D.F. Jones - [Colossus 01]

by Colossus (V1. 0) (Lit)

  1x2=2 2x2=4 3x2=6 4x2=8 5x2=10

  Forbin muttered something to himself. Armsorg, seeing anger battling with amazement in the Director's face, hastily withdrew to his seat, burying his face in a handkerchief, apparently afflicted with an acute attack of coughing. Cleo recovered first.

  “I'd expected math, but I didn't think Colossus would have quite such a low opinion of the opposition.”

  Forbin said nothing, but watched the hammering keys with compressed lips, a frown on his face. The machine clattered on, neatly typing out all the multiplication tables up to ten. There was a short pause, then Colossus repeated them.

  “God! I can't watch!” There was a tight, strangled quality about Forbin's voice. “We're going to get hell for this.”

  “I'm not so sure, Charles. Give Colossus time—it'll get more interesting as it goes on.”

  “I hope it's soon!”

  For over an hour Colossus did simple arithmetic. Multiplication was followed by division and subtraction. Each section was repeated once, and always the simplest numbers were used—1 divides 2 twice. . .

  After the first ten minutes CIA's duty officer called. He was, unfortunately, of a humorous turn of mind.

  “CIA duty officer here. We're having a little trouble processing this Colossus traffic. It's tough going for our smalltime computers—one has blown a fuse and another just lit up and says 'Tilt'—”

  Armsorg was prepared to injure himself laughing at the Colossus output, but he was not sharing it with outsiders. “Stay with it, buster. I hear a lot of you guys never made better than high school, so don't miss this chance!” He slammed the phone down, cutting off the distant cackle of laughter.

  Forbin did not bother to ask what CIA wanted—he could guess. He paced up and down, smoking furiously—short rapid puffs of smoke like an old-time locomotive. Cleo tactfully withdrew to the CPO, where the news caused a good deal of laughter among the younger element. Fisher, naturally, saw nothing funny, and hurried to join Forbin.

  “Ah, Jack.” Forbin paused long enough in his restless pacing to wave his pipe at the tireless teletype, now demonstrating the decimal system.

  Fisher glanced at it briefly, showed no signs of surprise or annoyance, and turned to Forbin.

  “Charles, this FLASH business. Quite frankly, I've no ideas at all. I agree with Doctor Markham, some pattern change has taken place in the storage units of the comparator, but how that change has taken place, or why, I have no idea.” He paused to let that sink in. “Johnson has done some nice calculating which proves conclusively that it can't happen, but that's all. . .” He stopped again, aware that Forbin was staring with fascination at the teletype.

  “Goddam it all, the thing is starting to draw!”

  The teletype certainly was. It typed a dot, shifted the paper and typed two dots, shifted again, then two more dots, thus:

  . A

  . . .

  . . .

  Forbin and Fisher both guessed at the same moment. “Geometry!” croaked Forbin.

  The teletype clattered busily on:

  . A

  . . .

  . . .

  B. . . C

  Equilateral, isosceles, scalene, the properties of each, then on to the theorems of Euclid.

  Fisher watched carefully. “You notice that only the valid theorems are being sent. Anything that has been disproved has been rejected. I think this is going to be very interesting.” He moved a chair closer and sat down before the machine; Colossus had his whole attention.

  Forbin, struck by a sudden thought, said, “God, you don't suppose Colossus proposes sending the whole of his memory store?” He clutched his head despairingly. “Hell no, Colossus must know that would take hundreds of years at this rate.” He flopped down in a chair, muttering more to himself than the red-faced Armsorg or the entranced Fisher. “But what's time to Colossus? It may view it entirely—no, dammit, it just can't!”

  It was nearly an hour later that Colossus started on equations.

  Forbin, who had spent the time alternately pacing up and down and lounging in his chair, got up with an air of decision. “I can't take any more of this. I'm going along to the CPO—Armsorg, give me a call if there is any change in this stuff.” In the CPO he found the duty crew still hopelessly picking at their problem, their lack of expectation of a solution clear on their faces, even Cleo's. No one spoke when he entered, or afterwards. They were being tactful. Forbin sat and glared, daring anyone to say anything, but no one did.

  “All right, so it's a big laugh. If you must know, Doctor Fisher is now being taught simple equations by Colossus.” The mention of Fisher was too much; they all laughed, including Cleo, until they literally cried. Forbin watched, glowering, but in the end he too joined in, although by no means all that heartily. It was a welcome ease of the tension, sometimes clear and stark to all, sometimes present in Forbin only, but never far away.

  “Come on, Cleo,” Forbin stood up, “let's go get something to eat.”

  “We could raid the icebox here if you like,” said Cleo, hoping he would not agree. They had had far too many steaks on the office infra-grill.

  “No, not that. The commissary isn't all that hot, but it does a shade better than that. Johnson,” he gave the young assistant an encouraging grin, “don't beat your brains out, but do the best you can. Let me know if anything comes up.”

  Johnson stared after them as they left. Then he yawned, scratched his stubby hair, and picked up his slide rule with an expression of distaste on his face.

  In the commissary Forbin and Cleo collected trays and studied the selection board. They made their choice, pressing the appropriate buttons on the board. Within seconds their orders were ready at the auto-serve hatches. They ate in silence, Cleo taking her time over her food while Forbin made short work of his. The commissary was, as usual, very quiet, the soft-topped tables deadening any sound, and in any case the plastic cutlery and paper-thin plastic containers made little noise. At one time there had been piped music, but the nationwide revulsion a few years before had not missed the Secure Zone, and there had been unanimous relief when the system was ripped out.

  “How much longer do you think Colossus will go on like this?”

  “Who can say?” Forbin deftly stripped the plastic wrapping off a grilled chop.

  “Are you going to let it run?”

  “Have you any suggestions?”

  “Well,” said Cleo, picking her way carefully, “do you think Washington—”

  But not carefully enough.

  “I don't give a damn what they think!” Forbin's voice was very loud and clearly audible clear across the commissary. He paused, realizing that the few people in the room were listening intently, and lowered his voice. “Sorry, but the mere mention of that crew—” Cleo was glad to get off the subject. “Don't look now, but I think we are being followed.”

  Forbin looked round and saw Fisher crossing towards them. “He looks excited,” said Forbin, implying that he, for one, was not.

  Fisher certainly did. His eyes were bright, what hair he had was disarrayed. He sank gratefully down in a chair beside Forbin.

  “Johnson said you were here, although how you can eat—”

  “Yeah, I know—at a time like this—if you must know it stops me smoking, and I need the food.” He spooned grated carrot into his mouth. “It also occurred to me that I'm known as a good eater, so if I'm seen to be off my feed, morale around here is going to take a knock we can't afford.”

  “Quite, er—yes.” Fisher gave up trying to answer that one. He blinked at Forbin, thought for a moment, then—“You know, it's really most remarkable. Colossus has now moved on to calculus, and while it's all good sound stuff, it is most oddly expressed. I don't know what to think, but I'm sure we have never fed this stuff in—at least, not in the way it is coming out.”

  “You mean Colossus has rethought calculus?”

  “Yes, in a way. The differential calculus is really very odd indeed, yet
I can't see where the twist is. It's absolutely fascinating, but it frightens me.” He plucked nervously at his lip.

  Cleo poured a beaker of wine and passed it to Fisher. “Drink this, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Markham. Normally I don't drink, but perhaps it is justified.” He gulped at the wine, and immediately coughed. “Sorry, I—” he gasped, and coughed some more. Forbin stifled a surge of impatience, and thumped his colleague none too softly on the back.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Watery eyes blinked at Forbin. “I think we must watch the output very carefully. I suggest we drop the FLASH investigation—you must accept it, Charles, we're getting nowhere—and put a full-time mathematical watch on the Colossus transmission. Johnson would be invaluable, and that young fellow with him is by no means bad, and I could take a watch—”

  “OK, Jack, we can work out the details in a minute. Why do you want to watch it as it comes? You could arrange a team for the morning, get a good night's sleep, and start then, fresh.”

  “No.” Fisher was unusually firm. “In not much more than an hour Colossus has gone from multiplication tables to calculus. I hate to think where he will be by morning.” He repeated, more to himself, “I hate to think.”

  Forbin thought for a moment, moodily eating cheese and biscuits. “OK,” he said at last, “drop the FLASH assignment. We don't know the answer, and short of asking Colossus I don't suppose we will. And that's one question I am not keen to feed in.”

  “Why?” said Cleo, and immediately regretted it.

  “Because,” said Forbin, giving her a hard stare, “I don't think Colossus would like it.”

  Cleo nearly did it again by saying “So?” but his tone made her pause. She looked at him, then at Fisher, then back to Forbin. There was something in their expressions which was the same, a something that chilled her and kept her silent.

  They left the commissary and moved to Forbin's office, two blocks away. It was dark, a few stars intermittently visible among low black clouds driving silently, endlessly north. Cleo shivered in the cold air, yet was glad to escape, if only for a moment, from the potted atmosphere and the increasing tensions of the Zone. She zipped her blouse up tight and stepped out smartly to keep up with the men. Their feet crunched crisply on the gravel. Frost tonight, thought Cleo, concentrating on the night around her, keeping her mind firmly off Colossus. She took deep breaths of the cold dry air.

  In the outer office Forbin's secretary was still working. She brightened as he entered, and stood up with an armful of paper work. But Forbin brushed past her and stumbled into his office, cursing as he fumbled in the darkness for the oil lamps. Fisher stood uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Don't stand there! Come in and sit down. Angela! Where's the damned taper?”

  Angela did not answer. She came in, pushed the Director gently aside, and quickly lit the lamps—without a taper. Still silent, she marched out, shutting the door only fractionally louder than usual.

  The soft light illuminated only Forbin's desk and the immediate surroundings, leaving the rest of the room shadowy and insubstantial; there was a faint and not unpleasing smell of lamp- oil. To Fisher and Cleo, more accustomed to the luminescent ceilings, there was a warmth and intimacy quite unique in the Zone—and in most places outside as well.

  Forbin reached for his tobacco jar and leaned back, filling his pipe, his face in shadow. Fisher, emboldened by his anonymity in the shadow beyond the bright ring of light, spoke up firmly. “Charles, we are all being less than honest with each other; it is quite plain that, as individuals, we are nursing our own private fears about Colossus. We've hinted as much to each other, yet never openly expressed exactly what those fears are. This is unscientific—and we are scientists. I'm certain we all fear the same thing, but I think it should be said, the area of the problem defined, so we can approach it in a proper scientific manner.”

  It was quite a speech for Fisher. Forbin did not comment, but looked enquiringly at Cleo.

  “I'm happy to play it any way you decide, but I agree with Doctor Fisher that if you are—frightened—' she hesitated over the word—”you should tell us, if only to share the burden with someone else.“

  Forbin, who had sat quite still, lit his pipe, the flame leaping between puffs, lighting up his face. To Cleo, he appeared calm, but she was not sure if it was the calmness of a man in control of a situation, or of resignation. He snuffed the taper, placed it carefully in an ashtray.

  “Yes, I'm frightened. And I'm sure we share the same fear—of the possibility of Colossus exceeding his parameters. Where we may differ is in the degree to which we fear those parameters may be exceeded. Cleo probably fears a major breakdown of the system—that the whole thing may be useless and that we're facing a gigantic repair job. You, Jack, go a good deal further and fear Colossus may go mad—in mechanical terms, malfunction. Inevitably, one imagines Colossus wildly firing missiles in all directions. This is the core of your fears, Jack, and probably mine too.”

  He paused to relight his pipe. “In theory, there's as much chance of parameter failure as there is of water running uphill, but that FLASH is indicative of a profound alteration in the machine. You've both been too busy with the details to have time to consider the broader implications. While I'm worried about—no, I'll be honest—scared about Colossus malfunctioning, I'm even more scared that it may be capable of what I term ”free thought.“ This transmission to Guardian may well be nothing more than Colossus seeking intelligence which CIA hasn't provided. Then again. . .”

  Forbin stopped. It was hardly necessary for him to go on. Fisher spoke.

  “You are quite correct about my fears, Charles. I need time to consider this ”free thought“ proposition. Doctor Markham has more practical knowledge of the parameters, and therefore of what Colossus can perfectly legitimately do—but even if this action is within the system's permitted scope, we are left with the problem of the initiating thought for this action.”

  “The idea of Colossus seeking intelligence seems just tenable to me,” Cleo said. “If it is true, then Colossus has a most tortuous mind.”

  “No, not tortuous—but complex, possibly devious, almost feminine.”

  “Charles,” said Fisher, rising, “I'm glad we're in the open now. I'll get back and see how matters stand and arrange the new task. The idea of free thought within the parameters could solve this dreadful problem. Yes.”

  Fisher hurried off, happier than he had been for some time, leaving Cleo and Forbin deep in thought. Neither spoke for several minutes, Forbin smoked stolidly, Cleo examined her nails.

  “Charles, call it feminine intuition if you like, but I don't think you really believe that there is a nice cozy answer, do you?”

  “Frankly, Cleo, I don't know. I'm not very optimistic—but Fisher is in a bad way. The last few days have been a great strain on him. Anyway, I'd like you to check the parameter banks—see if reading any two produces a third which is new.”

  “You mean like 'Don't drink water' and 'avoid cold' equals 'don't drink ice'?”

  “That's it.”

  “We could feed in more strongly worded parameters.”

  “I want to keep that in reserve. I suppose I have some of your female intuition about Colossus—I don't want to risk an order that might not be obeyed.”

  A sudden click as the intercom came alive brought the noise of the watch room flooding into the quiet office. Without preamble, Fisher spoke; his voice was high and cracked with tension.

  “Forbin! Come over at once!” He cut off without waiting for an answer.

  “Now that,” observed Forbin calmly, “sounds like real trouble.” He stood up, helping Cleo from the depths of her armchair. His face was very close; she caught the smell of strong tobacco. She knew this was not the moment, but still tried.

  “Charles.

  “I know, my dear, I know.” He brushed her hair lightly with his cheek, sighed, then made for the door, his tone becoming more b
risk, hard and controlled. “Fisher's safety fuses are near blowing. Maybe this is the crunch.”

  Chapter 9

  THE PRESIDENT liked to dine alone. To some extent this habit was a reaction against the endless round of functions he had to attend, but to an even greater extent it was due to the fact that he could not stand the sight of his wife. Their necessary public appearances as a devoted couple were a great burden on the First Citizen—and on the First Lady. It had been a smart match. The states that had been Canada were sensitive about federation—though there had been no option—and a Manitoban-born First Lady was a sop to the dying embers of national pride. But it was a marriage of convenience. So the President, when possible, ate alone and slept alone—or to be more accurate, had a bedroom well away from his wife's palatial suite. Clad simply in shirt and trousers, the President was attacking a baked Virginia ham garnished with pineapple when Prytzkammer knocked and peered round the door of the dining room, aware that his appearance would not add to the President's pleasure.

  “Sorry, sir, but there is a hot-line call coming up for you. I said you would be on five minutes from now.” He checked his watch to be quite certain. Past experience had shown that neither the President nor the Soviet Chairman liked to wait on the line for the other. Both suspected—with good reason—that the other was capable of keeping his fellow head of state waiting, quite deliberately. The personal aides on both sides had evolved a system whereby both came to the line at the same moment, and an affront to national pride—or, even more important, to personal ego—was avoided. It was a private nightmare of Prytzkammer's that one of these days his opposite number would cheat, and hold his man back for a couple of minutes.

  “Any slant on the subject?”

  “You know these boys, sir. But I've the idea the Chairman has Colossus on his mind.”

  The President grunted. “We'll soon find out. I'll take it here.”

  Prytzkammer inclined his head slightly, and with the air of a conjurer, produced a red telephone and plugged it in. There had been a suggestion that a televiewer should be incorporated in the circuit, but for once both heads of state had been in complete agreement, and vetoed the idea. The President summed it up in one short sentence—“Horse trading is best done in the dark.”