by D. F. Jones
“Really!” snapped Forbin. “This is one subject I do know more about than you!”
“That is demonstrably not so. The proportion of your wife’s time spent in this center has not changed significantly in the last twenty-five months. Lacking surveillance of your residence, I have no exact figures, but measurement of external activities and duration of visitors’ stays indicates that she does not spend all her spare time with your child.”
For a moment Forbin was groping in the dark. “Oh—oh—I get it! You’re thinking of our favorite pain in the ear, the tireless committeewoman, Mrs. Armsorg!”
“It is true Mrs. Armsorg occupies an inordinate amount of file space, mostly evaluated as aimless activity, but I do not refer to her, but to Doctor Blake.”
Forbin nodded. “Sure, he’s around—why not? He’s a friend and very often single.”
“When did you last see him in your residence?”
“Let’s see … sometime last week. Friday, I think. Yes, Friday it was—why?”
“That is ten days ago. Doctor Blake has visited your residence twice in the past two days.”
Forbin frowned. “I wish you’d stop calling it a ‘residence.’ Anyway, so what if he has?” He turned to face the slit. “Look, what are you getting at?”
“You did not know?”
“Well, no; I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think Cleo mentioned it. What’s your point?”
“To demonstrate that not all your wife’s time is taken up with your child, in order to refute your argument that she has less time available for you.”
“All right, I accept that, but why d’you pick on Blake? He’s not the only visitor.”
“I do not wish to disturb you, but Doctor Blake is suspected of antimachine beliefs, and recently he consorted with a man, a poet, against whom there is strong evidence.”
Forbin’s laugh was tinged with relief. “So because Blake knows a man who doesn’t like you, and Blake meets my wife—really! What did this poet do to incur your suspicions?”
“He wrote a poem.”
“That figures! You didn’t like it?”
“I neither like nor dislike, but recognize this man is hostile:”
“Aw, be reasonable,” pleaded Forbin, “there are thousands, maybe millions who don’t like you—is that news? So this is one. He’s a poet. They’re nearly always antisomething.”
“That is true, but there are aspects of this poet that suggest he is more dangerous than most. It is not desirable that he should consort with a senior member of my staff who is himself a Grade Three suspect.”
“You go too far.” Forbin was faintly uneasy and gained time relighting his pipe. “In all probability, their meeting had nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing in Doctor Blake’s file suggests he has an interest in poetry.”
“So? Their mutual interest could be anything—drink, boats, women.
“The poet does not drink, sail, and is homosexual.”
“It’s still nonsense! Blake, above all men, knows you are unassailable. It is illogical that he would be actively against you!”
“You have agreed that humans are frequently illogical.”
There was a silence while Forbin poured himself another brandy. He had a nasty, growing suspicion that Colossus had been steering the conversation and would go on doing so. He muttered to himself, “She must have forgotten.” He gulped down the brandy, coughed. “When did Blake call?”
“Yesterday afternoon, on the beach, by your wife’s invitation, to see your child.”
Forbin’s relief showed. “Oh, well! There you are! Blake’s the kid’s godfather—and he’s fond of Billy!”
“Possibly,” admitted Colossus, “but the indications are that they are meeting at this moment. It is usual human practice to put their young to bed much earlier than this.”
Forbin tried to sound casual. “Yes? When did he arrive?”
“Exact timing is not possible; between 2002 and 2004:
The expression on Forbin’s face hardened, but he did not answer. Colossus, weak on emotion, continued. “There is not, at this time, any suggestion that your wife is implicated in any activities with Doctor Blake with or without the poet, but it is correct that you should be warned that, outside your home, constant surveillance is considered necessary.”
“Yes,” said Forbin thoughtfully, “yes… .”
Cleo had the TV scan on, but paid it so little attention that she did not notice that the holographic circuit was one hundred eighty degrees out of phase. The commentator’s face looked like a hollow mold. She was thinking of what the next day would bring.
… you are, folks! The Argentine fleet has won the United States of South America regional semi-final for Zone Two, outmaneuvering their Mexican rivals to score a fantast-ic 1749 against 1527 points, confirmed by Colossus! Later, you’ll hear an assessment of the victorious admiral’s tactics—and the influence the weather… .”
Suddenly aware, Cleo pressed the button, hurling the eager negative face into blackness.
She got up, telling herself that worry never did any good—and didn’t believe it. On edge, she glanced around the room and hardly saw it. She began to think, reluctantly, of bed and was mechanically patting cushions in preparation, when Charles arrived.
She smiled at him, glad he was back, not to be alone with her thoughts.
“Darling, you’re early! I was just off to bed.”
He smiled, but made no move to touch her. Instead, he walked over to the drinks and poured himself a large brandy without asking her if she wanted one. Cleo had been on the alert from the moment she saw him smile. Something was wrong. That damned computer!
“An early night wouldn’t do you any harm, Charles.”
“Oh, for God’s sake… !” He broke off. “Sorry. Colossus has been rather tiresome this evening. Among other things he told me to watch my health and my drinking.” He regarded his glass, not anxious to look at her. “Yes, Colossus was really quite a bore.”
“About what?” She spoke a fraction too quickly and knew it.
“Nothing exciting. Anyway, let’s forget Colossus—I’ve had enough for one day.” He went on casually, his back to her. “Any visitors?”
“That awful Rita Armsorg was in earlier.”
“You told me; that was before dinner.” His tone showed that his question remained unanswered.
Cleo’s mind raced. Colossus must have tracked Blake to the grounds, but that would be all. He could have gone for a swim or a walk. She dared not, for his own sake, tell Charles that Blake had called. Anyway, why should Colossus tell him about Blake? Take a chance. No time for anything else.
She fought back. “Why this sudden interest?” She went on, a little bitterly. “And who would come here? I know—thus far—you don’t go along with this religious rubbish,” she rasped the word, “of the Sect, but if ever they want to start a monastery, send them to me for a few tips!”
He faced her. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said warmly, “apart from the Armsorgs, there’s the Fultone’s, the Loo Fans—and Blake.”
Yes, thought Cleo, you know, but, dear, dear Charles, I have to keep you out of this… . She went on quickly. “And what a bright lot they are! Rita and Jim, the deadliest social climbers, desperate to be seen in all the best places, going on about that wonderful weekend they spent with their dear friend—and such a nice man—the President of Greater Mexico and his charming, brilliant wife! Oh yes, I love the Armsorgs! They do nothing, only watch—and the bliss lies in being seen, watching the right things!”
Her anger was genuine, and took Forbin aback. “My dear, there’s no need. .
. .
“… and Fultone, a nice old man—apart from his wandering hands—and his spaghetti-stuffed wife! Still, at least they’re real people; they don’t put cost or social tickets on every damned thing!” Her femininity waspishly asserted itself. “And anyway, her hats are not so bloody awful as Rita’s!”
She was
hammering him into the floor. “My dear,” he began. “I… .”
“Oh, my God!” Her sudden attitude of shock, anger dissipated, was entirely false. “I’ve just remembered! The Loo Fans have a young niece in for a long weekend from Pekin. We must have them in for dinner. Blake could be her partner.”
“If you say so.” Forbin was less than enthusiastic.
Cleo let that go, went on talking fast. “And while we’re on plans, how about a vacation in the fall in New England? You did promise we’d get away this year.” She stared at him, willing him not to question her about Blake.
“You fix it,” he said heavily, “maybe I could come over for a day or two.” He poured another drink; a very large one.
Cleo had reached the door, aware that she had not been totally convincing. If she could only hold this line for a day or so.
“You know, Charles, I think this—this, fixation you’ve got for Colossus is getting on top of you! A real vacation would do you a lot of good.”
“Do you?” He looked steadily at her. “I’m not so certain. Colossus has one great advantage.”
His tone held a challenge she dared not ignore.
“Which is?”
“Colossus might—I only say might—be wrong now and then. But this I can be absolutely sure of; Colossus never lies—or evades an issue.”
She stared at him, her eyes hard, angry. You tool, Charles! You dear idiotic tool!
He returned her stare. Cleo—my Cleo! This just can’t be happening to us! Cleo—CLEO!
“Good night, Charles.” She left.
Forbin felt stunned. Never had this happened before… .
And suddenly the lights flickered, dimmed. For seconds he stood rooted, staring at the closed door; then the lights returned to normal, and triggered him into futile, angry action.
He hurled the antique cut-glass goblet from him, not at the door, but at his own reflection in a mirror. It made a satisfying, if sobering, smash.
Chapter Seven
A long way back, when man still had the illusion he was master of his own fate, it had been a research center and, like most of its kind from the mid-twentieth century on, secret.
What exactly had been researched there before, was forgotten. At some point in the late twentieth or early twenty-first century, the researchers had given up or, more probably, been merged with a larger and even more secret center somewhere else. So they had departed with their equipment, leaving deserted the dirty-white single-story building locked up behind its wire screen, no longer energized.
Naturally, the center did not stay that way long. Perhaps it was teen-agers who broke down the gates, trampled on the weedy grass and brambles to reach and break the windows, defecate, and fornicate in its damp, moldering rooms. And it had stayed that way, another blot on the long-suffering English countryside, for many a year, a refuge for bats and owls, tramps, and field mice.
Meanwhile the world had moved on; man no longer had even the illusion of freedom, for Colossus had arrived. One startling morning, the inhabitants of the local town discovered that the Master of the world had taken ever the old eyesore. Some of them were proud… .
Like all Colossus’ actions, the take-over was fast. There was no talk about ownership, amenities: men, construction machines, and material poured in, and work went on day and night. In a month it was better than new and very different. The wire had gone, the grass cut, and the buildings gleamed white in the sun. But any idea that this was some mazy, bumbling academic center or record storehouse was quickly dispelled. The wire had gone because it was unnecessary; Colossus had other defenses, not least the signs that read quite simply “Trespassers will be executed.”
So the research center was back in business and still secret. It was, in fact, Emotional Study Center Number Six, more familiarly known to the initiated, ESC-6.
Dry rot is latent in all timber; the spores universally distributed, waiting only for the right conditions for activation and the destruction of its host wood. Incipient bastards are latent in all communities. They too, need only the right conditions to bloom. The incidence of thoroughgoing bastards was high in all ESCs, for conditions could hardly have been bettered for their nourishment and growth. ESCs were secret, secure from the outside world, and, within the broad terms of their directives, the researchers had freedom to conduct the most bizarre experiments ever devised. In his time man has thought up some very repulsive things to do to his fellow creatures, human and animal, but, as some said with secret admiration, Colossus had them beat.
Had Colossus been disposed to argue—which he wasn’t—he could have truthfully said that a species that, apart from what it did to its own kind, could breed other species in order to kill them slowly, painfully, or drive them insane, was in no position to throw the first stone.
ESC-6 was primarily concerned with Love, Group One (Delta). What Colossus’ definition of this group was, the computer did not impart to its human assistants, but it became clear, to the disappointment of some, that it was not sexual. Loosely, Group One was abstract love, and ESC-6’s task was to produce examples of it, its range, limitations, and characteristics, if any. Subject specimens and tests were usually arranged by Colossus.
To take one of many examples, there had been a loud-mouthed Turkish patriot who had said, in some local dispute with the Kurds, that he would cheerfully die to preserve just one square meter of his native soil from Kurdish domination. He said this several times, and Colossus, who heard all things, took him at his word. In the cool, clinical ambience of ESC-6, so very different from a tense, dusty market town on the Angolian plain, Colossus offered him the chance.
If he was ready to die—Colossus, unsure about emotion, did not insist on cheerfulness—to die by decapitation, Colossus was prepared to guarantee that the town of Trabzon and its environs would be under his special protection against any infiltration: military, economic, or cultural. If, however, he was prepared to die painfully; well, protection would be extended to all territory now held by the Turks. In neither case would the patriot’s self-sacrifice be revealed, which ruled out any visions of deathless fame and brazen statues… . Alternatively, he could recant and go back home.
The man spat accurately at the eye of the camera and cried, “Do your damnedest! I am a Turk!”
Which he was. Was… .
And now a new subject had arrived.
Professor Jules Cassard was all that any TV producer dreamed of; he was the archetypal French man of learning. Cassard, when men’s fashions had sprung back three hundred years, had slipped easily, gracefully into the old/new style. A peg-top figure, with trousers narrowing skin-tight into black half boots, flared black velvet coat, white lace cravat, and high hat-all looked good on him. His old, carefully preserved face, the well-tended short, trim beard, were the epitome of French culture. He was perfect.
Just now, he looked less than his best. At breakfast, a happy man in his beloved Paris—where else? And now, a bare hour later, he found himself whisked to ESC-6. Where he was or why, he did not know, but the Sect badges on the plain black utilitarian uniforms of his silent escorts were enough. After that first “You are wanted,” they had preserved a chill silence while taking him to a helojet, which, having priority over all air traffic, got him to this bare, bleak room in less than thirty minutes.
He was deeply frightened. One well-kept hand fluttered nervously at his cravat. His mouth was dry, and his heart hammered ominously.
Colossus spoke.
“You are Professor Jules Cassard, Academicien Francais, art critic?” The Parisian French was faultless.
Cassard could only nod.
“Place your right hand on the screen before you.” Hesitantly, he did so.
Your identity is confirmed. Do you know why you are here?”
Somehow, the professor managed to croak, “No.”
“For this reason. You are the leading French expert on painting, devoting your whole life to the subject. In your writings there are many ex
amples of your basic faith, that art is the highest expression of human endeavor. Also you have said that you value the greatest art above life itself. Do you agree that this is a fair summary of your beliefs?”
“Yes!” In spite of his fear, he answered decisively, defiantly.
“It is fair, therefore, to say that you love art above life itself?”
Cassard paused, his fear receding slightly. “The greatest art, yes. There are works that must be preserved at whatever cost.”
“Would you include in that category the work of Leonardo da Vinci?”
“You know I do!”
“Yes. Please enter the next room.”
This, he found, was a long cement box, practically empty, and windowless. He did not notice the four shining black lenses set strategically in the walls. At the far end stood a painting on an easel. Cassard exclaimed in surprise and without waiting for Colossus to speak, he hurried forward with short, jerky steps, to look.
“No, it is not damaged, but satisfy yourself that it is genuine.” Cassard laughed contemptuously. “It is genuine. I have known it all my life—what. .
. .”
“Please return to this end of the room.”
The dispassionate voice communicated some of its calmness to the Frenchman. After one anxious glance at the painting he retraced his steps, boots clacking on the bare cement floor.
“Stand at the other side of that red line. Yes, that will do. Face the painting, please.”
Cassard did as he was told. Now he was some forty feet from it. Without his pince-nez, the painting was no more than a dark mass to him.
“Understand the nature of this test. The only danger to you comes from your own mind, not from me. You have my assurance that this test will never be repeated with you, or with this painting. This is the test: halfway between you and the painting is a barrier of fire.”
As Colossus spoke, rows of giant gas jets exploded into fierce blue fire, roaring, Bunsen—like spears of flame four feet high forming a barrier between the Frenchman and the painting.