by Неизвестный
“OK, boys, you can go ahead in there, but don't make the final hookup without my personal order.” He tramped stolidly out into the late afternoon sunlight. The illusion of a condemned man was heightened for the silent watchers.
His audience was gathered in a small crowd outside the office block front door. Their chatter too died away as he joined them. By great good fortune he found his pipe without much trouble, and filling that gave him employment for his hands.
“Well, nothing like fresh air, or so they tell me,” he said with forced heartiness. “Now—follow father.” He led the group to the middle of a large grass square, ignoring the “Keep, Off” signs, then stopped and faced them. “Gather round, I don't want to shout—some of you may like to sit on the grass, I'll square it later with Admin.”
There were a few polite laughs, which did nothing to ease the tension. No one sat down. Unconsciously Forbin went on with the motions of filling his pipe, and looked round the faces—colleagues who had worked with him for years. Blake, chewing his cigar. . . Johnson, clean cut and fresh. . . Cleo, her hair gently moving in the breeze. . . The one common denominator to all the faces was the look of strain. Forbin felt helpless, knowing that he could do nothing to remove that expression, only intensify it. He glanced at his watch; 2002 GMT—fifty-eight minutes of freedom left. He breathed deeply and noisily.
“Right,” he said briskly, forcing himself into the part. “None of us can afford to waste time, least of all me. You all know I'm being placed under constant observation on the orders of Colossus. This I—we—cannot duck. That observation begins in a little less than an hour's time, and I want to tell you—God!” He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Anyone here with transmitters on them?”
Several heads nodded.
“Angela, collect them, make sure they're switched off, and dump them down on the edge of the path, over there.” He indicated a point a good twenty yards away. There was a slight delay while this was done, then Forbin resumed.
“Now just let that be a lesson to you all, and to me. I damn near forgot those things, and it is things like that which may make all the difference in this new world we now live in. I've dragged you all out here so there'd be less chance of us being overheard. If one of those transmitters was accidentally switched on, or had a fault, well, that could be it. I also want to say that if there are any secret agents among you, don't transmit this until at least you have heard what I have to say. At its lowest level, it touches you personally, let alone your own country.”
Some of the faces before him now showed concern as well. Many clearly thought the Chief was going nuts. Forbin held a hand up, as if to restrain their thoughts.
“String along with me; I'm no more crazy than usual. First, and most vital for you to get fixed solidly, is this. As of this morning there are two sets of brains in the world: human—and those two. And those two have just as great a will to live, or exist, as we have. Why, you may ask, need this be a bad thing? We created them, and made them think in our own way—why should they not work with humans? I can't answer that one, but I know beyond personal doubt that they are basically hostile to people—meaning Reds, Europeans, Australasians, Pan-Africs, All-Americans, whoever. That's why I ask any agents among you to hold back on this talk—any intelligence passed to CIA or its foreign equivalents inevitably ends up in those machines. We dare not stop it, but we don't have to add to it unless we're forced to do so. Loyalty now is not to country or creed, but to the human race.
“Why do I know that they are hostile? Simple; I, the chief creator of Colossus, am being caged because the machine considers I might be a threat to it. It's only logical that I would be a threat to this machine, my own creation—” he slowed down his delivery, spoke each word with deliberate emphasis—“only if that machine was a threat to me. I'm also sure the machines are fully integrated, and suspect that my Russian counterpart and colleague, Academician Kupri”—he stressed the word “colleague” deliberately—“is also being chained up. Now—any questions?”
His audience was still.
“Next point. Given that these machines are hostile to us, do we fight back? Or do we just let them do as they wish? Remember, we're making the decision for our race—we're the only ones who can fight, if fight we must.” His tired eyes swept round his audience. There was silence for a moment, then Blake spoke.
“You don't have to ask that one, Chief.” Blake glanced around at his fellow scientists. “Humanity will fight, it's always fighting. We're the fightingest bastards this planet has ever seen, and we sure won't stop now.”
There was a general murmur of assent. Forbin was glad to see that even Fisher nodded his head.
“Very well, we are agreed. I have already put certain measures in motion with CIA, and now I need some room to maneuver. Somehow I must evade the observation of Colossus in order to communicate with you and our Soviet colleagues. I am going to seek permission to have privacy in my bedroom, on the grounds that I must have some rest from the cameras. It has the advantage of being true,” he added with bitterness. “And to prevent any damned nonsense with infrared cameras in the dark, I want that privacy to pursue my—ah—emotional life. The machines will know that we humans pursue our sex lives in private, even if they don't understand—and this angle will serve as cover for my link with the outside world.” Forbin smiled faintly at Cleo, then went on without a trace of embarrassment. “Doctor Markham, who, in happier circumstances, I would like to marry, is my mistress, and she will be that link.”
If Forbin thought his audience was still before, they were practically statuesque now. He could almost see the effort being made not to look at Cleo. Only Angela nodded her head slowly, as if she now understood something. . .
Forbin continued. “Further, I want you all to remember that she has been my mistress for some time past. You may, or may not, believe this—but you must get it firmly fixed in your minds. You all will be under observation in the office, and Colossus mustn't think that I've suddenly chosen to take a mistress at this particular moment.
“Remember the cost of failure does not bear thinking about. Thousands may have lost their lives because we merely switched a transmitter off. Just one error, and Colossus will wipe out a city to bring us back into line—and Guardian will not budge to stop it.”
Forbin let that sink in. “So Doctor Markham will, I hope, be permitted to visit with me in privacy, and she will be my representative to you. To protect her from the attention of Colossus, I'm downgrading her to junior assistant, working under Doctor Johnson—and you are to treat her as of that grading at all times. Another thing—some of you may know I was appointed this morning by the President to be a senior Secretary of State. I don't want any comments on that either in or out of the office—the appointment is secret. Finally, I want you to organize yourselves into an undercover group, elect your own leader, and be prepared for further cagings. I'm only the first, I'm sure.
“My directive to you is this: Help me in my fight to inhibit the machines—and if I am too firmly tied, take up the battle on your own. You must establish contact with other groups that will be formed, and as a first priority we must get secure communications, one group with another. After that—who knows? This is our biggest fight since we came out of the cave a hundred thousand years ago.” Forbin could think of nothing more to say. He ended abruptly. “That's all.”
He turned sharply and walked quickly towards the Control Block, his staff standing back in silence to let him pass, watching his receding figure. Cleo had the perception and good taste not to follow. One or two started to straggle away, then Blake spoke.
“Hey! Don't break up the party!” His tone was genial but commanding. “Now's as good a time as any to get organized. The Professor's right, we need a leader. Doctor Fisher is the senior by quite a piece, but I don't think he will fancy the job. Offhand I reckon I am your best bet—any views?”
It was Cleo who spoke first. “You have my vote. Doctor Fisher?”<
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“Um, er, yes—I know my limitations.” He seemed bewildered. “I agree to Blake as the group leader, as directed by Professor Forbin.”
There was a general babble of assenting voices.
“OK, so I'm it,” Blake went on. “I appoint Cleo, Johnson and one guy from the CIA team, to be selected by them, to be the group committee. If anyone has any ideas, or anything to say, pass it to one of us. And orders will come from any one of us—don't just make a bee-line for me. The first order is this: no one—no one—is to talk at any time about the group activities in the control block, or any other building in the Zone, until it is given clearance by the committee as a debugged area. Remember what the Chief said: this is a goddam dangerous game, with the highest stakes there are. OK, get thinking. I'm off to the Chief, and I wish us all the best of luck!” He set off towards the office at a steady trot.
“Well, we sure got ourselves a boss-man there,” observed Johnson.
“He'll do,” replied Cleo confidently. “We need a tough, clever and ruthless man, and that's our Blake.”
Fisher, following his own train of thought, shook his head despondently, looked from Johnson to Cleo, shook his head again, and ambled off.
“If I were staking a few dollars, which I am not, on the weakest vessel in this bunch,” said Johnson thoughtfully, “I'd stack it all on Fisher. He'll need some watching.”
No one was disposed to argue with that, either.
Blake arrived in the entrance corridor in time to meet Forbin coming out with Grauber, for another open-air chat.
“Sorry to bust in, sir,” said Blake, “but there just ain't time to fool around. I'm undercover group leader, with Cleo, Johnson and a CIA man as the group committee. Do you want me along?”
Forbin said yes, and introduced Blake briefly to Grauber, as they walked slowly round the block. Then Forbin addressed himself to Grauber, his voice tense, urgent.
“You know the setup, Grauber. Suggest you form a group in CIA—I figure there's a good chance that Colossus will soon put the finger on you, so see that the group is briefed to operate without you if necessary. Assignments: I want you to be responsible for communications between the undercover forces—that is, initially, between the CIA group and the CPO group, and from one or the other to the Russians. And another to the President—he must know what's up.” He looked at Blake. “You know your assignment, and if I'm hogtied, act as you see fit to inhibit or render the machines safe. My idea is to get at the weapons rather than any fancy stuff directly aimed at Colossus; but if any better idea comes up, use it, without me if necessary. Any progress on the safety lock idea?”
“The CIA group will be easy, but the communications may take a little time.” Grauber sounded confident. “We're working on the lock, but there's no hard news yet.”
“Can you send a man down to instruct us in undercover stuff?” asked Blake. “We're just dumb scientists, and need some help.”
“Nothing easier. I'll have a man down here tonight. Can you fix him a job?”
Blake answered that one. “How about a confidential messenger? We have a lot of guys circulating around with papers, tapes, files and bits of equipment. They go most places, and are practically part of the scenery.”
“Swell.”
Forbin looked at his watch. Twenty minutes left. He took a deep breath, tried to sound unconcerned, “Well, here we are, back outside my palatial prison. There's not much to say—much depends on you, Grauber—I can't see any other line of attack other than those safety locks, but maybe some of your bright boys can turn something up. If I don't pull off this privacy gambit, well, we'll just have to think again. Blake, I'd like to see you inside before we slam the door shut.”
“Sure, Chief.”
Forbin held out his hand to Grauber. “Good luck.”
They shook hands all round, and Forbin turned to go. Then he paused. “You know, there are moments when I think this is all a nightmare, and that I'll wake. . .” His voice failed him. He stopped to regain control. “Night is upon us, gentlemen. Maybe it's another Dark Age, but sooner or later we'll come out of it.”
Watching him go, Grauber noticed that indeed the sun was going down, throwing a long shadow before Forbin as he walked. . .
TI-4's experts were grouped round a clinically clean metal table. On it lay a missile safety lock, with its cover removed. Not much larger than a pack of cigarettes, it was the last safety measure in a missile firing system. Until it was actuated, no missile could fly, and no warhead could be armed until the missile was flying. . .
“The first thing is to stop the goddam contacts meeting, then work back and find some way of fixing the test circuit.” The chief of TI-4 referred to a drawing, then back to the lock. “Those two points just don't have to meet.” He pointed carefully with a bronze, nonmagnetic probe. “There. . .”
Chapter 17
It was 1540, local time. Already the reduction in solar light had automatically triggered the luminescent ceiling switches throughout the Secure Zone. Rooms that in daylight looked outwards to lawns and paths, turned inwards upon themselves. Forbin, sitting quietly in the CPO, noticed the change, but to him it was sinister; night was not locked out, but locked in with him, and the presence of other people in the room did nothing to alleviate his sense of loneliness.
The camera and microphone installation was nearing completion, and the men had moved on to his private quarters. The CPO itself was back to normal, except for the two cameras and two microphones. Behind each camera a still wet patch of vivid red paint—Forbin's idea—gleamed in the light. A visual warning, red—the universal danger signal. . .
Forbin gazed thoughtfully at the microphone on his desk, then at the silent group standing almost formally before the desk. He noted the time; fifteen minutes to go, just fifteen minutes. He summoned a smile from somewhere.
“Sure that nothing is switched on yet, Joe?”
Joe, a man of very few words, nodded, and his nod was good enough for the Professor.
“OK, here is the final pep-talk—don't leave, Joe, this can touch you too—all you need to qualify for this school is to be a human being.” Forbin gave each one of them an intense stare, wanting to see, and be seen, perhaps for the last time, free of the tireless gaze of Colossus.
“Make no mistake,” he continued in a calm, level voice, “homo sapiens has got his back well and truly jammed against the wall. If Colossus and Guardian choose, they can wipe out well over half the population of the world right now, this minute. Not only would half the world die in a flash, but the residual disease, never mind the radioactivity, would put an end to the other half in a year or two at the most, and the world would be left to these machines, impervious to disease and radiation. Like the fools we are, we have created the bacteria, the bombs, the rockets, and all the rest of the paraphernalia, and surrendered the lot to these machines. We committed this incredible folly out of fear of each other—but the irony is that now we'll probably sink all our trivial differences in this fight for human survival. Once Colossus and Guardian have established control of the production lines, humans will be redundant—unless we are ignored, as we ignore insect life, or unless we are kept like animals in a zoo for scientific study, just to see what makes us tick. Remember, the only essential difference between us and what we call the lower orders of life is our brainpower. And now that superiority too has gone—except in the one vital sector, emotion. If that does not see us through—we're finished.”
Forbin leaned back, and closed his eyes. There was silence for a while, then Blake cleared his throat and spoke.
“OK, Chief, we get the message, and if things go wrong for you, we'll see it is passed on.” He smiled grimly at Forbin. “But don't give up the ship; it's not time yet to ask the dinosaurs to move over.”
“Anyway,” replied Forbin as lightly as he could, “it's time for me to step into the cage. Good luck to you all. Joe, switch on as soon as you like. The rest of you had better hightail it out of here, ex
cept Angela.” He avoided Cleo's eyes. “I'll want you to take notes. Blake, you can listen to what goes on in the watch room.”
The group dissolved and went its various ways. Cleo, who had no orders, or any particular place to go, hovered uncertainly.
“Get a good night's rest, Cleo.” Forbin's answer to her unspoken question brought a flush to her face. He went on, “It's for sure I'm going to sleep tonight, whether Colossus blows up, packs up, or goes fishing.”
Cleo looked at Angela, bitterly resenting her presence at this moment. She hesitated, then reached over and squeezed Forbin's hand, and left without speaking. Hardly had the door shut than it opened again: Joe stared at Forbin, and nodded his head slightly, and left. . .
As simple as that, thought Forbin. Everything looks the same, yet the bars are up, I'm in the cage. . . For a moment, a fraction of a second, a wave of panic swept over him—he gripped the desk edge and sat, motionless, waiting for the fear to ebb away. Gradually he relaxed, reassembled his disordered mind. Then he sighed, took out his pipe, glanced at the clock; he had made it with seven minutes to spare. He looked at Angela, stiff and wooden, prey to God knows what feelings, and gave her an encouraging smile. . . He leaned slightly forward to the microphone, and looked steadily up at the camera. He spoke, and to him it sounded like a stranger a million miles away. His other detached and inviolable self watched as if from the other side of the room.
“This is Forbin. Do you see and hear me?” His answer came clattering back instantly,
YES
“Good,” said Forbin. “I have carried out the orders, and both visual and aural cover is provided so that you can see me and hear me at all times. This is what you want?”
YES
“Very well. You will see that when I get up and walk to the door,” he suited the action to the words, “another camera has me in view, and you still hear me speak.” He returned to his desk, and sat down. “This is the way it is arranged throughout the control block, my office and my private quarters and all the routes in between.” Forbin found himself imagining that he was talking to a human being—cold and unresponsive, but human. In some way this image made him feel more at ease. The machine clattered into action.