.”

  Cleo felt sick; here was another Galin. He was shorter, darker, but the manner, the smile, even the voice, they were the same. Behind him stood a younger man. Tall, dark hair and eyes, expressionless eyes that bored into her.

  “First, I must read your formal induction notice.” He reached forward and with great delicacy lifted a sheet of paper from the desk. Cleo watched his movements fearfully, yet not so blindly that the woman in her did not note his manner. This man did not like women; he was too much of a woman himself. Her fear grew.

  “Cleopatra June Forbin, you have been convicted of antimachine activities. Our Master, in his great wisdom and leniency,” he inclined his head solemnly, “has commuted the death penalty to three months’ service in this Emotional Study Center, as of now.

  He put the paper back carefully, then placed his elbows on the desk, fingertips of each hand lightly touching in front of his face. For a time he just looked at her, as if deciding what to do, but Cleo sensed that this was not so. He wanted to make her sweat.

  She stared back at him as bravely as she could. He smiled faintly at her, well aware of her state of mind. When he spoke, it was confidentially, as if the guards and the younger man did not exist.

  “Such a short sentence poses problems, as you may,” he said, inclining his head in a smooth, snakelike movement, “or may not, appreciate.” He went on. “This is ESC-1, which I, Torgan, control. Here we investigate certain,” again the tight, secret little smile from his rosebud lips, “aspects of human love. Most of our projects are, understandably, long-term projects—it is a very complicated subject. However, we try to serve the Master as best we may, and I think—in fact I’m sure—we can fit you into our Project Sabine.” His smile brightened, as if he expected her to be pleased.

  Cleo said nothing.

  “Forgive my ignorance, Mrs. Forbin, but are you a classical scholar? No? I take it, no… . A grave defect, I think, in our educational system. There is so much of value to be learned from the ancients. However… .

  He leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head and directed his gaze at the ceiling. His voice assumed a high, pedantic tone, each word enunciated with loving clarity.

  “The project, as you may have guessed, is named after the Rape of the Sabine Women. Now, the circumstances of this, ah, episode, are not entirely clear. It is said that the Sabines, an ancient people of central Italy, were invited to a festival by Romulus, the leader—indeed, if tradition is to be believed, a cofounder—of Rome. Regrettably, he had designs upon the Sabine women, and this festival was the moment he had chosen to execute those designs. All the young and, ah, nubile women were seized and, as they say, carried off. It is said that the ladies resisted bitterly, and—although they strike me as extremely slow in reaction—their menfolk did too. However, resistance was of small avail, one way or another.” Torgan’s gaze swept down with the speed of a striking cobra to Cleo’s eyes, his lips still smiling. “They became, ah, adjusted to their lot. I trust you follow me, Mrs. Forbin?”

  She remained silent; behind her, the guards, mute, impassive.

  “Yes… . Well, time passed; many of these crude unions were blessed—if that is the word. But the Sabine men, although in my opinion somewhat tardy, were not totally inactive. They gathered together a very respectable force and made their way to Rome, which was not, at that time, as strong as it was to become. War was imminent; both sides took up opposing positions. Here, Mrs. Forbin, we come to the interesting part—or do you know it?”

  Against her will, before his compelling gaze, she shook her head fractionally.

  Torgan’s smile broadened in acknowledgment. “Good! Good… . I will tell you. There were all these dreary men, shouting insults at each other, working up their courage—and the women rushed in a body between the forces, pleading with their fathers, brothers, and erstwhile husbands not to fight and doing the same service to their Roman husbands! It all, apparently, ended happily. A lasting peace was signed between the two factions. And that, history would have us believe, happened in 750 B.C.”

  The young man behind Torgan coughed and shuffled his feet. A shadow of annoyance passed over the controller’s urbane face. He went on, his voice harder.

  “I must be sure, Mrs. Forbin, that you do not miss the point. Our Master,” again the slight inclination of the head, “finds this story of interest. In his opinion, it runs contrary to human nature. For a woman to be abducted, raped, and finally to come to love the man who violated her, appears to him to be inconsistent. Could it be rooted in female practicality? After all, pregnant by and dependent upon a man, might not her inclinations be tempered by circumstance? Or can she really love the man?” Again the softer, bantering tone. “Fascinating, is it not? I hardly need tell you what Project Sabine is.”

  For the first time Cleo found her voice. “You filthy, filthy swine!” She struggled to get up, firm hands on her shoulders forced her back.

  “Really, Mrs. Forbin, scarcely the scientific approach I expected!” He made no attempt to conceal his sarcasm. “Here, under controlled conditions,” his hands came down, spread out as he shrugged appealingly, “well, as controlled as possible, shall we say, we conduct some highly interesting exp
eriments to clarify, elucidate this problem. Most are long—I should say full-term—experiments. There, I fear, you pose a difficulty.” He flapped one hand on the desk in emphasis. “This: it is not possible in the time we have, to get you, as our brutish forefathers would have said, with child, a factor we consider of importance.” Again he slapped the desk. “Of course, that is not strictly accurate; you could so easily be got with child in far less time, but it is improbable that you would have any lasting affection for, say, a two-and-a-half-month embryo when your term here ends. You will, therefore, be allowed full contraception. We may derive some useful negative evidence, who knows?” He did not sound optimistic.

  “You rotten, filthy swine!” She fought to rise, but hands gripped her. She was spitting with rage, blind to everything except the mad desire to get her nails into his eyes. He smiled blandly at her. “You filthy little twisted fairy!”

  That took the grin off his face.

  “I suggest you save your passion, of whatever sort, for your mate—I cannot rate him higher than that!” Torgan’s voice was harsh, and the smiling mask had gone.

  “Let me go!” Cleo was kicking ineffectually, screaming. The two guards had a hard time holding her in the chair. Casually, Torgan got up, leaned over the desk and gave her a heavy backhander across one cheek. He sat down; Cleo was shocked into silence.

  “Forgive me.” His good humor had returned. “I am, among other things, a doctor of medicine. That was necessary to prevent hysteria.” He was getting his excuse on record in case Colossus should question his action. The Galins and Torgans of this world are nothing if not careful.

  “Yes, your mate: you may well not appreciate it, but he is a very highly sexed specimen, a type that is getting increasingly hard to find. But his, ah, importunities apart, you will not find life too insupportable.” His twisted smile showed his hatred for her and her position. “Although not quite up to your usual standard!” He pressed a button. “Again, I fear your mate is not quite on your intellectual level, but I suggest—for your own good—that you accept him as your master for the next three months. Life will be easier, perhaps less painful.”

  “God! I’ll get you!” Already one cheek was puffy; she sat still, her eyes blazing with hatred. “I won’t—I won’t!”

  Torgan smiled. “Whether you will or you won’t, it would be improper and unscientific of me to guess. That is your mate’s problem: one which, in his coarse, elemental way, I am sure he will solve—at least, to his own satisfaction.” He looked away from her, “Ah, here he is!”

  He was a large man of powerful build. Perhaps thirty-eight or forty, his face was not unattractive; ugly, yet strong. Clad only in a shirt, trousers, and sandals, he stood subserviently just inside the door, a guard beside him.

  Cleo couldn’t help looking at him, although she had no desire to give Torgan any satisfaction. She stared at the man’s face, trying to keep her own expression impassive.

  “This,” said Torgan, “is Barchek. At least, that is as close as we can get to the pronunciation of his name. He speaks no English and is a long-term subject. Committed for murder—a wife, I fancy it was.” He nodded to Barchek’s escort, who spoke rapidly in a language unknown to Cleo.

  As he listened, his head nodding, Barchek’s face split into a broad, incredulous grin. He stared at Cleo, seeing her body, but not her, his hands nervously rubbing in the thin trousers.

  “Wait!” Torgan commanded sharply; the guard repeated his message. The controller grinned openly at Cleo. “Well, there he is, Mrs. Forbin. You’re all his! Don’t be too hard on him. Poor Barchek has been deprived for the past fortnight, and that for him is, believe me, a very long time indeed!” He looked at Barchek’s guard and nodded; the man spoke again.

  Barchek, clearly in awe of Torgan, bowed jerkily to the controller, then stepped forward to grab Cleo. She struggled as the guards freed her, but to Barchek she might have been no more than a chicken in his native Croatian village. He grinned at her, revealing far from perfect teeth, yet it was not a lecherous look; it was far more frightening than that. She did not seem to exist for him as a human. The essential Cleo, the woman, he clearly ignored. He wanted her body. Even when she scratched his cheek, there was no sign of anger. Who gets annoyed when a chicken flaps?

  It could scarcely be called a struggle. In seconds he had her by her hair, and effortlessly forced her down on her knees, oblivious of her writhings. Now her resemblance was to a demented dog on a lead.

  Barchek bowed again at Torgan, backing to the door, Cleo screaming, struggling, sliding on her knees along the floor.

  A guard shut the door; her screams faded. Torgan spoke, choosing his words with care, for Colossus’ benefit. “It is unscientific to predict with insufficient data, but I suspect we will get little support for the Sabine theory from that case.” He waved the guards out. With elaborate unconcern he said to his silent assistant, “Do remind me to watch the playback of their tapes.”

  Chapter Nine

  Forbin got through the rest of the day by the simple expedient of getting blind drunk. He sat in his chair, drinking insanely. Only the empty bottle stopped him from acute alcoholic poisoning. By then, he lacked the ability to get up for more.

  Each time Colossus tried to speak, Forbin screamed, “Shut up!” As time passed, his brooding silence was broken with wild, rambling fragments of his thoughts, some whispered, some shouted.

  “Blake! That bastard … wait till I… . Blake!”

  This phase passed as well, and he lapsed again into silence, not even bothering to shout at Colossus.

  Colossus, by God knows what thought processes, finally concluded that this had to end. Thus it was that Angela, entirely ignorant of events—the Sanctum was soundproof—was the first human, after Forbin, to enter. Colossus instructed her to collect Forbin and take him home. Somehow she did. Fortunately she was a strong girl and made it without assistance. With the aid of a startled maid, she got him on his bed, called his doctor, and tactfully left, deeply worried. She knew of Cleo’s arrest: Colossus had told her.

  The doctor, no less startled, correctly diagnosed Forbin’s condition, fed him a massive dose of alcohol neutralizer, and waited. In fifteen minutes Forbin was stone cold sober and less than grateful. The doctor left speedily.

  Forbin’s first action was to move towards the nearest bottle, but then he hesitated; his good sense told him it was no way to meet anything, least of all this nightmare. Instead, he called Blake, and in an icy voice, said he wanted to see him at once.

  Blake arrived, looking older, paler. There was no smile, no cigar. He waited for Forbin to speak; minutes passed, both men stood facing one another.

  Finally Forbin spoke. “You bastard!” He compressed all the feeling in the world in that one word. “Jesus! I hope you’re satisfied—this is your doing!”

  Blake said nothing, and there was another silence. “Yes. You think about it! Your fault!”

  “Did Cleo say so?” The quiet voice was quite unlike Blake’s normal tone.

  “Oh, no!” Forbin laughed bitterly. “No need for you to worry! Because she’s my wife, she’s not being interrogated. That gets you off the hook, doesn’t it? But let me tell you this: Colossus knows you’re at the bottom of this, this—madness, and Colossus will get you!” He grinned angrily. “And for the record, if I can help, I will!”

  Blake shrugged that off. “What about Cleo? Remember, I don’t know more than that she’s arrested.”

  Forbin looked away, his anger momentarily engulfed in grief. “Three months in one of those, those—emotional centers.”

  Blake took a deep breath, but did not speak.

  “You don’t care—do you?” Forbin, badly hit, wanted to hurt Blake, the cause of his wound.

  Then Blake’s anger flared. “Sure I care! Maybe I care more than you think—but I’m not a fool! I can keep my head! Yeah, I care all right. Because I don’t live in Colossus’ pocket, I know what’s going on! I also know it could have been a helluva
lot worse for Cleo! Boy, how Colossus could bend his own laws like that is fantastic!”

  “I notice you’re certain of her guilt! Now tell me you’d nothing to do with it!”

  “Aw, c’mon, Charles!” Blake was bitterly sarcastic. “She hasta be guilty—Colossus says so!”

  Forbin jumped forward, grabbed Blake by the lapels of his blouse. Blake did not move. Forbin, whispering with savage intensity, shook his man. “What were you up to? Tell me!”

  “Don’t try to involve me, Forbin.” Without undue effort he freed himself. “You know there’s not a shred of evidence against me. If there was, my head would be in a basket at this very minute, and you know it!” He glanced contemptuously at the glittering diamond and platinum Director’s badge on Forbin’s chest. “You’re crazy if you think I’d talk to you—you of all people!”

  Forbin saw his look; in a mad frenzy he wrenched the badge off and threw it on the floor. “There! Now; man to man! You know this place isn’t bugged—tell me what you got my wife into!” A thought struck him, he gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “And to think I suspected you and her… .” He broke off, and when he resumed he was calmer, sadder. “The awful thing is, I don’t know if I’d have preferred that—or this.”

  “What in hell got you thinking I was after Cleo? Sure, I’m very fond of her. We’ve been through a lot together, but what gave you the idea … ?”

  “You’ve been here. Cleo wouldn’t admit it to me. Colossus saw.”

  “Oh sure—your private eye!”

  “Right! But one that can’t lie! I know about you on the beach and here last night.”

  “Do you?” said Blake thoughtfully. “Can’t say it surprises me that much—but d’you know what we were doing?”