by Неизвестный
“Mr. President—” began the Secretary of State, but his boss raised an arresting hand.
“Not now, John. In the morning maybe, but not now.”
With their departure, the two scientists were left alone with the President. He was about to speak when the door opened; it was a Secret Service man on security patrol.
“That is just too goddam much!” roared the President, “Get the -ing hell out of here!”
He picked up a handy glass and threw it. It hurtled over the guard's head and disappeared into the PPA's room. There was a sound of smashing glass as the man quickly shut the door.
“That makes me feel a whole lot better.” He grinned, his anger dissipated—for the moment. “That call was a hellava shock, but maybe it's not all bad. At least we got in first, even if it was only just. We knew that given time the Russkies would make one too, but no one reckoned on them moving that fast. So neither side can make anything of it.” He thought for a moment. “One bright spot is the way Colossus came up with that hot tip so smartly.” He spoke reprovingly to Forbin. “I didn't know we'd get bonuses like this from the project.”
He picked up a bottle of Scotch and started pouring three drinks.
Forbin glanced at Fisher, seeking his support in what he had to say. Fisher, ill at ease, half nodded his agreement. “Neither did I, Mr. President.” Forbin was back in his formal act.
The President stopped pouring and said sharply, “What do you mean?”
“Just that. I had no idea.” The formality was slipping. “Goddammit, man—you built the thing!” The President was heating up again. He was not the only one.
“Yes—and not so very long ago I warned you I wasn't happy about the potential of Colossus, and you damn near laughed at me.”
“What are you driving at?”
“Just this! Colossus has been fed with the parameters that we consider indicate war. It was built to compare events with those parameters, and if they coincided, to get blasting. That was the main function. The second requirement was to answer any question we might feed in.”
He stopped and dug out his pipe. The action of filling and lighting it cooled him down a little. The President, having poured a drink to his own satisfaction, left the other two glasses and sat down at his desk, watching Forbin. Fisher stood uneasily tugging alternately at his tie and his left eyebrow. Forbin continued.
“The question-answering faculty was a later idea. We thought it would be useful to get factual answers out of the memory banks, because it was a lot faster to ask Colossus than to look it up. If you asked CIA where the 216th Soviet Rocket Regiment was stationed and its combat status they would tell you in a matter of an hour or so; Colossus could answer in less than a second. The same with harder questions, such as predicting the tin output of Albania for next month. CIA's time, around four hours; Colossus, less than two seconds. And take that reporter's question—Love. I don't mind admitting I wasn't sure Colossus would come up with a credible answer—which was why I asked for the reference and not the quote. Who was going to look it up then?” He walked to the desk, picked up the Scotch and drained it. “But I reckoned it would take all of ten seconds, maybe twelve, to come up with the answer. Mazon said it was seven seconds. It was actually one less than that—you have to allow a second for actuation of the teletype. Six seconds! To answer a highly sophisticated question like that, checking hundreds of thousands of references, summarizing, and then comparing. . . Yes, I built the thing, but it surprised me.”
“So?” The President shot the single word at Forbin. It might be justified, but it was not tactful.
“Don't you get it yet? That message about another mechanism isn't in the simple-answer or advanced-answer category—or in the sophisticated realm revealed by the Love question. Also, there's no parameter built in dealing with hostile intent and Colossus-type machines, so bang goes that one. And, for good measure, no bloody question was asked!” Forbin was shouting now. “It means Colossus can think of its own volition—look at that FLASH priority alone!
“Since eight o'clock this morning Colossus has worked over its material and made a better job in a few hours than CIA in years. It not only tells us—without being asked—but actually uses the highest priority to show the urgency of its message. If that isn't selective thinking, I'm a blue-assed baboon!”
He turned to go, then swung to face the President once more, extending a shaking finger towards his assistant.
“And if you don't believe me, look at Fisher's face! Good night, Mr. President!”
Chapter 5
TEN MINUTES later Fisher joined Forbin, waiting in the air-car. Forbin did not speak as his colleague climbed in, but waited until Fisher was settled, then stabbed the linear motor button.
Fisher wriggled in his seat.
“Do you mind if we switch out the light?”
“Go ahead,” said Forbin briefly.
With the cabin in darkness Fisher felt happier. With the lights out, he was aware of the outside world—and their isolation from it. There was a long silence. Forbin fumbled absently with his pipe, then spoke.
“Well, we'd expected something, and by God we've got it!” Forbin marshaled his thoughts. “That damn FLASH. It looks very much like creative thinking—and we know that's a theoretical impossibility.”
“Entirely.”
“And then how did Colossus come up with this intelligence when CIA hasn't had the ghost of an idea, yet had exactly the same material to work on?”
He lapsed into silence. Fisher stared out of the front observation window at the black night, pierced by the single headlight. The car swayed fractionally as it banked round a shallow curve; there was a sudden thunderous tattoo as they sliced through a rain-shower, momentarily the view was obscured by water, then their velocity whipped the curved plastic screen clear.
“I fancy I've got one explanation of the second point,” said Fisher diffidently.
Forbin disentangled himself from an unpleasant train of thought. “And that is?”
“We're wrong in assuming CIA has access to exactly the same raw material. While they know, in general terms, of the Project, they hold none of the technical data. Take that high- temperature resin we had such trouble with. It has no other application that I know of. Now—suppose the Russians ran into the same trouble, that some reference to this formulation cropped up in our intelligence intake—it would mean nothing to CIA, but would be highly significant to Colossus. Remember all that stuff we fed in before the final checkout.”
“Yes, it's a tenable proposition,” said Forbin slowly, “but if you're right, the amount of work Colossus has got through since activation is staggering! And if you are right—and you probably are—it doesn't help on the larger question, and that's the one.”
Fisher knew Forbin was not saying all that was in his mind. He knew also that they shared the same deep, chilling fear. Fisher resumed his vigil at the observation window.
The telephone pinged. Forbin answered it with significant speed.
“Yes?”
“Prytzkammer here, Professor. The President is calling a Defense Group meeting for 1000 tomorrow—in his office.”
“Right—I'll be there. All quiet at your end?”
“As quiet as it ever gets. Nothing from your oracle, and the Chief has gone to bed.”
Forbin switched off abruptly. In his explosive state of mind it was the best thing to do.
“They've still got no idea, have they?”
“He's used to crises, you know,” put in Fisher mildly.
“This is not just another crisis! That crowd back there,” he jerked his head in the general direction of Washington, “is not even faintly competent to assess the problem. It would be quite some advance if they recognized a problem even existed. I'll bet you this meeting is to chew over the Russian machine, and if we don't raise it, they'll just mention in passing the valuable services already performed by Colossus. You'll see.” Forbin strode into the Colossus Programming Office, s
hort title CPO, where despite air-conditioning the atmosphere was stale and fusty after the clear night air. The pale gray walls were covered with progress charts and clips of teletype reports. High up on one wall, yellowing with age, was a drawing produced by some artistic wit in the early days. It showed a man sitting on a lavatory, clearly much concerned with his own affairs. The caption said, “The only man in Washington who knows what he is doing.” Forbin glanced at it with renewed appreciation.
Two of the staff were on duty, looking pale and drawn under the shadowless light from the luminescent ceiling. It was a singularly tiring form of lighting; Forbin had refused to have it in his personal office. He had rebuilt two antique oil lamps for his own use—which were the bane of his secretary's life. Procuring a small but steady supply of the right kind of oil, and the wicks, was a constant problem. In the CPO luxuries of that sort—objects that might contain microtransmitterswere out, mainly on security grounds. This was a maximum security area.
Forbin nodded to the duty men. They knew him too well to speak when he was wearing his blank stare. His mind was clouded with the deep, shadowy fears of Colossus' potential, coupled with the knowledge that he must be ready to meet whatever might arise. Forbin knew he must have help, and the help he needed could come only from his fellow creators of Colossus. Fisher was a brilliant mathematics and electronics man, but no good in this situation. It was clear from the conversation in the car that although Fisher fully appreciated the position, he wanted to bury his head in the nearest sand-bucket, and stay that way. Even if he knew he was right, he wouldn't stand up to the President or the Defense Staff.
But standing up to the President was another problem. He had really chewed up the Old Man. Not that Forbin was worried about his future. But he had no wish to get the President in his wounded-mountain-bear act—they had to work together, more than ever, now. He had to convince the President that the machine was growing up, and that the growth was unplanned and proceeding at a frightening speed and must be inhibited—somehow.
“Johnson—where's Cleo?”
“She knocked off about twenty minutes ago, Professor. Said to tell you she was getting a shower and maybe a little sleep.”
“Sleep, hell!” snorted Forbin. “What do we have these medics for? Call the sick bay, have them send over a supply of those zip-pills—or whatever you call 'em. Fisher! You'd better have a box of them. I want this outfit on an emergency basis. As well as the duty man in the watch room, I want two permanently on duty here.”
“What do you want us to do?” Fisher spoke hesitantly. “First, get on to that exchange of messages with particular reference to that FLASH. How could Colossus originate it? Use the simulator—check the data we fed Colossus about himself, and any other idea that may occur to you on this angle. Secondly, see that anything, but anything, that comes up the pipe from Colossus is fed to me, wherever I am, immediately. Don't assume I already know, check.”
Johnson broke in. “Sir, is this matter all that serious? Colossus was built to evaluate, and it did just that. As for the FLASH, maybe there's a minor relay fault which allowed it to be de- stored. We could change the terminal relays and check—”
“Crap, Johnson, crap!” Forbin barked. “I haven't got time to spell it out.” He got up and headed for the door. “Fisher, you tell him—if you can keep his mind and hands off Angela's tits long enough.” As he spoke he regretted it. “Sorry, Johnson. I shouldn't have said that—it was inexcusable.”
As Forbin left, Fisher looked wryly at Johnson. “I'm afraid he's worried sick.”
“Sure unlike him to sound off like that. I get the message all right, but why does it scare him so much?”
“In a nutshell, he sees it—and I must say I agree with him—as clear evidence that Colossus has an unplanned potential, of unknown scope, for self-development, and that this includes an entirely new element—initiative.”
“But, Doctor, how can it? There's only a finite amount of potential, and it can't physically alter its guts—so how can it get very far out of line?”
“Johnson, do you realize that even twenty-four hours ago the mere idea of its getting out of line at all would have been laughed at? Now, we accept that it can—we have to—and comfort ourselves with the thought that it cannot go far. If you care to think of the hardware that thing has under its command—” Fisher stopped, staring blankly at the wall charts, “It's just too awful.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Do? Oh yes. Get Blake and all the rest of Group A—and I don't care if they are asleep.”
Johnson dialed the code number on the internal call transmitter which would trigger the personal receivers carried by all members of Group A. Instantly, his, and Fisher's, began their plaintive bleating. Fisher visibly jumped. They both canceled their own receivers, and stood silent, waiting. Forbin was the first to call in.
“Yes, what now?” His voice was brusque, tight with tension. Fisher answered.
“I was calling all the Group to the CPO for briefing. I thought you might want to give the rundown on the position—”
Forbin cut in. “No, you can do it. Cleo and I won't be there.”
“Very well, Professor.” Fisher was by no means happy at the prospect and it showed in his voice.
“You can do it as well as I could, Jack.” Forbin's tone softened, trying to infuse confidence into Fisher. “I don't have to emphasize how important it is for us not only to keep up, but to get ahead in this situation; time is very short. I suggest you break the Group into two watches and dig away at that FLASH angle. One thing for Johnson. I want teletype repeaters hooked to Colossus' output installed in my room and in Cleo's. Fix Cleo's first—I'm going there now, and will be staying there for the time being.”
He switched off without waiting for an answer. Johnson grinned at Fisher.
“I guess the old man is going to define love to Cleo.” Fisher, plucking nervously at his lower lip, did not even hear him. There was a burst of noise as the rest of the Group called in.
“All of you, come on in—at the rush, Director's orders,” Johnson told them. “We have a little trouble to sort out.”
Even that master of the understatement, Plantain, would have been proud of that one.
Cleo Markham, thirty-five and a leading cyberneticist of Project Colossus, was wearing a shower cap, and nothing else, when Forbin burst into her sitting room without knocking. She was among the brighter minds produced since women became first-class citizens. She also had that rare quality among the female intelligentsia, femininity. Her reaction to Forbin's sudden entry was to whip off the shower cap.
“What the hell are you doing?” snapped Forbin unreasonably.
Several answers crossed Cleo Markham's mind, but from the look of the Director this was no time to be smart or coy. In fact, she had dashed from the shower to answer the call put out by Johnson.
“You'd better sit down,” she said, turning away from him in search of a dressing gown.
Forbin stared at her long, well—shaped back and her ample but firm buttocks, pink and gleaming from the shower. It would be untrue to say he did not notice, but any thoughts her form conjured up were instantly dismissed as irrelevant. “Have you heard about the Russians?”
“No—what?” Cleo grabbed her dressing gown off the back of a chair.
“They have a Colossus too—activating the thing tomorrow.
Whatever thoughts were having a good time in Cleo's mind vanished. She swung round, one hundred per cent scientist. “What!” Her voice rose the best part of an octave as she uttered the single word.
Some obscure but scientific corner of Forbin's mind took time out to observe that, although her face was white with shock, the rest of her remained pink, that her areolae had contracted, the nipples prominent, and that there were goose pimples on her thighs.
“Hadn't you better get some clothes on?” He sat down heavily. “God, I'm tired.”
Cleo shook her head angrily. “It's impossib
le, how could they—”
Forbin waved his hand impatiently at her. “The Russian Ambassador called the President while I was there. That was obviously the ”mechanism“ Colossus was talking about in the message. Have you got any coffee?”
Cleo, who had been clutching her dressing gown, slowly put it on. She did not bother to turn away; about the only part Forbin had not seen were the soles of her feet. She said, “But the coincidence in activation times! Washington must be livid.”
Forbin blinked at her. “Science is littered with coincidences—not that it matters. It's the power of Colossus I want to talk about.”
He stood up and searched his jacket for pipe and tobacco. “This lousy suit!” he said savagely, then continued. “Frankly, Cleo, I'm scared. I must talk to someone, someone who will listen and may be able to help. Fisher is the obvious choice, but he. . .” Forbin groped for a suitable phrase, gave it up and went on. “He told me you too had a feeling that Colossus might act up.”
Cleo nodded and was about to speak when there was a tap on the door. It was a couple of technicians with the teletype Forbin had ordered. He explained their presence to Cleo and lapsed into a sombre silence while the machine was fitted.
“OK to test, Professor?”
“No!” Forbin said sharply. “Fix the other one in my room, then report to the CPO when ready to test. No keyboards are to be pounded without my order.”
“OK, Professor.” The senior man eyed Forbin curiously. He had been on the Project for years, but had never seen Forbin like this. He jerked his head towards the door and his assistant preceded him out.
Forbin stared blankly at Cleo's taste in pictures. Cleo had taken advantage of the diversion to slip into her minute bedroom and dress. She had no real objection to Forbin seeing her undressed—she knew she had a good figure, and given the right circumstances. . . but uppermost in her mind was the news of the Russian machine. All the same, the woman in her got uppermost long enough to allow a long appraising stare at herself in the mirror.