The Mechanical Monarch

by E. C. Tubb

  “No. I’ll consult Comain first. Then Rosslyn can don the

  helmet and I'll consult the machine again. If he can alter the original prediction I will give him anything he may desire. Anything and everything this entire planet can supply. He can ask for the world and it will be his, but, if the original prediction remains . . .” Something flared in the faded old eyes. “He shall die.”

  “Am I to have no say in the matter?” Curt stared at the old woman.

  “No.”

  He shrugged and watched interestedly as she sat in the easy chair and threw a contact. >

  “Yes?” The metallic, inhuman voice echoed clearly through the room.

  “Information. Unrestricted level. It is the Matriarch who '' speaks.” The old woman rested her bared left wrist against the scanning eye.

  “Yes?”

  “Predict my death.”

  For a moment there was silence and in the strained hush Curt' could hear the sharp inhalation of the dark-haired - woman at his side.

  “Prediction as to death of Matriarch. Death within thirty minutes.”

  “Be more explicit. Predict hour of death.”

  "Prediction of death of Matriarch. Hour of death. Eleven o’clock General Standard Time. Probability nine nines.”

  The mechanical voice stopped,and-for a moment the old woman sagged over the low bench, her shoulders bowed and her hands trembling as they gripped the arms of her chair. Then, moving with an almost painful effort, she rose and stared at Curt.

  “Register the man.”

  “Yes, Madam.” Nyeeda stepped towards the cubicle. “This way. Hurry.”

  “No.”

  “What?” She stared at the Matriarch. “Please don’t be foolish. You must register with Comain. Now hurry!”

  “I refuse.” Curt smiled at the consternation in her eyes

  and deliberately sat on the edge of the wide desk. “Certain threats have been uttered,” he said calmly. “To be frank with you I don’t know yet what this is all about, but it seems that you want me to do something. Am 1 right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, if I do it, what’s in it for me?”

  “You will register with Comain.” The Matriarch stepped towards the young man and naked hate distorted her sagging features. "I will not bargain with you, but know this. Unless you agree to register you will be shot. Nyeeda! Call the guards.” '

  “Wait.” Curt slipped from the edge of the desk. “Will my dead body help you?”

  "It will not harm me if that’s what you hope.” The Matriarch panted as she stared at the wide face of the electronic clock. "Fifteen minutes left. Register. Register before I kill you with my own' hands!” Curt blinked, staring at, a small pistol which had appeared- in the old woman’s hands. He stared at it, then raising his eyes, looked directly into distorted features of the Matriarch.

  “You leave me little choice,” he said calmly. "What is it you want me to do?”

  “Show him, Nyeeda.”

  “Yes, Madam.” The Secretary pointed towards the cubicle. “Sit in that chair. Place the helmet over your head. I -will attend to the rest.”

  Silently Curt sat in the easy chair and lifted the helmet.

  It was of some dull metal, lined with what seemed to be sponge platinum. A cable led from it, a thick, insulated cable, and it covered his entire skull like the appliances used for drying hair in his own period. He donned it and Nyeeda stooped over his shoulder as she threw several switches.

  “Fresh registration. Probe deep and record all data.”

  A red lamp blinked on a wall panel and die girl sighed as she turned to the Matriarch.

  “Registration completed, Madam.”

  “Good.” The old woman glared at Curt. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of that chair.”

  Silently he obeyed, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead and a speculative expression in his grey eyes. He had felt nothing, no probe of current, no tangible sensation of surging energy, nothing to denote that the contents of his mind had been copied and transferred to the memory banks of Comain.

  Tensely the Matriarch sat in the chair and identified herself to the machine.

  “Yes?”

  “Predict death of the Matriarch.”

  “Prediction of death. Life span will terminate eleven o’clock. Probability nine nines.”

  “What!” Desperately the old woman cleared the panel and re-identified herself. “Predict my death on the basis of all available data. All available data.”

  Silence for a moment as if the machine were parching through a million stored memories and ten million filed references. In the silence Curt could hear the ragged breathing of the old woman, and beside him, her lips parted with anticipation, the secretary leaned a little forward.

  “Prediction as to death.” The cold, inhuman voice from the speaker echoed through the room. “Death at eleven o’clock. Probability nine nines.”

  “Sol” All life seemed to drain from the old woman as she slumped over the low bench. “Nine nines probability that I will die at eleven o’clock.” A choked sound came from her throat, then, as if finally accepting the inevitable, she straightened and left the cubicle. “You realise what this means, Nyeeda?”

  “A nine nines probability has always been certainty.” The secretary licked her lips with a nervous gesture and glanced at the wide face of the electronic clock. The Matriarch followed her gaze.

  “Five minutes,” she said calmly. “In all my experience the machine has never been wrong with full data to work on.” She stared at Curt and the pistol glinted with silent menace in her hand. “I should kill you. I should blast you down like a mad dog as I promised, but . . .” She shrugged and the

  tiny orifice of the muzzle twisted and. slewed upwards and inwards.

  “No!” Nyeeda lunged forward. “No, Madam. You can’t!” “Why not? Comain has predicted my death. You know what that means. Why wait for the end? Why hang on to the last few minutes? Why not end it all—now.”

  “No!” Curt didn’t move but the pistol seemed to jerk, to twist, to fall and thud softly on to the carpeted floor. “Are you insane, old 'woman? Kill yourself and you make the prediction come true. Is that what you want? Are you so afraid of Comain being wrong that you will die rather than admit that he could be at fault?”

  “Comain is never wrong.”

  “Then you will die.” He was deliberately cruel. “Why hasten the inevitable? You have two minutes yet. Believe me, Madam, death can last an awfully long time. Why not enjoy those last two minutes while you can?”

  She hesitated, staring at the pistol which had so strangely left her hand, then, as she noticed the high windows and the sunlit terrace outside, she nodded. ~-

  “You are right,” she whispered. “It is such a little time, but . . .” Slowly she stepped to the windows, breathing ' deeply of the warm air as she passed through them onto the terrace, then, standing close to the low rampart, she stared out over the city of Comain.

  Against the wall the hands of the electronic clock moved towards the fatal hour.

  “She will die,” whispered Nyeeda, and Curt felt her slender body quiver as, instinctively, she pressed against him.

  “Perhaps.” He stared at the clock then focused his eyes and mind on the figure of the old Matriarch as she stood by the low rampart of the sunlit terrace.- _

  “She will die,” repeated Nyeeda sickly. “Now.” Together with her words came the soft chiming of the electronic clock. One. Two. Three.

  On the terrace the old woman swayed a little as she heard the chiming of the fatal hour.

  Six. Seven. Eight.

  The swaying increased. She gasped, clutching at her chest, her sagging features grey with pain and . fear, then, slowly at first but with accelerating speed, she crumpled, swayed, hit the low edge of the rampart—and toppled forward into space.

  Nyeeda screamed, a chill, soul-wrenching sound, jarring from the walls and the furnishings of the office, echoing and
skirling in shocked realisation.

  Curt grunted and concentrated on the itching at the back of his brain.

  Incredibly the old woman did not fall. She hovered, her body limp and helpless, suspended five thousand feet above the plain below, and sweat started in great beads on Curt’s forehead as he fought his instinctive desire to run forward and grasp the Matriarch. Slowly, as if blown by a gentle wind, the limp figure of the old woman moved back on to the terrace, away from the low rampart and the certain death waiting,-below. She drifted, bobbed a little, then, with a startling gentleness, came to rest on the smooth surface of the terrace.

  Ten. Eleven.

  In the silence following the ending of the chimes. Nyeeda’s breathing sounded harsh and loud as if she had just run a dozen miles. She staggered, almost fell, then, with an almost savage explosion of energy, she had run from the room and Was stooping over the figure of the old woman.

  Tensely Curt waited while the slender fingers rested on the heart, touched the wrist, then lingered, almost caressingly, on the great vein in the wrinkled throat.

  “She's alive.” Incredulous amazement made the secretary’s voice shrill and almost ugly. “She’s alive!”

  “Yes,” said Curt. He wiped his streaming forehead and slumped down on to the edge of the wide desk.

  “But she can’t be alive. She can’t be.” Nyeeda stared at the young man. “Comain said that she would die. The machine predicted it. She can’t be alive. She can’t be!”

  “She is.” Curt pointed towards the feebly twitching figure of the Matriarch.' “She is alive and will stay that way if she only has the sense to see a doctor about her heart.”

  “But . . The secretary rose and her eyes as she stared at Curt held a peculiar horror. “Only one thing could have saved her,” she whispered. “An unknown factor. You donned the helmet, and yet, even though you had registered, you saved the Matriarch from certain death. Comain should have known of your power. The data should have been recorded, but . . .” Her voice died in silence as she realised just what she was saying.

  “You didn’t register! In some way Comain didn’t transfer the contents of your brain. You are still a danger ter our safety, still an unknown force.” She' stepped forward and Curt winced to the emotion mirrored on her perfect features. “You are still an extra man.”

  Abruptly she turned and ran towards the door.

  . “Wait.” Curt smiled as she spun and moved towards .him. “Do not call your guards. I would hate to kill them, but, if you call them and they threaten me I will not be gentle.” “You . . .” Again she twisted and ran towards the door. Curt sighed, concentrated on the itching at the back of his brain, and smiled into her startled eyes.

  “Relax,” he said gently. “There is nothing to get upset about. Hadn’t you better look after the old woman?”

  “Who are you?” whispered the girl. “What are you?”

  “I told you once,” he said evenly. “I told you in the elevator along with something else. Can you remember what it was?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying. I said that you and I would be seeing much of each other. I am not boasting, neither am I telling you anything but what you yourself have thought. If you are honest you will admit that. Well?”

  “You devil!” Anger flushed her pale features. “Can you read minds as well?”

  “As well as what?”

  “You know what I mean.” She flushed again and stared thoughtfully at the young man. “I remember now. You said that you were a friend of Comain. What did you mean by that?”

  “I said that I am the friend of Comain,” said Curt evenly. “And I meant exactly what I said.” He slipped from his perch on the edge of the desk and glanced at the Matriarch, now sifting up and staring wildly about her. “Fetch her in, sooth her, calm, her down. We have important matters to discuss.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the future of this world.” He smiled a little at her expression, then, moving with a casual assurance, he stepped behind the wide desk and sat down.

  In the chair of the Matriarch.

  CHAPTER XX

  An hour had passed. The old Matriarch had recovered and sat, silent and watchful, in a chair opposite her wide desk. Next to her sat Nyeeda and in the young secretary’s eyes a peculiar expression lurked as she stared at the slender figure of the young man. Curt smiled, leaning back in the comfortable chair, and his eyes as he stared at the fleecy white clouds and blue sky visible through the open window, were narrowed and clear with decisive thought.

  “Well?” The Matriarch cleared her throat with a harsh rasping sound. "What happens now?”

  “Do you still believe in the predictions of Comain?” “Naturally.” The old woman frowned as she stared at Curt. “Though I will admit I don’t quite know how it is that I’m still alive.”

  “Hasn’t Nyeeda 'explained?”

  “She said something about you having saved my life. Some nonsense about you not having registered with Comain.” “She was right.”

  “Ridiculous. I saw you don the helmet myself.”

  “And so you believe that* I have automatically been registered.” Curt turned from the high windows and stared at the old woman. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that perhaps I was not registered as you call it?"

  “Impossible. The assimilation of knowledge is instantaneous. Comain could not but help taking data from you.” “No?” Curt shrugged. “Then, according to your own logic, you are dead and none of this is happening.”

  “Now you are being stupid. Of course I am not dead. I am alive and we are talking-in my office.” She frowned at the sight of the young man in her chair. “While we re at it I’ll trouble you to change seats. That is my desk and my chair.” ,

  “No.”

  “No!” Anger darkened the sagging features. “How dare you! I am the Matriarch and I rule!”

  “Do you?” Curt smiled as he leaned back in the comfortable chair. “Perhaps I have other ideas.”

  “Rebellion?” The old woman sneered her contempt. “Now I know you are insane. Why, man, at a word from me the guards would tear you apart with HV slugs. Now. No more foolishness. Give me my chair.”

  “Not rebellion, and your guards are helpless to aid you.” Abruptly he leaned forward and his taut features were suddenly harsh and bleak. “Listen to me, old woman. Listen and learn. I could wreck your civilisation. I alone! Believe this, and, if you doubt, ask yourself what it was that snatched you from the brink of death. Now. Listen to me and try to forget your swollen pride and empty position.”

  “Nyeeda. Call the guards.”

  “But . . .”

  “Call them I say!” Anger made the. Matriarch ugly. “Do as I order!”

  Suddenly the high windows swung shut with a crash of shattering glass. A heavy table lifted from the floor, swung across the room, then, with a tearing and smashing, ripped itself apart in mid-air. A chair dashed itself to matchwood against the wide face of the electronic clock, and clock and broken chair plumed into space - through the shattered windows. A quiver shook the room, a trembling of stone and concrete, a shrilling of protesting steel, and chips of riven stone filtered from the roof and stained the carpets. ,

  “Well?” Curt wiped sweat from his glistening forehead. “Are you convinced? Or would you like me to destroy this building? I can do it you know. I can rip the thing that is Comar to atoms—and what then of your civilisation?”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Are you so big a fool that you believe that?” Curt shook his head. “What is your civilisation to me? I am an outcast, a stranger, a man returned from the dead. I am, as your secretary puts it, an extra man, and why should I care what Happens to your safe, snug little world?”

  “I believe you,” whispered the old woman. “What is it you want of me?”

  “Nothing.” Curt relaxed and smiled up at the high roof. “We have things to discuss, you and I. But first it was essential to clear your mind of suspic
ion and futile thoughts.” “You saved my life,” said the Matriarch evenly. “What is it you want?”

  For a long moment silence hung in the room, then, with a sudden leaning across the wide desk, Curt asked a question. “What,” he said quietly, “is Comain?”

  “A machine. A great, electronic computating machine. Why do you ask?” The Matriarch stared her surprise.

  “Is it?” Curt shook his head. “I think that it is a little more than what you say. I believe that for more than two centuries now, for almost as long as the machine has existed in fact, people have forgotten what it really is.”

  “And that is?”

  “I knew Comain," said Curt softly. “We were friends together and we shared the same dreams. I knew of his plans for a super-predictor, but, and this is the point, it was never intended to run an entire world. Comain was no fool. He knew, as any sensible person must know, that to predict things as you expect Comain to predict them, it is necessary to live in a sealed world. A world in which every man and woman has been labelled, filed, classified and relegated to a certain niche. A slave world.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “How else can a machine predict what must happen? How else can a machine plot the course of events? Let one man use imagination, do the unexpected, refuse or fail to keep to the norm, and immediately the whole fabric of that civilisation is upset. I have proved that. I, your 'extra man,’ showed you what could happen in such a world.”

  “Once you are registered the world will return to normal. Comain will be able to predict with a nine nines probability factor and we shall be content again.”

  “And you would have been dead in such a world.” Curt stared at the Matriarch. “But you miss my point. I am not arguing about theories of government. I am talking of Co-main. I am talking of the most wonderful invention ever made by the hands of man. An invention which could give us everything we ever desired—if you hadn’t forgotten how to use it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I am talking about a machine which holds all the memories and knowledge of hundreds of millions of brains. A machine which could answer any question put to it—if you knew how to ask the question.”