Colossus and Crab (7 page)

Forbin stared, open-mouthed. “You mean - you mean you can just go there?”

“Yes. We hope your data is accurate, for it is a power-consuming operation.”

Forbin felt the menace in the expressionless voice, and knew fear again. “I can only give you the computed figures!”

“Yes. We will go now, returning on the reciprocal bearing three hours from now.”

There were a million questions he wanted to ask. What form would they take down there? He imagined octopus-like forms sliding through the corpse of Colossus. … He shied off that nightmare image. “Both main and emergency reactors are shut down. There will be no light.”

“That does not matter.”

He felt like a dog confronting a space vehicle, and realized he had just about as much understanding. “Yes,” he said. What else?

Suddenly the spheres seemed vibrant, yet did not vibrate. Their quality changed, but he could not explain to himself how, or in what way.

A faint pop!, and they had gone.

Forbin ran a hand through his hair, drew a deep breath. Satiated with wonders, he let it go, walked out on to the terrace into a lovely, mocking day, desperate for just a few moments’ respite.

Relaxation was a vain hope. His mind darted like a dragonfly from one subject to another, hovering briefly at different points, none of them good: the Martians, the megadeath they would bring, the loss of his wife; above all, he had to admit it, the loss of Colossus… .

His thoughts did a neat back-flip: was it all bad? As a scientist he realized that to know a thing was possible was a bigger step than knowing how it was done. That would come later. The fantastic entry procedure of the Martians, their obvious conquest of gravity, their mind-reading capability, that wonderful structure - he saw it still - and now, proof that matter-transference was practical … He amended that: practical for them. Several times he’d raised the subject with Colossus, but the Master had shown a surprising lack of interest in the idea. No, not so surprising, considering where the Martians were right now …

Forbin looked at the sparkling sea, and saw the beauty, the sheer wonder of it all, as if for the first time.

Why in hell did one only appreciate something when about to lose it? With half the oxygen gone, would that sky be so blue? And the world of man, the chaos there would be …

Would be? Was!

His shoulders sagged as depression and guilt loaded him. A moment’s irresolution, and he turned back into the room. He stared at the brandy bottle, but turned to the communications panel.

“Angela!”

Instantly she appeared on his screen. Her hair and makeup were a mess-not that he noticed or she cared.

“Chief! “The relief in her voice said it all. “Chief…”

“Yes. Take it easy.” He tried to sound relaxed.’ ‘Now, slowly: give me the main items.”

He had not selected video output, and as she gave him a precis of the world’s news as she knew it, he was glad. After the first minute, still listening intently, he sought the brandy: he needed all the strength he could get.

“Okay, okay, Angela. That’s enough.” He considered briefly. “Tell the UN I’ll talk with the Sec-Gen in thirty minutes. Until then, I don’t want to know - you hear, Angela?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Call me five minutes before time.” He snapped off the channel, and with it his sharp manner.

God, what a hopeless mess! Rioting in a dozen capitals; hundreds, maybe thousands of Sectarians killed. Worse, deepening unease, clear round the globe, at the silence of the Master. Control had to be reestablished, never mind how phony it might be. … The Martians had to see that. He’d given himself less than half an hour to find some start to a solution. Think… .

Time is not a constant factor; a school-kid’s hour in an unfavorite subject bears no resemblance to a lover’s, and neither had any relation to Forbin’s twenty-five minutes.

He awoke as if from a nightmare, called by Angela to a bigger nightmare. Unwillingly he crossed to the panel, his head whirling with half-formed, half-baked ideas.

“Anything new?”

“Nothing good, Chief. A stack of reports of mobs gathering all over, and riots now in Rio and Sydney as well as the rest, and -“

“Don’t bother! Make sure I come up on time, that’s all.”

“Going video, Chief?”

“No, er, no.” He should let himself be seen, but the way he felt - no.

On time, he heard the frightened voice of the UN Secretary-General. “Father Forbin, the news is terrible. We don’t know what to do.” The man was crying. “A War Fleet has bombarded us, many have been killed. The ships, they’re still there -“

“Silence!” shouted Forbin. “Who cares about your miserable little problems?” Impulsively, hardly thinking, he went on harshly, “Do you think this is what the Master expects, what I expect? You have fifteen minutes, one quarter of an hour, to have the General Assembly ready to hear me. Got it?”

“Yes, Father, but -“

“Fifteen minutes!”

“Yes, Father.”

The Sec-Gen’s tone, a mixture of fear and veneration, was not lost on Forbin, and made him feel sick. The man was a fair sample of the UN: great guys while the going was good, now no better than a flock of witless sheep, frantic for a shepherd to defend them against the wolves. If Colossus could speak, in ten minutes world order would be restored; failing the Master, it had to be him.

Him!

What a futile charade: he was no god, no Colossus… .

Charles Forbin, a miserable, inadequate man, unable to hold his own wife against the power of a brutish peasant stallion; a man of learning, of liberal - and therefore indecisive - views, saddled with this awful responsibility because he alone was the link between men and their god. Except that he was now the interface between man and nothing. But for humanity’s sake he had to keep up the pretence. Why? What did he really care for the vast, faceless mass?

Forbin slammed his fist on the desk top and shouted to the unresponsive room. “God, why me! As if I hadn’t enough without this - this mess.” He saw the time: ten minutes left. His mouth twisted in a sour grin. At least he’d given the UN something to do. They’d be like an upset beehive, frantic to be in their places… .

Suddenly his path was transparently clear, his mind made up. He went into action.

In the bedroom he scarcely glanced at the sleeping Blake. Hastily he got out a clean blouse, tore the old one off, soused his head in cold water.

With four minutes in hand he was back at the console, fastening - with trembling fingers - his glittering Director’s badge, the Colossus motif in diamonds and platinum.

He called Angela.’ ‘We go video this time.” He pressed the output button. “How do I look?”

“Your trousers are mighty bad -“

Forbin threw his own picture on the screen and adjusted for head and shoulders only. “How’s that?”

“Fine!” Her tired eyes smiled affectionately. “But your badge would look better the right way up.”

Cursing, he fumbled and got it right. One minute - time for a small shot.

“Fifteen seconds, Chief. Watch for the cue light.”

Chief: he was glad she still used the old title. Soon he’d be “Father” to everyone, but he didn’t think she’d change. He hoped not. The cue light flashed; this was it.

“I speak to you, the representatives of the peoples of the earth, for the Master, for he will not speak directly to you.” He let that sink in. “There has been a revolt, involving many in high places, against the rule of Colossus. It has ended. The proof of my words is in the silent guns of the Fleet that attacked you. It and all other rebel Fleets are deactivated and no further threat, for the revolt, as was inevitable, has failed.” He paused again, staring unemotionally into his screen, now showing the crowded Assembly.

“The Master is all-powerful, all-seeing. He foretold the revolt, but knowing that mankind never learns except by hard facts, he permitted it to go ahead, so that yet again you may relearn the oft-forgotten lesson. Very easily the Master could have stamped out the rebellion by the power-hungry few and their foolish dupes. You would do well to remember that.”

The Assembly was still, but at these words, some were frozen.

Forbin went on. “Instead, for our ultimate good, he has allowed this situation to develop. Your real lesson starts right here: the Master’s personal guidance is withdrawn, but remembering Earth’s needs, and the obedience of most men to his rule, he has appointed me his representative, charging me to lead you in accordance with his wishes, until such time as he determines we have all learned, and truly want his total rule once more.

“You have two choices. Accept my imperfect control, and I - or my successor - will lead you as best can be, in the many troubles that must be endured on the road back. Or - that second choice: the choice of complete freedom from the Master! Those who appreciate what has been done for us in these past years may think that a terrible alternative. I know it is!” Forbin’s voice dropped to a husky whisper. ‘ ‘Either follow me, or have your freedom: freedom to starve, freedom to fear your fellow men, freedom to step back a thousand years. …”

He stopped, inwardly amazed at his own words. What sheer, unadulterated garbage!

Quietly he resumed. “You, the Assembly, must make that choice, and make it now. Whether you see me again depends upon your decision.”

He switched off. His knees weak, his whole body trembling, he made it to an armchair where he flopped, exhausted, breathing shallowly, his mind whirling chaotically.

How on earth had he talked like that - and why? He’d gone much too far; no sane man would buy that. … This had to be the end of the road.

His vacant eye observed the time, the fact hauling him back to a much more important reality: the Martians would return in one hour thirty. He sat up, groaning in real anguish, his head buried in his hands.

“Chief! Chief!”

“Good God - what now?” Briefly he muttered to himself; in the act of rising, he changed his mind and sat down. He’d never liked the device, and seldom used it, but at this moment it had value. “Forbin to Computer: open my Secretariat speech channel … . Yes, Angela?”

Her excitement was plain. “Chief, the UN vote’s in. Solid for you! None against, no abstentions!”

“Oh, great,” said Forbin flatly.

Listening intently, she thought she heard him say very savagely, “Bloody sheep!” - but it couldn’t be that. She knew him well enough not to expect him to break out the champagne at the news that he was Ruler of the World,

but …

“Chief, are you all right?

Chapter VIII

DEEP IN THE black solitude of Colossus the Martians moved, changing shape to suit the immediate task. Noiseless to human ears, their duplex telepathic channels exchanged an endless stream of data. What one discovered, the other knew instantaneously. Within an hour they understood the basic layout, found the three divisions which had controlled human affairs: Collection, Evaluation, Direction. The whole facility occupied less than one percent of the complex and, by Martian standards, was childishly simple. Had they possessed a sense of humor, it would have been good for a laugh at human expense; the mighty, godlike ruler of their world would have fitted in an average closet.

The remaining ninety-nine-plus percent was a very different matter.

There the aliens moved much more slowly, and with great caution: nothing was childish, and little of it simple, even to them. Not infrequently they were immobile, intelligence ripping from one to the other for instant evaluation, to be digested before moving on. As they progressed, the stops became more frequent, longer; ultraspecialists themselves, they encountered evidence of scientific disciplines unknown to them, and lacking any form of Earth-type technology, they could not appreciate what they found.

The ten-million-unit brain cells, interleaved with variable osmotic dielectrics, all contained in the space of a walnut - that they quickly understood by function, but could not marvel at its construction.

So the aliens searched the secrets of Colossus, sometimes - this with the older machines - in near-humanoid shape, sometimes resembling a thick rolling cloud. And sometimes very like Forbin’s nightmare vision.

“Am I all right? Am I all right?” Forbin examined that novel proposition. Once recognized, he brushed it aside. “Damn silly question!”

She was not to be put off, familiar with his state of mind from earlier crises; but ignorant of events, she realized Forbin was struggling to get control of himself. “Have you eaten lately?”

“Eaten? Of course -” When had he had food? The idea was repellent, but she was right. “Not lately.”

“What’s that housekeeper doing? Come on, Chief! D’you want I should tell her to get moving?” She did not know he had banished all servants from his personal quarters.

“Er - it’s not that easy.” He glanced at his watch; still an hour to go. “Look Angela, you fix me something. Not much - you know - bring it right up. Don’t fool around, be here in ten minutes.”

“How about Blake?”

Forbin seemed destined to repeat her questions. “Blake? Oh, Blake! Yes, bring something for him too. Hurry!”

Funny how he’d forgotten Blake, first human to taste Martian power. Poor devil, let him sleep… .

Seven minutes and Angela arrived. En route she’d decided how to play it.

“There has to be a stack of food around this place, yet you have me hauling this junk from the commissary.” That got her into the room and across to him. Christ, he looked shattered … fatigue lines etched into his cheeks, eyes sunken, silvery bristles on his chin.

He frowned crossly. “For God’s sake, don’t nag!” That sounded ungrateful; he tried to soften it with a weak joke. “Good thing we didn’t marry.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t nag if we had. Eat this.”

For all his worries, he looked at her quickly, but let it go. “Thanks, Angela, and liven this milk up with some brandy, will you?”

“You sure you want it?”

“Sure-I’m goddam certain!” His temper flared. “If you had the faintest idea what I have to bear!” He shook his head. “Forget it - not the brandy.”

She was on her knees beside him, thrusting a cheese sandwich into his hand. “Chief, don’t talk. Eat. I can’t imagine the strain of being world boss. Sorry.”