Fall of Colossus

by D. F. Jones

  “Done? We haven’t got that far, friend. My job is to watch, and when I see a character wearing a wig and dark glasses, I get interested.” Forbin’s change of tone had done nothing to improve their relationship. The Sect man’s hand closed firmly on Forbin’s arm. “Come on. A quiet chat—that’s all. If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  It was a set speech which Forbin instinctively felt had been said a hundred times before. In a way, it comforted him: there was nothing special in this pickup; to resist would be pointless. He allowed himself to be led into a small, unlabeled room.

  His escort shut the door and sat down behind a bare, plastic-topped desk. It matched the raw and uncomfortable room that smelled faintly of feet and dust. The only decoration was a poster, new to Forbin, behind the desk. On a bright red background the Sect badge stood out; beneath it, the chilling legend, THE MASTER WATCHES.

  “Sit down.” The man waved to a stool at the side of the desk. For a moment Forbin hesitated, then placed his bag on the floor and sat.

  “Name?” The man did not look at his captive. He was busy looking for a form blank in a drawer.

  Forbin had a ready answer for that question. “Charles Freeman.” There was little hope of concealing his identity, but he had to try.

  The man wrote carefully. “I see. Well, Mr. Charles Freeman, where are you from?”

  “London.”

  “That much I guessed.” Slowly, the man looked up from his writing. “We’re not being very helpful, are we, Mr. Charles Freeman?” It was a blank, expressionless pan of a face, pale, with prominent blackheads around the small nose. “We of the Sect don’t care for funny men who say they come from London—in a North American accent. Start again, friend.”

  “You asked where I came from. Sure, I’m a USNA citizen, but you didn’t ask that.”

  Ah, a legal mind as well,” the man said musingly, in no way put out. “I think we should come clean, don’t you?” With unhurried dexterity he reached across and plucked the dark glasses from Forbin’s face. “You can take the wig… .”

  His voice trailed off in shocked silence. For several seconds he stared unbelievingly, his mouth dropping stupidly open.

  “Good Colossus!” He struggled to his feet, knocking over his chair. He sounded half-strangled. “Fa—Father Forbin!”

  Forbin was as much angry with himself for getting caught as he was with his captor. He glowered at the goggling man.

  The Sectarian was sweating; fine beads stood out on his forehead as he clumsily placed his hand on his heart and bowed. “I—I am deeply… “

  The name’s Freeman—remember?” said Forbin crisply. He was exposed in St. John’s, but he’d put the fear of Colossus in this bunch! Looking at the man’s face, it was clearly not going to be difficult. The Sect policeman stammered incoherently. Forbin got up, retrieving his dark glasses. “Now you know why I wear these things.”

  “Of course, Father!” He would have agreed to anything. His transformation from a sinister, all-powerful investigator to a servile creep was complete, and to Forbin, sickening. The man was in deadly fear; all this would be on record; he had actually touched the Father—held him by the arm! “Anything the Father wants—I’ll get my superior—arrange everything, escorts… .”

  “No!” Forbin felt pity; the poor devil was only doing his job—but he’d be more careful in the future. “You do as I tell you!”

  The man bowed once more, his face twisted in anguish. He’d got it wrong again!

  Many in Forbin’s position would have enjoyed flattening his opponent, but Forbin was not cast in that all to common mold.

  It was annoying that Colossus would know—probably knew already—where he was, but it couldn’t be helped. He broke the painful silence. “What you’ll do is this: you’ll tell your boss I’m not to be watched, guarded, or escorted; I’m Charles Freeman, a private citizen. Understand?”

  “Yes, Father.” He had difficulty in speaking, his voice was husky. “I am so very sorry.”

  “Forget it! See my orders are obeyed; if they are not, those responsible will incur the displeasure of the Master!” He glanced meaningfully at the poster. “Good-day—friend!”

  He was sure the local Sect—lodge would not disregard his instructions; but it was possible, if unlikely, that Colossus would order discreet surveillance for his own protection. That, to the best of his limited ability, he intended to avoid. With luck, he would. It was only for forty-eight hours.

  Forty-eight hours. Then—what? He still could not believe in the idea of Martians. It was such old crazy stuff; not that he clung to the ancient notion that man was unique in the universe, but—but what?

  It came down to this; Martians stuck in his craw. Science-fiction writers had hammered that idea to death long, long ago. It would, illogically, be much easier to accept communications from another solar system than from within our own, despite the extra problems outer space contacts posed.

  Yet why not? Just because they hadn’t been contacted before proved nothing. A week earlier, Forbin would have derided the idea that dolphins had greater intelligence than man, but Colossus said they did. Forbin would like to have had the brain’s opinion on Martians. Perhaps he should have asked, but it was too late now. Anyway, he would soon be able to form his own opinion. Strangely, the idea did not excite him. Once again, he told himself this was just a gesture to Cleo, no more.

  All this passed through his mind while riding into town. He paid off his cab outside the main post office, dismissed the Martian idea from his mind, and got down to practicalities. In a nearby public lavatory he took off the wig and decided that a haircut might help. He found a barber, explained that he had to keep his dark glasses on because of his weak eyesight, and had his long locks shorn. The barber looked, he suspected, a little strangely at hire, but as the man made no comment he ascribed that thought to his oversensitive nerves. He left the salon feeling a little better, but flight fatigue was beginning to assert itself.

  Not far from the university he found a small hotel and registered for the night, using the name Freeman. One night was as much as he dared stay, for ration cards were required for longer visits, and his card was made out in his true name. Signing the register, Forbin wondered, for the first time, why he had chosen that alias. Freeman: free man… . Perhaps his subconscious was in business on its own.

  It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but he felt tired and said so to the reception clerk, adding that he was going to bed and taking his circadian-rhythm pill and was not to be called before the next morning. His room, nothing to rave about, was adequate. Forbin drew the curtains, shutting out the dismal gray daylight and the rain, took his pill and slept, too exhausted to think of Martians or Colossus—or even of Cleo.

  He was called at seven o’clock the next morning, and ordered his breakfast. While waiting, he watched part of a Sea War Game. Just for a little longer, he did not want to think about what lay ahead, or of Cleo.

  A slight thump and the warning light told him breakfast had arrived. He opened the serving hatch and contemplated his breakfast without enthusiasm: coffee, a thin strip of streaky bacon, two slices of bread, a minute pill of butter, and a smear of jam. For the first time he was experiencing real rationing, and that, plus the sheer impersonality of the room and his loneliness, depressed him still further. Of course, using his ration card, he could have got a better meal, but it would still have arrived via that hatch.

  An hour later he was on his way, glad to be gone, and with something to do. Downtown he bought a large-scale map of the St. John’s area, then wandered aimlessly through the unexciting streets until a heavy shower drove him into a dismal transport cafe. He chose a corner seat safe from prying eyes and got out the map. With great care he plotted and replotted the position that, up to this moment, he had carried in his head. Studying his penciled cross while drinking his repellent coffee, he realized that the map was dynamite. If taken ill, or involved in an accident, the map
plus the data in his pocket would be damning evidence. Even if Colossus had no idea of the nature of his rendezvous, it would be patently obvious that he had one, and it could only be for the transfer of the data.

  Without haste, systematically, he memorized the site and all details of the locality. The spot was in open country, about three kilometers out of town. The nearest houses were about half a kilometer further on. He hoped the map was up to date.

  In the lavatory he tore the map into small fragments and flushed them down the stained pan, waiting until the cascade had subsided to check that they had all gone.

  He returned to the town center, then set out on his reconnaissance, walking. While he might take a taxi out there once, he dared not do it twice. His own coolness surprised him; he wished Cleo could see him; the man of action, alert, watching for any sign of a shadower, yet calm, methodical. He hoped she would be proud of him.

  Cleo… . For himself, no real fear, but for her, yes, and for so many reasons. And there was another, more nebulous fear of the dark side of Colossus, the side that had taken his Cleo from him, and was responsible for the sweat on the face of that Sect man. Had he fancied it, or had he really smelled the man’s fear? Could one smell fear, like ozone after lightning? He forced his mind away from the subject.

  Apart from another shower, the weather was good, although chill for August. Forbin, unused to much exercise, sweated as he walked. He noted with relief that there was a bus service of sorts, and decided that it would be reasonably safe to use that for both return trips to town. He found the site without much trouble; it lay in the northeast corner of a stubble-covered field, conveniently sheltered from the road by a copse of trees. Access was easy, through a gate. For a time he stood there, thinking, smoking his pipe. He was struck with the utter unreality of his situation. He, Charles Forbin, posing as a visitor to this outlandish place, when in fact he was contemplating how to achieve communication with Mars! Ridiculous!

  But Cleo’s nightmarish predicament was even more fantastic; this was the least he could do, however futile it might be. That was another thought that came up too often; he must concentrate. He knocked out his pipe and walked on to the small cluster of houses. Even before he reached them he regretted it.

  When he arrived at the bus stop there were no signs of life, but once he had stopped, feeling very conspicuous, it was as if he had given the signal for a play to start. A door opened, a woman came out, glanced curiously at him, then disappeared, shutting the door with marked firmness. A young man emerged from a gateway pushing a motorcycle. He too looked and nodded at Forbin, who nodded back, cursing silently to himself.

  “You waitin’ for the bus, mister?”

  Forbin started, swung around. An old man, muffled up to his scrawny turkey neck, had hobbled up behind him and stood leaning, blue-veined, arthritic hands clasped on top of his stick. He was indeed old, frail, and worn with years, but the wear did not extend to his eyes. They were bright and sharp.

  “Er, yes, I am.”

  “Thought so.” The old man nodded confirmation to himself and was silent for a time, his jaws champing regularly.

  “You’re a stranger in these parts.”

  It was not a question, but a statement.

  “Yes, I am. Just a visitor, trying to see a little of your fine country.” Forbin smiled weakly.

  “Ha! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years! Mister—you must be joking! Fine country, indeed! Worst goldurned place in the whole wide world-‘cept mebbe Anticosti!” He held up one arthritic hand. “That’s what we made best round heer-the screws! Ah—it’s all right for young fellers like you, you don’t have ter live heer—you ain’t got the screws—no, I kin see yer ain’t!” Forbin’s smile, never first-class, weakened at this confirmation that the old devil’s eyesight was in good order.

  “Yew got weak eyes, mister?” Forbin said he had.

  “Thought so. That’s why you think this is a fine country!” The old man cackled happily to himself, and Forbin guessed that this sally would be retold many times to his luckless relatives. There was no sign of the bus coming, or the old man going. Forbin decided that the best defense was attack.

  “Will the bus be long?”

  “Ar—can’t rightly tell.” The ancient head shook slowly. “Could be five minutes, mebbe longer. They don’t run like they used to, not like in the old days.” He lapsed into silent contemplation of the past, his manner hinting that, if he wished, he could tell tales of the buses of yesteryear which would astonish Forbin.

  Forbin wished he would go away and turned to look for the bus, but the old man had not finished.

  “Hey, mister!”

  “Yes?”

  The bright eyes were studying him. “Seems I’ve seen you someplace. Can’t think weer—but it’ll come to me.” He nodded. “Yep. I’ll remember.”

  Forbin laughed unconvincingly. “I don’t think it’s very likely—I’ve never been here before.” He tried to get off the subject. “Are you going to town?” Momentarily, he succeeded.

  “Me? Go to town?” The way he said it showed his astonishment at Forbin’s ignorance, and he cackled again. “That’s rich—me go to town!” He became serious. “Mind you, I’ve bin, many times, and I’ve bin to Anticosti and once, jist once, to Quebec.” He lapsed into reverie, his mind God knows where, but suddenly he revived, grinning with toothless cunning at Forbin. “Still can’t place yer yet—but I will, don’t yer fret—I will!”

  Forbin was saved by the arrival of the bus and was seen off by the old man, nodding knowingly at him, jaw still champing, as if he had penetrated Forbin’s secret.

  The encounter left Forbin very much on edge; very likely the old man would soon forget, but he couldn’t be sure. Certainly, he dared not go back there. That meant he’d either have to take a taxi and walk back, or keep the taxi waiting. No; that was out. Hire a car? No. They’d want to see his driving license.

  Forbin perceived that clandestine operations were not simply a matter of a cool head. The only safe line of action was to walk both ways. That meant six kilometers; a long way for a man of his day and age. Okay, so it was six kilometers.

  He found another hotel closer to the airport; there he might be less noticeable among the transient population—not that St. John’s was a major crossroads of the world.

  The room was as depressingly impersonal as the last one. The notice behind the door, signed and rubber-stamped by the local tourist board, told him exactly how much he should pay, that he was entitled to a bath towel and soap, and that there was no charge for use of the disposal chute. No mention was made of decoration, but two cheaply framed pictures, one of St. John’s by day, the other by night, were identical with those he had seen the night before. Some disconnected fragment of his mind wondered if there was some poor devil who made a living out of selling these pictures.

  Hunger and sheer loneliness drove him out again in search of a meal, which he found in a downtown cafe, clear of the university and the airport. It was an adequate meal, but no more, and it served its purpose before he even began to eat, for his hunger disappeared with the first forkful. He felt tired, his legs ached, and his suit, now overdue for that free chute, looked as shabby as he felt and his surroundings looked. Afterwards, he slipped furtively into a store, bought a half-bottle of rye and hurried back to his room where, at least, he did not have to keep a watch for the Sect or bright watchful old men.

  The morning brought a repetition of the previous day: the same poor breakfast, the same loneliness. He was well aware that he had to avoid humans as much as possible, but while shaving he found himself looking forward to the brief contact with the reception clerk, a thick character who could scarcely tear his eyes from the War Game on his portable TV.

  He showered, checked to determine that his pocket radio was working, and compared his chronometer with a TV time signal. The time was eight thirty; two and a half hours to go.

  For best part of an hour he just sat, neatly dressed in
his one spare suit, bag packed beside him. For ten, fifteen minutes at a time he would be still, staring at the wall, then sudden anxiety set him in motion, checking to see that he had the data in the right pocket and that he had not left anything in the tiny bathroom. When he had unzipped his bag for the third time, he decided he could stand no more and left.

  How he spent the remaining time, Forbin never really knew. He had a vague recollection of looking at the cold gray sea; the only clear memory was when he passed his mental checkpoint, the public lavatory where he had removed his wig. That seemed a million years back, in another life. From that point it became a movie. He was a character set on film, predestined to do certain things.

  He walked quickly at first, frightened that he might be delayed or just late, then reason asserted itself. It was a fine day, no rain, and he was in a near-deserted landscape. At most there were three kilometers to go. Three.

  Thus it was that one of the best mathematical brains of the century went on its way, figuring again and again that if he could walk three kilos in under an hour, one would take him less than twenty minutes, even allowing for the steadily rising gradient of the road.

  He reached the gate, so far as he was aware, unseen, with fifteen minutes to spare. Waiting for the moment when no sort of life or transport, terrestrial or airborne, was in sight, he slipped through the gate and ran, crouching under the cover of a friendly hedge, to the corner of the field, and there, panting, he rested. Ten minutes to go.

  Forbin forced himself to be steady. He lit his pipe, telling him self he had to get it drawing properly before he dealt with the radio. He must stick to his mental timetable!

  Five minutes to go. He switched on his radio, panic-stricken that it might not work, panic immediately quelled by the reassuring sound of mush. He tuned with care: 155.5 megahertz. No signal, just mush, and the occasional faint burst of static. His heart was hammering. For the first time he allowed himself to think of the Martians as a possibility.