by Неизвестный
“How's Guardian, Cleo?”
Cleo looked up, her smile slightly forced. “I've kept up by cheating. I'm comparing the earlier output of colossus with Guardian on the same subject. He's on gravitation—identical with Colossus—but I figure another half-hour and I might as well be a chorus girl for all it will mean to me.”
Forbin wondered if he would feel any differently about her if she were. He rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. It took a conscious effort to stop it from wandering into a caressing movement. For a brief moment he gripped her shoulder hard, then relaxed and employed both hands filling his pipe.
“Don't worry. The Marines will land shortly—I expect Jack will soon be back with Blake, Levy and the rest. Also I've made a deal with Grauber—he's sending ten good men, first lot here around midnight. That will give us sixteen—eight in a watch.”
Cleo was startled. “That's a lot of brain.”
Forbin lowered his voice. “Frankly, I doubt very much if it will be enough if this runs for another twenty-four hours.”
“But it can't go on, Charles!”
“Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, I want you to back up Jack—he has to produce hourly reports, and your wider field of knowledge of the machines can help him. And your feminine presence may stop him going nuts.” Forbin smiled.
Cleo was not sure if the last part was a joke or not, so she ignored it. “How about you?”
“There is a growing school of thought that holds I'm screwy beyond recall.”
“And therefore beyond the need for female support?”
“Now, now. No need to flex your muscles at me, you know the answer.”
Cleo did not reply, but raised one eyebrow, and the world of science shrank to insignificance.
Whatever Forbin had in mind was relegated to another time as Fisher and his team arrived. It included the chunky, cigar-smoking Blake, and Levy, small, dark and birdlike. Forbin was watching them settle in, when Grauber called again, telling Forbin the first group would be on their way in fifteen minutes. He also gave Forbin the gist of his conversation with the President, but there was nothing new in it for Forbin, who then gave Grauber his opinion on the present exchange between the machines.
“Both machines are exchanging basic information—and both are making sure they speak the same language, scientifically speaking. The way Guardian is singing, it sounds like a perfect duet to me. These discoveries in gravitation are only discoveries to us—I think it is perfectly obvious to them, and just about as important as twice two equaling four. This is simply a get- together.”
“And then?”
“That, Grauber, is the big question. What then?”
Chapter 11
By midnight the situation was coming under control. The reinforced first watch were within sight of catching up with the machines. Even so, there was only time for rough evaluation. By 0100 local time, Fisher and Cleo had produced the first report. No further major surprises had emerged, but there were many minor items which would also rock the ship of science, and not only in astronomy and mathematics. Fisher, his mind sealed against the larger implications, was happy and on top of his task.
“There you are, Charles. Report One—both outputs to midnight.” He handed Forbin two closely typed pages.
Forbin glanced at it briefly. “I only hope I've time to read it. Has CIA's copy gone?”
“Yes. A copy was transmitted as soon as the original was checked.” Fisher turned to Cleo. “Cleo, I can handle the next two reports without help; why don't you get some rest? I'll call when I need you.” The change in Fisher from a near-hysterical wreck to a busy, capable man was startling, and no small relief to Forbin.
Forbin put the report down. “I could do with a change of scene, too.” He took Cleo's arm and they went out. “Hey—rain!” he said with surprise.
“Where are we going?” said Cleo, also looking at the rain. “Going? Oh, let's just walk up and down—if you don't mind the rain.”
My hair, thought Cleo, it will all go as straight as damp string. Damnation!
“Of course not—I love walking in the rain.”
They circled the block for ten minutes in silence. Forbin held her arm tightly, drawing comfort from her presence. The rain grew steadily heavier, but he did not seem to notice. Cleo felt water in her shoes, rivulets down her neck. For another five minutes they trudged on, then Forbin, surfacing from his private thoughts, showed a tardy concern for his companion.
“Cleo, you must be getting wet. We'll go in before you catch cold.”
He took her arm more firmly and headed towards her quarters, Cleo squelching happily beside him. Passing a luminescent slab he looked at her, and spoke with real concern.
“My dear, you really are drenched! I'm sorry—it was so thoughtless—your hair is soaking!”
Cleo silently cursed her naturally straight hair, and thought how tactless, inexperienced and charming he was.
“It doesn't matter, we can soon get dry.” She was aware of him touching her hair; for no very good reason they stopped, the rain slanted down, bright rods of light and then, suddenly, she was oblivious of the rain and her wet feet. . . She knew only that deep within her there was a feeling of fire and movement, her legs trembled.
It was the best part of a minute before he released her. She tried to sound unconcerned and matter of fact.
“Well, there goes my lipstick as well!” Her voice was shaky with emotion, she pressed herself against him, her arms round his neck, wet face against his wet shirt.
But Forbin was now fully aware of the rain, and gently disentangled himself. “Come on, let's go in.”
In her living room they looked at each other with a faint air of embarrassment; Cleo knew it was up to her to keep the ball rolling, or he would get bogged down and might take ages to get moving again, and there were not ages to spare.
“Now,” she said brightly, “I think you had better get those shoes off, and that shirt. I'll fix us a drink, then change myself.” Her eyes were bright, there was color in her face. She even forgot her hair.
With half of a large rye in his hand, and the other half adding to his internal glow, Forbin felt better than he had for days. He beamed vaguely at the wall and did not notice, or bother to look at, the teletype in one corner of the room. Cleo had vanished into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
“You know, Cleo, all the time we were walking, I wasn't thinking about Colossus, but about you.”
Cleo, halfway out of her blouse, smiled to herself.
“Really, Charles?” Her tone was a nice balance between interested and the noncommittal.
“Yes. In fact you've been on my mind more than once in the past few days.” There Forbin's inspiration dried up; he gulped down the rest of his rye.
Cleo said nothing; she enjoyed woman's favorite mental game, cat and mouse, as much as the next. She tossed the blouse in the disposal bin—all clothing except formal dress was disposable—and took another. Momentarily, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her only other garment, a white brassiere, stood out in sharp contrast with her pale brown skin. She hesitated, then took off the brassiere before donning the new blouse. If the situation developed, it could help—she had a feeling that Forbin might be unhandy with fastenings. Quickly she brushed her hair back, pulled it into a rough ponytail. A look in the mirror at the finished product made her grimace, but it was the best she could do in the time, and time was of the essence; Forbin might easily slide off into a ceiling-staring mood; with all he had on his mind it would be understandable. Judging by the silence, he might already be away.
“Charles, give yourself another drink.” Hastily Cleo repaired the ravages of the rain—and Forbin—to her make-up, and practically ran back to the living room. Forbin had not removed shoes or shirt, or replenished his drink. He stood rocking gently back and forth, but stopped at her entrance, and smiled. There was a hint of surprise in his voice.
“You should always do your hair like that.”
“It suits the shape of your face,” said Forbin, looking at her carefully, “accentuates the general oval shape, and the cheekbones.”
It was Cleo's turn to look surprised. This was good penetrating stuff, coming from a man, especially this man. She turned to look in the mirror, practically a reflex action in any female in the circumstances, to see if she could see what he saw.
For a large man he moved quickly. Cleo hardly had time to glimpse his reflection in the mirror before she felt herself encircled by a surprisingly strong arm. She placed her free hand on his, not to stop it wandering from her midriff, but to make sure he did not retreat.
“Cleo, my darling,” he buried his nose in her still-damp hair, “I love the smell of your hair.”
Cleo, who had leaned back against him, stiffened slightly, and opened her eyes.
“It reminds me of new bread.”
“Charles darling, you say the nicest things.”
Forbin raised his head for a moment and stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror. “Do I? ”
Cleo smiled, relaxed again and closed her eyes. His other hand, more enterprising than the first, had unzipped her blouse.
“Darling,” she said dreamily, “don't you think we would be more comfortable—”
And then the phone sounded.
With commendable self-control, neither spoke.
Gently Forbin withdrew his forces, pausing only to kiss the back of her neck, and went to the phone. Cleo took a deep breath and looked at herself thoughtfully in the mirror as she zipped her blouse.
“Yes?” said Forbin in a tired, flat voice. He listened for a moment. “What! Both of them? I'll be right over.”
And that, thought Cleo, is that. Charles the incipient lover was gone; Professor Forbin was right back on the job. “I'm sorry Cleo, but something odd is going on—”
“What, again?”
“This is new—both teletypes appear to have jammed at the same moment.”
“A line failure?”
“No, Fisher has checked with CIA—they're getting the same effect at their end.” Forbin paused at the door. “Are you coming?”
“No, Charles. Unless you want me, I'll sit this one out.” She felt tired, and the way things were, she did not care if Colossus and Guardian had discovered perpetual motion. “Right,” said Forbin briskly, and was gone.
Cleo contemplated herself once more in the mirror, then wryly reached for her brassiere.
In the watch room Forbin found the duty watch staring at the two teletypes.
“How long has this been going on?”
“About four or five minutes.”
“What do you make of it, Jack?”
“I've no idea, Charles. It could be a mechanical fault—but both machines went off at the same moment.”
Blake, unlit cigar jutting aggressively, spoke; “I reckon the transmitting speed is too fast for these machines. Don't ask me why they did it together, I don't know—but I know teletypes. It just ain't in their natures to do more than two hundred characters a minute.”
Forbin called CIA, who confirmed Blake's view. They were already taking high-speed tapes for a slow playback, and would start feeding it to the Zone as soon as they had enough.
“If this stuff is only twice as fast as before,” Blake said, “we'll never catch up.”
Forbin let that pass. Fisher broke in to say that, when the speed had increased, both machines were deep in finite absolutes, out on the very fringe of known mathematics. Forbin was digesting this when CIA called and announced that the new speed was two hundred times faster than the old.
“Holy cow!” breathed Blake in a hushed voice. “Two hundred!”
Fisher, curiously enough, did not seem all that interested. He was reading the latest material, one hand plucking away at his eyebrows. He frowned, read it again, then without comment passed it to Blake.
Blake stared at it for a long time, then handed it back. “Mebbe that Russian bum, Kupri or somesuch, at Gorki or Leveson at Oxford might help, but not me. I know when I'm licked.”
Forbin also read it, without comment, and gave it back to Fisher. There was a long silence. Finally Forbin spoke. “That's about all we needed. I've no idea what it means. None of us does, and I doubt if even Leveson would do any better than you, Jack.” He took a deep breath. “Both machines are now beyond the frontiers of human knowledge in whatever field they are now dealing with.”
“Check,” said Blake, flatly.
“And,” Forbin continued, “this material they're exchanging may not be understandable to us for another decade—certainly not now.”
Fisher blinked at the paper in his hand. “Well, on the bright side, we have no valid reason for supposing that this exchange will go on. After all, we still assume this is only an intelligence- gathering operation on the part of both machines, each merely trying to size up, as it were, the opposition?”
He stared at Forbin, “Well, don't we?” Forbin remained silent.
Behind them, all around and enveloping them was the subdued and ceaseless chatter of the teletypes, like myriad hosts of tireless insects. In Forbin's mind the sound had assumed a more menacing, frightening tone.
Chapter 12
Five thousand miles away the Soviet Premier was listening intently to his Chief of Defense, who had urgently requested the meeting. Also in the room, quiet and unobtrusive, was Academician Kupri, Chief Scientist of the Guardian of Socialist Soviet Peoples.
“Those, then, are the facts,” the Defense Chief was saying, “Academician Kupri and I have reached this conclusion. First, the output of both machines is too fast for any humans. Nevertheless, there is the risk that the Americans may process the slowed-up material and discover facts, transmitted by Guardian, that could endanger the State. The Americans have the same problem, but we cannot ignore ours for that reason. Second, we cannot stop their machine. There is clear evidence that there is interplay between them, so if we stop ours, the transmissions from Colossus may seduce Guardian from its duty.”
“You agree, Kupri?”
He did. In response to the Chairman's question, Kupri spoke in a flat, unemotional voice of the extreme urgency—in his view—of the matter. It was vital that the USSR and the USNA agree to stop the transmissions simultaneously, and that it be done at once. Unknown intelligence was streaming out at an unimaginable rate, and while he, Kupri, did not like to see this most interesting experiment stop, he now realized he was in error in recommending that the facilities Guardian had asked for should be provided.
“I accept your views, Comrades.” The Chairman thought for a moment. “I will call the President and suggest we hand this matter to our experts for action. You speak English, Academician?”
“Yes, Chairman.”
The Chairman ordered his secretary to call Washington, then turned to the question of parameters. The Marshal was inclined to make difficulties, but the Chairman told him sharply he wanted his final views within twelve hours.
The secretary returned and said the President would be on the line in three minutes. The Chairman added that he intended telling the President that he would have an answer on the parameter question within twenty-four hours.
It was just after eight o'clock in the morning, Eastern Standard Time, in Washington.
The President looked sourly at his watch; eight o'clock. He never felt at his best in the morning, and this was a bad one. Called at six forty-five, his eyes were barely open when Prytzkammer had thrust the phone into his hand.
“Sorry, Mr. President—it's Forbin, says it's urgent.” The President growled into the phone, “What now?”
“Sorry to call this early, Mr. President, but I don't like the way this Colossus-Guardian exchange is shaping. We no longer understand what the machines are sending to each other, and the rate of transmission has been increased two hundred times.”
“So you work faster.”
&nb
sp; “It's more complicated than that. . .”
“If it's that complicated, don't try to tell me now. Grab an air-car and I'll see you at a quarter past eight.” The President slammed the phone down, feeling a little better.
“Get the hell out of here, P. Let me shower and have my coffee. And make a note—that guy Forbin is all shot. I must think about a replacement.”
The morning did not improve when he was confronted with some particularly difficult paper work. The President was still wrestling with a knotty problem when Prytzkammer came in to tell him that a hot-line call from USSR had been arranged.
“It's bound to be those damn machines—get Forbin on the line—he'll be in an air-car, and get him fast!”
But Prytzkammer did not get Forbin, for the Director had already arrived at the terminal and had taken a cab.
The President cursed his aide and Forbin impartially, the former for not arranging a staff car—all were fitted with a security-cleared phone—and the latter for being in a cab and therefore out of touch. Prytzkammer, one eye on the clock, just stood and took it. He had to.
“Forbin will be here in five to ten minutes, sir,” he finally ventured.
“I know that!” raged the President, “and that Russian will be on the line in one minute forty-five!”
For one hideous moment Prytzkammer thought the President would back down on the hot-line call. He did the only thing he could think of.
“Will you back down on the hot-line call, then, sir?”
“I don't back down for any crummy bastard!” The President was a delicate shade of purple.
“Of course, Mr. President, sir,” said Prytzkammer submissively, “I'm sorry. With your permission I'll get on the Moscow line.” He left hurriedly and the President glowered after him. He had a suspicion he had fallen for a sucker punch; on the other hand, blasting Prytzkammer had toned him up. Anyway, he could handle the Chairman, with or without Forbin. He poured himself his fourth cup of coffee, added cream and drank it, watching the sweep hand on his watch. Precisely on time he lifted the receiver.