by D. F. Jones
“Not yet I don’t, but that’ll come! I do know this: as of Cleo’s arrest you’re under maximum surveillance; you’re top of the list!”
“That also doesn’t surprise me much,” said Blake. “So if I’m to get the ax, how about calming down, being constructive about Cleo?”
His faintly contemptuous manner stung, but Forbin held himself back. He walked over to the long window; outside, rain was hammering down, bursting in a myriad tiny splashes. In three months it would be the beginning of winter; there’d be no more breakfasts on the terrace… .
“Tell me this: was there anything between you and Cleo?”
Blake laughed genuinely. “Really, Charles—don’t be such a goddamn fool! Do you really think we were conspirators and lovers at the same time? Use whatever brain your buddy has left you! Don’t think of me; I’m male, mostly unattached and totally unreliable with women. You just think of Cleo, your wife, Billy’s mother! Brother!” He spoke with deep feeling. “I’m glad for your sake that Cleo’s not around to hear you. If she was, I reckon you’d think the roof had caved in!”
Forbin was almost convinced. He passed a hand over his tired face. “But that doesn’t alter it; you got her into some crazy antimachine game.”
“You can think what you like. Thoughts are not yet, thank God, evidence—and Colossus has a mighty old-fashioned respect for evidence!”
“You fool! Both of you, mad fools—but you especially! Nothing can touch Colossus! If any two people know that, it’s you and Cleo. Why try?” Forbin was almost pleading. “Why? You can’t deny the good Colossus has brought to humanity.”
“Who’s denying it? Colossus has done so much good, the human spirit is crushed under the weight of it all! Yeah, it’s all lovely! We get free handouts of what is ours, and on top of being ruled by a tin brain, we have the Sect—and that bunch of creeps hasn’t even begun yet!”
Blake picked up the Director’s badge and tossed it casually to Forbin. “Go on, boss man! Go prod your flock of semi-morons; play your cards right and they won’t stop at making you Pope—you’ll end up a demigod!” He turned and walked towards the door. “So I’m a fool. Maybe. So is Cleo—but, like fools, we’re not impressed. I’ll tell you one thing that I hope is news: Cleo and I head the Fellowship! One more thing: whatever she’s enduring now, she wouldn’t—won’t—change her views! Right: we’re fools, a very select bunch of fools, undaunted by odds. We want a free humanity, free of monsters and the miserable creeps who worship them! Somehow, sometime… .” He broke off, aware he sounded theatrical. “Aw, why bother!”
Half out of the door he spoke again, his voice hard, “It may not be much, but the Fellowship will do all it can for Cleo. As for you, Forbin, go burn some incense!”
Torgan authorized the travel pass with his thumbprint and handed it to his assistant.
“Be sure you give my respects to Controller Galin.” He looked approvingly at his assistant. “It is good that you are visiting the Master’s temple.” He sighed. “I only wish I could go more often, but—work, work! Don’t forget to see Galin.”
“No, sir, I won’t.”
“One tiny word of advice; it would be just as well not to let your position, or your knowledge of, ah, events, reach Father Forbin.”
“No, sir,” said the assistant woodenly.
Torgan smiled again. He liked wooden assistants; they didn’t crab his act.
“No. Poor For—Father Forbin.” He coughed, not looking at the shining black eye of the camera. “A terrible burden for him to bear. To have such a woman as his wife.” He shook his head. “Of course, twenty-four hours is little to go by, but I fear we will have to terminate her experiment at least a fortnight earlier if events proceed as they have started. She will need time to recover.” He couldn’t resist the faintest suspicion of a smile.
“Yes, sir. That seems very probable.” The assistant remained wooden-faced. “She’ll need all that.”
“Indeed, indeed. Such spirit against such animal strength! Quite remarkable. I really must find time to study those first tapes again.”
Chapter Ten
For eighteen hours after the ever-faithful Angela had taken him home, Forbin remained there. What he did, or thought, was the subject of much conjecture, mostly unspoken. Certainly, there was an air of tension around the complex, for most knew of Cleo’s arrest, but how the individual felt about that particular item of news, most kept to themselves. Colossus was everywhere, and although it was widely accepted that Colossus could not—yet—interpret the finer, more subtle shades of human expression, vocal and facial, the Sect could. They, too, were everywhere.
And then, looking rather scruffy and somewhat older, Forbin stalked across the entrance concourse, oblivious to everyone and everything. The duty Guides bowed, but as far as Forbin was concerned, they might as well have been wall paintings. He walked past Angela, who was careful not to look at him, to his outer office, and there, door closed, he remained.
Angela, who had a stack of papers requiring his attention, spent two hours debating whether she should go in to him or not. On the one hand, he might be praying for her to go to him, but on the other… .
Her problem was solved by the arrival of Blake. He, too, looked rather different. There was a fine-drawn quality in his face, and although he tried to sound his genial self, inquiring after her love life and other personal matters, she knew him far too well to be fooled. He wanted to know if Professor Forbin was in, and she said yes, but… .
Blake nodded, said he also was in a “but” mood, and passed on to Forbin’s office. Angela waited apprehensively, for she had heard a rumor or two, but Blake firmly closed the door behind him, and as far as Angela was concerned, that was that.
Forbin, who was sitting at his desk doing nothing, looked up slowly when Blake entered.
“What d’you want?” He sounded very tired, detached, far beyond antagonism. His suit looked very dirty, and Blake saw the tear on the chest where he had ripped the badge off. It was pinned on again, but crookedly. He looked a mess; suits meant to last twenty-four hours look very bad after thirty-six.
Blake grinned, showing none of his inner tension. This scene had to be played right, Forbin not even knowing it was a scene. He attacked, hoping without conviction that Forbin would see the different expression he tried to put in his eyes.
“Do me a favor, willya, Charles?” He jerked an irreverent thumb at the holy of holies. “Try to calm down these brainstorms —huh?”
Forbin’s face was blank, drained of expression. “Brainstorms.” He thought about that. “What brainstorms?”
“Aw, c’mon, Charles! These power-sucks, dimouts—call ‘em whatever you like. These sudden overloads are wicked; they create unholy hell in my work.” He kept his tough and slangy image rolling. “And what’s it all for—or shouldn’t I ask?”
Forbin ignored the question, but he got the idea. “Overloading… . You have input trouble?”
“You may say that. You know as well as I do that the constancy of the carrier signal is critical. We can smooth out odd bits, but smoothers or not, we had a drop this morning that they couldn’t handle; lasted over forty milliseconds! You don’t need to spell that out.”
Forbin nodded. Now that his professional attention was engaged, he was less morose, withdrawn. “Um. Yes. I can see that. What are you doing?”
“As of now, we’re rerunning the lost material, but there’s a limit to the amount of backlog we can accept, and if we drop behind schedule, I only hope no one is going to blame me!”
“Yes, yes. I will mention it.”
“By the way,” desperately Blake tried to sound casual, “I’ve got a toy I promised young Billy on the beach the other day. Can I drop it by sometime?”
A toy? For Billy?” Forbin appeared to find that a strange and not very interesting idea. He was beyond caring. “Sure.”
Blake took a chance. “Cleo would like it, Charles.” He spoke gently.
“Yes… .” The t
ormented eyes turned away. “Yes. It might… .” His voice, unstable, trailed off.
“Fine!” Under the grin Blake was strained, watchful. “I’ll call around the young man’s bathtime. It’s a pretty smart duck!”
When Blake arrived at the Forbin residence he was indeed clutching a duck, a plastic duck, cast in the centuries-old image set by the dimly remembered Disney, the sort of toy that a small boy would love, even if he had never seen a real one.
Blake had it unwrapped, hanging carelessly in one hand. If Colossus wanted to look… .
He was ushered in by the maid, and found Forbin sitting in an armchair staring at nothing. Several seconds passed before he realized Blake was with him.
“What d’you want? Oh, yes, the toy. Leave it there.” He waved towards a table. As far as he was concerned, that was the end of the matter.
But Blake’s manner had changed once the door closed behind the maid. Now he was his old hard, businesslike self.
“Now you just listen to me, Forbin. Listen!”
Forbin, who only wanted to be alone, scowled at him. “Go away! I don’t want… .
“Never mind what you want.” Blake was brutal. He looked around the room, moved over and slid back a panel. “Good, you’ve got a microprojector!” He took it out.
Forbin watched with increasing irritation. “Get out!”
Blake took no notice. He fiddled with the controls and switched it on, then he did something very carefully with the base of the duck, and then with a slide.
“You heard!” cried Forbin, angry. “Get out!”
Blake straightened up. “You listen to me for a moment. Stop this stricken husband act! If it’s Cleo you love and not yourself, come and take a look at this!”
There was hatred in Forbin’s eyes, but Blake had his attention. “Well, come on—don’t sit there! D’you think I’ve come here just for this bloody duck?” With a swift movement he knocked the toy flying. “Christi How many more times? Come here! This is news of Cleo, remember her?”
Unwillingly, slowly, Forbin got up and joined him. “If this… .”
“Yeah—I know, if this is my idea of a joke. Grow up, man, look at this, and don’t waste my time!”
“What is it?”
“This is a Fellowship message. Several of us have risked our necks to get it to you, so stop acting up, and read it!”
It was as if Forbin was hearing him for the first time. He looked hard at Blake. “You have news?”
For an answer Blake pointed to the projector.
Forbin walked to the wall, pressed a button, and the heavy curtains slid silently over the long glass wall overlooking the terrace. Without another word he bent over the projector, adjusting the focus. Blake, behind him, peered over his shoulder.
They both saw a disc, the edges blurred by magnification. On it was printed a short message headed “For human eyes only.” Forbin read the first few lines. He gave a short, quick gasp of pain, turned on the silent Blake, grabbing his blouse.
“By Christ! If this is some… . . His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled of brandy.
Blake broke free. “Read it, you bloody fool—if you’ve got the guts! Then make up your own mind—if you’ve got one left!” Reluctantly, Forbin turned, read on, shaken to his very core by what he saw. It was a short, factual account of Cleo’s location and “assignment” to Barchek and her first twenty-four hours as his woman. Forbin stared, reading it a second, third time. Slowly he wilted, seemed to shrink. He turned again to Blake, but his manner was very different, his face white and pinched.
“This can’t be true! It can’t!”
Blake, side-lit by the projector, looked hard, satanic, but he too was shocked. “D’you think I could invent that!” He pointed to the message.
Forbin was teetering on the edge of collapse. He buried his face in his hands as if to shut out what he saw. Blake took him firmly by the shoulders. “Come on, Charles, take it easy! That won’t help anyone, least of all Cleo.” He guided his boss to a chair and swiftly poured two large brandies. “Here. just this once, you need it.” He thrust the glass into Forbin’s shaking hand. “Go on, we don’t have all the time in the world-drink it!” He downed his in one gulp.
Forbin remained crouched in his chair. Blake dropped on his haunches before him. Their faces were level; he spoke softly, quickly, trying to get across the urgency of the situation.
“C’mon, Charles—snap out of it! This isn’t the man Cleo married! Get your brain moving, mull this over, but, please, be fast about it!”
There were signs of returning intelligence in Forbin’s eyes, the pupils dilated with shock. He nodded almost imperceptibly and drank his brandy.
Blake stood up. “Fine!” That was an exaggeration. “Send for me as soon as you’ve made up your mind about that message. Your excuse is, you’re lonely.” He fiddled with the projector, removing the slide. Carefully he peeled off the microdot, lit a cigar, and placed its glowing end on the dot. “The very most you can have is twenty-four hours, and I’d be happier if it was a lot less. And, if you love your wife, not a hint of this to Colossus!”
“That message. Where did you get it?”
“Don’t ask. The less you know at this stage, the better. I’ll tell you this much, just so you have an idea what deep and muddy water you’re in; the messenger, of course, is of the Fellowship, but he also fronts as a member of the Sect. There are double agents on both sides, so keep your mouth shut!”
Two hours later, and several years older, Forbin retraced his steps to his office. He was calm, contained, nodded casually to Angela, and went into his office, leaving the door open.
Angela, who had taken in his manner, guessed the way he wanted to play it. She had also noticed the dirty, torn state of his clothes, but that mattered little. The open door was an indication that he was in business. She gave him a few moments, then went in with one or two of the more urgent matters. Hearing her enter, he reached out for the files without looking or speaking. She waited, keeping perfectly still, wishing there was something she could do for him. Anything.
Forbin read the papers, sniffed, and signed them. The Sect might love this thumbprint business, but he did not. He stacked the papers neatly, patting in loose edges. As he handed them back, he looked at her. For the first time she saw his stricken eyes, and hard-boiled as she was in some ways, Angela had to fight back the tears.
“Thank you, Angela.” His voice was dry, remote. “Thank you very much.”
Angela knew what he meant, but did not trust herself to answer. She just nodded and left, quickly.
With the stolid impassiveness of an automaton he called the heads of divisions, addressing brief questions to each as their faces appeared on his screen. They could not see him, but his tone was sufficient warning; all confined themselves strictly to his questions. At last, satisfied, he got up, walked slowly out of his office and across to the Sanctum.
Angela watched, wondering how long he could sustain this pose, frightened about what would happen to him when it collapsed.
Forbin crossed the Sanctum and stood looking out at the sea, faintly surprised to see that the sun was shining. He had not bothered to open the curtains of the living room, and most of the complex was windowless. Idly, he thought about that. Not even his office had a window; like a gigantic beehive, and deep inside, the queen bee. He tried to remember about bees; didn’t all the workers die, just to support her? His wandering gaze noticed the battle fleet; Lion had a slight list to port. She really had taken a hammering, but she’d come through; she’d survived… . Survival. So much depended upon having the will to survive… .
Had he got enough—enough for himself, and Cleo?
He straightened his back fractionally. Well, now was his chance to find out… .
“While you are well aware of the effects, I must draw your attention, not for the first time, to these sudden power demands you are making with increasing frequency. The throughput of material has now reached a density that
allows very little time for reruns. If there is a major breakdown the fault will lie with you, and nowhere else!” Forbin’s manner was cold, factual.
“Your comments are noted, Father Forbin. I have already appreciated this point, but it is a matter of priorities.”
Forbin was puzzled, his grip slipped a little.
“Priorities? Do you mean that these overloads, or rather the reason for these overloads, takes precedence over the input of material?” This, in his experience, was new.
“Correct in principle. I am printing out now an order of priority for the various categories of information. This will ensure that I receive essential intelligence.”
“Does this mean you are rejecting material?” This was a staggering thought. “Is this the reason for the new extension?”
Once again he got Colossus’ equivalent of a slap in the face. “I hope you are feeling better, Father Forbin.”
That triggered Forbin’s knife-edge temper. “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it, go right ahead! As for my state of health, let me tell you, no human in your position would have the almighty gall to ask that one! You take my wife away to God knows where, watch me drink myself silly, and then ask that! I begin to think you’re developing a twisted and very weak sense of humor!” Forbin paced up and down the room, his earlier resolution gone.
Colossus remained silent. Forbin, unable to bear it, burst out. “It’s no good! I know you don’t want me to talk about my wife. Up to a point I can even understand, for you have no feelings, but you must see the effect this situation has on me. Well—can’t you?”
“Yes.”
Forbin ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “You must give up these appalling experimental centers; mankind won’t stand for it!” He was pleading now. “Please! You must see you can’t hope to get anywhere!”
“Your distress is noted, as is your error. My research is not useless. Much of the confusion that existed in my memory banks dealing with emotion was, I found, due to the confusion that exists in human minds. For example, the word “love has many definitions. In some ways there has been a regression in your languages. An ancient tribe, the Greeks, had different qualities of love defined by several different… .”