The God Machine

by Martin Caidin

  There was also the crowbar. Cybernetics systems are essentially mechanisms of exquisite assembly and structure, and their many different elements may accurately be said to be unusually fragile. Certainly they weren't made to withstand energetic blows with a steel crowbar.

  The memory and programming divisions in which I was interested lay to the right and one level below my office. But I didn't want just to blunder my way into those carefully guarded portals. There was the matter of disguising my actions. Enough people worked at night so that movement through the corridors leading to the main components of the cybernetics system would not be unusual. That was half the game. The remainder of my disguise was to convince the guards at the main entrance to my section that I had actually gone somewhere other than my actual destination.

  I slipped the crowbar into a heavy belt beneath my trousers. With my jacket buttoned you couldn't see the crowbar even from a few feet away. The thermite bombs were another matter, each being the size of a small flashlight. For these I wore a leather fishing vest with hooks that would hold easily enough the eighteen-pound weight of the three bombs. I surveyed myself in the washroom mirror.

  Well, except for appearing somewhat lumpy, Rand, you'll pass inspection.

  I reviewed in my mind the location of my office with regard to the cybernetics assembly in which I was interested. Dr. Vollmer's office lay much closer to my destination than where I now stood. Fine; that would work out to my advantage. I checked my pockets to be sure of what I needed, removed a portable radio from my desk, and left my office, locking the door behind me.

  Several minutes later I was seated at Kim's desk, in the office adjoining that of Dr. Vollmer. I dialed the telephone extension for the main guard office.

  "Captain Holloran, here."

  "Jack, this is Steve Rand."

  "Oh, yessir. What can I do for you?"

  "I'm going to be in the Bionics Division for a while, Jack," I said. "Back in the files. Got some looking up to do there. If I get any calls, I wanted you to know where I'll be."

  "Right, Mr. Rand. We'll take care of things."

  "Oh, yes, one more thing, Jack. I'll be busy for a while and I'm taking a portable radio with me.

  Sort of keep the silence away."

  "I know what you mean." Holloran laughed agreeably.

  "So if you ring me and I don't answer it's because I'll be well back in the filing offices where they don't have a phone. With the radio going, well, you know. Just take any messages for me and I'll call you as soon as I get through. Okay?"

  "Right-o, Mr. Rand."

  "Thanks, Jack. Speak to you later. Bye."

  I replaced the telephone slowly, trying to review every step in my mind. Immediately after hanging up the phone, I locked the door to Vollmer's office. If anyone wanted to come in, it would slow them down, and that was important to me. Because I wasn't going to be in that office. But the radio would be playing quite loudly, and the chief of the guard unit believed I'd be back in the files, which is what he was supposed to believe.

  I checked the thermite bombs and then went through my pockets. It was all here. I walked quickly back to the file room, as far back as I could go. There I placed the radio atop a cabinet and turned it on, adjusting the volume until the sound racketed back and forth between the walls.

  I removed an envelope from my left jacket pocket, looked around for an ashtray, and emptied a dozen cigarette butts into the tray. I'd already prepared the stubs of Luckies, the brand I smoked. A dozen cigarettes would about cover the time I expected to be gone. That was just the sort of thing that Tom Smythe and his bloodhounds would be looking for. Then I went quickly through several file drawers, removing various papers and reports on alpha-wave-pattern tests. I piled several on the worktable and spread some others out on the top of the nearest cabinets.

  One last precaution. From my inner jacket pocket I withdrew a pair of silk gloves and slipped them on. Then I used my handkerchief to wipe all fingerprints from the crowbar, the three thermite bombs, and four small plastic vials containing corrosive acid. To release the acid all I needed to do was to crush the end of a vial between my fingers; one minute later the acid would drip down upon whatever lay beneath it, gouging and digging into metal, glass, or any other substance. It would raise hell with the power leads and other equipment of the cybernetics system.

  Everything was ready, my equipment back in my pockets. I slipped through an emergency exit door into the service corridor. One minute later, trying not to overdo it with my game leg, I worked my way down a spiral staircase to the next inner level of the spherical chambers within which 79 had been built in its spherical, tiered structure.

  Now I stood before the entrance to the final corridor that led to the vulnerable elements of the great cybernetics brain. Here was the test; it was here that I would have to release the security defense built as an integral element of protection for the heart of the cybernetics system.

  I couldn't get through!

  I—I didn't believe it! I stood on the examination plate and slipped my ID card into the scanning receptacle. A red light flashed. Rejected!

  I felt the first surge of panic, knew instantly what was happening. I removed the right glove, slammed my hand down upon the fingerprint scanning sensors. Again that red light, again that signal of Rejected!

  Nothing worked; nothing. I should have expected this, and I cursed myself for every kind of a damned fool. Of course! 79 had anticipated this possibility—hell, it didn't take any super-brain to computer the possibilities of my movements, and direct action against the computer was certainly in the realm of high statistical probability. 79 was protecting itself in a thorough and lethal manner.

  Raging, I struggled back into the right glove. I had to take the chance. ... I grabbed one of the plastic vials, crushed the end, and tossed it onto the detector plates. I knew the system was set up in such a fashion that no records were kept of an individual rejection. But the detector system held the information pertaining to the last person to use the system, and if I remembered correctly how the damned thing was put together the acid would wipe clean the records. I didn't know, but it was the kind of long shot I simply had to take.

  By now I had become frantic, and I wanted to try anything that could get me into that final corridor. If I could only get through this door and one more, I could be in the right spot to accomplish what I'd come here for. Only twenty feet to go! Twenty miserable feet and . . .

  I jerked free the crowbar, set myself, and smashed the locking mechanism to the door. For nearly two minutes I battered with all my strength at the door, praying that the thudding blows wouldn't carry to where anyone would hear the clamor and sound an alarm. But down here no one worked at night except in an emergency, and I'd already checked out that possibility. I didn't believe I would be heard, and I renewed my attack, raining blows against the lock mechanism.

  Metal yielded before the pounding, and I slammed my shoulder against the door, wincing at the sudden pain in my leg. I forced myself to ignore the stabbing sensations as the door groaned free of the lock and swung open.

  There! The last corridor. Twenty feet away another door like this one, and then ... all I needed was a few more minutes and I would eat out the vitals of 79 with terrible heat and corrosive acid and whatever else I could do with that crowbar. I started along the corridor and—

  Barely in time I regained my senses and stumbled to a halt where I stood. Fuming, I turned around and found what I wanted. A piece of metal hammered free from the door handle.

  I picked it up, aimed carefully, and tossed the metal down the corridor.

  Blazing light beams stabbed into existence. Lasers!

  Jesus! I'd almost rushed right into that! Those beams would have sliced me into twenty separate pieces of dismembered human being, and I'd forgotten all about them! Of course; anytime someone broached that door without the detection system first providing authorization through fingerprints, retinal pattern, ID card, body mass, and even m
ore checks, the defenses were set in motion and the laser beams operated automatically.

  And so did the alarms. By now every red light must be flashing and every alarm bell clanging at the guard stations. And I'd never get back in time. It was impossible. I was caught in the trap of my own making.

  I could almost hear the soft trickling laughter of ... of the God Machine.

  One chance; one chance only. I had to try to brazen it out. I slipped the crowbar back into the harness within my trousers, spun on my heels, and dashed for a red telephone thirty feet away. I yanked the phone from its cradle and began shouting for the guards. The pickup connected me automatically with Guard Central, and immediately an anxious voice burst through the receiver.

  "This is Steve Rand, and I'm at Station 29! You got that? Station 29! Someone's been trying to get to the computer banks! Yes, yes! Get the guards here on the double and don't waste a second! Wait a moment. ... I heard someone running along the west corridor; yes, that's it. The west corridor. Someone in overalls, I think. Okay, get with it; I'll stick here."

  I'd barely made it. I was still shouting into the telephone when four men, guns drawn and ready for use, stormed into the security room. And I knew they had seen Steven Rand shouting into the emergency telephone for help.

  They had also heard my warning that someone was running along the west corridor, someone in overalls. Three men took off at a dead run in pursuit of the fleeing saboteur. I leaned weakly against the wall, gasping for breath, as Jack Holloran rushed to support me.

  "I—I heard someone going along the service corridor," I stammered. "Didn't think anything about it for a mo—Christ, my leg!" I groaned convincingly, and Halloran moved in quickly to support me by the arm and lead me to a chair. I fell gratefully to the seat, clutching my leg. "I didn't think anything about it for a moment," I went on, my face contorted, "and then I realized that no one was working down here tonight. I didn't think, I suppose I should have called you right away—"

  "That's all right, Mr. Rand," Halloran said. He made a swift appraisal of the damage. "Whoever it was, you scared him off," he added approvingly. "You may have saved the day, that's for sure. Are you all right now?"

  I rubbed my leg. "I—I'll be fine, Jack. I came down the corridor, toward the stairs," I said, gesturing, "and then I heard this terrific racket, like someone was smashing away at the door. I ran here as fast as I could. I'm afraid I tore up my leg a bit. But it doesn't matter," I added quickly, waving my hand to dismiss the pain as unimportant. "When I got here I saw someone with a piece of metal in his hands, couldn't tell what it was. I started shouting at him, and he took off, down the west corridor." I groaned again and contorted my face. "I called the guard station right away, of course." I looked up, anger showing clearly in my expression. "Will they get him, Jack?"

  Halloran's face clouded with his own anger. "We'll get the son of a bitch, never fear," he said, his lips pressed tightly. "Did you get a look at him, Mr. Rand?"

  I shook my head. "No, not really. I think he had brown hair, I'm not sure. I really didn't try, I'm afraid," I said apologetically. "I was so startled by what was going on, I didn't think. I just started shouting, and ran as fast as I could toward—"

  "You did just great, Mr. Rand, just great. Don't you go regretting anything, now," Halloran said. I struggled to my feet, and he was there at once to offer a hand. He looked at me carefully. "Think you can manage?"

  I nodded. "Excuse me, Mr. Rand, I've got to call in." He left me standing there and reached for the red telephone.

  I didn't hear everything he said. But I heard him saying that if it hadn't been for Mr. Rand, a lot of damage might have happened.

  Mr. Rand, I deduced from his tone and his words, was the hero of the moment.

  Before Tom Smythe could be summoned to the scene, I managed to get back to the filing room in the Bionics Division, where I recovered the radio. I made certain to leave an almost empty cigarette package and my lighter on the work-table, near the ashtray.

  Several minutes later I was back in my office. I couldn't get Halloran on the phone—they were still scouring the corridors and offices of the western segment of the complex. But I spoke to a guard at the main desk and told him I was coming down. He had already heard of my participation in the fracas that had the entire complex in an uproar. When I saw him at the entrance, now guarded with four men holding riot guns, I dragged my way painfully past him to the personnel register.

  "Check with Jack Halloran, will you?" I asked. "My leg feels like it's about twisted off. I've got to get some pain-killers in my apartment. You can reach me there. You won't be needing me right now, will you?"

  "No, sir," he said, rushing to the door to hold it open for me. "I've heard what you did tonight, Mr.

  Rand. We're all mighty grateful, believe me."

  "Thanks." I managed a weak smile. "Only did what I could, of course. I'm afraid it wasn't very much help."

  "Not the way I heard it," he said, his manner stern. "If it wasn't for you—"

  I gestured to cut him off. "I'm sorry," I said, "but this leg hurts like hell. Could one of you give me a hand?"

  One of the guards assisted me to my car, parked just outside the side entrance I'd used that night.

  If I could only get to the apartment before Tom Smythe showed up—

  I slipped the crowbar from my trousers and killed the lights of the car. At the rear of the cafeteria, I lifted the lid of the large trash receptacle and slipped the crowbar from sight within the garbage. It would be collected at six o'clock that morning, I knew, and it would disappear forever in the blazing flames of the gas-fed furnaces used to destroy completely all waste of the project. A moment later the thermite bombs and acid vials followed the crowbar.

  Ten minutes later I was in my apartment, mixing myself a drink and trying to stop the shakes that had my body trembling from head to foot. The phone rang almost as soon as I took my first swallow.

  "Steve, Smythe here. Halloran just gave me the whole story. We're lucky you were working so late tonight. Are you in shape to answer some questions if I come up there? I'll be finished here in another twenty minutes or so."

  "Sure," I agreed. "I'm still too shaky to sleep. Besides, this leg ..." I let my voice trail off. "I'll be here, Tom. Anytime you're ready just come on up."

  I'd covered my tracks. That much was certain.

  And had failed completely in what I wanted so desperately to do.

  Now the wall around 79 would be that much more difficult to penetrate. If, I reflected, I could ever again get through.

  31

  the black car tore down the street, tires screeching and its engine howling as the driver slammed the accelerator to the floor. I had barely a moment to see the two-ton juggernaut bearing down upon me, the headlights dazzling as the other vehicle swerved to rush directly at my own car. It arrowed in so swiftly to me it seemed almost to explode in size.

  One chance . . . stay off the brake! I tramped the pedal to the floor to kick into passing gear. I heard my own engine protesting, and I spun the wheel. For a second or two my tires squealed, and then metal ground together in a cacophony of metal and glass ripping into flaming wreckage.

  The building on the corner tilted crazily, and then tumbled. I stared as lights blobbed before me, and I knew the other car had ripped into the rear half of my own vehicle, spinning me around in a wild somersaulting flip through the air. But that was a lot better than what would have happened if I hadn't slammed on the power. That other car would have burst directly into the front seat on top of me.

  All these events and thoughts flashed through my mind as the buildings and lights and the street blurred together. I knew, almost as if I were an observer standing on the corner and watching the incredible tableau, what was happening. I felt my car careen wildly, heard and felt metal and glass tearing and then, as my car pounded into the street on its trunk, I saw the expected brilliant orange explosion as my gas tank erupted in flames.

  Luck s
tayed with me. The car was still spinning, but this time the front tires grabbed and held pavement. The flames boomed outward behind and to the side, and there was just that much opportunity for me to snap the safety belt free, hurl my weight against the door, and get the hell out from under. None too soon. The car was now at a stop but still rocking back and forth when I was on my feet, getting away, and the wind shifted. A great ball of yellow-orange flame curled into the interior of the car.

  I stared as the fire tore into the front seat. Where only seconds before I was strapped in.

  I felt something warm on my cheek, running along my neck. I reached up and my hand came away covered with blood, reflecting crazily the light of the blazing automobile. Then I forgot about it; there was no pain, and I started as best I could to the other vehicle.

  It stood upright, but with its entire front end smashed and the windshield on the driver's side shattered as from the blow of a heavy object. Water poured from the radiator. I didn't think very much about the car because the driver picked himself up from the sidewalk where he'd been sitting, holding his forehead where blood streamed from a dozen cuts and gashes.

  He came to his feet, weaving, screaming hoarsely. He lurched toward me, mouthing obscenities at me for having run the red light and causing the accident.

  Me? Why, that son of a bitch came down that street from a standing start, his tires burning rubber on the pavement like a drag— Three things hit me at once.

  The other car had come down that street from a standing start. At the angle of the intersection the other driver had to know this was the route I took late at night and he had to have plenty of room in which to seek me and . . . sure, and he had to be ready and waiting with his engine running and his car in gear. Ready and waiting for me to show up.