Colossus and Crab

by D. F. Jones

  Lying there, waiting for enough strength to pull a sheet over, Blake thought of the immediate future. He could not conceal from himself that deep down he felt mighty glad he had a chance of survival - and felt a louse for feeling that. He remembered the man he had been before the Martian mind-blast. A spin-off from that ordeal was that he could at least see that other Blake with detachment. What a fool! He amended that: what a criminal lunatic he had been, seeking power, not just to overthrow Colossus, but for his own personal ambition. Now he saw with great clarity that power led inevitably to corruption, futility and, in the end, self-destruction. If his mission did succeed, most unwillingly, he would become Ruler. Ten days earlier he would have given anything, short of his genitals, for that position. Now the prospect brought apprehension for himself, sorrow for Forbin. Forbin was the better man, and the better man would lose, and go down to death, faithful to an ideal. Or should that be counted a defeat?

  Dragging the sheet over, he hoped he would meet his end with no less fortitude. Somehow he doubted it.

  Worldwide, Sect gatherings greeted with joy and relief the news that Forbin had accepted his rightful role as Father, their representative to the Master. In the more extreme branches of the Faith, housed in converted mosques and churches, incense burned. With its curling blue smoke rose their prayers for him - and themselves - as they gazed with deep and varied emotions at the Colossus motif.

  But on the Isle of Wight, USE, the prime human mover of Condiv’s ceaseless activity, Blake’s personal struggle, and the object of Sectarian veneration grappled with a singularly human problem.

  Chapter XV

  FLOATING UP FROM deep sleep to the surface of a whole new day, Forbin had the same problems and anxieties as twenty-four hours previously, but at that precise moment he didn’t appreciate it.

  Against the odds, he had slept well, and knew it. No nightmare remembrances of Mars or the Martians in any form whatever; no vision of a nuclear missile plunging straight for him. Nothing.

  Something had happened. For one, two seconds, he was genuinely at a loss, and then he knew.

  Angela! He blushed as disjointed memories came back. There’d been talk, yes, a good deal of talk … then there was a clear picture of being in his bath. She’d washed his back-and more …. God, he must have been drunk! Coffee came into it somewhere. Black coffee …. And somewhere else, he had gotten her to promise to go “on vacation” at once. Couldn’t have been that drunk, for he certainly had given her details: fly to New York, small hotel, and keep two-hourly contact with the local Colossus office. She’d been difficult but, without scruple, he’d used the most powerful lever he had: “if you love me, etc…. He’d pottered around, dressed in nothing but a towel, had had a look at the stars from the terrace - that hadn’t lasted long-and then bed … and she’d been in it.

  That had been a tricky moment, and they’d both known it. The last woman in it had been his wife, Cleo, and she’d been there, on and off, for five years… . Strangely, he hadn’t given that much thought: too busy explaining that while he was very fond of her, he could not say he loved her. Angela had taken that in silence, watching him. Then he’d warned her he’d be no good, and that had broken her tension. She’d laughed and put the lights out, leaving him to work out his own salvation in the face of her attack. In due course - not the first time - he had… .

  Of course, she’d gone. He had a hazy recollection of her kissing him gently as she got out of bed, her body rose-pink in the dawn light, leaving only a crumpled pillow and a faint trace of her perfume.

  He had no sense of guilt in relation to his wife. He felt fine, in better shape than he could remember for weeks - months? Above all, he had a deep sense of gratitude to Angela. Certainly he did not love her, but equally certainly, he was a lot fonder of her than he had been the night before.

  Angela! What a bloody awful name.

  He showered, dressed, ordered and ate an old-fashioned English breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, and fried bread followed by toast, marmalade and butter, and two pots of strong tea. That would raise a few eyebrows in his kitchen, and any surmise would be confirmed when the maid made the bed.

  So what the hell? His days might be numbered, but he was the Ruler of the world - and in a curiously elevated way, felt like it. He walked as if on air to his office, savoring his sense of wellbeing, a feeling heightened by the thought that so little time remained.

  Angela had not been inactive. Unsure how to face her, he found that particular hurdle did not exist. Joan sat at Angela’s desk. At once she rose, greeting him with a deep curtsy, and stayed down.

  “Get up, child!” said Forbin curtly - adding unnecessarily, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been assigned as your temporary secretary, Father.”

  “Have you!” Forbin frowned at the bent head; reverent or not, she had an uncomfortably strong personality. Still, if she was Angela’s choice, that was it. “We won’t get much done with you down there. Do get up, girl.”

  She rose gracefully and moved to her chair, notebook and recorder ready.

  Forbin sat down, staring unseeingly at the inevitable pile of paper. “When were you instructed to take over?”

  “An hour back, Father.”

  “I see.” Angela had certainly been busy. He wanted to ask if she had actually left, but realized that would look odd. He felt a little hurt she had obeyed so promptly; he would like to have seen her, just once more.

  Joan gave no cause for complaint; she knew her job, even if she did act as if in audience with a king. He got another curtsy when she left, and he took it without comment, already used to it. There was nothing servile in the action, only respect - and that, in his current frame of mind, he could take. He may have been influenced by his conquest of the night before.

  Moving round the complex - he half hoped he’d run into Angela - he accepted Sectarian salutes with a gracious inclination of his head. Those not of the Faith, who addressed him as “sir,” got a brief nod. When one contemplates death in the high Roman fashion, a man is entitled… .

  Thus, in trivial matters, insidious vanity began to work on Forbin.

  He found Blake up, dressed, and resting after the effort, but mentally active. For his breakin he’d need help, and Condiv had sent the man, Staples by name, a craftsman who’d helped with the stud-bed and who had proved his worth as a messenger in the perilous days of the Fellowship.

  Forbin was glad Fultone had acted fast. By chance, they met in a corridor. Like Forbin, never a smart dresser, the little Neapolitan’s appearance was bad enough for even Forbin to notice; his gray uniform was stained, grubby, and torn. Working dress was only designed to last twenty-four hours; Fulton’s looked forty-eight hours overdue for recycling. Of greater importance, his natural bounce seemed to have deserted him; the expressive hands were still active, the eyes as alive and quick as ever, but there was an indefinable change.

  Fultone got in first; he always did. “Ah, Direttore. Justa man - me, I am onna my way to see you dees very minute!”

  “Saved you a journey, maestro.” Forbin smiled. They’d known each other for years; “maestro” was a relic

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  of a long-forgotten joke. “Do we talk here?”

  The Italian suddenly became conscious of his surroundings. He blinked with surprise. As far as he was concerned, one place was as good as another, but for Forbin - He shrugged. “Okay, my office, yes? Eet is closer.”

  As everyone in the outfit knew, to walk with Fultone was the next best thing to a run. But Forbin soon realized that Condiv’s head was barely keeping pace with him - and Forbin was no athlete. Something had happened to the little man.

  With no regard for Forbin’s rank, Fultone flopped into his chair, waving his boss to another. Forbin didn’t care, but he noted it.

  “What’s wrong?” he said bluntly. “And don’t waste time telling me everything’s fine.”

  Fultone picked up his beloved slide-rule, played with it for a moment
, then tossed it carelessly onto the desk. More than anything else, that action alarmed Forbin: he knew all about the slide-rule, the Italian’s dearest possession.

  “I don’ta know,” confessed Fultone, speaking unusually slowly. He shrugged. “Thatsa truth. I just donta know.” He collected the slide-rule again, examining it carefully, speaking without looking up. “You tell me - straight-you thinka me crazy?”

  “If you talk like that, maybe I will,” retorted Forbin impatiently. “Tell me, what is it? The Collector?”

  “Sure, the Collector - what else? No, eet’sa more - yet I don’ta unnerstan’. Look, I tell you from the beginning, yes?”

  “Yes.” Forbin controlled his impatience. “Take your time.” He knew that when excited the Italian became unintelligible. “Now, lento.”

  “Fromma start. This assignment, eet ver’ exciting, but deep down, I notta like eet.” He went on, reminding Forbin how he had told him there were features he did not understand, notably the sealed collection chamber. As he talked he became more animated, and his graphic hands demonstrated the impossibility of a sphere which had an entry port - which, under no imaginable circumstances

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  could be used to extract the sphere’s contents - and no other opening. Besieged by a hundred problems, he had had no time to consider that one in detail, but as the work came to completion he had given more thought to this, the most inexplicable part of the whole weird array. “The more I tink about it, da worse ita gets. Da macchina, okay, I not unnerstan’. But I hava feeling -” He struck his chest dramatically. “- ‘ere - ita work. But notta that sphere. Eeta impossible!”

  “If that’s why you think you’re going crazy,” said Forbin, “forget it.” He spoke as Ruler, unquestionable, certain. “You have my assurance that the sealed sphere is not only feasible, it will work. So you can stop worrying about your sanity.”

  Many had fallen into the trap of supposing that because Fultone spoke a slightly comic English, he was comic; in fact he had a first-class brain, but because he liked people and liked to be liked, he did not improve his English, happy to give pleasure, and in return, be pleased. But the high-quality brain remained. He stared thoughtfully at Forbin. “That’sa meant to relieve my mind. I’ma sorry, Direttore, eet makes eet worse!”

  Forbin’s frail patience gave way, “For Christ’s sake, man, don’t beat about the bush - I’ve enough to bear, without that! Just tell me!”

  The bright, intelligent eyes regarded him carefully. “I’ma sorry to unload on you; you have so mucha more to bear than I. Maybe you fear you too are crazy -“

  That was much too close. “Get on, man! I haven’t all day!”

  Fultone nodded slowly, understanding. “Yes, amico, I would not have your troubles.” He took in Forbin’s expression. “Okay, I tell you, but eet notta made better by what you’va said. Lissen.”

  He explained he had visited the site early that morning, being unable to sleep. He gave a graphic description of the watery sunrise and the silence, for all construction work had been completed, and only final checks were in progress. Wandering aimlessly beneath the giant structure dripping dew upon him, he’d been drawn to the collection

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  chamber, and had stood staring at it yet again, trying to understand.

  “I’ma starin’ and starin’ at eet. It’sa real worka art.” He waxed lyrical about the job Pittsburgh had done in producing a sphere, perfect to a micron, two meters in diameter, made in a totally new metal and, above all, in

  one piece.

  “Yes, yes,” said Forbin with increased impatience; he had no interest in the application of glass-blowing technology to metal. “Get on.”

  “Well, after a beet, I walka away. “He laughed unconvincingly. “Crazy, I know, but you don’ta know what eet’sa like outa there, the only human -” He waved an all-embracing arm. “- wit alla dis… . Anyway, I’ma in a small hut I got. I shutta door, maka cafe. I’ma drinkin’, lookin’ outa da window.” Reliving the moment, his face grew tense, his expression blank as his inward eye took over. “Watta I see?” He shook himself out of his trance. “Hell no! Watta I tink I see?”

  An awful premonition chilled Forbin.

  “Like before, I’ma staring atta da sphere, tryin’ to figure - an’ den -” Fultone leaned forward, his hands close to his cheeks, fingers radiating out from his eyes. “I see …”He drew a deep breath. “Lika two black balls - ah, so black! - circlin’ rounda sphere. Dey stop - suspended - yeah, amico, I meana suspended. I thinka I’ma a real nut. Den - poof! Nossin’!” His arms orchestrated his words, spreading out in a helpless gesture.

  Forbin gave himself time. “That was all?” he said carefully.

  “You meana dere should be more?” Fultone’s expression of surprise changed to speculation. “Yeah, mebbe dere wasa more. The craziest bitta mebbe in ma mind! Eet happens so fast, but I tink -” He stared at Forbin, his voice lowered. “I tinka da balls vanish into da sphere! Sure asa hell, I don’ta see dem go noplace else!” He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “But dere ain’ta no hole! So how’sa done - or am I crazy?”

  By this time Forbin had his voice under control.’ ‘What did you do?”

  Fultone stared in disbelief at his reaction. “Do?” he

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  echoed. “Me? I’ma outa da hut, an’ I run lika hell.” He gestured at his body. “Looka ma clothes. You tink I gotta lika dis kissin’ da bambino?”

  Forbin did not answer. Fultone had a well-deserved reputation as the biggest blabbermouth on the Staff; neither the Sect nor the Fellowship had approached him, in spite of his influential position, both rating him untrustworthy. But his mental collapse - now - was unthinkable.

  Forbin reached a decision. ‘ ‘Now you listen to me. You know what I am?”

  “You?” repeated Fultone. “Cristo!” Furtively he crossed himself at his slip. “You’re da boss!”

  Forbin put all he had into it, consciously slipping into an act, yet believing it himself. “More than that.” The Sec-Gen of the UN would have recognized his manner. “I am Ruler - understand?” The last word was a whipcrack.

  “Sure, Direttore. I unnastan’.”

  “No, you don’t. You will swear by all you hold sacred -” Forbin’s voice was rich, resonant. “- to keep silent - and that includes Maria.” He raised a warning finger. “If you break faith, be sure I will know, and do not presume our old friendship will save you. Think.”

  As he was meant to be, the Italian was impressed by Forbin’s dramatic manner, but he still counterattacked. “Folks tink I notta keep ma mouth shut. Okay, that’sa what dey tink-but now I tella you asomet’ing you don’ta know: I knew Blake was da big wheel inna Fellowship.” One finger arched down, tapping the desk. “And I gotta very strong suspicion dat your wife, Cleo, she a pretty big noise inna same outfit. But I say nottin’ to anyone - until now.”

  Sidetracked, Forbin burst out fiercely, “Christ! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Aw, come on, Direttore. Tell you what?” Fultone shrugged. “Besides, I don’ta take sides, I notta wanna trouble. My mouth is shut alla time. Galin had ees spies in my outfit - I know dem too - but did Blake lose his head?

  No.” Encouraged by Forbin’s silence, he went on,’ ‘An’ I tella you a crazy hunch I gotta ‘ere.” He tapped his head.

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  “I notta so sure the design of the Collector isa by Colossus.”

  Forbin’s heart thumped, but he managed to stamp on that at once. “What rubbish! Not by Colossus? Who else, then? Me? Who else?”

  Fultone was not put out.’ “That’sa what I ask myself alla time - who? Crazy.”

  “Yes, crazy, but you’d better keep thoughts like that in your own mind. Colossus may not be what he was, but he’s still got the power to have your head in a basket. He might not care for the boss of his Condiv going around with silly stories like that one!” Forbin saw the Neapolitan in a new, worrying light. “What on earth made you think that?”
r />   Again Fultone gave his expressive shrug. “Eet’sa feelin’. I deal wit’ Colossus projects since ‘way back, I getta feel.” His hands stroked air. “It’s a feelin’. Look, I lova opera. Da moment da soprano walka onstage, da moment she open ‘er mout’, I know she’sa gonna be lousy. I see she gotta sometin’ onna mind - trouble wit’ a lover, who cares? But I know, because I hava da feelin’ for opera. Dees ees da same; I gotta feelin’ - not because the Collector is like nottin’ I ever imagine, somet’in’ else: da way problems are approached. Issa strange - how you say? - alien.”

  Forbin clamped down. “You are talking rubbish, dangerous rubbish - for you. Perhaps you can keep quiet, but I still want your solemn oath,”

  Fultone stood up, theatrically raising his right hand, head erect. “Onna ‘ead of my son and Mama’s grave, I will keep silence. Dis I promise before da Face of God!” He crossed himself and sat down again.

  “Very well, I accept your oath.” Forbin’s voice held more than a hint of menace. “And never, for one single moment, forget it yourself.”

  “Mama mia, what more can I say?”

  Forbin did not doubt him, but all the same, he chose his words with care. “This complex is like an onion: at the center is Colossus, with secrets known only to him. I am the next layer, and know some things, sharing that knowledge only with him. And so we move outwards, each layer knowing less. You, in your layer, do not have access to those closer to Colossus - you understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have to tell you that, accidentally, you have penetrated deeper than your permitted level, and that raises two points: in ignorance, you might talk.” Forbin stifled Fultone’s protest with a frown. “The other point is that, like all of us, you are under great strain, and might well - indeed, have - doubted your sanity, so you must be given some explanation.