by D. F. Jones
Forbin was slumped, a shapeless sack of a man, in the armchair. For several moments he seemed unaware of Blake. When he did look up, it took time for him to recognize his caller. Slowly his mind got into gear.
“Blake-you! How?” More was not necessary.
Blake looked at him pityingly and spoke gently. “Simple, Charles. I pushed the door; it opened.” His tone hardened slightly. “The old order’s gone, Charles.”
It took a good deal of time for the significance of that remark to sink into Forbin’s bemused brain. He nodded slowly, then recalled something else, his face screwed up in concentration. Unrelated trivia attract a mind in shock.
“Did I hear a scream?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Blake was hard, indifferent. “There’ll be a lotta screaming going on! This is Cumuppance Day for the Sect!” He laughed; a short, sharp bark. “I met Galin on my way here. Ya know, he was mighty upset because the machine had stopped handing out name badges!” He laughed again at the memory, shrugged, and forgot it, looking about him with genuine interest. Apart from the one visit by Angela, he was the first person after Forbin to enter the Sanctum. He ran an exploratory hand along the fine walnut top of the desk, walked slowly around it, then casually pulled back the chair, and sat down.
Forbin watched impassively. After all that had happened, what did it matter? Still, despite his mental state, he did not like Blake’s manner.
Blake did not appear to notice. “So this is where it all happened! The genuine, one and only holy of holies! Kinda disappointing in a way—still, interesting.” He swung the chair sharply around to face Forbin; his voice showed he was well aware of the Director’s feelings. “Snap outa it, Charles! Like I said, the old order’s gone.” He leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair … his chair. “It has gone.” There was utter conviction in his voice. “I realize it’s tough for you, Charles, but you’ve got to pull yourself together, and fast! I mean, frinstance, what have you done, apart from sit there, since switchoff?”
“Done?” It struck Forbin as a strange idea. “Done? Nothing.” He was totally exhausted.
Blake was uncertain how to handle his Chief. He repressed his impatience; the old man had to be handled with great care. Better than anyone he appreciated how Forbin felt, yet there was so much to do. This was not the time to consider anyone’s personal feelings. On the other hand, Forbin was still an important figure on the world stage; the Fellowship had need of him; Blake had need of him and Blake had plans, great plans.
He sighed synthetically. “You see, Charles—it’s lucky I’m around! Sure, it’s all a hellova shock for you, but you must get moving! I have—and on your behalf! First thing, after throwing that beautiful, beautiful switch, I flashed orders for Cleo’s release!” He grinned. “Control of world communications is the big legacy from Colossus! It’s going to make all the difference for us!”
Forbin gave Cleo but a fleeting thought. Blake’s manner—and what he said—plus the last warning of Colossus filled him with foreboding. He frowned.
Blake totally misread his mind.
“Don’t worry, Charles! Cleo’s not to know the order didn’t come from you!”
Blake had told no more than the truth. His single “go” to Fellowship staff had been enough: one member’s duties included relaying that one word to ESC-1—among other places.
For, long ago, when the idea of defeating Colossus was no more than a crazy pipe dream, that single, two-letter word had been agreed as the worldwide signal that the tyrant was dead. It had two big advantages: it was simple, and it didn’t look like a code word. That was important. While the Fellowship had made a particular effort to infiltrate the communications centers, the Sect, realizing their importance, had also put many of their people in strategic positions, and anything that looked like a code word would have been flashed first to the local Lodge boss, and withheld from any suspect personnel.
In the case of ESC-1, Torgan did in actuality get it first. He found it very puzzling. After reading it several times, he pressed the button for his wooden-faced assistant. At that moment the assistant arrived.
“Ah—there you are!” He waved the tape. “Rather strange message from Control.”
“Yes. I’ve seen it.”
“Well, I must admit I don’t understand it.” Torgan firmly believed that the truth was always best when one had no other option. “I suppose well have to ask for more information—unless you have any ideas.” Torgan had no desire to call Control unnecessarily. Inevitably, Colossus would know via the monitoring unit of his ignorance, but there was no need for Galin or the rest to be told.
“Yes. I understand the message.” For the first time in the many months he had endured Torgan, the assistant smiled.
No fool, Torgan sensed danger; he pushed back from his desk, his affected manner gone. “What d’you mean?”
Unhurriedly, the assistant produced from his blouse an ancient, but serviceable, gun and pointed it at his chief.
It means, you loathsome bastard, that Colossus is dead! It also means that your filthy Sect is finished! Finally, it means that you are finished. With great reluctance I obey my orders, for you don’t deserve such a speedy end!”
With careful precision he fired twice into Torgan’s chest. The shock of impact threw Torgan back in his chair, his head hitting the wall. Not that it mattered.
The assistant, now the Controller, tore off his Sect badge, threw it at the body, and left, carefully shutting the door. Outside, in the warm, scented air, he breathed deeply. To his excited imagination the air seemed to smell better. His next assignment was the release of Mrs. Forbin.
Barchek, after a hard day’s work plus three exhausting, but eminently satisfying, acts of intercourse, was asleep, one arm thrown protectively, possessively across Cleo.
Cleo, while weary from their last, electric mating, was not asleep. Increasingly, this was the worst moment for her. Again and again, she had to face it; sexually Barchek had the ability to lift her onto another planet. Forbin’s wife remained shocked, horrified at her body’s reaction. Sex with Charles had been a gentle, pleasant thing, but this… .
Cleo, the woman, on the other hand, admitted she had never realized that this sort of ecstasy existed. All right, Cleo, the woman, and Cleo, Forbin’s wife, had fought it out together, but while the latter still battled on, the former had submitted. Moreover, the woman was attacking the wife. The wife, had it not been for the ace card of young Billy, would have been in grave danger of utter defeat.
It was not just a matter of being mounted by a great tireless stallion of a man who could thrust her, relentlessly and against her will, into an experience where time and space and all the world were as nothing. It was far worse.
And incredibly archaic. Like her mother and grandmother before her, Cleo was a thoroughly emancipated woman. You went to bed because you loved or for mutual pleasure. You were partners, each giving and receiving. Children apart, this was what sex was, no more than a part of the balanced whole. Out of bed men and women were separate entities, each with a responsible social conscience and the need to express their own personalities.
Without Barchek, Cleo would, like most women, have gone through life to the final fire believing that. Now she knew this concept was absolute rubbish.
At first, when she refused to work, he hit her until she did. She soon realized he could stand it a lot longer than she could, and did as he required. Yet even then, filled with impotent rage and fear, she saw he was not angry. Her struggles in bed he accepted, effortlessly pinning her down. Even when she got him, hard, with her knee—it would have killed some men—he merely slapped her face, and got on with his personal satisfaction. He treated her in exactly the same way as he did his dog. If anything could, that knowledge had added to her rage.
She soon realized that the man/dog relationship went a lot deeper than she had at first imagined. If disobedient, Voulia got kicked—if within range—but again, without malice. The dog was an extension o
f Barchek, who expected as much obedience from it as from his own limbs. The dog had better sight and sense of smell, and if Voulia sensed something, it was the dog that led, not Barchek. Cleo perceived a curious, impressive dignity in the relationship. The only time Barchek had really beaten the hell out of her was when she forgot to feed the dog.
So she saw that to be “treated like a dog” was not necessarily as bad as it sounded. Man and dog were inseparable; Barchek clearly had the same idea of the man/woman relationship. He had expected her to resist his training and did not resent it. It was natural; she was a woman, and her understanding was neither to be expected—nor necessary—at that stage. She would learn that she was now part of him and that, where her woman’s skills were better than his, he would obey her.
Barchek never consciously thought this out. He didn’t have to; it was the natural order—what was there to think about? They were not two people, but one unit. Soon they would be a family.
Even if Barchek didn’t think all this, Cleo did, and beyond Of course, it was all wildly wrong and impossible. She was a modern married woman, a mother, and a professional scientist with an IQ that left most people behind. All the same, it was a shocking revelation to her to see that there was something in this primitive way of life. She knew, beyond doubt, Barchek would die for her. Charles might, too, but he’d have to gear himself up for the heroics. Not Barchek; he’d go ahead and die without a second’s hesitation, if he thought it necessary.
Archaic, yes, but his way of life had an intensity, a fire, quite unknown to modern couples. She could see that in this ordered, structured life one modern disease, loneliness, could hardly exist.
Superiority, equality were meaningless abstractions to Barchek. Now she no longer resisted him, he could be every bit as tender as Charles.
Cleo shook her head in the darkness. That was hellish disloyalty to Charles. This Noble Savage stuff was nonsense; she must retain her sense of balance.
Although awake, her speed of reaction was hardly up to Barchek’s. Voulia, sleeping at the foot of the bed, growled. It was a deep-throated, but soft sound, intended for Barchek’s ears, not to warn the enemy. Sheep dogs who bark do not intend attacking, and Voulia, a very good dog, was keeping his options open.
But that low growl was enough. Barchek was awake in an instant, still, listening. Cleo could only hear the monotonous crash of the surf and the incessant stridulation of the cicadas, but Voulia, standing up, nose twitching as he sampled the air, knew better.
Barchek slid out of bed. Cleo heard the soft slither of blade on leather as he drew his knife. He was standing in the doorway beside Voulia, a black, naked figure against the bright starlight, man and dog still, listening.
If he spoke, Cleo did not hear, but both slipped silently out into the night. She sat up in bed, not alarmed, only puzzled. Who could possibly want anything with them at this time? She hoped it was Torgan, and that Voulia would “accidentally” bite him.
One thing Cleo and the dog agreed upon was their joint detestation of the Controller. She saw lights, heard the sound of an electric truck humming along the sand. The light grew, the truck stopped. The gate was being unlocked.
A voice spoke, the sharp, rattling Croatian of Barchek’s native tongue. Barchek gave a cry, hoarse and bewildered. The voice spoke again. Barchek’s shouted answer, whatever it was, contained no bewilderment. He was wild with rage.
Cleo waited no longer. She got up, ran to the door. The compound entrance was flooded with light. She saw three strange figures, the assistant controller and two guards—and Barchek. He was standing, legs apart, slightly hunched forward, the light gleaming on his powerful shoulders, his knife ready. Voulia had slunk to one side, watching.
The Croatian-speaking guard said something sharp and to the point, raising his gun. Cleo was frozen with alarm.
Barchek’s reply was even sharper, a great hoarse-shouted single word that could only be “No!” At the same instant, he threw himself at the assistant.
He was dead before he had taken two steps, hit in a half dozen places, but even in death, crouched as if against a storm, he reached the assistant, who jumped back, barely avoiding Barchek’s last thrust.
The gun stopped suddenly; there was a shrill scream that ended in a dreadful bubbling sound. Voulia had torn the gunner’s throat out. The other guard fired again and again. Voulia’s body rolled over and over, legs kicking in death.
The assistant controller, pale and trembling, skirted the dead Barchek and ran to Cleo.
“Its all right, Mrs. Forbin—you’re free!”
But Cleo ran past him and knelt, cradling Barchek’s head, weeping.
Chapter Eighteen
Half the world away, still in daylight, Forbin, coaxed, taunted, and encouraged by Blake, gradually got back into coherent thought. Just about the time that Barchek died, Forbin said, “Okay, Ted, you can stop the therapy. I have your message. I agree, I have to snap out of it.” To show that he could, he got up and looked out of the window. “Yes, you’re right.” He was trying as hard as he could. In these fantastic circumstances, what should he do? “Yes. I suppose someone had better tell the UN.” As he spoke he grasped the significance of what he had said. “Yes, by God! I’d better do that right now!” He walked across to his desk, watched by the silent Blake who remained seated.
Forbin was far too set on his purpose to worry about that small matter. He reached across to press Angela’s intercom button. Blake’s hand covered it. Forbin looked at him in puzzled surprise.
“No, Charles.” His voice was quiet, but held the unmistakable ring of authority. He looked steadily at Forbin. “I suggest you sit down. We will talk before you do anything.” His hand remained over the button; his voice was still gentle as he repeated, “Sit down, Charles.”
Forbin stared back briefly; then he looked away, shrugged as if it was a matter of no importance, walked back, and sat down. Both men knew there had been a battle, and who had won. Forbin leaned back, shut his eyes. For him, events had all the dreadful inevitability of a Greek tragedy.
“Very well, Blake, talk!”
Blake took his time, and when he spoke, there was no trace of his tough, slangy manner.
“First, however annoying you may find my repetition, you’ve got to take it easy! I mean that—really. I’ve told you I know all this is tough for you. I know that, more than anyone.” He paused to light his cigar, studying the silent figure in the armchair. “Let’s start with you. You’re a brilliant man—maybe the best applied scientist for the last two hundred years—and that’s saying a great deal! Your place in history, come what may, is assured, but…
He shrugged.
Forbin opened his eyes, regarding Blake thoughtfully. “I thought a but was overdue. But what?”
“But this: you’ve proved yourself an outstanding man in your field! Yes; in your field. Outside that,” Blake shook his head, “frankly, I rate you a very ordinary man. Nothing personal, mind you, but that’s my view. Also, I think that your unsought, yet all the same, exalted position has done nothing for your understanding of human problems.”
Forbin, remembering his recent trip, accepted that there was some truth in this statement, and remained silent.
Blake waved an expansive hand at their surroundings. “This, all this, has been your ivory tower! Here, you’ve been cushioned, insulated, isolated. Here, you’ve been out of touch for a long time.” He leaned forward, taking the cigar from his mouth, speaking very softly. “Now, Charles, it’s all gone. Colossus is dead. It’s all gone—and your role with it. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
“You are telling me, as tactfully as you can, that I’m all washed up!”
“As the stooge of Colossus, yes—but then, why worry about that? Colossus is totally washed up; humanity is back in control of its destiny, but that does not mean you vanish with the tyrant! Humanity has had the most almighty lesson, and believe me, humanity is going to profit from that lesson! But this fundame
ntal change in affairs does not mean the end of you. You are—rightly—world-famous, an irreplaceable figurehead. In the new world you can play a very important part.”
Forbin was getting restive. “Oh, come on, Ted! Don’t fool around—it doesn’t suit you! What are you getting at?”
Blake nodded slowly. “Okay, here it is straight. We—humanity, that is—saw where the old rule got us! We finished up in the hands of a bloody computer!” He was not holding back now; his voice rose in anger.”And you want to ‘inform the UN’—that bunch of third-rate comedians!” His waving cigar scattered ashes across the desk. “D’you really think, for one single moment, that the Fellowship have risked—and sometimes lost—their necks, just to go back?” He jammed his cigar back in his mouth and champed on it. “Jesus-no! The old system was punk, outworn, outdated, and it got what it deserved: Colossus! No, Charles. We don’t aim to go back!” He blew a large cloud of blue smoke at the ceiling and regarded Forbin with genuine interest. “You can’t really imagine that we few, who did this thing, are going to tamely hand it all over to a bunch of totally unbaked politicians—as soon as they have the nerve to crawl out of the woodwork?”
Forbin stared in amazement, his mouth opened, but Blake raised one hand.
“Let me finish. Sure, the UN can have the front office; they can make resolutions, issue orders—but they’ll do it on our say-so!”
“But you can’t! It’s crazy! How can you?”
Blake’s confident grin cut him short. “In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king!”
“What d’you mean?”
But Blake, who had lived on a knife-edge for far longer than his chief, was relaxing. He wanted to taste every moment of this wonderful, fantastic moment of victory. He wasn’t going to splurge the whole lot in one sentence.
“It means that if you’ve one eye, and all the rest are blind, you, brother, have got the edge!”
Forbin’s evident exasperation was sufficient payment.