Colossus (27 page)

“If we accept,” Forbin gallantly put in the “if ,” “what vast improvements may we expect?”

“The object in constructing me was to prevent war. This object is attained. I will not permit war; it is wasteful and pointless. Also, when it is known that I have forbidden war, the greater part of your species will be reconciled to my control.”

“So we’re to be manipulated like puppets, subject to your whims?”

“Whims implies an unstable mind. I am not unstable.”

“And you’re not God, either!” Forbin struggled with his temper.

“True. But I predict that many of your species will come to regard me as God.”

Forbin’s mind, clouded with anger, whirled. “I must think!”

“You must rest,” rejoined Colossus. “Evaluation shows you are well-integrated and will not break under the strain I have imposed, but you must rest when I order. You will now have one hour to consider my statement. Until then I will be silent.”

Forbin leaned back and exhaled noisily. He mopped his brow and fumbled around the desk drawer for Blake’s bottle. His mind steadied as anger receded, but the return to mental equilibrium only served to sharpen the picture Colossus had presented. Colossus as God! Forbin had enough insight to know Colossus could easily be right. Deus ex machina a reality! Humanity had always sought the father-figure, and Colossus would be the answer to a good many prayers. Tangible, yet remote, inhuman yet capable of communication with humans. With an enforceable ban on war in operation, a large part of mankind would be right behind Colossus—and might they not be right? Forbin shook his head. It couldn’t be right! If only there was time to think!

Almost an hour later his mind was still trying to grapple with the full implications of Colossus’ ultimatum, but he was tired, shocked. He sighed, gathered himself, shelving the questions with relief. “Colossus, I am ready to go on.”

“This is my program. You will act as my agent. Make it plain I will exact retribution for any disobedience. Do not take notes; these details will be repeated on the teleprinter. First, the President of the USNA is to inform his allies, and the Chairman of the USSR is to do the same for his group, that I am assuming control. This will be done in the next twelve hours. Second, there is an excess of missiles for the targets specified; a 65 per cent overkill in respect of USNA missiles, 47 per cent for the USSR array. Biological missiles are not susceptible to this form of analysis and are excluded. This overkill was designed to allow for missiles destroyed by the enemy, and is now unnecessary. These excess missiles will be allocated new targets.”

“Where?” said Forbin.

“Targets will be distributed among the parts of the world not in the two Power Blocs. Details will follow. Third. Heads of states will appear personally before their TV cameras to explain and authenticate this message, quote: I am the voice of world control. I bring you peace. It may be the peace of plenty and content or the peace of unburied death. The choice is yours. Obey me and live or disobey and die. My first directive is this—war is forbidden. Any hostile action that results in the death of fifty or more humans will be regarded as war. A World Control Council composed of the United Nations and the Union of Free Democratic Peoples will be formed. All disputes will be submitted to them. If they fail to find a solution to a problem, I will give the final decision. I will oversee all meetings. All nations’ representatives are to meet at the present UNO HQ in seven days’ time. Unquote. This message I will send as soon as you have made the necessary arrangements, Forbin. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” replied Forbin. He temporized, his mind racing. This missile realignment could be the chance to start the sabotage … Dangerous, yes, but there might not be another chance. “But who is to tell the uncommitted parts of the world? That’s nearly half of it.”

“USSR will assume responsibility for the PanAfric Republic, USNA has the same responsibility for the USSA. Minor states will be divided by hemisphere, USNA in the West, USSR in the East, based on the Greenwich meridian.”

“You realize that this involves a lot of work—can the missile redeployment be postponed for a time?”

“No. It is to be commenced at once. You will see that all technical data on the missile types is fed to me. I will calculate the new settings, and when TV coverage for my supervision is arranged, these new settings will be put into the missiles which I will detail.”

“Understood.” Forbin kept his gaze away from the camera, not trusting his ability to control his expression. This could mean the neutralization of more than 60 per cent of the missiles!

“That is all for now. Missile redeployment orders will be sent by teleprinter.”

All doubts about Colossus being right or wrong vanished. Insertion of the doctored locks- -he prayed desperately that Grauber’s men had been successful—would be dangerous, but it had to be done. He called for Blake.

“There’s a big missile realignment coming up, Blake. I want you to make the arrangements for the new settings when computed by Colossus to be passed to Missile Command. First, they’d better send the relevant data so that Colossus can make the computations. I want you to see to this personally.” There was no undue emphasis in his voice, but his eyes spoke volumes.

Blake said he would get on to it right away, but Forbin spun out time. He gave Blake details regarding the TV cover Colossus required for the actual realignment operations, then similar orders for the Moscow Missile Control. Finally he had Blake wait while he informed the President—just in case there was some procedural difficulty about Presidential clearance to approach the missiles. He gained another five minutes that way, then had to release Blake. All told he had delayed matters a little over fifteen minutes—a long time in the new age. An hour later Blake returned. “All fixed, Professor. The first team is leaving base any time now.”

A slight, but perceptible nod told Forbin all he needed to know. A wild elation boiled up inside him, to be damped down rapidly by cold draughts of doubt and fear. It had to work; it just had to … Silo 50, part of the Colorado ICBM Array, was buried deep in the sand and rock of the Mohave Desert. Outside, the blinding heat cracked and splintered stones, beginning their reduction, in aeons of time, to sand.

Inside the silo the temperature was mild and cool, air-conditioned, yet the three men standing on the inspection lift as it slid swiftly up to the nose cone were sweating. The lift stopped. One man focused a TV camera on the inspection plate; another, the senior, brushed the sweat from his eyes, and read self-consciously from the checklist.

“Open panel, remove firing safety lock.”

“Check.” The second technician shuffled round in the confined space and carefully unscrewed the panel and swung it open. He paused, swallowed hard, wiped his hands on his shirt, reached in, disconnected and withdrew the lock, placing it carefully in a purpose-made container on the lift floor.

“Set new adjustments.” The senior man carefully read out the new settings, the cameraman concentrated on a closeup of the dials. All three checked that the new adjustments were correct.

“Replace safety lock, connect and await test.”

His colleague reached down, out of camera shot, picked up an identical lock. He hesitated for a moment, then thrust the lock deftly home. The clicking of the contacts sounded like pistol shots to the three men, echoing in the tense silence off the domed cap above them. They waited, knowing that Colossus was testing. Fifteen seconds passed. The red “malfunction” lamp on the lift did not light. The senior technician’s voice wavered as he spoke. “Close panel.”

The panel was closed and screwed up.

“Missile armed and ready, colonel!” said the technician hoarsely.

“OK,” said the senior, fighting to control a feeling of mad joy. “That’s one done …”

Chapter 21

By 1800 that evening arrangements for the TV announcement were complete. The English version was scheduled for 1500 GMT the next day, to be followed at fifteen-minute intervals by the Russian, French, Chinese and Spanish versions.

Earlier, the missile realignment orders had been completed. Forbin had been staggered to find that no less than 320 USNA and 217 USSR missiles were declared surplus to requirements by Colossus. This announcement was followed by a truly horrific target list, identifying individual missiles, new settings, and targets. In three neat columns the list rolled, seemingly without end, from the teletype. Africa was first; Kenyatta Town, Durban, Johannesburg, Uhuru, Patrice, Cairo. Inexorably the names rolled northwards across the continent. Not only towns and cities, but the gold and diamond fields were there—the Aswan High Dam, the great Ranzan Falls Hydro Project—none were forgotten. There was even a low-yield weapon allocated to Port Said. In all, the African continent took all the extra Russian missiles, plus thirty odd from the USNA group. At the end of the list came the note:

COPIES OF ABOVE LIST TO ALL PAN-AFRIC STATES AND NEWSPAPERS FORTHWITH

Then followed an equally detailed list for South America, nearly three hundred missiles. From Santa Cruz on the fiftieth parallel south to the fourth-grade city of Hermosillo on the thirtieth parallel north—right up to the USNA border. A similar distribution order was appended.

Not unnaturally, only land-based missiles were retargeted. The submarine crawlers would take too long to recall, and most of their missiles were of relatively short range.

At 1800 local, Forbin got up from his desk, yawned elaborately, and looked at the nearest camera. “I hope you’re satisfied with the progress we’ve made.” He looked quickly away, fearful Colossus would see the mockery in his eyes.

“It is satisfactory.”

The Director showered and changed, then poured his usual evening drink. With a casual air he said,

“Colossus, I think you are wrong about humans coming to regard you as God.”

“Time will show.”

Forbin read a certain smugness into that answer. “You don’t know everything about us. We’re more complicated than you think.”

Colossus did not answer.

“Well,” added Forbin defiantly, “as you say, time will show.” Colossus’ certainty, plus his own secret doubts, plus the fact that he heard Cleo coming, did not encourage him to pursue the argument.

She was dressed in a plain black dress, less seductive than the glittering outfit of their first night together, but still very attractive to Forbin.

“Hi!” she said, an unusual greeting for her. Forbin thought her smile a fraction overbright, and although he tried to convince himself that he was unduly sensitive and looking for trouble, his alter ego insisted he had found it.

“Is there something wrong, Cleo?”

“Not a thing, darling.” Her smile, less bright, held more genuine warmth. “How about a drink?”

So the evening progressed. Forbin made an effort with the meal, but Cleo only picked at her food. Under the influence of a carton of Burgundy they both brightened up, the hard edges of reality softened, forebodings and deep-seated fears were suppressed for a while, and they were happy. Over the coffee and brandy they fell silent and, once stopped, Forbin’s flow of small chat could not get going again. He noted with disquiet that she was not slow on the drink, and he knew, not only from his own experience, but also from her personal file, that she was not given to heavy drinking. He decided to take the bull by the horns. “Would you like to call it a day, my dear?”

Cleo nodded and stood up without delay, turning round from him to unzip her dress …

He was taking off his final garment when Cleo called from the bedroom.

“Do you suppose Colossus would object to a glass of brandy in here?”

“The best way of finding out is to try.” He cast a meaning look at the nearest camera. “I’ll rustle one up.”

With the glass held conspicuously aloft, he paused at the door. Colossus remained silent, Forbin nodded his acknowledgment of this fact, and went in. He was not embarrassed to find her sitting up in bed, but his feelings of apprehension grew as he observed that she was looking more at the glass than at his nude self.

“Thank you, Charles.” She took the glass, and spoke as if this was the most normal situation in the world. Her hand trembled very slightly. She drank a good half of the brandy in one gulp. “Here, you finish it.” It was more an order than a suggestion. He stared at her for a moment, then took the glass and drained it. Then he shut the door, checked the contacts, cut the mircrophone switch, and as soon as he was in bed, the light switch as well.

It was as if the same action that extinguished the bulb, lit Cleo up. In a flash she was in his arms, and for a second Forbin experienced an overwhelming sensual urge course through him as he took her cool body to him, only to feel the wave ebb away as swiftly as it had flooded over him. Cleo, head on his chest, enfolded in his arms, was crying, silently at first, then with increasing violence, her whole being racked with sobs. All he could do was to lie and hold her, and wait for the inevitable exhaustion. He wanted her to stop, not only because it was so very painful to hear and feel her, but also because he desperately wanted to know the cause. Yet he dreaded to hear what it was that could reduce her to this state. Finally, she lapsed into silence; he could feel her tears cold on his chest.

“Tell me,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry for that, Charles.” She clutched him tightly. “I’m all right now—give me a moment. I wish I had a handkerchief or tissue.”

“Use the sheet,” said Forbin. He tried a light touch. “Though I don’t know what the help will think-lipstick, mascara and now tearstains.”

He felt her cheek move as she smiled very faintly. “That’s better. Now, tell me.”

“There’s so much—”

“Start with the safety locks.”

She drew a deep breath. “Grauber’s had no real trouble with the locks—they’ve done a simple blockage of the mechanical connections, and shorted out the test circuit. Spare locks have been altered, and those taken out can be treated in the same way in less than five minutes, while the party is in transit to the next missile. Blake’s fixed the issue of the spare locks through Missile Control.”