Colossus (12 page)

“I’ll take Guardian for the moment,” volunteered Cleo, “but it won’t be all that long before he’s way over my head.” Fisher had moved over to study the Colossus output. “Which particular part has you bothered, Johnson?”

“This is pretty straightforward, but here,” he tapped the paper, “I get to be somewhat dizzy.”

Fisher hunched forward, plucking one eyebrow, and read the passage very carefully. Then he went through it again; he leaned back and shut his eyes, breathing deeply. Johnson watched his senior with some concern, but knew better than to speak. For perhaps two minutes Fisher remained thus, quite motionless apart from the rise and fall of his chest, then he opened his eyes and stared once more at the weird mass of figures, letters and signs before him.

“My God,” he said slowly in an awed voice. “Eddington was right all along the line.”

At the mention of Eddington, Forbin looked up, “Eddington? You mean the English astronomer of around a hundred years ago?”

Fisher nodded without turning his head. “The expanding universe theory that was partly rejected—Colossus has just restated Eddington’s views almost exactly.” He got up and took the paper to Forbin. “It’s fantastic! A new statement on gravity and confirmation on the Eddington theory all in a day and a night. It’s a nightmare …” His voice trailed off into silence as he slumped back in his chair, deep in contemplation of the brain at the other end of the teletype.

Forbin did not speak. As a mathematician, he knew Fisher was his superior, but then Fisher was certainly the best in the USNA, and probably in the top four in the world. Forbin was no mean performer himself, and appreciated only too well what was happening. Men of science had slowly and painfully picked their way along the path of knowledge over the centuries, sometimes taking the wrong track, frequently obstructed by ignorant laymen, very often hampered by their own faults and obstinacies … Now, here was Colossus, sliding along effortlessly at vast speed like an air-car, making previous progress look like an infant crawling in its pen by comparison. Forbin shrugged off a growing sense of helplessness and reached for the phone.

“Get me the Head of CIA.”

In a matter of seconds he was talking to CIA’s duty officer.

“Right now Mr. Grauber is talking to the President, sir.” “Did he originate the call?” “No, sir.”

“Well, have him call me as soon as you can.”

It looked as if the President was checking up on what Forbin had said. Not that the Director blamed him. Suddenly, Forbin felt very tired and helpless.

“Armsorg, rustle up some coffee, will you—I’ll watch that.” He nodded towards the silent direct link with Colossus. Armsorg nodded and left the tense, brittle atmosphere of the watch room with every sign of relief.

Forbin sat down, checked that the teletype was in order, then leaned back, watching the faces of his colleagues.

Fisher and Johnson were glued to the endless, tireless Colossus transmission. Johnson was clearly struggling hard to keep up. Forbin wondered how long it would be before Fisher started to flounder too. He looked at Cleo who was gazing intently at the other teletype. Unbidden, the image of her fresh from her shower appeared in his mind; he felt a sudden unscientific urge which he instantly repressed. Side issues again, he thought, even at a time like this …

Armsorg returned. The coffee distribution broke their concentration. Cleo said, “Charles, I can’t hold Guardian much longer. He’s stopped repeating everything twice, and we’re deep in calculus.”

The last word jerked Fisher from his studies; he darted over, full of energy, and glanced over the jumble of figures and letters. “Yes, almost identical with Colossus, including that twist I mentioned.”

A moan of anguish from Johnson switched attention back to Colossus.

“That really bitches me! Colossus has stopped the repetitions!”

Fisher looked sharply at Forbin.

“Yes, I know, both running high-grade math without repeats, you want help.”

“A lot more.”

“Close up the other watch as well,” said Forbin decisively.

“We have six top—class math men in the Group; they should be able to hold it down. Jack, I don’t want you in a watch. Stay in general charge of the whole assignment.”

“We can’t keep them on forever, Charles,” Fisher protested.

“I know that!” retorted Forbin. “I’ll raise another team within twelve hours—sooner if I can. In the meantime, they’ll have to live on zip-pills and their nerves—but that doesn’t include you, Jack, and that’s an order! You act as continuity between watches, and you must sleep. If it makes you feel any better”—Fisher was making vague protesting noises—”fix yourself a cot in the rest room.”

“But where are you going to get the men—”

“That’s my problem. Your assignment is to head up the whole team, supervise and produce an hourly appreciation of both machines’ output, and that’s a king-sized job. Don’t go chasing after anything else, we can’t afford wasted effort.”

“Head of CIA on the line, sir!” called Armsorg.

In a few short sentences Forbin explained the situation and his urgent need for men. He pointed out to Grauber that there was some duplication of effort, CIA and Project men going over the same ground. Grauber himself offered to pool resources under Forbin’s control, and it was soon arranged for ten of CIA’s highest grade mathematicians to join Fisher’s team as soon as transportation would allow—a matter of two or three hours. It was agreed that the hourly reports should be available to CIA. Forbin thanked Grauber warmly and left the phone feeling that perhaps all was not lost.

“How’s Guardian, Cleo?”

Cleo looked up, her smile slightly forced. “I’ve kept up by cheating. I’m comparing the earlier output of colossus with Guardian on the same subject. He’s on gravitation—identical with Colossus—but I figure another half-hour and I might as well be a chorus girl for all it will mean to me.”

Forbin wondered if he would feel any differently about her if she were. He rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. It took a conscious effort to stop it from wandering into a caressing movement. For a brief moment he gripped her shoulder hard, then relaxed and employed both hands filling his pipe.

“Don’t worry. The Marines will land shortly—I expect Jack will soon be back with Blake, Levy and the rest. Also I’ve made a deal with Grauber—he’s sending ten good men, first lot here around midnight. That will give us sixteen—eight in a watch.”

Cleo was startled. “That’s a lot of brain.”

Forbin lowered his voice. “Frankly, I doubt very much if it will be enough if this runs for another twenty-four hours.” “But it can’t go on, Charles!”

“Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, I want you to back up Jack—he has to produce hourly reports, and your wider field of knowledge of the machines can help him. And your feminine presence may stop him going nuts.” Forbin smiled.

Cleo was not sure if the last part was a joke or not, so she ignored it. “How about you?”

“There is a growing school of thought that holds I’m screwy beyond recall.”

“And therefore beyond the need for female support?”

“Now, now. No need to flex your muscles at me, you know the answer.”

Cleo did not reply, but raised one eyebrow, and the world of science shrank to insignificance.

Whatever Forbin had in mind was relegated to another time as Fisher and his team arrived. It included the chunky, cigar-smoking Blake, and Levy, small, dark and birdlike. Forbin was watching them settle in, when Grauber called again, telling Forbin the first group would be on their way in fifteen minutes. He also gave Forbin the gist of his conversation with the President, but there was nothing new in it for Forbin, who then gave Grauber his opinion on the present exchange between the machines.

“Both machines are exchanging basic information—and both are making sure they speak the same language, scientifically speaking. The way Guardian is singing, it sounds like a perfect duet to me. These discoveries in gravitation are only discoveries to us—I think it is perfectly obvious to them, and just about as important as twice two equaling four. This is simply a get-together.”

“And then?”

“That, Grauber, is the big question. What then?”

Chapter 11

By midnight the situation was coming under control. The reinforced first watch were within sight of catching up with the machines. Even so, there was only time for rough evaluation. By 0100 local time, Fisher and Cleo had produced the first report. No further major surprises had emerged, but there were many minor items which would also rock the ship of science, and not only in astronomy and mathematics. Fisher, his mind sealed against the larger implications, was happy and on top of his task.

“There you are, Charles. Report One—both outputs to midnight.” He handed Forbin two closely typed pages.

Forbin glanced at it briefly. “I only hope I’ve time to read it. Has CIA’s copy gone?”

“Yes. A copy was transmitted as soon as the original was checked.” Fisher turned to Cleo. “Cleo, I can handle the next two reports without help; why don’t you get some rest? I’ll call when I need you.” The change in Fisher from a near-hysterical wreck to a busy, capable man was startling, and no small relief to Forbin.

Forbin put the report down. “I could do with a change of scene, too.” He took Cleo’s arm and they went out. “Hey—rain!” he said with surprise.

“Where are we going?” said Cleo, also looking at the rain. “Going? Oh, let’s just walk up and down—if you don’t mind the rain.”

My hair, thought Cleo, it will all go as straight as damp string. Damnation!

“Of course not—I love walking in the rain.”

They circled the block for ten minutes in silence. Forbin held her arm tightly, drawing comfort from her presence. The rain grew steadily heavier, but he did not seem to notice. Cleo felt water in her shoes, rivulets down her neck. For another five minutes they trudged on, then Forbin, surfacing from his private thoughts, showed a tardy concern for his companion.

“Cleo, you must be getting wet. We’ll go in before you catch cold.”

He took her arm more firmly and headed towards her quarters, Cleo squelching happily beside him. Passing a luminescent slab he looked at her, and spoke with real concern.

“My dear, you really are drenched! I’m sorry—it was so thoughtless—your hair is soaking!”

Cleo silently cursed her naturally straight hair, and thought how tactless, inexperienced and charming he was.

“It doesn’t matter, we can soon get dry.” She was aware of him touching her hair; for no very good reason they stopped, the rain slanted down, bright rods of light and then, suddenly, she was oblivious of the rain and her wet feet … She knew only that deep within her there was a feeling of fire and movement, her legs trembled.

It was the best part of a minute before he released her. She tried to sound unconcerned and matter of fact.

“Well, there goes my lipstick as well!” Her voice was shaky with emotion, she pressed herself against him, her arms round his neck, wet face against his wet shirt.

But Forbin was now fully aware of the rain, and gently disentangled himself. “Come on, let’s go in.”

In her living room they looked at each other with a faint air of embarrassment; Cleo knew it was up to her to keep the ball rolling, or he would get bogged down and might take ages to get moving again, and there were not ages to spare.

“Now,” she said brightly, “I think you had better get those shoes off, and that shirt. I’ll fix us a drink, then change myself.” Her eyes were bright, there was color in her face. She even forgot her hair.

With half of a large rye in his hand, and the other half adding to his internal glow, Forbin felt better than he had for days. He beamed vaguely at the wall and did not notice, or bother to look at, the teletype in one corner of the room. Cleo had vanished into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

“You know, Cleo, all the time we were walking, I wasn’t thinking about Colossus, but about you.”

Cleo, halfway out of her blouse, smiled to herself.

“Really, Charles?” Her tone was a nice balance between interested and the noncommittal.

“Yes. In fact you’ve been on my mind more than once in the past few days.” There Forbin’s inspiration dried up; he gulped down the rest of his rye.

Cleo said nothing; she enjoyed woman’s favorite mental game, cat and mouse, as much as the next. She tossed the blouse in the disposal bin—all clothing except formal dress was disposable—and took another. Momentarily, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her only other garment, a white brassiere, stood out in sharp contrast with her pale brown skin. She hesitated, then took off the brassiere before donning the new blouse. If the situation developed, it could help—she had a feeling that Forbin might be unhandy with fastenings. Quickly she brushed her hair back, pulled it into a rough ponytail. A look in the mirror at the finished product made her grimace, but it was the best she could do in the time, and time was of the essence; Forbin might easily slide off into a ceiling-staring mood; with all he had on his mind it would be understandable. Judging by the silence, he might already be away.

“Charles, give yourself another drink.” Hastily Cleo repaired the ravages of the rain—and Forbin—to her make-up, and practically ran back to the living room. Forbin had not removed shoes or shirt, or replenished his drink. He stood rocking gently back and forth, but stopped at her entrance, and smiled. There was a hint of surprise in his voice.

“You should always do your hair like that.”

Like hell, thought Cleo, this style is strictly for schoolmarms.

“It suits the shape of your face,” said Forbin, looking at her carefully, “accentuates the general oval shape, and the cheekbones.”

It was Cleo’s turn to look surprised. This was good penetrating stuff, coming from a man, especially this man. She turned to look in the mirror, practically a reflex action in any female in the circumstances, to see if she could see what he saw.

For a large man he moved quickly. Cleo hardly had time to glimpse his reflection in the mirror before she felt herself encircled by a surprisingly strong arm. She placed her free hand on his, not to stop it wandering from her midriff, but to make sure he did not retreat.