by D. F. Jones
“None. That is your affair, and the reason why we returned your part of Colossus.”
“You really think we can build it? I repeat, you must differentiate between what we would be unwilling to do and just cannot achieve.”
“The point is remembered. We can always check with Colossus.”
That chilled Forbin. “Very well. I will instruct Condiv to get started. To be honest, I think we are wasting our time -“
“No, although you are currently wasting ours. We will leave.”
Forbin was bewildered and alarmed. “Leave? Go
where?”
“Into orbit. We do not need food or drink, nor do we sleep, but we must have sunlight to regenerate us. Then we will return.”
“I see.” He considered. “So far, very few humans know of your coming, and it is best it remains like that. Will you use the same entry procedure?”
“No. Reentry will be vertical to this location, our volume small.”
The mention of food and drink, plus his change of attitude since studying the crackpot Collector, allowed Forbin to think of other things. “It occurs to me that, er, you will want some, um, semipermanent location.”
“For the immediate future it does not matter. This table is adequate. Later other arrangements may be made.”
Once again Forbin thought he lived in a new version of Alice in Wonderland. The new rulers of the earth - and he had no illusions there - holding sway from a coffee table was, at very least, unexpected.
He saw them out to the terrace. Briefly they hovered, then with the same popping sound they had gone, their speed unimaginable, direction unknown.
He stared momentarily into the afternoon sky, took a deep breath of relief, and returned to the living room. He would not have believed - what was it, eight, ten hours back? - that he would now be in such a relatively relaxed state of mind. Martians - these Martians, anyway - were open to reason. Once he had demonstrated to them that that weird brainchild would not work, well, they’d have to think again.
Now, with Earthcontrol a practical possibility, much of his load would be shed. He thought of food again, this time for himself. He remembered poor Blake. Better get him back to his quarters.
But first he had to check with Colossus about that crazy Collector. Almost happy, he crossed to the console.
He recalled the diagram, studied it again, and shook his head. He called Colossus.
IS THE DEVICE NOW ONSCREEN PRACTICAL?
Colossus typed back.
WAIT.
Forbin’s bushy eyebrows raised slightly in surprise: his old Colossus would have flashed an answer in milliseconds. He strolled over to the drinks tray, decided against any more brandy, and considered a late lunch; the cheese sandwich had made him feel hungry. A broiled fillet of sole and a glass or two of Chablis would be acceptable.
The teletype chattered briefly.
All thought of food, or anything else was wiped from his mind. One word shattered his new-found wellbeing.
YES.
Chapter IX
A WEEK PASSED. For Forbin, it meant seven days of ceaseless work, except for the few brief hours when he collapsed into bed. His ability to survive amazed him, when he got to thinking of it, which was seldom. It amazed Angela even more. Her feminine eye saw he was losing weight; his clothes fitted even worse than before. Without his knowledge she fixed a new stock of disposable suits, five centimeters less around the waist. He never noticed.
His shock at Colossus’s agreement with the Martian view of the Collector was modified by the faint hope that the revived Colossus had less expertise than the old Master. He drew some comfort from the fact that Fultone, the mercurial head of Condiv, thought the scheme mad, and said so, with a wealth of Latin gestures.
Another problem had been the Martians: he could not keep his few servants out of his private apartments for long. Housework had to be done, his bed made, and loyal as he thought his staff to be, it was asking too much of human nature that they should not mention to others that the Ruler of the World, the Father himself, made his own bed - especially as they knew him well enough to be certain he would make a monumental mess of the job.
So Forbin explained to the aliens. They agreed, and transferred, at the speed of light, to the one secure place in the complex - the Sanctum. They may have found his reasoning hard to follow, but evidently appreciated that the panic their presence could cause would not help their aims. Forbin’s relief at their departure from his home was immense, only slightly spoiled by their presence on a table - out of thought range - in the holy of holies.
The holy of holies - sadly diminished in stature. True, the door only opened to admit him, but the loudspeakers, hidden in the cornice and once vehicles for the voice of Colossus, were silent. Communication remained solely through the teletype.
Another unwelcome guest Forbin got rid of during the aliens’ first regeneration trip was Blake. The Martians had said he would recover. Forbin did not doubt their honesty, but in that week he had considerable reservations about their judgment. Dragging, half-carrying him, Forbin got him to the main concourse, where two of Angela’s stronger males took over. The complex doctor, after a careful examination, turned his patient over to Colossus diagnosing “severe mental shock,” which came as no surprise to Forbin.
But without Blake or his wife, Forbin found those few moments between a late supper and sleep very lonely. Cleo he did not care to think about; that was something impossible, gone forever. But Blake, the only human who knew the whole story, would have been very welcome, despite his rank cigars and earthy attitude to life. Forbin was old enough to accept that real friendship is very scarce; he believed it existed, just as he believed that Siamese twins existed, but both were exceedingly rare. He accepted that he had no true friends; but on a much lower plane - the enlightened ‘ ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” level - Blake had his points. And now Blake was flat on his back, wired to Colossus. Forbin filled these nightly gaps with several swift slugs of cognac and his thoughts channeled, if possible, to the Martian revelations. Repeatedly, in a mind relaxed by the finest drink of France - of the world - he recalled the pyramid, and marveled all over again.
For most of the working day Forbin kept clear of the Sanctum, partly because of the inhibiting Martian presence, partly because teletype exchanges with Colossus were like sending cablegrams to an encyclopedia. The easy, conversational discussions he had enjoyed were a thing of the past. He tried - when the Martians were regenerating - simple ethical or moral questions, but the answers he got were straight quotes from the file: wooden, inflexible answers. With small hope, he also tested for astro knowledge:
REPORT DIAMETER OF THE SUN.
Back came the answer he feared:
INFORMATION NOT ON FILE.
So he seldom used the Sanctum; the brain he had revered, and in the end loved, had gone. Very lonely, he plunged into his work, first as Ruler, aware his authority rested on a very superior computer, and with even less enthusiasm tackled his second task, overseeing the planning of the Martian machine.
But even if Colossus was nothing better than the best computer in the world, it eased his burden; within that first week population control was reestablished. Automatically, across the globe, Colossus outlets issued the customary warnings to areas in danger of exceeding their quotas. These had always been teletyped, so outstations had no reason to suspect that the Master’s warnings were hollow threats. This control and the resumption of weather statements did much to calm humanity; none realized that the hideous missile armory which had backed the Master’s authority was now as harmless as a tray of custard pies. Only Forbin and Blake knew that.
In a thousand ways Colossus held control, but as many of them were only instructions to slave-computers, men did not even know of their existence. What mattered to humanity was the outward signs: the Master no longer was heard in arbitration, in War Games’ verdicts, or addressing Sect gatherings.
Forbin soon realized
that the Sect was a major problem: decapitated, the body remained alive. Even in those first few days, tentative approaches were made from its lower echelons to him. Seeing the drift, he shied away, postponing a decision he saw he would have to make sooner or later, and probably sooner.
His second task, cause of his increasing fear, was the Collector. What would the aliens do if they judged his cooperation less than complete? Not that any fresh threats were made; the Martians seldom spoke except in answer, but he had seen what they had done to Blake, and a recurring nightmare he suffered was the mass reaction if the aliens chose to blackout the midday sky of a crowded city.
Forbin needed no further warnings; their brooding presence was enough.
Several times they reentered Colossus, amending their implant, but as design passed from theoretical to practical the visits ceased. They were content to study progress reports and to view technical drawings, which must have been meaningless to them.
Forbin watched to see no one dragged their feet; not that he had cause to worry, for the progress of Colossus and Fultone’s Condiv was alarmingly fast. The Italian, utterly absorbed in the challenge, and believing the order to be from Colossus, never asked the purpose of the device. Forbin found that incredible, and it filled him with frustrated anger. If Fultone had questioned him, he would not have dared reveal the secret; to tell Fultone would be as good as projecting it on the staff notice screen. But for another human to at least share the fact that there was a secret would have been some relief, and in the first days the engineer never mentioned the subject.
His utter concentration on the technics changed Forbin’s anger to contempt. To be so blind!
Until Forbin came to the shocked realization that he himself was no better. Fultone had stopped at one level, he at another. He had no idea why the Martians demanded half the world’s oxygen.
This revelation came to him in Fultone’s office, when the old man was crooning happily over the incredible exactitude of a metal formula. According to him, these metals - he’d named them Colossite Uno through Otto - made the production of transuranic elements look like making instant coffee, and he wanted Forbin to appreciate every single twist and turn in the processes.
His thoughts elsewhere, Forbin stared at the excited engineer waving his archaic slide-rule when it was not caught in his hair, and mentally retracted his earlier views of the Italian.
God Almighty! Why had he not asked? Might it not be that Earth could come up with another, less catastrophic solution? Superb designers they might be, but the Martians had no idea how to lay a brick or pour cement. … In their technological ignorance they could have missed a simpler solution to their problem.
“Yes, very interesting,” he said abruptly, leaving Fultone in midsentence. Walking back to his office, casually acknowledging respectful greetings of others, he wondered why he had refused to face this question. Now he was decided, he would ask, but by the time he reached his desk he was less sure, fearful of the possible answer. Suppose their reply ruled out any other answer? Well, what then? Nothing - only the cold fact that a last hope would have vanished.
That, thought Forbin, is a crazy attitude. And yet … A minimal tap on his door and Angela entered. Less preoccupied, Forbin might have found her brisk, matter-of-fact air suspicious. She dumped a stack of papers before him for signature. He glanced briefly at some, but in the main he just signed, trusting her judgment. The chore ended, he looked up inquiringly, for she was making a one-act ballet out of gathering the papers, patting them into a neat pile.
“What else?”
She drilled the papers some more, as if they were the Rockettes on a bad day.
“Come on, girl!” he said testily, and at once tried to soften his tone with a weak joke. “Man trouble?”
It got him a very hard look. Once most obliging, Angela had grown very selective, and the few men she nowadays entertained never knew that behind her closed eyes they were no more than surrogates for the man now sitting before her. At that moment she could have cheerfully killed him. She ignored his remark.
“You know Joan?”
“Joan …” he pondered. “No - should I?”
That poured some oil on troubled waters. In her private opinion, Joan, a good eight years her junior, had, most unfairly, scooped the kitty. Eight years’ bitterly fought weight and wrinkles is a lot for any woman to give away, but Angela knew Joan as only another woman could: the girl was not on the make with Forbin - not in the age-old sense.
Joan was, in terms of physique, personality, and mind (knowing men, Angela listed female qualities in that order), a real bargain, but she had one flaw: she was a dedicated Sectarian, a devout believer in Colossus as God on Earth. Several times she had gone to Forbin for orders or dictation, much against Angela’s inclination, not wishing temptation to be put in his way. Now she had proof that Forbin, blind as ever, had never noticed.
Softened, Angela spoke more easily, chiding him softly. “You know Joan, Chief! Lovely girl - auburn hair, green eyes and a fantastic skin.” She was still testing him.
“Green eyes …” Forbin shook his head. “No, can’t place her. Come on, woman, what’s the problem?”
Satisfied, and hurried by his growing asperity, Angela reverted to her brisk self.
“She’s a fully-paid-up Sectarian.” Forbin snorted. “The real thing. A hundred years back, she’d have been a nun. She wants to speak with you, Chief.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Not that she put it like that. Something about ‘interceding with the Father.’ “
Forbin groaned. “Oh, no! Don’t tell me Joan of Arc’s back!” He recalled many searing experiences with “pilgrims” to Colossus in the recent past.
Angela shook her head. “She’s a good worker; done marvels lately. It’d boost morale if you saw her.”
“Um,” said Forbin uncertainly, “but one foot in the door -“
“No!” His senior secretary was decisive. “I’ll see there’s no procession.”
“Well, if you think it’ll do any good -“
“It won’t do harm, that’s for sure. The other Sectarians will work all the better for it.”
He considered the matter: with what must come, a reliable staff could be vital. “Okay,” he said reluctantly, “I’ll see her.”
“Fine, Chief. You won’t regret it. I’ll fix her up with some papers for signature -“
He regarded her with quiet affection.’ ‘You just happen to have a few handy, yes?”
“There’s always something, Chief. Hell, you know. I hoped you’d see it my way.”
He smiled. “Okay, let’s get it over. If I scream, come running.”
“You can bank on it, Chief.” She wasn’t kidding. Forbin had to say “come in” twice before the door opened. Looking at her covertly, but with some interest, he reckoned Angela had done her less than justice. “Er - Joan, is it not?” She nodded; tensioned for what she had to say, she had no small talk. He took the documents, smiling self-consciously, trying to look at his ease. The act collapsed before it got started; her hands were shaking.
That anyone could be frightened in his presence amazed and shocked him. He stood up, an ill-timed action. “My dear girl, why on -“
But she had dropped on her knees, her face lost in a cascade of glossy auburn hair as her head bowed. “Please -“
“No. Hear me, Father.” Suppliant yet strong, she forced him into the role her faith demanded. “Hear me.” He felt acutely embarrassed: to sit down would make the situation intolerable, to stand up was little better. “Of course I will hear you - but please get up!” He cursed Angela comprehensively; to keep a real Sectarian nut on her staff, and let her loose on him …
“Father, I am nothing, only the voice of the Faithful. Please hear me out.”
“My child …”He could hardly have chosen a worse beginning, a fact he realized as he spoke. It threw him. “Yes, Father, I and millions more are your children.” The glorious head remained bowed. “The
Master withdrawn, you are our only hope. You must lead us.”
“But I am.” He sought some astringent words which would end the painful scene.
“No!” Slowly the head rose, the hair parted, revealing the lovely face, the intense eyes. She spoke calmly. “No, Father. We do not understand what has happened. We see dimly that the leaders we had sought power and were corrupted by it; that’s a story as old as humanity. You are our true leader, and not only because the Master has chosen you.”
He wanted to shout at her, to tell her the truth - that he had chosen himself - but true faith, however misplaced, has an impressive quality, and the words would not come. “Get up,” he pleaded, “please!”
She took no notice. ‘ ‘We know you to be a humble man at heart, and no man may truly lead without humility. Galin sought to take us down a wrong path. You will not. I beg you, Father, accept what is yours. Assume your full role, accept openly what you already are to us, not only World-Ruler, but Leader - Father - of the Faithful.”
Her sincerity moved him: it was all so - so silly, ridiculous, yet … She might be on her knees, but he had no illusions who had the power at that moment. Embarrassment vanished. He stared into her eyes. Again the head slowly bowed.
Ignoring her, hands clasped behind his back, he walked to the window and gazed at the sea, trying to rationalize. Of course, it was all preposterous rubbish - but rubbish or not, the Sect, millions strong, was a stone cold fact. He’d seen through Galin a long way back: a dangerous man, a power-seeking adventurer, and an empty threat to himself personally, only because of his unique relationship with Colossus. The vacuum Galin’s death had left had to be filled, and with chaos impending the replacement had to be globally acceptable - and that put the ball right back in his court. There was no question of a choice between A, B, or C. Only A existed, and he was it.
He was it. … For a time he stood thinking, battling against the obvious. He had no choice. Wheeling round suddenly towards the kneeling figure, he spoke, his voice hard. “Understand that if I accept, my rule may not be entirely to - to -” He gagged on the word “Faithful.” ” - your liking. I would take no part in quasi-religious ceremonies, even if I had the inclination or the time, which I have not. I am not Galin.”
