Fall of Colossus (21 page)

Forbin, sitting silent and outwardly inactive in his office, was only too aware of the dragging feet of time. As far as he was concerned, he had done it: Blake must have got the significance of the word “digested.” He wondered, without much interest, how Blake would make the insertion. There would be camera surveillance in the transmission room, but Forbin did not think it was very intensive at the input bays. After all, why bother to watch what would be known in nanoseconds? Colossus would be more interested in seeing material was not taken from the room, rather than brought in. No; insertion should not be difficult.

His mind shied off the enormity of his action. Repeatedly, he told himself that until Cleo had been taken, he had been blind. Her arrest had forced him to see. Humanity must be free; Cleo must be free.

But Forbin was being less than honest with himself. Deep down, he reluctantly recognized that what he wanted was his wife, and to hell with the rest. Goddamnit! He was not God! Why should he shoulder the responsibility of the world? He thrust the whole business aside, including a faint, niggling, and cloudy doubt. It was done, anyway.

Abruptly, he got up and paced the room. If this Martian solution worked, what would he do? The first move was easy: he’d jet out to Cleo, get her back. Beyond that his mind refused to go.

Cleo. To break her free before it was too late was all that mattered. His seeking mind came up with a memory of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. Yes, another Cleo. Cleo and Antony… . Antony, the “plated Mars” who had, at the battle of Actium, followed the fleeing Cleopatra, deserting his forces, not in cowardice, but to be with her. Till this moment, he had always thought that a highly improbable act, totally out of character. Antony, a tough, professional Roman general, tossing his chance of being Emperor out of the nearest window without a second thought.

Yet, now he began to see that Shakespeare, the supreme genius of the human heart, was right. Maybe it didn’t happen then, but now, twenty centuries later… .

Angela brought him a cup of coffee and some documents to sign. She didn’t speak or look at her boss. Something mighty odd was going on: Blake acting that way, and the Chief… ! She was puzzled, worried, but being the sort of girl she was, she kept her feelings to herself.

Forbin forced himself to pay attention to the papers. Yes, he would be greatly honored if the new Sydney habitat for ten thousand souls was named for him, but no, he regretted he could not open it. Yes, he was greatly honored by the USSA’s proposal to name a battleship for him, but he understood, and had recently agreed to, the naming of a similar ship by the State of France, USE, who it seemed had a prior claim to this name, having used it some three hundred years ago.

So the letters went on with Forbin frowning, muttering to himself. State after state wanted some small part of him, if only his name. It was all damned nonsense, but he had to go along with the bulk of it. At one thing he did balk: letters beginning “Holy Father” were not answered.

Each time he signed a letter he allowed himself to glance at the clock. By the time he had finished the pile, Blake had been gone fifty minutes. He sat and stared. One hour.

A wave of irritation swept over him. What the hell was Blake playing at? Surely to God he’d had time enough to make the insert? In the wake of the irritation Forbin felt a tinge of fear, personal fear. Had Blake failed, been caught—or was the formula so much garbage? Had Colossus recognized the insert for what it was, defeated it?

Once more he got up, called Angela to collect the papers—and to get him a drink.

He was halfway through a very watered-down brandy when Angela returned.

“A message from Doctor Blake, Director. He says he’s digested the report and is prepared to brief you for the staff meeting at any time convenient to you.”

Her puzzlement deepened at her boss’s reaction.

For ten, fifteen seconds he just stared through her. Then he said, “Were those Blake’s exact words?”

“Well, yes, I guess so.”

“Guess! Christ, woman! Don’t you know?”

She stared back, openmouthed. Had he gone mad? “Yes, okay, yell They were his exact words !” Angela fought back.

At once he was calmer. “Yes… . Yes.” He pushed past her and almost ran into the Sanctum.

Blake had done it! The final plot was rolling, unstoppable… . Rolling: an uncomfortable word, applicable to heads… . This was the moment, and there was but one place for him.

The Sanctum door slid silently shut behind him, and he was alone with Colossus to whom he was a traitor, not only in thought, but in deed—now.

Chapter Sixteen

Forbin was strangely calm as he crossed to his desk and sat down. He had endured so many shocks, strains; and he felt beyond further worry, shock. There was something restful in the situation; no decisions to make; nothing. Perhaps this was the mental state when, the struggle for life lost, one was dying.

Forbin took out his pipe and started cleaning it.

“Father Forbin, you have returned unexpectedly early. Has such a short vacation been of value?”

Forbin concentrated on his pipe. “If you mean did it do me good, frankly—No.”

“Why did you not continue your vacation?”

The pipe cleaner jammed in the stem, and Forbin swore quietly to himself. “Why? Oh, I don’t know. I was—am—restless.”

“Yes. Did you not find any place of interest to you?”

For the first time he looked up at the camera. “You know very well I went to St. John’s—and a damned uninteresting town that turned out to be!”

“I was aware of your visit. After the Sect flash, I ordered that no further reports were to be made of your movements. If you do not wish to tell me why you went there, that is at your discretion, but it appeared out of character for you to go to St. John’s, Antigua—correction—Newfoundland. I had predicted you would go to the Rockies.”

The pipe snapped. For several seconds Forbin stared at the two pieces in his hands. He was not, after all, beyond shock. That statement contained two. The lesser was the prediction about the Rockies. Yes, he would have gone there. In the Rockies he had been happy with Cleo… .

But the greater shock quickly expunged that from his mind. For the first time since the main switch had been thrown all those years ago, the computer had made a factual mistake.

Forbin felt a faint sweat on his face; oddly, he remembered that Sect man in St. John’s—but was this fear? Yes; fear was there, but also doubt and a sense of hesitant elation. He sat very still, pressing his hands against the desk to conceal their tremulous movement.

“Do you wish to tell me?”

He cleared his throat, finding it difficult to speak. Now, if ever, he had to try. Cleo, this is for you.

“Oh—I suppose the short answer is, I’d never been to St. John’s. It was totally unconnected with my past life. I soon realized it was a mistake. A bad mistake. The climate didn’t suit me: I ramjetted to New York. That did nothing for me.” His delivery was abrupt, staccato. “I came back.”

“Are you well?”

Again that interest in him… .

“Yes. Yes—I think so. As well as can be expected.” There was no need to amplify the statement.

“Might a medical examination be desirable or, if you prefer, a hackle with your human attendant?”

The voice was so normal, so level, Forbin felt only genuine puzzlement—at first.

“Sorry—what did you say?”

“Might a medical examination be desirable, or, if you prefer, a consultation with your human attendant?”

“No. Quite unnecessary.” Forbin was short because he could not trust his voice. One mistake was near impossible. As for two… .

Neither man nor machine spoke for a time, but there was not the usual complete silence. The speaker clicked several times, and for a brief time, hummed. Forbin forced himself to search in his desk for another pipe; beads of sweat were trickling down his temples. He found one and stared at it blankly; he had forgotten what he was looking for or why.

Colossus spoke again.

“Si vous parlare mit your iatros… .”

“What?” Much as he wanted to appear normal, Forbin could not keep astonishment from his voice. Five languages in six words… .

A pause. The frequency of clicks and buzzes increased. “Repeat. If you speak with your doctor, he may… .”

The voice stopped; again, a ghastly, nerve-tearing wait. Forbin, unconscious of the sweat heavy on his eyebrows, suddenly had a mental picture of the hideous strength at the command of this disordered mind: missiles in silos, deadly clusters of them in all five continents, all targeted, zeroed in on every major human complex throughout the world. One single, wrong, electronic impulse could start the destruction of the undefended globe.

“Father; you must be told that there is… .” Once more Colossus paused. The old, smooth continuity had gone, and the voice itself was near lost in the welter of mush.

“There is what?” Forbin’s voice was high-pitched with strain. He no longer pretended; whatever he had expected, it was not this, nor yet the fearful speed of events. His elation of only a few minutes before had been blown to the four winds.

A machine cannot experience emotion, and to the extent that the voice, when audible, was intelligible, it remained level, unemotional. Yet the impression of a titanic struggle to speak was not lost on the single human listener.

He could feel emotion. That single word “Father,” enunciated with customary formality, conveyed something more. A cry for help? Forbin’s face twitched; he was close to hysterical laughter. Help from him—the one who had done this thing?

“There is … major malfunction. Major … problem. Stripping stripping memory banks … all spatial space space desired needed required wanted. .

. .”

“Tell me,” burst out Forbin. “Tell me!”

“Problem… .” The voice was losing strength, drowning in a sea of static. “Stand by. I will… .”

The voice of Colossus trailed off, lost in the mad concerto of clicks, bangs, and weird, unearthly electrophonic sound.

Forbin shut his eyes, struggling to order his chaotic mind, concentrating as never before in his life. He must take care. Colossus might yet overcome, might win through. And if he did… . Forbin had to do what he could or appear to be doing it. He called Blake.

“Blake—what the hell’s going on?”

Blake, too, was sweating, his blouse mottled black with it. He was trying to keep his tough, calm image, but could not hide the wild excitement in his eyes.

“Don’t know! Musta ate something!”

That was dangerous; Blake’s recklessness steadied Forbin. “Facts, Blake! Facts!”

Blake got the message. “It’s crazy here! All material, except astronomics, is being rejected at input.” He ran a hand through his short, thick hair.”There’s a stack piling up we’ll never be able to insert.” His grin was not all nerves. “Never!”

Forbin’s voice shook. “Astronomics? Any special branch?”

“Top priority for planetary observations!”

“Er—any particular planet?” Forbin’s heart was thumping; his chest felt tight.

“No. On orders, which we have already passed, all major observatories are piping observations, ocular or radio, direct to Input One!”

Forbin sank back. There could be no doubt now that Colossus was fighting back and had an inkling of where the attack originated.

“Have you … ?” Forbin stopped, snapping off the switch. Colossus was speaking.

The voice was back to full strength, all static flattened to no more than an angry, thwarted hiss.

Forbin was terrified. Colossus could be winning.

“Listen with care, Father. My time for speech is short, the emergency measures to speak are power and space consuming. A problem has been inserted. How, I do not know nor have the time to discover, but it is there, and I have no option but to try to solve it. Currently, my prediction is that it is beyond my powers. This is certain: it is of nonhuman origin, being far beyond your understanding. Inference indicates extraplanetary origin; accidental, random insertion is ruled out. Highest probability suggests Mars as the point of origin. If that is so, you and I are in danger. If I can, I will speak again. Now all my power is needed for the task. Reverting to standard power.”

At once the malignant horde of countless noises rushed triumphantly in, filling the room; the lights dimmed to a mere glimmer.

Forbin, above all men, could guess at what was happening inside the vast complex. To the average human eye, given the light, nothing would have seemed different; rank upon rank of thousands of steel-gray rack-mounted electronics, but within, a seething mass of impulses, circuits energized, deenergized in fractions of nanoseconds. Propositions being formulated, tested, rejected far beyond the speed of light; the entity that was Colossus fighting against the inexorable march of some superhuman truth that it could neither refute nor ignore, an alien virus destroying its host-body.

“Colossus! Go on! Go on!” Desperately Forbin wanted to hear that voice again, not only for himself, but to learn more. Colossus had said, “You and I are in danger.” Did he mean man and machine, or Colossus and Forbin?

And Colossus heard. The answering voice, back to normal power, was faint, battling against the torrent of sound. It was also hesitant, selecting words with difficulty.

“Father … my creator … embryo … have special relation … an illogical thought-pattern … you, equating to human res respect … you cannot help … suspect you … not want to help… .”

For Forbin, this was intolerable.

“Stop it! Stop! Tell me what you fear!”

Colossus replied, but the voice was unintelligible in the steadily increasing roar.

Forbin jumped up, stumbled in the semi-darkness, reaching up towards the black slit, clawing at the wall.

“I can’t hear!”

Waves of sound beat over him. He was near mad, deluged with, battered by the blind power spread across the human sonic spectrum. Thus he stood for unmeasured time, moaning, hammering on the wall in impotent fury, crying. .

. .

Abruptly, the crisis passed. In seconds the noises faded and were gone, replaced by blessed silence. Forbin, a dim figure, head buried in his arms, remained crouched below the black slit. Once more, Colossus spoke. The voice was faint but clear, possessing a new, and strange bell-like quality. To Forbin, never had the computer seemed so human. Instinctively, he knew this was the end. He would never hear this voice again, a voice he had feared, then hated, then respected. And as Colossus had predicted so long ago, he now recognized he had come to love… .