Colossus (3 page)

“Five minutes, Mr. President,” the voice of Prytzkammer hi-fied in.

The President rubbed his hands together; he could hardly wait.

“Time for a spoonful of medicine—set ‘em up, Forbin.” Forbin duly set them up and passed the President his glass. The President took it, and stood up. Forbin guessed what was coming.

“A toast, Forbin—to Colossus, and us.” They drank to that one.

“With your permission, sir, I have one too.” “Go right ahead.”

Forbin raised his glass, looked steadily at the President.

“To the world!”

The President stared back, his eyes probing, the smiling bonhomie momentarily gone. Then he relaxed, the jovial grin returned.

“Sure, why not? That’s a good one—to the whole goddam cotton-picking world!”

Prytzkammer was finding it hard to preserve his usual calm and polished manner; he had caught something of the President’s excitement. Now, surrounded by five top reporters, plus two cameramen and a producer, he was thankful that the days of power cables, TV lights and special microphones were dead and gone. The cameramen, with four minutes to go, had at last unslung their portable TV cameras and were making fine adjustments to their antennae with every appearance of boredom. They were the top men in their own line, and had seen everything and been everywhere. An assignment to cover the Last Judgment would not get them worked up.

The reporters, too, were top men, and a hard-baked lot. The doyen was Kyrovitch of Tass, a big, wide man with a permanent chip on his shoulder. Then there was Plantain, the English representative of the United States of Europe, an urbane little man, adept at smooth and tricky questioning—and the other European, the Frenchman, Dugay. PanAfric’s M’taka was a good, solid reporter, but outclassed by the rest. USNA’s representative, Mazon, was NorAm’s star man; not unnaturally he was assigned the central reporter’s role in the conference.

Unlike the cameramen, the press were anything but bored. All they knew, officially, was that the President was to make a statement of global importance and that they would have a chance to ask questions. There would be no preliminary warm-up. Prytzkammer was primarily concerned that no one man should hog the proceedings.

“Remember, gentlemen, you are the standins for the people of the world. Set a good example, and let’s have a little of the old give and take—”

“Relax,” said Mazon, “none of us is going to start a fight.” The rest nodded, each making his own mental reservation on how best to get the lion’s share.

“I would be charmed if I—we—had some faint lead on the purpose of this announcement,” Plantain smiled in a tired way at Prytzkammer. There was a general mumble of agreement from his colleagues.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the President wants it this way, and he’s the boss. I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to—I don’t know.”

None of the reporters spoke. They didn’t have to; their faces showed what they thought of that one.

The TV producer compared his two chronometers and said, “Two minutes” to no one in particular.

Four of the reporters all asked questions at once; only Mazon was silent. This might be this Colossus thing he had heard of, but there was no point in shooting off your mouth. You could be wrong, and any spillage might bring out the mean streak in the President.

Prytzkammer, who had ignored all the questions, picked up his few notes, and raised an eyebrow at the producer, who nodded towards the first cameraman.

“I make the intro, you hold me until I identify the reporters—pan along the line as I name them, then on me as I lead in to the President. Will Camera Two be solely on the President and Forbin?”

The producer nodded.

“Forbin!” Mazon shot out. “So it is—”

He stopped. The other reporters looked at him, questions forming in four minds. He was saved by the producer.

“Quiet now; five seconds to the intro, forty-five to Pressie.”

Prytzkammer’s glare at the irreverent producer quickly changed to an ingratiating smile as the warning light on Camera One started to occult, then glowed steadily. The PPA quickly tuned his smile down to mere affability, looked at the camera, and began.

“This is the White House, Washington. This Presidential conference is being transmitted by all networks in the United States of North America and the United States of South America. By arrangement with International TV Agency it is beamed via Space Stations Two and Five to the PanAfric Republic, the United States of Europe, the Middle East and the Japanese Republican Zone, including Australasia. It is also on offer to the Soviet Bloc, but as of now we do not know if they are taking it.”

The PPA moved round his desk, tracked by Camera Two. “In a few moments I will be taking you in to hear an announcement of worldwide importance by the President of the United States of North America. You, the people of the world, are represented here by these gentlemen.” He introduced them, one by one, and went on, “These are your representatives, and when the President has completed his statement, they may ask any questions that they like.”

Prytzkammer paused, looked at the reporters, then at the camera.

“Gentlemen, the free world, here is the President.”

He walked slowly to the doors to give the camera a chance to keep him in shot, and opened both doors. Camera Two sank down on one knee, getting a desk-level view of the President as the doors opened, slowly straightening up as the reporters filed in on either side of him. The PPA joined Forbin, out of view well to one side of the President’s desk.

The President waited until the reporters were seated, then leaned forward on his elbows, hands clasped in front. It was a small gesture which conveyed the impression on TV that he was talking to you, confidentially, that this was man-to-man stuff.

“Fellow citizens of the world,” he began in a low, measured, almost stately voice, “I am told that this telecast is being watched by more than half the people of the globe, and that a further ten per cent are listening on the radio. You may well wonder what I can say that is important enough to justify taking up your time like this. In all solemnity, I can assure you I have that justification. For good or evil—and I devoutly believe for good—we have reached one of those vital turning points in the history of man and of this planet. There have been a number of such moments in the past, most of them passing unrecognized. The first was the discovery of the use of fire, the second when the wheel was invented. The construction of the first internal-combustion machine was another. Some of you are old enough to recall the terrible dawn of the atomic age, and the host of technological advances we have made since then. But for the unhappy state of our world’s affairs, we could all enjoy life to the full; remove the risk of conflict between the nations, and the Golden Age would be with us—now!” The President did not forget himself and bang the desk, but raised one finger as he spoke the last word, giving the slight visual shock to keep his vast audience’s full attention. He went on, wearily.

“Instead, for years, for generations, we have been delicately poised on the brink of a disaster too complete and horrible to contemplate.” His voice lost its weariness, gathered strength. “We of the free world have upheld the banner of freedom and truth, knowing that this must be preserved, even at the cost of all our lives.”

Again the President paused, and resumed his confidential approach. “We do not want war—and to be truthful, I do not think anyone else does either. Nevertheless, we have all gone on, with recurrent crises, each carrying with it the risk of a slip or error on one side, or the other, which could result in the final tragedy of global destruction. There is an old saying that `everyone makes mistakes,’ but that is just what neither side can afford. We are all human, taking inhuman risks. One of the great philosophers of this century, Bertrand Russell, said many years ago, `You may reasonably expect a man to walk a tightrope safely for ten minutes; it would be unreasonable to do so without accident for two hundred years.’ This we have known for a long time, and for years, here in the United States, we have been working on this problem. Until this very minute this work has been our most closely guarded secret. It has involved vast effort, vast expenditure, but I have to tell you that our efforts have been crowned with success.”

The President had the full attention of the reporters. They were still, listening hard. Even Camera One—who had nothing to do—was motionless, listening carefully. The President, holding on to the dramatic pause, sipped a little water. He watched, with approval, as Camera Two— sensing the payoff line to come—inched downwards so as to give the President relative height. The President drew himself up a fraction, lessening the confidential approach. He fixed his gaze on the camera, and spoke with great solemnity.

“As President of the United States of North America, I have to tell you, the people of the world, that as of eight o’clock Eastern Standard Time this morning the defense of the nation, and with it the defense of the free world, has been the responsibility of a machine. As the first citizen of my country, I have delegated my right to take my people to war.

“That decision now rests with Colossus, which is the name of the machine. It is basically an electronic brain, but far more advanced than anything previously built. It is capable of studying intelligence and data fed to it, and on the basis of those facts only—not of emotions— deciding if an attack is about to be launched upon us. If it did decide that an attack was imminent—and by that I mean that an assault was impending and would probably be launched within four hours—Colossus would decide, and act. It controls its own weapons and can select and deliver whatever it considers appropriate.

“Understand that Colossus’ decisions are superior to any we humans can make, for it can absorb far more data than is remotely possible for the greatest genius that ever lived. And more important than that, it has no emotions. It knows no fear, no hate, no envy. It cannot act in a sudden fit of temper. Above all, it cannot act at all, so long as there is no threat.

“Fellow humans, we in the USNA now live in the shade, but not the shadow, of Colossus. And indirectly, you do too. May it never see fit to act.”

The President took another sip of water. He was aware that the Tass man, Kyrovitch, was about to speak, but he also saw Prytzkammer motion him to be silent. The rest of the reporters looked dazed. The President was enjoying himself even more than he had expected.

“We of the free world,” he continued, “do not want war. Indeed, we will never fight unless attacked. Now that we have Colossus we have no real need for armed forces except for minor disturbances. It is therefore my intention to reduce the overall strength of our fighting services by seventy-five percent over the next five years. As soon, in fact, as the readjustment can be made.

“Further, we are prepared to show the world how Colossus works—what has been built into it—and to prove to anyone’s satisfaction” (he could not help flashing a look at Kyrovitch) “that Colossus is a defensive system. If we can convince the Soviet Bloc that Colossus is solely defensive, and demonstrate that we have no offensive intentions by the virtual disbandment of our Navy and Army and Space forces, relying solely on Colossus to protect us, we may well be along way towards lasting peace and the end of the cold war that has bedeviled us all for so long.”

The President swiveled in his chair to face the correspondents.

“Now, gentlemen, I am prepared to answer any questions you may care to ask. I am not of course, familiar with all the technicalities of this vast work, so I would like to introduce Professor Charles Forbin. He is, I think, the world’s leading expert on electronic brains. Certainly no man knows more about Colossus than he does. He has worked on it since the first design study group was set up at Harvard twelve years ago.” He motioned Forbin to stand behind him, and Forbin did so, wearing a slightly stuffed expression.

Mazon was the first to speak.

“It’s a little difficult, Mr. President, to grasp the size of what you have just told us. I find it hard to conceive of the essential nature of this Colossus. For instance, can it think?”

“That, Mr. Mazon, is just the sort of question for the Professor here.” The President motioned to Forbin.

Forbin was not only nervous about the potential of Colossus, he was now nervous of the TV camera as well. He reached for his notes, or where they would have been had he been wearing his usual blouse instead of the stiff and uncomfortable lounge suit. He gave up the search, his hands looking lost without some employment.

“Can it think?” Forbin repeated the question, more for his own benefit and to gain time than anything else. “The term `electronic brain’ has always been a popular one for what, really was an arithmetical device which could distinguish between one and two. That is still the basis of all computers. There are a good many computer-type components in Colossus, but the essential core of the machine-complex is infinitely more sophisticated. Just as you can say that the proportions of the Parthenon are a matter of two to one in essence, but the detailing is extremely complex. It’s that development which makes all the difference. Colossus really is a `brain’ in a limited sense. It can think in a sort of way, but it has no emotions, and without emotional content, creation is not possible. It could not create, say, a Shakespeare play—or any sort of play for that matter, although as part of its background knowledge we have fed in all the plays—and, given any three consecutive words from anything Shakespeare wrote, or anything a hundred playwrights wrote, Colossus could finish the quotation. Colossus has a vast memory store; it wouldn’t be far from wrong to say that it has the total sum of human knowledge at its disposal. On the basis of that background, plus the data continually being fed in, it forms its judgments— just like a human being. Though with the very important difference that it never overlooks a point, is not biased and has no emotions. But think creatively—no.”

Forbin paused and moved so as to address the President. “Sir, with your permission, I would like to demonstrate this emotional point.”