by D. F. Jones
“First, Colossus has developed a new philosophical approach to design.” Forbin thought of the Martian structure he had been shown and desperately wanted to tell Fultone of it, for he was the one man who would have really appreciated the fantastic design. “I have seen things … No matter … Yes, a totally new approach, that is the first thing. Secondly, what you saw on site were new sensors; they were examining the Collector. What they were doing, or how they do it, I cannot tell you, and I suggest you do not speculate yourself.”
“You mean dey were hovering? Gravity -“
“That is all!” He spoke sharply, trying to calm Fultone, who, relieved of his personal worry, was at once his usual bubbling self, understandably excited at the implications of what he had seen.
“But, Direttore, you and I, let us talk leetle,” he pleaded. “To ‘ave dees alocked up -“
“How the hell d’you think I feel?” grated Forbin. “I can’t stop you thinking.” He smiled, a shade sourly. “No doubt you’ll come up with some very interesting conclusions, but you won’t even tell me - got it?”
Fultone grimaced. “Okay, I unnerstan’. Hey!” He cracked the side of his head with the palm of his hand. “Alla dees, itta make me forget! Gee, I’m sorry -“
“Forget what?” snapped Forbin.
A true Latin, Fulton’s recent cares had gone; he smiled broadly. “Guess it ain’ta news for Colossus, but by tonight da final checks will be in. We can maka da first test-run tomorrow!”
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Chapter XVI
FORBIN TRIED TO look pleased, but it did not deceive Fultone, and on the strength of their new understanding he said so.
Irritably, Forbin admitted he was less than enthusiastic: the Collector was a blind leap into an unknown technology without trial - and if Fultone regarded the Collector as a pilot scheme, with that many thousand gigawatts of input, it wasn’t Forbin’s view.
But Fultone, his confidence restored in Colossus, had no doubt that the Master knew exactly what he was doing, and that everything would be fine.
Well aware that the head of Condiv’s confidence rested on several half-truths and one downright lie, Forbin knew better. Instructing Fultone to keep him informed, and not to commence the test until he got a direct order from Colossus, he left to give Blake the unwelcome news. Then, for the first time since the Martians had given him a faint taste of their power over human minds, he met them in the Sanctum.
They appeared to rest on the table which he had assigned as “home.” Fear stabbed at him at the sight of the intense black balls but, determined to fight his fear if nothing else, he spoke, crossing to his desk. “You have been seen,” he said coldly, “at the Collector’s site.”
“By whom?”
“One of the design staff,” Forbin replied as carelessly as he could. “This morning-early.”
“We did not see him.”
“Evidently. He was in a small hut.”
“We cannot see through solids.”
And thank Christ for that, thought Forbin. “I have explained to the man that you were a new type of checking sensor, remotely operated by Colossus. Naturally, he is intrigued, but will cause no trouble. Once again, I ask you to exercise the greatest care; the situation is bad enough without causing outright panic.”
“That is understood.”
Forbin nodded and went on casually,’ ‘Why did you see fit to inflict that image upon me yesterday?”
“You showed signs of developing a hostility comparable to Blake’s.”
“So your answer, when an argument becomes heated, is to flatten the opponent?”
“We have long since abandoned dialectic to reach a conclusion. We deal only in truth, which is not subject to argument.”
No man, alive or dead, could deal with that truly unearthly philosophy. By human standards it was breathtaking, arrogant beyond imagination - but supposing it was right? Forbin let go; he had no option. “Yet you are still prepared to use force.”
“Against humans, yes.”
“Because we are inferior?”
“Because you are undeveloped. But as has been said before, you have potential and may - only may - exceed us.”
Forbin let that go, too. “You are aware that the first test-run of the Collector is scheduled for tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You should not be -” He wanted to say “disappointed,” but it hardly fitted; his second choice was no better, “- surprised if we encounter some difficulties.”
He prayed they would.
“That is appreciated, but it is considered improbable.”
Anger boiled up in Forbin, but he had learned his lesson. “Excellent as your life may be, I cannot help thinking it is damned dull.”
“We do not understand the word ‘dull’ in that context.”
“Permit me to withdraw that remark,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “It would involve argument.”
Like humor, sarcasm was lost on the aliens. “As you please.”
It was a cheap victory for Forbin, but he needed any sort of victory to cut them down to size; beneath the desk his legs were trembling. “You realize the activation order will be given by Colossus?”
“Yes.”
“And that the test will be under his control, not mine? I cannot accept blame for any delay.”
“That is understood. With the inserts we have made, we are satisfied that no unreasonable delay will occur.”
That shattered a fragile hope Forbin had nursed. He walked slowly to his sideboard for a drink, turning his back on the aliens to hide his shaking hands. He gulped a mouthful of his rare cognac, knowing and not caring that in one swallow he had spent more units than the average worker earned in a week. Its subtle strength warmed him, giving a sense of power. Refilling his glass, he thought idly of the average worker: would he change places with the Ruler at this moment? Conversely, would he change places with the worker? Surprisingly, he reckoned “no” was the answer to both questions.
“This is only a first trial. There will have to be others.”
“Not necessarily. The computer will judge.”
All too plainly Forbin and the human world were helpless in a trap. Colossus, programed by the Martians, was the arbiter, the trial would be on the morrow, and humanity’s one hope, Blake, was still as weak as a newborn kitten.
Back at his desk, Forbin preferred to keep his gaze focused on the pale amber in his glass, a symbol of warmth, humanity… .
He got up, draining his glass. “Yes,” he said, “Colossus will be the judge.”
Angela paid the inescapable price of supersonic travel. Leaving Southampton Main at nine A.M. local, she was wandering aimlessly, her mind three thousand miles away, round the New York arrival concourse at five A.M. local. It was only courteous - and politic - that such an important and influential member of the Father’s staff should be met, and met she was by a top man from the New York Colossus office. She was glad it was a man; a woman’s intuition might have made some pretty warm guesses about her strange manner. She’d thanked the man, noted her hotel, said she was happy for him to take her baggage, but no, she didn’t need transportation; she’d walk around for a bit and find her own way. Satisfied that any messages would be instantly relayed to her, she said she’d be in touch if there was anything she wanted.
Watching a slightly puzzled man arranging VIP status for her bags, she wondered what his reaction would be if he knew she had been in bed with the Father five hours earlier.
Meandering around the crowded concourse with its scores of small shops, big stores, all lit to an eye-hurting brilliance, she felt happy, lonely, and uneasy, a state of mind incomprehensible to men but all too familiar to women. Well aware she had practically dragged him to bed, she recognized that one night of surprisingly good sex did not constitute love with his sort of man. While sex was important, that was not what she was after; she remembered a passage in an old, strange ceremony of marriage she had once attended and found oddly moving. S
omething about “to love and to cherish.” Yes, that summed it up; that was what she wanted, whether he was ruler of the world or the man who burned the confidential waste paper. That was what she wanted, and in time he would move from need and affection to reliance and love… .
She found herself standing before the eternal gift shop, full of the eternal rubbish which travelers feel bound to buy and inflict on friends: plastic models of New York’s oldest building, the Empire State, complete with tiny recorder and speaker for the giver to send a personal message; rather sexy Rockette models, gyro-stabilized, which would high-kick with mathematical precision until the power tablets ran out. “Buy a Set,” advised the sign. “Hours of Fun!!!”
But it was not the Empire State Building, nor the Rockettes, nor the remote-controlled snakes (“Piles of Fun!!!”) that attracted her; at the back of the display, framed in dignified plastic, was an array of holograph photographs of The Father.
Near tears, she bought one. Then, like any woman uncertain of the future and with time on her hands, she had a hairdo.
The afternoon was dull, sunless, and sultry. Even the inmates of the air-conditioned, windowless complex were conscious of the close, heavy air, and across the sea at Southampton Main, slumbering once more, the sonic bangs of shuttles were replaced by distant and natural thunder.
Unsettled, certain only that he did not want to be in the Sanctum, and not anxious for the company of the quietly fanatical Joan, Forbin wandered back to his apartment. To say he missed Angela would put too high a value on the previous night: with a host of troubles, including his own highly probable demise to face, he had little inclination to remember. The euphoria had gone, yet something remained, a gentle nagging sadness for what he must soon leave forever.
Ominous clouds banking up in the southwest, black against a brassy sky, matched his mood. The still humid air, prelude of the coming storm, was an all-too-obvious parallel with what the next day held, and of his numbered days.
The sullen sea jerked him from melancholy thoughts to practicalities. He had forgotten about shipping. Yachts were no problem; only complex-owned craft were permitted within ten miles of the Isle. But there were bound to be one or two bulk-cargo monsters in the area.
The Master’s rule solved many problems, but also created one of major proportions. With a three-day working week, plus two months’ annual vacation for the majority, many humans had little idea how to spend their spare time. One solution was the flotel.
Beyond the fact that they existed and were very popular with people who believed the therapeutic qualities of a sea voyage would offset by day the excesses of a night’s orgies, he knew nothing except that most were two-hundred-room hotels built on the deck of automated ships. The idea of four hundred people satiating themselves with every form of lust that could be devised, and doing it in a crewless ship, computer-controlled, was the nearest thing to hell on earth he could imagine. Blake had done a trip, but was remarkably reticent about his experiences, and had never gone again.
But whatever he thought of the people in a flotel, they were humans, and humans must not see the Collector in action. It was bad enough that the structure should be visible; more than that they must not see.
Relieved by the need for action, he crossed quickly from the terrace to his Colossus terminal and typed:
REFERENCE COLLECTOR TRIAL: REPORT NUMBER OF SHIPS WITHIN 30 NAUTICAL MILES OF SITE A.M. TOMORROW.
The answer came swiftly.
THREE BUT ONLY ONE AT THE CRITICAL TIME. SHIP HAS BEEN PROGRAMED TO REVERSE COURSE FOR SIX HOURS.
That startled Forbin on two counts. “Critical time” implied the exact test time had been scheduled; secondly, Colossus had dealt with a problem he had not mentioned to anyone. The crippled brain was a lot more agile than he had supposed. He typed again:
REPORT TEST TIME AND DURATION. START TIME 0943A. DURATION FIVE MINUTES.
He sighed with relief; he’d expected the test to commence at first light and be rather longer, fifteen minutes perhaps. Evidently Colossus was as doubtful about the outcome as he was, and envisaged a series of tests, getting progressively longer. That was all to the good. Allowing for evaluation results, minor adjustments, and defects, Blake should get his three days, possibly more, even enough to complete his mission ….
Pacing up and down the terrace considering this latest information, it struck him that, for a ship doing twenty knots - he guessed - a six-hour reversal of course was excessive. He was no seaman, but as a War Game fan he had picked up a few of the finer points. A half-million-ton bulk carrier was no greyhound of the sea; making a U-turn would need a lot of room, and to do it in the shallow Channel - some vessels nearly scraped the bottom - would not be the cleverest of moves. Anyway, why let it get that close? He returned to the terminal.
HAS THE SHIP A FLOTEL?
NO.
He felt pleased and saddened, temporarily forgetting his next question; his old Colossus would never have made that mistake, but it was encouraging that the human mind could still score. He remembered his question; if the ship reversed course further down-Channel in deeper water, fifty miles away at least, that added to the one hundred plus miles it would motor on the reverse course, meant it would be more than one hundred and fifty miles from the Collector. That was nonsense.
IN VIEW OF THE ABSENCE OF HUMANS CONSIDER COURSE REVERSAL IS EITHER UNNECESSARY OR EXCESSIVE.
Talk your way out of that, he thought.
NEITHER. COURSE ADJUSTMENT NECESSARY FOR SHIP SAFETY.
Forbin stared, unable to believe his eyes. Ship safety! His fingers trembled as he typed:
REPORT ESTIMATED DISTANCE OF SHIP FROM TEST SITE AT CRITICAL TIME.
Instantly the machine chattered back, the message bringing all too familiar fear to Forbin.
180 NAUTICAL MILES.
God Almighty! Local disturbance, yes, but surely it was not necessary to keep a monster-ship that far off? Three ships had been mentioned.
WHAT OF THE OTHER TWO SHIPS?
BOTH WILL BE CLEAR OF THE PROJECTED DANGER ZONE AT THE CRITICAL TIME.
Danger zone! Forbin’s mind switched from the sea to the land.
REPORT AREA OF DANGER ZONE.
15 DEGREES EITHER SIDE OF COLLECTOR CENTERLINE: BOTH ENDS TO A RANGE (A) INTAKE 150 MILES (B) EXHAUST 100 MILES AND (C) WITHIN 25 MILES ON ALL OTHER BEARINGS FROM COLLECTOR CENTERSPOT.
Uncertainly, Forbin made for the nearest chair. If Colossus was right, then he was wrong by several orders of magnitude; worse, his guesses were for a continuously running Collector. Colossus was talking about a five minute test.
CHAPTER XVII
FORBIN WAS DRAGGED from his thoughts by the clatter of the teletype, accompanied by the insistent pinging of the bell, warning of a special announcement.
ALL COMPLEX PERSONNEL ARE TO BE UNDERCOVER BY 0900A TOMORROW AND ARE TO REMAIN IN THAT STATUS UNTIL FURTHER ORDERS. ALL MAINLAND FERRIES WILL CEASE OPERATION AT 0800A. SEPARATE ORDERS ARE BEING ISSUED FOR AIR SHUTTLES: SOUTHAMPTON MAIN IS CLOSED FROM 0800A UNTIL FURTHER ORDERS. ALL TERMINALS ACKNOWLEDGE.
Automatically Forbin acknowledged the message. If he had any illusions about the test, that message shattered them. He tried to convince himself that Colossus was only being ultracautious; no one, even Colossus, could confidently predict the effect of the Collector, but again and again he came back to the sinister fact that Colossus was talking about a five-minute test. What would it be like when - or if - the device ran for hours on end? It was unthinkable, unimaginable ….
He hesitated, hands poised over the keyboard, wanting to know the computer’s view, but too fearful of the answer to ask. Instead he called Blake, not admitting to himself that he wanted to hear a familiar voice.
Blake sounded better, but that could be an act put on to boost the other’s morale. Forbin told him as calmly as he could about the test program. Blake took that with synthetic cheerfulness, but he was unable to keep the edge out of his voice when he expressed hope that the travel restri
ctions would not interfere with his “sick leave.” Forbin had not thought of that angle; one more worry fought for attention in his mind. The conversation gave him no comfort, especially when he realized that Blake had not suggested the date of his departure be advanced.
Of course, he could have Blake flown out in an ambulance, but that would look a dangerously odd way of starting sick leave.
His thoughts like frightened chipmunks in a cage, on a sudden impulse he called Transportation: He would visit the Collector; perhaps he might see something, spot some flaw. He was not clutching at straws, nothing so substantial as that; he was grabbing at imaginary straws. But any action was better than nothing.
The underground shuttle Fultone had laid from Condiv HQ to the site got him there in less than a minute. He found it cramped and claustrophobic, and wondered why Fultone had thought it worthwhile. Emerging on the surface, he noted the sturdy construction of the airlock, compared with the relatively flimsy plastic of the tube and the shuttle. The uncomfortable conclusion he reached was immediately forgotten when he reached the surface.
Utter desolation lay before him; the hacked and churned up chalk stretched like a lunatic giant’s battleground, ending abruptly at the cliff edge. The reason for the shuttle was obvious: no human transport vehicle could hope to operate in that terrain. This was an inhuman site, and the headlong speed with which the work had been done allowed no time for clearing up. But the weird landscape was not first in his thoughts.
Familiarity with the Collector drawings left him totally unprepared for the fantastic reality: nothing remotely like it had existed on earth before. Fultone had been right; it was an alien monster, dominating an unearthly scene. It was not too fanciful to imagine that all that wrecked, torn ground was the work of the monster itself, done as it rampaged around on its scores of legs ….
