Fall of Colossus (17 page)

“Yew got weak eyes, mister?” Forbin said he had.

“Thought so. That’s why you think this is a fine country!” The old man cackled happily to himself, and Forbin guessed that this sally would be retold many times to his luckless relatives. There was no sign of the bus coming, or the old man going. Forbin decided that the best defense was attack.

“Will the bus be long?”

“Ar—can’t rightly tell.” The ancient head shook slowly. “Could be five minutes, mebbe longer. They don’t run like they used to, not like in the old days.” He lapsed into silent contemplation of the past, his manner hinting that, if he wished, he could tell tales of the buses of yesteryear which would astonish Forbin.

Forbin wished he would go away and turned to look for the bus, but the old man had not finished.

“Hey, mister!”

“Yes?”

The bright eyes were studying him. “Seems I’ve seen you someplace. Can’t think weer—but it’ll come to me.” He nodded. “Yep. I’ll remember.”

Forbin laughed unconvincingly. “I don’t think it’s very likely—I’ve never been here before.” He tried to get off the subject. “Are you going to town?” Momentarily, he succeeded.

“Me? Go to town?” The way he said it showed his astonishment at Forbin’s ignorance, and he cackled again. “That’s rich—me go to town!” He became serious. “Mind you, I’ve bin, many times, and I’ve bin to Anticosti and once, jist once, to Quebec.” He lapsed into reverie, his mind God knows where, but suddenly he revived, grinning with toothless cunning at Forbin. “Still can’t place yer yet—but I will, don’t yer fret—I will!”

Forbin was saved by the arrival of the bus and was seen off by the old man, nodding knowingly at him, jaw still champing, as if he had penetrated Forbin’s secret.

The encounter left Forbin very much on edge; very likely the old man would soon forget, but he couldn’t be sure. Certainly, he dared not go back there. That meant he’d either have to take a taxi and walk back, or keep the taxi waiting. No; that was out. Hire a car? No. They’d want to see his driving license.

Forbin perceived that clandestine operations were not simply a matter of a cool head. The only safe line of action was to walk both ways. That meant six kilometers; a long way for a man of his day and age. Okay, so it was six kilometers.

He found another hotel closer to the airport; there he might be less noticeable among the transient population—not that St. John’s was a major crossroads of the world.

The room was as depressingly impersonal as the last one. The notice behind the door, signed and rubber-stamped by the local tourist board, told him exactly how much he should pay, that he was entitled to a bath towel and soap, and that there was no charge for use of the disposal chute. No mention was made of decoration, but two cheaply framed pictures, one of St. John’s by day, the other by night, were identical with those he had seen the night before. Some disconnected fragment of his mind wondered if there was some poor devil who made a living out of selling these pictures.

Hunger and sheer loneliness drove him out again in search of a meal, which he found in a downtown cafe, clear of the university and the airport. It was an adequate meal, but no more, and it served its purpose before he even began to eat, for his hunger disappeared with the first forkful. He felt tired, his legs ached, and his suit, now overdue for that free chute, looked as shabby as he felt and his surroundings looked. Afterwards, he slipped furtively into a store, bought a half-bottle of rye and hurried back to his room where, at least, he did not have to keep a watch for the Sect or bright watchful old men.

The morning brought a repetition of the previous day: the same poor breakfast, the same loneliness. He was well aware that he had to avoid humans as much as possible, but while shaving he found himself looking forward to the brief contact with the reception clerk, a thick character who could scarcely tear his eyes from the War Game on his portable TV.

He showered, checked to determine that his pocket radio was working, and compared his chronometer with a TV time signal. The time was eight thirty; two and a half hours to go.

For best part of an hour he just sat, neatly dressed in his one spare suit, bag packed beside him. For ten, fifteen minutes at a time he would be still, staring at the wall, then sudden anxiety set him in motion, checking to see that he had the data in the right pocket and that he had not left anything in the tiny bathroom. When he had unzipped his bag for the third time, he decided he could stand no more and left.

How he spent the remaining time, Forbin never really knew. He had a vague recollection of looking at the cold gray sea; the only clear memory was when he passed his mental checkpoint, the public lavatory where he had removed his wig. That seemed a million years back, in another life. From that point it became a movie. He was a character set on film, predestined to do certain things.

He walked quickly at first, frightened that he might be delayed or just late, then reason asserted itself. It was a fine day, no rain, and he was in a near-deserted landscape. At most there were three kilometers to go. Three.

Thus it was that one of the best mathematical brains of the century went on its way, figuring again and again that if he could walk three kilos in under an hour, one would take him less than twenty minutes, even allowing for the steadily rising gradient of the road.

He reached the gate, so far as he was aware, unseen, with fifteen minutes to spare. Waiting for the moment when no sort of life or transport, terrestrial or airborne, was in sight, he slipped through the gate and ran, crouching under the cover of a friendly hedge, to the corner of the field, and there, panting, he rested. Ten minutes to go.

Forbin forced himself to be steady. He lit his pipe, telling him self he had to get it drawing properly before he dealt with the radio. He must stick to his mental timetable!

Five minutes to go. He switched on his radio, panic-stricken that it might not work, panic immediately quelled by the reassuring sound of mush. He tuned with care: 155.5 megahertz. No signal, just mush, and the occasional faint burst of static. His heart was hammering. For the first time he allowed himself to think of the Martians as a possibility.

Three minutes. He got out the envelope, fingers trembling as he tore it open. Now there was no time to consider the implications of his act, time only for action—and not much time left.

Two minutes. He had already decided the exact position, mentally marking a tuft of rank grass. That was it, as near as possible. One minute. Taking a deep breath, Forbin walked forward concealed from the road by the trees, although, at that moment, it would not have mattered to him if the entire Sect was watching. This was it! He reached the tuft of grass and set down the radio on it, spread out the diagram and the piece of decoded tape.

Zero time.

Nothing happened.

Forbin waited, hardly able to stop himself from holding his breath. He was sweating profusely.

Zero plus one minute. Nothing.

Forbin knelt, arms stretched out, holding the diagram flat in the faint breeze.

Zero plus two minutes. Nothing. Tension, fear were fading. Forbin battled with a growing feeling that he was the biggest fool on earth. Bitter words for Blake formulated sentences in his mind.

Zero plus three minutes. Nothing-no!

The mush and static suddenly vanished, pushed aside by a strong carrier wave. Instinctively Forbin felt the immense power that that required. In a blinding mental flash, he believed—and was horrified with what he was doing.

Without preamble, the dry, rustling voice spoke, devoid of emotion. “We see. The data tape is clear and no longer required. Please rotate the diagram through ninety degrees of azimuth.”

Forbin did so, his mind frozen with shock. This was reality—this was reality! Like Cleo and Blake before him, he accepted, without question, that this was a transmission from space. His hands trembled uncontrollably.

“That is sufficient. We have the diagram on record. One symbol is not familiar to us. Point to the first stage—possibly a filter—after the initial input. If it is not a filter stage, fold up the diagram.”

Forbin tore off his dark glasses impatiently. Yes, they were right; it was a primary filter. He pointed, instinctively looking up.

Time passed, enough time for him to do some mental arithmetic. The average distance of Mars was thirty-four million miles; the speed of light was one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second; that meant a transmission time, one way, of three minutes—to be precise, two minutes fifty-seven seconds. For an eternity of four minutes he kept his trembling finger in position. He looked down, his neck aching, waiting.

“That is understood. The device is more simple than we had expected. There will be no difficulty in devising a satisfactory answer to your problem. It will be transmitted at the next position.” The voice paused. “Human, your configuration is closely akin to that of the originator of your machine, Charles Forbin. If you are Forbin, your planet’s situation must be more desperate than we had supposed. At the next position, be prepared to write. Recognition will be by that radio or a similar one. The transmission will be on the same frequency. That is all.”

Any doubts Forbin might have had vanished with his identification.

Trembling uncontrollably, he sank down on the short stubble of grass, staring at the radio. A bare second after the voice had ceased, the carrier had gone, replaced once more by background mush; he stared at the set as if it was a ticking time bomb.

How long he sat, he never recalled. As a human, a scientist, and above all, as the creator of Colossus, he was staggered. To be the first human to pass intelligence to another life-form was enough for any man, but on top of that, the implications to Forbin the scientist, and the realization that he was doing his best to defeat his own creation, had his mind in utter chaos.

His eye finally registered the fluttering diagram; he goaded himself into action. Whatever else, that must go. He must keep to his plan. His hands trembled violently as he tried to strike a match to burn the damning evidence. Matches spilled on the ground. At the fourth attempt he managed to set light to the data slip, then the diagram, and he sat, watching as they blackened and writhed into ashes. Slowly he got up, ground them underfoot, picked up the radio, switched it off, and walked, like a very old man, to the sheltering trees.

For an hour or more he sat at the foot of a tree, smoking. He had to get some sort of order in his mind before he started back to St. John’s.

What had he done? What had he done … ?

I have done nothing, he told himself. Certainly, I cannot deny that I have been in touch with some other planet—Mars is as good as any—and even if they do send me something—God knows what it could be—I have to use it, and beyond that, it has to be effective. So action is not yet, and I will control that action.

And what about Cleo? Am I just playing games? Did I embark on this crazy—no, not crazy—game because I didn’t believe in it? Was it no more than a quixotic gesture? And now that there is a chance that this action might result in her freedom, am I getting out? Do I prefer a murderous machine to my wife?

“No! Never!”

He had shouted aloud, and the sound of his own voice startled him and sobered him up. Cautiously he peered around, and set his mind to the task of getting back to St. John’s.

Cleo Forbin was making the bed and, as far as she was able, thinking of that and nothing else. It wasn’t easy; constantly the thought of young Billy intruded, nagging like a toothache. She told herself frequently that there was much to be grateful for. In not much more than eleven weeks she would be back; she was confident that Billy was not only well cared for, but his waking hours were kept filled by his nurse. Thank God for McGrigor! Yet even there, lay another fear. Three months in a young child’s life was a long time; the nurse might well have replaced her in Billy’s affections.

Cleo slammed the mental lid on that one. Think of Charles; what would he be doing? Poor Cbarles! He’d be lost without her—drifting—and thank God, too, for their small domestic staff. At least he would be looked after, get proper meals. He was so helpless outside of his work.

Helpless. She felt faintly disloyal—but why? She had always known he was thus—it was part of his charm for her—so why feel disloyal now?

She pulled the bed away from the wall; the back of her hand brushed against something soft, hairy, something that dropped with a disgustingly soft plop! on the floor, and scuttled across her sandaled foot. She screamed. Whatever it was, it pattered from one corner to another. She could hear it! She screamed again. “Barchek!”

Almost as she called he ran in, alert, ready, at his heels, the dog. Cleo, her face crumpled in disgust, pointed a shaking finger. Instinctively, she drew close to him.

Barchek was very fast. In one continuous movement he pushed her aside, drew his sheath knife and threw himself across the bed. Two quick stabs and he was up, a large wriggling hairy spider impaled on the end of his blade.

Cleo shrank back. With a sharp flick, Barchek flung the spider out of the doorway, sheathing the knife. Cleo recovered, her flesh still crawling, remembering the feel of the spider’s feet on her instep. She bent to look. Barchek, guessing, was instantly on his knees, her foot in his hand, examining it carefully to see if she had been bitten. One hand held her foot firmly, the other, with strange softness, explored her skin. Cleo did not move, aware that, whatever else he might be, Barchek was a man of the earth, to be relied upon. At that moment she trusted him, implicitly.

He straightened up, grinning, and patting her abdomen reassuringly let his eyes say the rest. She was all right, safe; there was no cause for further alarm. He stroked her hair, gently. At that moment Cleo admitted to herself she did not hate him—even if fear was still very strong. She felt sorry for him; a big overgrown boy, elemental, happy in the illusion that she carried his child.

Barchek searched the room for any other signs of animal life. In the process he heaved the bed up on end effortlessly, with one hand. Satisfied that no more black horrors lurked in or under it, he left. It was up to his woman to clear up the mess. Cleo remade the bed and sat on it, absently massaging her foot, letting her mind freewheel.