by Fred Hoyle
'At Thorness. That's why this machine has no memory of it.' She paused and lay back, as if trying to summon up some strength. 'How many times did you try to destroy the other computer before you succeeded?' she asked.
'Several.'
'After one of those times the computer decided to hit back.
With this bacterium.' Her eyes became cold and hostile, giving Fleming an empty feeling of despair. 'You have a great force sent to help you and you turn it against you. You won't listen to me. You won't listen to anyone. You condemn your whole race because you won't accept. There is nothing you can do now. It will engulf you!'
There was a sort of inhuman resignation in her tone.
Fleming turned away, making for the door. He felt sick to his soul.
For a day or so afterwards he avoided everyone. Intel had provided its internees with a first class library and subscriptions had been taken out for the world's technical journals.
He read in a desultory sort of way, his brain hardly registering the information. The journals were all back numbers; interference with communications since the storm cycle had increased had cut off all but essential supplies, although some Intel transports still plied between Azaran and Europe.
He heard the hum from the computer and guessed that the thing had drawn Andre to it, no doubt on orders from Gamboul. He could imagine what the machine was working on - rocket interceptors of the kind that had been its first official triumph at Thorness. There was a ghastly this-is-where-I-came-in flavour about the whole thing. He wondered a little how the formulae were being handled once the output printer had produced the equations. Without proper interpretation they were just gibberish even for skilled electronic engineers. But, of course, there was Abu Zeki.
Fleming readily accepted that the young man was as good as any highly-paid boffin in his particular line of country; it wasn't surprising really. The Arabs had invented the whole basis of mathematics as modern civilisation knew it.
Fleming pondered a lot on Abu, not just Abu the first-rate product of a technological age, but Abu the man. He was innately decent, kindly and blessed with imagination.
His patriotism was fiery and nationalistic, but he did not let his emotions completely stifle his reasoning.
Fleming swung off the bed where he had been sprawling, his mind made up, and picked up his room telephone. In a losing battle one ally was better than none at all. He would ask Abu to fix some time when they could talk without interruption.
The operator told him Dr Abu Zeki was in the computer block. Fleming had no wish to go there and see Andre slowly dying as the machine sucked the last use out of her. He asked to be put through, not caring that the call would probably be monitored.
'Hello, Abu. Fleming. I wondered, with the weekend coming up, whether we could have a chat? Maybe I could meet your family? I'm afraid my tame guard would probably have to come too.'
'Why yes, Dr Fleming, I'd be honoured to be your host.'
Abu sounded guarded. 'It will be good for you to meet the ordinary people of Azaran. My home is very simple, I'm afraid, but you will be welcome. Please stay overnight.'
They fixed a time to leave on Saturday at midday, when Abu was off duty till Monday morning. Deliberately Fleming phoned through to Kaufman's office to request permission for a social visit. The German was out but a secretary took the details. The pass was brought to Fleming's quarters that evening. No one queried the reason.
Abu was the proud possessor of a little Italian car, and his home was only twenty-five miles from the Intel station. But, as he explained while they sped along the highway past the airport, his contract demanded that he live on the site except at weekends.
'My wife doesn't like that, but she has her mother with her,' Abu went on. 'With the baby to look after, Saturday soon comes round.'
It was as though he were talking about Surbiton, Surrey, or White Plains, New York. But the similarity soon ended.
The road petered out into a wide track of rolled stones and then to a little more than a sandy track. Abu dropped his speed when the little car laboured with its unaccustomed load of three men. The guard, sitting in the occasional seat at the back, cursed in Arabic about the bumps, but he seemed glad to be away from the compound, even though the wind sent sand whirling grittily into the car.
The track began to wind with a gradual gradient. The terrain became more stony. Ahead the low range of mountains, rocky hills really, grew more defined despite the sporadic sandstorm. Fleming had often looked at them because of their fascinating, ever-changing colours at different times of the day. In early morning they were pink, changing to white when the sun climbed higher. By midday they were always blurred by heat haze; in the evening they towered black and vast.
Abu pointed to a small collection of rectangular, flat-roofed dwellings lying on a tiny plateau immediately below a fault in the range.
'That is my village,' he said, 'or at least the one where I have made my home. People have lived here since long before your Christ. Look!'
Fleming followed the direction of Abu's glance. The rock face bore traces of enormous bas-reliefs - formalised animals and serried ranks of bearded warriors. None was perfect, rock falls jagging into the sculpture.
'Persian,' Abu explained. 'English archaeologists were here many years ago; more recently the Americans. All have gone now, of course. What they were really interested in was the temple. You'll see it round the next bend.'
Dwarfed by the rock face, the temple was just a ruin, a few pillars still standing amid a mass of rubble. Abu said that the pillars were Roman, but the site had yielded remains of several civilisations and religions - Assyrian, Persian, and a few tablets of Egyptian origin. 'As you know, Azaran has been a vassal of many empires,' Abu said. 'Now of none!'
He bumped off the track and down what was little more than a donkey path. His wife was standing outside the tiny house, a pretty woman, little more than a girl. Although, she wore Arab costume she was unveiled.
She lowered her eyes when Abu introduced Fleming, but her welcome was warm, and in perfect English. 'Lemka was at Cairo University, among the first girl students under Colonel Nasser's new scheme,' Abu said proudly.
'You are hot,' Lemka said to Fleming. 'Please come inside out of the terrible wind. It is cooler. Perhaps you will have some of our wine.' She glanced towards the car and saw the soldier leaning against the shady side of the vehicle.
'What is the man doing?' she asked, clutching her husband's arm. 'You are now under guard?'
'He is an escort for Dr Fleming,' Abu told her, but she was not completely satisfied.
'There is much trouble in the city?' she asked. 'On the radio they say so little. Just that the coup is over and all is peace again. Is it so?'
'Yes,' Abu said. 'Everything is normal. Now get us something to drink and then see about a meal. I have told my friend he will have to take what the English call pot luck.'
Lemka passed through the curtained opening to the tiny kitchen at the rear.
'My wife is Christian,' Abu said; 'that is why she is not so effacing as most Arab wives.'
'But you are Moslem?' Fleming asked. 'Yours is a Moslem name.'
'I'm a scientist,' he retorted. 'And I am also for my country.'
Fleming eased himself down on the low backless settee.
'And I'm for the whole human race - more or less. Look, Abu, you didn't believe me about the computer, did you? Well, now believe me about the girl.'
Lemka returned with a jug of wine and some glasses. She poured some out and handed a glass to Fleming. The wine was sweet and thin, but refreshing.
'It's a pretty simple set-up,' Fleming began, not caring that Lemka was listening. 'Intel built the computer and employed you to help operate it. As you know, after Neilson got away it wouldn't work, so they hi-jacked me and I brought the girl. Intel's aim was to get a technical edge on all their competitors and a well-protected base from which to operate. Hence the missile designs you've been working on. Yo
ur President was agreeable to the arrangements. This suited the intelligence behind the computer. But it didn't suit Salim. He was an intelligent and ambitious man. He wanted to have absolute control of the whole setup.'
'He was a patriot,' said Abu defiantly.
Fleming shrugged. 'He certainly wasn't a man to play second fiddle to another influence. Andromeda knew it, or at least she learned it from the computer which could calculate such an eventuality. So Andre made the decision: to put the power into the hands of Intel, in fact. Our handsome boss was shown the message, or part of it, and had the meaning of it explained to her by Andre the night they were together in the computer.'
'And that could influence her?' Abu was doubtful.
'Influence her?' Fleming retorted. 'Obsess her completely.
She had Salim killed or probably shot him herself. She's a convert who suddenly saw a vision. It made her fanatical.'
'Like St Paul?'
Both men started. They had forgotten Lemka. 'But how could a vision be put into words?' she asked.
'St Paul managed it,' Fleming suggested.
'He only described it in your Bible,' Abu said. 'He couldn't pass it on as he really knew it.'
'You're right,' Fleming agreed. 'You can't pass such things on, but you can impose them. That was the intention of the computer, then of Andromeda, and now of Gamboul.
You can also describe the inferences. I myself have had a glimpse of that description.'
Abu thoughtfully examined his empty glass. 'You believe what you say? How would you describe this vision?'
'It says that mankind goes round by a long road, and it may be too long. We may destroy ourselves before we take the next step.'
'But if we can have the help of a higher intelligence and avoid that mistake? Abu protested.
'It's the handshake of death. The friend who knows better than you what's good for you.' Fleming pointed towards the tiny window, at the vista of desert they had crossed in the car.
'You've heard of the Pax Romana,' he said, 'the calm of desolation the Roman legions left after they had forced their idea of right on the barbarians. That's the sort of peace you're working for, Abu my friend. Personally I'd rather we muddled our way along.'
'And destroy ourselves?'
'No!' Fleming shouted. 'If anything destroys us it will be something sent from outside. Via the computer.'
'You have no proof,' said Abu obstinately.
Lemka looked from one man to the other. 'You should know when a man is right,' she told her husband. 'And help him.'
Abu glared at her but she held his gaze, and slowly he smiled. Awkwardly he slid his hand into hers. 'I will try,' he said quietly. He turned to Fleming. 'On Monday, Doctor, I will seek an interview with M'mselle Gamboul.'
Fleming thanked him, doubting whether this futile little manoeuvre would make any difference. With an effort he stirred himself. 'Fine,' he said. 'We'll work out the sort of thing to say, to appeal to her conscience, if any. But all this is unfair on your wife. It's the weekend.'
The friendship between the two men grew warmer in the few hours away from the strain of the Intel establishment.
Abu took Fleming exploring among the temple ruins on the Sunday morning. They had to cut the visit short because the wind was much stronger than on the previous day, bringing small but dangerous cascades of stones and rocks from the precipitous heights behind the temple. Fleming explained Dawnay's and his theory about the origin of the abnormal weather. Abu could accept this because he had seen some of the results of the computer's calculations on the sea water bacteria. He promised to try to explain it to Gamboul.
The two men and the guard drove back to the station at dawn on Monday, choosing an early start because they had already learned that sunrise and sunset brought a short period of calm. As they zig-zagged down the mountainside towards the plain they heard a roaring in the distance and saw a sudden rush of flame up into the sky.
Abu applied for an interview with Gamboul as soon as he went on duty. He was told to report to the executive suite at 11.
She greeted him almost effusively. 'Well, Dr Zeki,' she said. 'You'll be the first here to know that this morning we tested the missile prototype. It was a complete success. We are now as good as Britain in that field.' She smiled expectantly.
'And you have other good things on the way for us?'
'Yes, Mm'selle,' he said. 'But I wish to ask your permission to speak on another matter.'
'What is it you want?' she asked, her friendliness vanished, quickly replaced by suspicion.
'I come on behalf of Dr Fleming. He thinks that the weather conditions in Europe and America, and even here, arise in some way from the computer. From the message.' He stopped, momentarily intimidated by her look of implacable hostility. 'Dr Fleming would like permission for Professor Dawnay to contact the International Weather Bureau.'
'No!' she banged her fist on the desk like a man. 'What he says is nonsense.'
'But if the message - '
'I know the message! What it tells us to do is perfectly clear. And the weather is not part of the mission the message has given to us.'
Abu shifted a little. 'If you would just see Dr Fleming -' he began.
She half shouted her answer at him. 'He doesn't interest me. He has nothing to say which interests me. Do you understand?'
Abu backed to the door. 'Thank you, Mm'selle,' he muttered.
When the door closed Gamboul bent over the intercom microphone on her desk. The red switch was already depressed.
"Herr Kaufman,' she called quietly. 'You heard what Doctor Abu Zeki had to say? Good! You will have him watched now, all the time.'
CHAPTER NINE
DEPRESSION
OSBORNE stared out of the carriage window at the sprawl of South London. His left arm was still in a sling to take the strain off the pectoral muscle which Kaufman's gunman had shot through. Otherwise he was very little hurt, and the wound itself was healing rapidly.
If he had had a miraculous escape, so had London.
Damage from the previous night's hurricane was not as great as he had feared, so far as he could see from the slowly moving train. TV aerials were bent grotesquely and a lot of roofs had gaping holes where chimney stacks had toppled. He was jammed against the glass by the pressure of the other standing passengers. The journey from his home at Orpington had taken more than two hours already. He could not complain the train was late; it was unscheduled. With the power lines out of action only diesel trains from the coast were getting through. His train eased forward in stops and starts, passed from section to section by manual signalling.
Being a cautious man, he had started out early, knowing that after a night like the past one travel would be difficult.
But he was beginning to worry. The Ministry meeting was scheduled for 10.30. The others; living around Whitehall, would doubtless be there on time.
The train stopped for ten minutes south of the river.
Osborne saw a Battersea power station, as vast and solid as ever, the usual plume of white smoke from the stack whipped away by the still boisterous wind. Almost imperceptibly they started again, and kept going. The electric signalling system was working here and they swung over the points and cruised gently into Charing Cross. Hastily scrawled notices gave warnings about falling glass from the roof; they were ignored by the rush of exasperated commuters making for the exits.
Out in the Strand life seemed fairly normal. A hoarding had blown down, but traffic was moving, though slowly. The centre of Trafalgar Square was roped off. Nelson still looked across London from his column, but presumably the authorities were taking precautions.
Osborne turned into Whitehall. A barricade or two where windows had been blown out, nothing more. Big Ben stood unharmed, its clock proclaiming that it was 10.21. Osborne quickened his steps. He would be just in time after all.
The Minister was already in his office when he arrived. He grunted a perfunctory greeting and returned to his reading.<
br />
'Neilson sent a message he'd be on time,' he said without looking up.
The American arrived a moment later. Osborne cut short his attempt at a cheerful greeting at the sight of the black band on Neilson's arm. The man looked older; the death of his son had hit him hard.
Without preliminaries the Minister opened the meeting.
'No time or reason for formalities,' he said. 'Professor Neilson wants your help, Osborne.' He paused and gave a quizzical look. 'As Neilson's in the picture as regards your position over the Thorness debacle, you won't mind my referring to it. To put your mind at rest, the enquiry's shelved. It's pretty pointless with the two main witnesses, Fleming and the girl, missing. So put that business out of your mind for the time being. This is what you might call a national emergency. An international commission's being set up under Professor Neilson, and we want someone to run the secretariat.'
'Preferably you,' said Neilson. The words were unnaturally hoarse and loud.
Osborne turned to him. 'You're feeling it too, are you?' he asked. 'The breathing?'
Neilson nodded. 'It's pretty general, and worse in the hills.'
'They're evacuating the Highlands,' said the Minister.
'We haven't announced it yet, but it's all part of a general pattern. The air at any altitude is getting too thin to be able to breathe.'
Neilson got up and walked to a table where a weather map had been spread out, held in position by drawing pins.
'The Alps and the Pyrenees are now depopulated,' he said.
'Would you just come over here, Minister, and you, Osborne? I can show you what we've so far ascertained.'
The two men stood on either side of the American. 'The atmospheric pressure's falling rapidly all around here' - he swept his hand in a wide curve from the Shetlands to Brittany - 'as well as in all spots where we have weather ships or Navy vessels able to make careful checks. In other words, the pressure's lowest over the sea in the Northern Atlantic and into the Mediterranean. The indications are slighter in the Indian Ocean and the Pacific, but they are there. Naturally, air rushes from the land masses to compensate, and so you have your storms and this thin atmosphere.'