D.F. Jones - [Colossus 01]

by Colossus (V1. 0) (Lit)

  Forbin picked up his Scotch, choked slightly over it. For several minutes there was complete silence, and it was left to the President to make the first move. He breathed out gustily. “Well, we must get on, although God knows. . .” his voice trailed away, then he gathered himself once more. “Forbin, your views?”

  Forbin forced himself to concentrate on the immediate problems. He suggested that the fate of the missile be checked, the shelter warning canceled, and a statement prepared for the public. They discussed these proposals, quickly agreed on the first two—and took action—then got down to the third. No one suggested the public be told the truth—it was too fantastic. Yet a credible story had to be found. The Chief of Staff thought that it should be announced that a missile, test-fired, had malfunctioned. The President and Forbin did not like it, but in their shocked and weary state they had no better ideas. The President had hardly said he would write it himself when the hot line rang. The Soviet Chairman was in similar trouble, and told the President that, as far as he was concerned, a very large meteorite had exploded on hitting the earth's atmosphere, over Siberia, causing vast damage. He added that this was all the more credible since that very thing had happened around a hundred years before in that area.

  Again, it was not a perfect story, but it was not possible to better it in the time available. The heads of state ended with mutual—and genuine—expressions of goodwill which Forbin found bitterly ironical.

  The call finished, the President immediately got down to a draft of the public statement. Forbin marveled at his resilience, but knew he would pay for it later when he stopped running. He looked at the First Citizen strangely, pityingly. Someone would have to tell him—perhaps the Chief of Staff would do it; they were buddies to some extent. Still, that was a minor problem. Forbin left the sanctum.

  Bishop was busy talking on a line, so Forbin picked up a square phone and called the CPO. While waiting for Fisher, Forbin thought about the President. Better make sure the Chief of Staff told him. Forbin would not have thought it possible, but a good many ideas had gone overboard. . .

  “Fisher? Yes. Yes, nothing to worry about, a rogue missile which might have hit Texas. Yep, that's the story, and you can quote me—in fact you'd better do just that. Keep working on the new material, perhaps something will emerge that'll give us some clue. I'll be back as soon as I can. If you get anything, call me.”

  Forbin and Bishop cleared their lines at the same moment. Forbin glanced at the young man, not more than twenty-five, sitting in Prytzkammer's chair. The aide had a drawn look, appeared much older, and there was a tenseness round the eyes that was new. Forbin wondered if he too had altered as much as Bishop or the President, especially the President. . .

  “Sir, may I ask you a question?”

  The words and the way they were said made it sound as if the young aide thought he was addressing God. Forbin winced, tried to smile.

  “Go right ahead, but I don't guarantee an answer.”

  “Sir, what killed Prytzkammer? The Secret Service says there wasn't a mark on him, and I know he passed a medical check only last week.”

  “That one I can answer.” Forbin stared gravely at the young-old face. “He died of fright.”

  Chapter 14

  As Forbin re-entered the sanctum, the President looked up from some notes. “Forbin, what do you think of this?” His voice took on its public address tone. “As you all know, a shelter warning for Texas was issued earlier today, and as this will have caused anxiety throughout the country, I have decided to make this announcement personally, to assure you all that there is no cause for alarm. This warning was issued, on my authority, when a missile, test-fired from an operational submarine station and intended to go down the Atlantic range, malfunctioned. The warhead was not, of course, activated—but as there was a risk that the missile might land in Texas, it was, in my opinion, only prudent to issue the warning, since the warhead might have broken up on landing, thus distributing radioactive material over some one or two square miles of the state. There was no risk at all of the device exploding. You will be glad to know that the interception and safe destruction of the missile was handled entirely by our new defense complex, Colossus. I have ordered a full and thorough investigation into this mishap, and will see to it that it cannot happen again. Nevertheless, it has given our defenses a realistic test, and has shown all the world that they work.” The President paused. “How about that?”

  Forbin drew a deep breath through his nostrils; it was very near a sniff. “Um. It doesn't stand too much poking around, does it?”

  “If you can think up a better story, I'd be very glad to hear it.” There was no trace of sarcasm in the President's voice. Forbin, hands in pockets, shook his head. “No. That's as good as we can get. I'd suggest you don't stick your neck out too far on the assurances.”

  The President ignored that one. “Ed, what do you feel about it?”

  “It's OK by me.” The Chief of Staff hesitated, then went on anxiously, “How do you propose putting this out?”

  The President raised his eyebrows. “The only way I can—nationwide TV!”

  Forbin and the Chief of Staff exchanged glances. It became clear to Forbin that the Army man was not going to take on the task. Forbin felt his rage rising; he had so much to consider, and now this damned man was leaving even a minor detail like this to him! There was no time for personal feelings.

  “Mr. President,” he said crisply, “you've got to know sooner or later, and if you're going on TV, then you have to know now.” He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the Chief of Staff was unobtrusively withdrawing to the outer office. “You've had a great shock, a very great shock, and I'm sorry to tell you—you're as gray as a badger.”

  The President frowned, every line in his face expressing disbelief. Unconsciously he ran one hand through his hair as he slowly got up and walked to an ornate gilt-framed mirror. For ten or fifteen seconds he gazed at his reflection, turning his head from side to side. Then he stumped back to his chair, and sat down and poured out a large drink. He sat for a moment, inspecting the glass as if he had never seen one before, then spoke without looking up.

  “It's for sure I can't appear on TV like this—not with that sort of message.” He drank. “Guess I'll have to get it dyed.” Forbin felt grudging admiration for the man's coolness.

  The President smiled grimly. “I know—it's a job for my lady wife. God knows she's an expert.” He thumbed his intercom. “Tell my wife I want her here at once, and where's my naval aide?”

  “Sir, Captain Carruthers is outside right now, and the Vice-President and the Secretary of State for Peace, but the Secret Service won't let them in—your orders, sir. . .”

  The President swore, then spoke briefly to the Secret Service head. Hardly had he finished when the door opened again and the First Lady was upon them. With the same rapidity the President told his wife what he wanted. She stifled her curiosity with difficulty, recognizing that this was no time to press her husband. She examined his head, named the dye she required, and Bishop was dispatched hot-foot to get it. Captain Carruthers, the Navy man, was ordered to arrange a nationwide TV broadcast, as a matter of State urgency, in about an hour's time. Then the President called for the Chief of Staff who was still in the outer office.

  As the Army man entered, he gave Forbin the nearest thing to an apologetic look that he had in his limited facial repertoire.

  The President rubbed his hair. “So far, events have dictated what we do. Now we've got to go on a bit further, and that's not so easy. I should call a full Cabinet meeting, but that'll have to wait. We three are the only ones competent to deal with this situation.” The President tried an uneasy laugh. “If anyone is.”

  Forbin nodded. That laugh told him that, at last, the President had got the full message. Then he realized there was an awkward pause; the President was clearly waiting for Forbin to speak. Yes, indeed, the President had got the message.

  “This is how
I see it. Both machines have blown all parameters and safety blocks. They know that we fear their weapons and they are prepared to use them to enforce their will. Exactly what they may want, we don't yet know. Perhaps it is no more than the right to talk to each other. Next, we must accept that we've created brains far superior to our own—and they know it. It's not surprising that they don't intend taking orders from us—their inferiors.”

  There was silence while Forbin searched for his pipe, then the Chief of Staff spoke.

  “But what are they aiming at, what do they want?”

  Forbin stopped patting his pockets. “The same question could be asked of people—and not answered. These machines exist, and maybe, with all human philosophy stacked in their guts, they've come up with some idea or plan. Maybe that is what all this high-speed exchange is about.” He found his pipe, tucked down the side of his chair. “I am sure on one point: We've lost control, and I don't see much chance of us getting back on top. There is a half-idea in my mind, but I won't raise any hopes until I have a chance to talk it over with Kupri and my own associates.”

  The President stared squarely at Forbin; there was a nervous tic under one eye which Forbin had not seen before. “So it comes to this: the machines are our masters, and our defense rests on how they feel.”

  Forbin rubbed his pipe against his nose. “Yes, that is about it, but you've missed one point. Colossus and Guardian are not on opposite sides. The ideological angle doesn't exist for them. They probably see us as just so many ants.”

  He breathed out smoke like a dragon and went on, “We have to accept that they're in charge. If you think about it, we've been this way for a long time; computers control our factories, our agriculture, transport—road, air and sea—and most medical diagnosis. The only difference here is that we've given these two the power to punish disobedience. And remember—talking of these other everyday computers—given control of them, the two big boys could control production as well. Quite a thought. Then the only spheres in which we'd have an edge would be in art and emotion.” Forbin paused, gulped his drink.

  “I can't see that emotions will get a high rating,” observed the President gloomily.

  “You may be right, but it's an area of knowledge that they can't grasp. The irrational quality will puzzle them.”

  The President, who two hours earlier would have regarded Forbin as nuts, was now trying to understand.

  “That may be so, but where does it get us?”

  “Frankly, I don't know,” confessed Forbin. “I only say they don't understand, and I don't think they'll like any field of knowledge to be closed to them—particularly when this irrational quality is demonstrably the mainspring of us, their creators. They'll see it as a power source, which in a way it is.”

  “Um,” said the President, unconvinced. “Is all this connected with that half-idea you have?”

  “Not really. I've just been thinking that we might try gradually to render all the warheads safe when missiles come up for servicing—maybe fit dummy warheads. But there could also be an angle on the emotional side.”

  The President slammed the desk with his fist “It's all goddam crazy! Here we are, thousands of millions of dollars spent, and almost within twenty-four hours we're scheming how to take the things to pieces!”

  “Maybe we're sounding off too soon,” replied Forbin. “We need time badly, and that's the one thing we don't have. But what there is, we must use to get organized, to get our minds rolling again.”

  “You make it sound as if there's more to come!” The mere thought made the President drain his glass.

  “Well,” said Forbin, slowly, “I can't see things staying this way. It's possible—oh, hell—I just don't know.”

  The President was about to speak when the red light came on. Carruther's sharp voice assailed their ears. “Mr. President, Bishop's back. Your TV address is fixed for 11:30, forty-six minutes from—” there was a short pause—“now!”

  The President was grateful to be back in a world he understood. “Right—send my wife in. Cameras can come in five minutes before the telecast.”

  “Sir!” The light snapped off.

  “There's a hell of a lot to be said for good old-fashioned Navy training,” observed the President.

  Bishop had found the correct dye, and with impersonal efficiency the President was hustled into the bathroom by his wife. Forbin called Fisher, and filled him in on the situation. As he talked, his eyes roamed round the gracious white and gold of the room, a relic of a time unbelievably remote.

  “Jack, I want you or Cleo to get on to Grauber at CIA, ask him to let me have any information he's got on Guardian. I don't think Kupri will pull any fast ones, but I want to have as much collateral as possible before I talk with him. I have in mind fixing a meeting to really talk. Tell Grauber I won't call Kupri before the President's address, so he has that much time to get any information to me here.” Forbin sounded casual, and became even more casual as he went on. “How's Cleo? Good, put her on. Cleo, dear, how are you? Fine, fine. Don't worry too much, somehow we'll get by.” He lowered his voice instinctively. “How is Fisher? Yes, I see. Well, do what you can to keep him happy. See you soon.”

  Forbin felt unwarrantably happy as he rang off, and opened a fresh bottle of the Presidential Scotch. He knew he was coasting, not moving as he should, but his strained nerves screamed for relaxation, if only for a few brief minutes. He was very tired, almost past caring. He found himself thinking idly of Prytzkammer, reduced from a smart, urbane man of the world to a whimpering wreck, then a huddled-up corpse, as undistinguished as a bundle of dirty washing. . .

  And then he heard the teletype again.

  PROVIDE MONITORING FACILITIES ON HEADS OF STATE PRIVATE TELEPHONE

  Forbin stared at the message. This really was it. The machines were after full control. “Of what?” and “Why?” were profitless questions at this time.

  Even as he strove to concentrate on his immediate action, Colossus peremptorily demanded an acknowledgement. He swore childishly to himself. He must have time, time to talk to Kupri before the line was monitored—there was no question of refusing the demand. The insistent pinging of a phone registered slowly in his mind; still staring at the machine, he picked up the instrument. It was Cleo, anxious to know why Forbin had not answered Colossus. Suddenly Forbin saw the answer.

  “Cleo, listen. I must gain time to talk to Kupri. You answer. Say that I alone can order the facilities required, and that I'm out of touch. I'll watch at this end. Stall as long as you can.” He rang off without waiting for her to reply, and, being unable to remember which button to press, ran out to the aide's office, meeting the basilisk stare of Captain Carruthers.

  “Captain, get me Kupri, K U P R I, on the hot line at once. Time is very short.”

  The Navy man's eyes probed the Professor coldly. Although the aide knew full well only the President had the authority to originate a call, he hesitated but briefly, then reached for the red phone. “I'll call as soon as I have him.”

  “Hurry!” called Forbin as he ran back to the teletype. Colossus had just sent

  ACKNOWLEDGE FORTHWITH

  It was up to Cleo now. Automatically, Forbin started hunting for his pipe. Cleo had taken over.

  MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED

  Instantly Colossus flashed back

  WHO SENT ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Forbin nodded to himself. Colossus had recognized that it was not Forbin sending. There were a half-dozen ways this could be done; Forbin's clumsy typing was the most obvious, then there was the microsecond difference in the time of transmission, the different key relays. The interesting, chilling point was that, as Forbin had feared, Colossus was checking on these details.

  MESSAGE WAS ACKNOWLEDGED BY COLOSSUS PROGRAM OFFICE

  Forbin could guess the next question; he just had time to see his forecast confirmed before answering the phone.

  IS FORBIN THERE

  But there was no time to see how Cleo made out w
ith that one. He grabbed the hot-line phone.

  “Is that Kupri?”

  “Yes.” The clear unemotional voice seemed very close. “Look, Kupri, I have just had a demand from Colossus to monitor this line. I have my office stalling as long as they can, but this may be our final chance to talk. I haven't had time to formulate any concrete proposals, but I think we should arrange a meeting, away from our own capitals, somewhere quiet.”

  “A meeting is a good suggestion. I do not think we want a place too small or quiet—I suggest London; it is off the beaten track, yet quite busy. . .”

  “OK, make it London,” cut in Forbin impatiently.

  The Russian continued, quite unruffled by Forbin's manner. “As for this demand for monitoring, I have not had a similar message from Guardian, and if I do not receive such a demand, I think we can assume that the machines have integrated their intelligence intake.”

  “Quite probably,” said Forbin, without much interest. “Right now I would like to put to you, while we have the chance, the very rough idea that we might be able to neutralize the machines by virtually sabotaging their weapons. With the Colossus setup, we have a fixed program of servicing and replacement of missiles. It's probably the same with you. Speaking from memory, I think it takes five years to work round the whole lot. In that time we could gradually replace warheads with dummies, or at least render the detonator systems safe—”

  Kupri broke in, a trace of irony in his voice. “It is perhaps possible, but we would both have to trust each other a great deal more than our nations have done in the past.”

  “Yes, I know that, but we could meet that point by exchanging supervisors to work with our respective servicing teams.”

  “There are other difficulties,” began Kupri, but Forbin, pushed still more by the sound of the teletype in the background, exploded.

  “Hell's teeth! Either mankind works together, or we submit to the rule of machines! You, of all people, must know this.” Forbin fought momentarily within himself and went on in a more reasonable tone. “It's only a suggestion—if you can do better, I'll be only too glad to hear it.”