Fall of Colossus (16 page)

The machine jolted to a halt, the exit doors sighed open, and Forbin waited while the bulk of the passengers left, then he followed, head bent, clutching his small case. Down the short elevator, out onto the conveyor belt; he glimpsed the outer world that he would soon join: gray, wet, and bleak. He shivered in the chill, damp breeze, feeling detached, unreal, and very much out of his depth. Everything was strange: clothes, climate, his style of travel, above all his state of mind.

Not that his immediate situation gave him much worry. He had paid, as an ordinary citizen, in international units for his flight. There was nothing to connect him with Colossus, and although he had given a false name, he was within the law—except for the envelope in his pocket, and he would take care no one searched him.

While customs and immigration had been abolished by Colossus, there was still the inevitable check on numbers, as if a passenger might, magically, leave the near-ballistic missile at some point en route. Forbin gave up his landing ticket, the clerk nodded without looking up, and he was free to go.

But not quite.

Crossing the arrival concourse, Forbin was thinking of nothing but his immediate logistic problems: a room, a bath, then the location and examination of the transmitting site.

A man, soberly dressed in unfashionable dark-blue—in itself a warning to anyone more worldly-wise than Forbin—rose from a seat that commanded a view of the passenger gate, walked obliquely over on a converging course with Forbin. As their shoulders touched, he spoke. “A word with you, friend.”

Forbin looked around, surprised. He answered, his voice tinged with annoyance. He did not like the man’s tone. “Yes?”

“Yes. Where are you from, friend?”

“That, friend,” replied Forbin acidly, “is my business!” His heart thumped harder, but his uneasiness was overridden by anger. “What’s it to you?”

“To me personally, little,” conceded the man. He slid a practiced hand into his blouse and flashed something before Forbin’s face. “But to the Master… .” He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Although he knew he could get out of this sort of situation, the sight of the Sect badge frightened Forbin. This could be how it had started for Cleo… . He looked quickly around; nearby, another man in a dark suit was watching. He struggled to remain calm. “Why have you picked on me—what have I done?” He tried to sound conciliatory, as if impressed by the man’s authority.

“Done? We haven’t got that far, friend. My job is to watch, and when I see a character wearing a wig and dark glasses, I get interested.” Forbin’s change of tone had done nothing to improve their relationship. The Sect man’s hand closed firmly on Forbin’s arm. “Come on. A quiet chat—that’s all. If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

It was a set speech which Forbin instinctively felt had been said a hundred times before. In a way, it comforted him: there was nothing special in this pickup; to resist would be pointless. He allowed himself to be led into a small, unlabeled room.

His escort shut the door and sat down behind a bare, plastic-topped desk. It matched the raw and uncomfortable room that smelled faintly of feet and dust. The only decoration was a poster, new to Forbin, behind the desk. On a bright red background the Sect badge stood out; beneath it, the chilling legend, THE MASTER WATCHES.

“Sit down.” The man waved to a stool at the side of the desk. For a moment Forbin hesitated, then placed his bag on the floor and sat.

“Name?” The man did not look at his captive. He was busy looking for a form blank in a drawer.

Forbin had a ready answer for that question. “Charles Freeman.” There was little hope of concealing his identity, but he had to try.

The man wrote carefully. “I see. Well, Mr. Charles Freeman, where are you from?”

“London.”

“That much I guessed.” Slowly, the man looked up from his writing. “We’re not being very helpful, are we, Mr. Charles Freeman?” It was a blank, expressionless pan of a face, pale, with prominent blackheads around the small nose. “We of the Sect don’t care for funny men who say they come from London—in a North American accent. Start again, friend.”

“You asked where I came from. Sure, I’m a USNA citizen, but you didn’t ask that.”

Ah, a legal mind as well,” the man said musingly, in no way put out. “I think we should come clean, don’t you?” With unhurried dexterity he reached across and plucked the dark glasses from Forbin’s face. “You can take the wig… .”

His voice trailed off in shocked silence. For several seconds he stared unbelievingly, his mouth dropping stupidly open.

“Good Colossus!” He struggled to his feet, knocking over his chair. He sounded half-strangled. “Fa—Father Forbin!”

Forbin was as much angry with himself for getting caught as he was with his captor. He glowered at the goggling man.

The Sectarian was sweating; fine beads stood out on his forehead as he clumsily placed his hand on his heart and bowed. “I—I am deeply… “

The name’s Freeman—remember?” said Forbin crisply. He was exposed in St. John’s, but he’d put the fear of Colossus in this bunch! Looking at the man’s face, it was clearly not going to be difficult. The Sect policeman stammered incoherently. Forbin got up, retrieving his dark glasses. “Now you know why I wear these things.”

“Of course, Father!” He would have agreed to anything. His transformation from a sinister, all-powerful investigator to a servile creep was complete, and to Forbin, sickening. The man was in deadly fear; all this would be on record; he had actually touched the Father—held him by the arm! “Anything the Father wants—I’ll get my superior—arrange everything, escorts… .”

“No!” Forbin felt pity; the poor devil was only doing his job—but he’d be more careful in the future. “You do as I tell you!”

The man bowed once more, his face twisted in anguish. He’d got it wrong again!

Many in Forbin’s position would have enjoyed flattening his opponent, but Forbin was not cast in that all to common mold.

It was annoying that Colossus would know—probably knew already—where he was, but it couldn’t be helped. He broke the painful silence. “What you’ll do is this: you’ll tell your boss I’m not to be watched, guarded, or escorted; I’m Charles Freeman, a private citizen. Understand?”

“Yes, Father.” He had difficulty in speaking, his voice was husky. “I am so very sorry.”

“Forget it! See my orders are obeyed; if they are not, those responsible will incur the displeasure of the Master!” He glanced meaningfully at the poster. “Good-day—friend!”

He was sure the local Sect—lodge would not disregard his instructions; but it was possible, if unlikely, that Colossus would order discreet surveillance for his own protection. That, to the best of his limited ability, he intended to avoid. With luck, he would. It was only for forty-eight hours.

Forty-eight hours. Then—what? He still could not believe in the idea of Martians. It was such old crazy stuff; not that he clung to the ancient notion that man was unique in the universe, but—but what?

It came down to this; Martians stuck in his craw. Science-fiction writers had hammered that idea to death long, long ago. It would, illogically, be much easier to accept communications from another solar system than from within our own, despite the extra problems outer space contacts posed.

Yet why not? Just because they hadn’t been contacted before proved nothing. A week earlier, Forbin would have derided the idea that dolphins had greater intelligence than man, but Colossus said they did. Forbin would like to have had the brain’s opinion on Martians. Perhaps he should have asked, but it was too late now. Anyway, he would soon be able to form his own opinion. Strangely, the idea did not excite him. Once again, he told himself this was just a gesture to Cleo, no more.

All this passed through his mind while riding into town. He paid off his cab outside the main post office, dismissed the Martian idea from his mind, and got down to practicalities. In a nearby public lavatory he took off the wig and decided that a haircut might help. He found a barber, explained that he had to keep his dark glasses on because of his weak eyesight, and had his long locks shorn. The barber looked, he suspected, a little strangely at hire, but as the man made no comment he ascribed that thought to his oversensitive nerves. He left the salon feeling a little better, but flight fatigue was beginning to assert itself.

Not far from the university he found a small hotel and registered for the night, using the name Freeman. One night was as much as he dared stay, for ration cards were required for longer visits, and his card was made out in his true name. Signing the register, Forbin wondered, for the first time, why he had chosen that alias. Freeman: free man… . Perhaps his subconscious was in business on its own.

It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but he felt tired and said so to the reception clerk, adding that he was going to bed and taking his circadian-rhythm pill and was not to be called before the next morning. His room, nothing to rave about, was adequate. Forbin drew the curtains, shutting out the dismal gray daylight and the rain, took his pill and slept, too exhausted to think of Martians or Colossus—or even of Cleo.

He was called at seven o’clock the next morning, and ordered his breakfast. While waiting, he watched part of a Sea War Game. Just for a little longer, he did not want to think about what lay ahead, or of Cleo.

A slight thump and the warning light told him breakfast had arrived. He opened the serving hatch and contemplated his breakfast without enthusiasm: coffee, a thin strip of streaky bacon, two slices of bread, a minute pill of butter, and a smear of jam. For the first time he was experiencing real rationing, and that, plus the sheer impersonality of the room and his loneliness, depressed him still further. Of course, using his ration card, he could have got a better meal, but it would still have arrived via that hatch.

An hour later he was on his way, glad to be gone, and with something to do. Downtown he bought a large-scale map of the St. John’s area, then wandered aimlessly through the unexciting streets until a heavy shower drove him into a dismal transport cafe. He chose a corner seat safe from prying eyes and got out the map. With great care he plotted and replotted the position that, up to this moment, he had carried in his head. Studying his penciled cross while drinking his repellent coffee, he realized that the map was dynamite. If taken ill, or involved in an accident, the map plus the data in his pocket would be damning evidence. Even if Colossus had no idea of the nature of his rendezvous, it would be patently obvious that he had one, and it could only be for the transfer of the data.

Without haste, systematically, he memorized the site and all details of the locality. The spot was in open country, about three kilometers out of town. The nearest houses were about half a kilometer further on. He hoped the map was up to date.

In the lavatory he tore the map into small fragments and flushed them down the stained pan, waiting until the cascade had subsided to check that they had all gone.

He returned to the town center, then set out on his reconnaissance, walking. While he might take a taxi out there once, he dared not do it twice. His own coolness surprised him; he wished Cleo could see him; the man of action, alert, watching for any sign of a shadower, yet calm, methodical. He hoped she would be proud of him.

Cleo… . For himself, no real fear, but for her, yes, and for so many reasons. And there was another, more nebulous fear of the dark side of Colossus, the side that had taken his Cleo from him, and was responsible for the sweat on the face of that Sect man. Had he fancied it, or had he really smelled the man’s fear? Could one smell fear, like ozone after lightning? He forced his mind away from the subject.

Apart from another shower, the weather was good, although chill for August. Forbin, unused to much exercise, sweated as he walked. He noted with relief that there was a bus service of sorts, and decided that it would be reasonably safe to use that for both return trips to town. He found the site without much trouble; it lay in the northeast corner of a stubble-covered field, conveniently sheltered from the road by a copse of trees. Access was easy, through a gate. For a time he stood there, thinking, smoking his pipe. He was struck with the utter unreality of his situation. He, Charles Forbin, posing as a visitor to this outlandish place, when in fact he was contemplating how to achieve communication with Mars! Ridiculous!

But Cleo’s nightmarish predicament was even more fantastic; this was the least he could do, however futile it might be. That was another thought that came up too often; he must concentrate. He knocked out his pipe and walked on to the small cluster of houses. Even before he reached them he regretted it.

When he arrived at the bus stop there were no signs of life, but once he had stopped, feeling very conspicuous, it was as if he had given the signal for a play to start. A door opened, a woman came out, glanced curiously at him, then disappeared, shutting the door with marked firmness. A young man emerged from a gateway pushing a motorcycle. He too looked and nodded at Forbin, who nodded back, cursing silently to himself.

“You waitin’ for the bus, mister?”

Forbin started, swung around. An old man, muffled up to his scrawny turkey neck, had hobbled up behind him and stood leaning, blue-veined, arthritic hands clasped on top of his stick. He was indeed old, frail, and worn with years, but the wear did not extend to his eyes. They were bright and sharp.

“Er, yes, I am.”

“Thought so.” The old man nodded confirmation to himself and was silent for a time, his jaws champing regularly.

“You’re a stranger in these parts.”

It was not a question, but a statement.

“Yes, I am. Just a visitor, trying to see a little of your fine country.” Forbin smiled weakly.

“Ha! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years! Mister—you must be joking! Fine country, indeed! Worst goldurned place in the whole wide world-‘cept mebbe Anticosti!” He held up one arthritic hand. “That’s what we made best round heer-the screws! Ah—it’s all right for young fellers like you, you don’t have ter live heer—you ain’t got the screws—no, I kin see yer ain’t!” Forbin’s smile, never first-class, weakened at this confirmation that the old devil’s eyesight was in good order.