by D. F. Jones
Six chairs ranged along each side of the table. At the head, beneath the badge, an even higher, more ornate chair: Galin’s. At this moment, all twelve chairs were filled by the senior members of the Lodge. They sat, some silent, some exchanging brief, subdued—but not, of course, whispered—remarks with their neighbors. Some fidgeted self-consciously with their magnificent white silk robes, blazoned on the left breast with the Sect badge in gold and crimson. All were waiting, trying not to look at the empty Chairman’s throne—or the lenses above it.
Galin, in his private robing room, considered that he had kept them waiting long enough, gave himself a final searching stare in the mirror, and rustled in, gorgeous in his gold robe. In those surroundings none thought of him as the onetime Archie Grey, except, possibly, the Chief of the Sect Security Police who, like all good security policemen, forgot nothing.
Certainly, Galin, standing silent before his chair, looked very impressive. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment as all stood to greet him. For a moment he remained silent, letting them have a good look at their boss, then in a high clear voice, he proclaimed the traditional words that opened and closed all such meetings.
“In the name of, and for, the Master!”
The Council, no less clearly, intoned the reply. “The Master’s will be done!”
Galin relaxed slightly, smiled comprehensively, and sat down. The rest followed suit.
“Brethren, unless anyone has any urgent matter to raise,” he implied that this was an astronomically remote contingency, “our meeting need not delay us for long.” His thin smile suggested that he was aware they were busy men, that not all their business was entirely laudable, and that he knew all their secrets, which in fact he did. The chief of police envied Galin’s smile; it packed a heavy psychological punch.
The Council, apart from a few throat-clearings, was silent.
“Good,” said Galin. “The first matter we will consider is the indoctrination of pilgrims… .”
For ten minutes there was a relatively free exchange of views. Not that anyone actively disagreed with Galin, or if they did, they soon allowed themselves to be converted to his opinion, convinced—and said so—by his superior logic. This gambit might not endear these people to the rest of their colleagues, but that was no more than a pity. A converted freethinker was a better image than that of the eternal yes-man. To be earnest, devoted, but not too bright was a good formula to use when dealing with Forbin’s successor-designate. But any way anyone played, it added up to wholehearted acceptance of Galin’s proposals.
“And now,” said Galin, leaning forward, carefully adjusting his sleeves, “we come to a most important, delicate, and sad matter.”
Expressions were composed to show their preparedness and ability to deal with such affairs, and all took care not to look at the cameras.
“I refer, of course, to Blake.” Galin’s voice was safe, neutral. “As we all know in our hearts, Doctor Blake is against the Master.”
Heads nodded sadly.
“But the Master, in his just, superhuman wisdom, allows no action without proof. There is no proof that Blake is active against the Master-yet!”
The last word came sharply, like the crack of a whip, making some look at Galin with even greater attention.
“No, not yet,” Galin repeated. “We know, of course, of his meeting with the debased, so-called poet Kluge. I, for one, cannot imagine they met to discuss Kluge’s crazy scribbles!” He smiled. “Whatever else Blake may be, I don’t think he has sunk that low” The smile vanished, the thin joke over; he continued in a curt, authoritative voice. “It is the Master’s opinion that Kluge is a courier for the well-known dissident arts group.” There was a world of disparagement in his voice. “What the Blake activists would want with that freakish collection is not known. It is possible that Blake is merely trying to waste our time, that there is no real significance in the association. Certainly, he did little to conceal his contact.”
The chief of police frowned. It worried him, too. Thank God—no, get it right—Thank Colossus, that Colossus was around to make the real decisions.
Galin clasped his hands on the table before him; spotless white cuffs showed inside his gold sleeves, lending an incongruously modern note to his archaic costume. He spoke more intimately.
“Frankly, I speak only of this moment.” The proviso would be a way out if he was later proven wrong. “I suspect this link, at worst, is no more than tiresome nonsense. These so-called artists complain that the Master inhibits their creative talent.” His sarcasm was heavy. “Sad! And complete rubbish! They seek to excuse their lack of ability; they are barren!” A glittering arm swept the art world into limbo. “No matter—but this does matter: within twenty-four hours of the Kluge contact,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, “Blake had a hasty meeting—alone—with Father Forbin’s wife!”
The Council shuffled its feet and did some collective throat-clearing to convey their shock. Only the chief of police was immobile, thinking. You had to hand it to Galin; he was getting to the meat, and very dangerous meat at that, with great care.
Galin was well aware he was sticking his neck out, although he did so less than that fat slob of a policeman doubtlessly supposed. “Yes, brethren, it saddens me, but in the service of the Master we must go wherever that service demands. I fear, I greatly fear that we must consider even the person of the wise Father’s wife.”
One councilor found the courage to speak. Alternatively, he could just be going on record with a nice, safe expression of horror.
“Brother Galin. No one doubts—least of all myself—your zeal or your ability, but is it really possible that Father Forbin’s wife… .”
“Brother Sampul,” Galin cut in smoothly, “your doubt does you credit.” His tone implied the exact opposite. “But you know that this is not the only—admitted unsubstantiated—evidence which suggests, I say no more than suggests, that Father Forbin’s wife,” his voice dropped to a new depth of grave solemnity, “may, only may, be actively involved with the suspected traitor, Blake.”
Sampul did not give up. “It’s very thin evidence.”
“Oh yes, I agree, but we cannot afford to ignore it. This matter may involve emotion. If it does, it is an area where we may be of particular service to the Master.” He looked hard at Sampul. “Or are you suggesting we do nothing?”
Sampul backed down very fast.
“I am glad of your support, brother.” Galin glanced around the table. “May I assume we are all agreed that we cannot ignore the matter?”
Many nodded, a few said yes.
“So we are unanimous?” Galin was just as keen on the record as anyone. His cold gaze fastened on each member in turn as he named them, forcing a verbal affirmative. Enthusiasm was to him immaterial; Colossus dealt in yeses and noes.
“Good.” Galin’s relief was hidden beneath a new briskness. “We are agreed, but before considering what must be done, we must consider what the Master’s enemies are trying to do. Here, we know little. Kluge may be an irrelevance, yet those meetings, so close, could be significant.” He gathered himself to play what could be the trickiest card in his hand. “The possible implication of Father Forbin’s wife has suggested to me… .” He hesitated. If this went wrong, his future was very bleak, if he had a future. “It suggests that the Master is not the subject of attack.”
The chief of police could see it coming and took off his mental hat to Galin. On the side he hoped Galin would fail. The chief fancied that the gold robe would need very little alteration to fit him.
“It could be,” Galin went on, his face impassive, but he could not stop the faint dew of perspiration on his brow visible to his neighbors in the hard, pitiless, and shadowless light, “that the target is Father Forbin. And who better to spearhead that attack than a subverted wife?”
Jesus! the police chief thought. How’s that for a smear? The silence was deafening.
Undeterred, for he did not lack cour
age, Galin went on. “We must be vigilant and untiring, brethren! The Master, far, far beyond us, cannot be expected to waste his time on the miserable, puny emotional levels of our worthless lives. It is our great task that we, the Sect, should act for him in this lowly field!” His voice hardened. “And if, for the furtherance of our Master’s unknowable designs, we have to act, even against the person of Father Forbin’s own wife, we will do so! As humans, we know that if we did, in time even Father Forbin would come to recognize that we acted in his and the Master’s best interests!”
Galin shut his eyes to conceal his fear as he took one final chance.
“If I am in error, I pray the Master will correct me!” No one moved. Even the police chief held his breath. Colossus remained silent.
Chapter Six
Forbin settled comfortably in the armchair before the Sanctum window and poured himself a brandy. Excellent brandy it was, too; Colossus, without consulting him, had ordered the very best that France could produce. Forbin had protested, but not very much. Of course, he knew it was the silliest sort of vanity, but that “Reserve pour M. le Directeur, COLOSSUS” label pleased him. Certainly, it was magnificent stuff; far better than Forbin appreciated. He was not to know that Colossus analyzed one bottle in every dozen to make sure the standard was maintained. This was hardly necessary, for the order from Colossus had said that any complaint from Forbin would incur Colossus’ displeasure with the suppliers… .
This evening, it was a somewhat larger drink than usual. Forbin had a good deal on his mind and needed the extra lift to talk to Colossus. Even now, stiffened by the brandy, he was in no hurry to start. He stared out at the panoramic view. Dimly, very dimly, he could make out the long black hulls of the British battle fleet anchored off Spithead. Here and there, on the decks of some ships, repair parties were working, the men invisible at that distance, but their activities revealed by their brilliant lights. He thought about the ships for a while, postponing his session with Colossus.
As he would readily admit, outside his work he was a simple man, and his pleasures matched. It never crossed his mind that he could have anything within—or without—reason. A word to Colossus, and anything would be his, but he never gave the word. He wanted very little, and like most men—and many women—he was fascinated by the Sea War Game.
Colossus had invented it, although the underlying theory was as old as the Roman “bread-and-circus” policy, designed to keep the plebeians happy. It certainly did that.
The basic idea was simple. Any state, or combination of states, whose total population exceeded twenty million was allowed its own fleet. This fleet fought others in regional, zonal, and global leagues, culminating in the World Final. It served as an outlet for man’s aggressiveness, local pride, and desire for spectacle. Tens of millions watched local battles, and the annual final had hundreds of millions glued to their TV screens. Baseball, football, tennis, golf, and their electronic variants were virtually swept into oblivion. Given near-perfect TV coverage from ships and satellites and cameras unhampered by poor visibility, it was practically the ultimate in mass entertainment.
But Forbin wasn’t so simple that he did not see the reasons behind the game. Colossus was the final arbiter, referee, and judge; the masses could never forget him. Also it channeled man’s hero-worship towards the ships, and the more humanity identified with machines, the better.
In detail it was a very complicated game. All ships were, of course, fully automated, controlled from the shore by the state’s “Admiral” and his staff, but although they were largely responsible for the success of their fleets, they did not get the masses’ adulation. When a fleet failed, however, it was a different story.
To ensure that no one had a technological advantage, ship design was frozen as of May 31, 1916, the date of the Battle of Jutland, the last real clash of those ancient monsters, the battleships. Few people had any idea what the war had been about, who had fought in it, or were even dimly interested; but the ships, that was another matter. States were allowed to choose the design they liked. Those who long ago had a seafaring history tended to choose their own traditional styles. The rest selected whatever they thought best for their local conditions. So there were replicas of the old USN with their strange wicker basket masts, chunky German battleships, many-funneled French, pagoda-like Japanese, as well as Russian, Italian, and British. All, externally, were exact copies, but there were differences. Shells had reduced explosive charges—except for the annual finals, when full charges were permitted—torpedoes were similarly treated, and all ships had nuclear power plants and no human crews.
Forbin, although a citizen of the USNA, had, by association, become a supporter of the British fleet and knew every detail and characteristic of every ship. When he could, he followed their fortunes, but as each contest lasted three days, unlike most people who only worked a twelve-hour week, he could not often spare the time.
He stared at the distant black shapes, wondering if Lion was there. He’d watched her recently, rolling and plunging through a full gale, slamming up vast sheets of spray as she had raced into action to save two exposed cruisers. He’d watched, perched on the edge of his chair, willing her to get in range in time; then, the sudden orange-red ripple along her whole length as her main armament had blasted into action… . She’d taken a hammering from the South Australian fleet, but she’d got the cruisers out… .
He spoke without looking up. “Is Lion out there?”
“Yes.”
“Good ship, that,” said Forbin, who could almost become seasick in his bathtub. “Too wet in a head sea, though.” He paused. “Have you ever considered an air or land version of the game?”
“Yes, and rejected both. Air warfare is not telegenic, land is impracticable without robot soldiers, and with them, unrealistic. Also, too much land would be required.”
“Yes, of course.” Forbin’s mind flew off at a tangent. “You’re quite sure about dolphins?”
“Yes.”
Forbin cleared his throat, but said nothing. He sipped his drink, then lit his pipe.
“Anything of interest on hand?”
“Nothing of note. The population file is being updated, a sudden rise in the South Carolina birthrate has initiated an investigation into local conditions nine months ago. So far nothing significant has been noted.”
Forbin grinned. “Anything else?”
“A minor disturbance in Honshu. I have identified and isolated the ringleader and ordered her arrest. I am addressing an Arab delegation in New York, umpiring games in the Arctic Ocean, Yellow Sea, and Northwest Pacific. Also watching experimental projects in New Moscow, Warsaw, and in the Deccan.”
As always, Forbin was staggered at the diversity of Colossus’ activities. He grinned. “Is that the lot?”
“As far as humans are concerned, yes
His grin faded. “There was another overload this evening.”
“Yes.”
Forbin relit his pipe. “Will this extension, er, obviate these, um, occurrences?”
“How is your health, Father Forbin?”
Forbin told himself that he was not scared to press his question; he wasn’t going on with it because he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.
“Oh—I’m fine.” He spoke self-consciously, “I don’t think much about my health.”
“You must take care. You must not drink to excess.”
“Oh, rubbish!” cried Forbin, putting his glass down. “You know very well I don’t, but a little in the evening helps.” He hesitated, knowing the impossibility of conveying the effect of alcohol—in moderation—to Colossus. “It makes me happy.”
“Are you happy?”
That startled Forbin. As far back as he could recall, that was a question Colossus had not asked before. He completely forgot the earlier subject of conversation.
“Am I happy?” Mentally he walked around the question, inspecting it. “Yes,” he said at last. “Most of the time I am. Yes. Why d’you ask?�
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“Your health and happiness are important to me.”
Despite the fact that he knew there had to be a hard, practical reason, Forbin was touched. “Yes—but why?”
He got a straight answer. “The expectation of life is longer for a happy, healthy man than the opposite. I wish to preserve you as long as possible.”
“That’s nice to know.” Forbin smiled, a little slyly. “But I don’t see how you can help with happiness—human emotion, you know! No, I can’t grumble—speaking selfishly. I’ve a good home life, and my work is absorbing. Any scientist in that state is, by definition, a happy man.”
“Does that hold true for the scientist’s family?”
“I guess so.” That was another surprise. “Why?”
“As has been said before, you spend more time with me than you used to. Before establishing yourself here, you spent sixty-one percent, awake or asleep, with your mistress. Now, married to her and being the father of her child, the percentage has fallen to forty-nine percent and is continuing to do so at an average of point two percent per lunar month.”
“I can’t argue with your figures,” said Forbin stiffly, “but I resent your implication. Forget all that Group Four nonsense! My love life’s fine, but naturally, with a child, the balance has to alter. There is Billy to care for as well, not just me.”
“Your wife has help. The child is growing, requires less servicing.”
“Servicing!”