by D. F. Jones
In the old building on the very edge of the preserved area, nestling close to the cliff-like north wall of the UN complex, Forbin was lucky enough to find a myopic girl assistant, who evidently suffered from a permanent and severe cold. Although her watery eyes, magnified like goldfish in a bowl by her thick glasses, stared earnestly at him while he explained what he wanted, there was no flicker of recognition. When he had finished she blinked several times, and just to get it straight, she asked, “You want a large-scale map of mid-Manhattan with a lat. and long. grid—right?
“Right.”
“Right. ‘Scuse me.” She sniffed urgently and noisily. “Have to be sure I know what you want. Saves time.” One handkerchiefed hand dabbed at her reddened nose, the other punched a keyboard at surprising speed. She studied the results on her display, sniffing with abandon. “Best I can do is a one to one hundred thousand scale of the city—in sections. Okay?”
At his nod, she pressed the execute button. Within seconds a small cassette slid down a chute. Without even checking the label she pushed it across to him.
Forbin found a vacant projector and sat down, less conspicuous and more at ease in the familiar, studious calm. Rapidly he flicked through until he found the right section. He measured, using a pin and the back of an envelope, working with scientific care. The site was located west of the Alice group, but not as far as he had thought, fifty to sixty yards.
He returned the cassette, thanked the assistant, got a “y’r welcome” and a massive sniff and left, nearly running. He soon slowed down in the flattening heat of the street, got a cab, and rode silently and swiftly back to Central Park, racked by doubt and worry. If that damned stand was on the site… .
He refused to look at it, but headed straight for the Alice bronze. From there, on a westerly heading, he slowly paced out the distance. At forty yards he could no longer resist the compulsion to look ahead.
There was still a clear thirty yards before him.
The relief was enormous. The vital space was clear, and it would be the most impossible mischance for it to be taken over in the next twenty-four hours. In one way it was an advantage, for the stand effectively screened him on one side. The degree of his relief surprised him, and he sat on the grass, as far away as possible from others, to consider this state of mind. Did he really want to defeat Colossus? There was no clear-cut answer. It was true he desperately wanted to free Cleo, even more than he wanted her back, although there was a very fine distinction between the two.
This nightmarish operation—for him—was solely for Cleo. Until the St. John’s contact he had doubted everything: Martians, the possibility of communication, and even more, the chance that they could produce a counter to Colossus.
For a time his mind moved swiftly to that diversion. What possibly could anyone anywhere do? It was clear from the information they had wanted that it had to take the form of a message—but what?
He got back on the main line of thought, feeling a little happier. How could any message affect Colossus? It came to this; as long as he felt this was no more than a gesture that would show Cleo that, at least, he had tried… .
So he was only playing games to ease his conscience and to stand well in his wife’s eyes? The recurrent train of thought was unpalatable. He could not admit that it was true. Anyway—was it? Leave Cleo out of it for a minute; think of that poor young fool Jannsen, caught and executed in minutes for something so futile. Or these Emotional Centers: think of them.
That brought back Cleo, and the cold, factual Fellowship report which Blake had shown him. Horrifying, terrifying, and grotesque, but there could be no doubt about its authenticity. And there, once more, his thoughts petered out. Full circle.
He walked for a while, oblivious of the heat. To the north of the park, shimmering in the heat, the new life-complex called Haarlem. He’d seen somewhere that it had three hundred floors; people would live out their entire lives within it. It had, they said, everything, including the latest development in artificial sunshine areas. Inside, people would be sunbathing at a comfortable eighty degrees, and they could do that at any time, day or night.
He shivered, a Biblical fragment crossed his mind: “… the sun shall not smite thee by day neither the moon by night.” There were tree-lined walks buried beneath two hundred floors, rain areas, gentle, synthetic wind.
Colossus, of course, had designed it, and statistics showed—as well as they could ever show—that the inhabitants were happy. At least, the suicide rate was significantly lower than in more conventional communities. He’d talked with Blake about it. Blake had refused to be impressed, saying caustically that he’d like to know what the consumption of antidepressant drugs was. Later, Forbin had checked with Colossus who agreed consumption was certainly much higher in the Haarlem complex than elsewhere. When pressed, Colossus had said the figure was three hundred and fifty percent higher, adding that this was hardly of importance. Humans had to eat to live; drugs were no more than a trace element added to their diet. Forbin did not relay that item to Blake, guessing Blake’s answer.
Outside his work Forbin was not an observant man, but this trip had sharpened him up. As he turned away from contemplation of Haarlem, he noticed one particular man. He had the impression that the man had just as quickly looked away from him. There was something else; he thought he had seen him earlier, at the entrance to the park.
Forbin’s first instinct was to run. Until he took the message there was nothing against him, but if the Sect were watching—for whatever reason—he had to lose them before tomorrow. But, suppose they had been trailing him all along? Suppose they checked on his activities in the public library? That was a chilling thought. Irresolutely, he stood, staring at the man, trying to decide what was his best course of action—any course of action.
It was settled for him. The man, seeing he had been noticed, walked slowly in his direction, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Forbin waited, heart pounding. He’d attack; tell the guy to get the hell out of it, to leave him alone.
The man was young and youthfully dressed in a flaring yellow blouse—it was that that had caught Forbin’s eye earlier—and tight black and white trousers. As he sauntered up, Forbin thought it was hardly the dress for a shadow. Okay in the street, but in the park? They stared at each other, expressionlessly, Forbin getting up steam.
“What the hell d’you think… .”
“Let’s just walk, Professor.” The voice was a surprise. Certainly not American; possibly Central European. The pallid complexion, the dark hair suggested a Polish origin to Forbin. The biggest surprise was the way he spoke. Forbin might not like it, but he had grown used to a very respectful approach from everyone. This man was polite, but no more than that. Surely he was not a Sectarian? Police? Forbin turned, walking towards the lake across the Green; the young man fell in step beside him.
“You know who I am?” said Forbin, shortly.
“Yes, Professor, I know.” The man’s eyes were never still, watching everything except Forbin.
“Well, what d’you want? Keep it short—I’m busy.”
“Not, I think, until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, Professor.” The voice was calm, level, but its message staggered Forbin.
“Who the hell are you?”
“A friend, Professor. A friend. Keep walking. I have a message for you from Doctor Blake.”
“From Blake! How… ?”
The young man shook his head. “That doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me! I don’t get messages via strangers from my staff!” He was being careful, and the young man saw it.
“Please!” He spared time for a single glance at Forbin. “This is no game. I am of the Fellowship; I work here.” His roving eye took in the best part of New York, and it was clear he was not going to be more exact than that. “Listen; the message is verbal. Originated in ESC-1 about two days ago.”
Forbin’s sharp intake of breath made the messenger pause.
“Okay?”
Forbin was pale. He nodded.
This is it, quote. Subject referred to in report one shows signs of acceptance of situation. Early termination of experiment desirable husband-wise. Unquote.” The young man had spoken with one hand defensively before his mouth, his voice directed downwards, now he looked up. “Okay?”
“No. Wait. I must think.” They walked on beside the lake. As the import of the message registered—he did not doubt its authenticity—his private world reeled and neared collapse. He struggled to remain calm. “Tell me again.”
The messenger did so. This time Forbin was memorizing every word. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Good-bye.”
“If you’ve any really urgent message, I can pass it on for you—but it must be urgent.” He hesitated. “It’s dangerous, not only to us, but to you as well. Those Sect bastards have a brain examination technique that’s deadly.”
“No.” Forbin roused himself from his personal hell and tried to smile. “No—thank you. I meant that.”
The young man inclined his head and slouched off, hands in his pockets, a lonely figure, soon lost in the water-side willows. In a trance, Forbin found a hotel and spent the next twelve hours sitting or pacing up and down in his room, smoking, drinking.
Shortly after dawn, breakfastless, he left. The untouched bed and the empty bourbon bottle told the whole story.
But Forbin was neither tired, nor drunk.
Chapter Fourteen
Being a naive man, he spent a lot of that hideous night trying to understand why Blake had troubled, risking the lives of others, to tell him that his wife’s moral fiber might—it was only might, he clung to that—be giving way.
Finally he got the answer, too obvious for him to see at first. If anything would stiffen his resolve this was it, and Blake was well aware of the fact. That led to another point: while the message had been genuine at the New York end, could it be that Blake had made it up? After all, it was fantastic to think that Cleo’s state of mind could be altered, and altered so fast. Then again, was it? There was so much Forbin did not know. In the end, around dawn, he concluded that, on balance, he believed the message a genuine expression of the Fellowship view of the situation in ESC-1. He had to face it; his wife, under God knows what pressure, could be slipping away from him. Impossible, unthinkable, but… .
These thoughts drove Forbin on. The only concession he had made to his physical needs was a shower and change of clothes before he set out.
By ten o’clock he admitted to himself he was thirsty; for thirty minutes he sat drinking iced tea in the same cafe as the day before. Almost oblivious to his surroundings, he thought but casually of the impending rendezvous, his mind full of Cleo, yet not quite to the exclusion of all else. His recently cultivated habit of holding his pipe in his mouth, thus covering the lower part of his face, was not forgotten. He must not be recognized; a clear run was vital.
At ten thirty he crossed into the park; going around in a wide circle, he approached the site from the north, alert, watching… .
At ten fifty-five he moved to the zero spot. All clear; no one within thirty yards. He put down his bag, placed the radio so that the bag screened it from the most populous area, and stood, waiting. Cleo had receded to the back of his mind: now the job was all that mattered. God! How it mattered!
Check: pen and pad; ready. Radio: two minutes to go–no, wait—allow for time-lag. No—don’t! They might do the same thing. He bent down, switched on. Immediately, a blast of sound that had him cursing obscenely. This was New York, not Newfoundland.
“… you don’t have to be a Sect member, folks! Anyone can play! Guess the right answer, and you could win this gigantic weekend in England, USE, including that great, great unforgettable experience, a visit with the Master!”
Snarling, Forbin turned down the volume, hating the voice, hating Colossus, hating… .
Less than one minute to zero time.
A ball, a large brown plastic ball, landed at his feet, a thrill of shock twisted his nerves; his body tingled with it. Ten yards away, a kid, five or six. In close attendance a loving, indulgent, smiling, stupid, dangerous parent. Forbin picked up the ball.
Don’t panic; there’s time, time… .
The kid looked at him, then the ball. Forbin tried to smile. The child’s face creased into ugly, mindless greed.
“Gimme!”
Forbin glanced at the ball, saw it no longer as a plastic plaything, but as the very globe itself… .
“Gimme, gimme!” screamed the child.
Yes, you little bastard; it’s “gimme”—whatever your age. Okay; you want it, you can have it. Ball, globe, ball—who cares?
He tossed it back, deliberately overthrowing. The parent grinned—my, what a smart kid he’d produced! The child ran and got it, and the pair drifted away.
Forbin slumped on the grass beside the set.
Yes… . They wanted their world back; he wanted his wife back. A fair, a very fair exchange. That kid’s face was stamped with the image of all mankind: rotten, grasping, unreliable humanity. Unreliable… .
Hell—why should he worry? Cleo, unreliable?
Forbin roused himself, glanced at his watch. Seconds only now. He was ready, eager. No second thoughts, no vacillation now. He could cry “gimme” with the best, worst of them… .
Music on the muted radio faded; at once Forbin increased the volume. His heart thumped as he recognized the unmistakable thrust of the incredibly powerful beam. An eternity passed, his hand on the set trembled.
“We see you. The solution to your problem will be sent twice. If uncertain that you have it correctly after the repetition, lie down, look upwards. A third, last repetition will be given. Power considerations will not permit more. Write… .”
Forbin did so, scarcely allowing himself to read. He soon grasped that the solution was a mathematical problem, long and very complicated.
Feverishly he scanned what he had written. It began well enough—but then! It was like reading a familiar nursery rhyme that suddenly, yet smoothly, translates into a secret work in Sanscrit. He was completely lost after the first two equations, yet felt instinctively that given the knowledge, he would understand. At the same time, that instinct also told him that neither he nor any human would ever possess that ability. Just to look at it gave him mental vertigo.
He took it all down again on the rerun, then checked one copy against the other. Identical. They had to be right, even if meaningless to him. Staring at the paper, he felt, for the first time, that perhaps this was power, real power. There was no time; the voice had begun again.
“We assume you have the proposition correctly. Do not expect to understand it; it is beyond human conception. Our thought-processes are akin to Colossus’, who will understand. In simple, human terms it is the equivalent to the question—what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? As we understand your kind, this is a pointless question, but one that Colossus cannot ignore. It must be fed in through a terminal similar to that displayed to us. It must not be inserted by radio link or other external source; defense circuits would at once eliminate it. If this is clear to you, leave the site.”
Forbin blinked and struggled mentally back to Central Park. The kid was heading his way again, ironically leaving the discarded ball for his father to pick up.
Hastily he got up, switched off and pocketed the set. Even so, he could not resist another quick glance at the problem. Letters, figures, symbols on a piece of paper, yet arranged in a combination new to him, to man.
Now he was filled with fear; no longer was it a game. The solution might not work, but it was a genuine attempt. His fear was not personal, although he realized that if the formula was found on him, it would be the end of the road. The defensive circuit idea was novel, but—now—it seemed an obvious refinement. If Colossus, through such a shield, could safely view the Medusa’s head, appreciate its significance, then yes, even his head would bounce on a blood-stained cement f
loor.
But that was not the real root of his fear. As Blake had foreseen, that second Fellowship message had wrought a fundamental change in his attitude. His whirling mind, shot through with disconnected images of Cleo, Galin, that kid with the ball, the reality of Martians, and the message, was firm on one central point. He knew not only what he had to do, but what he now wanted to do. The truly liberal mind is by definition uncertain; it admits it may be wrong, but once set and the decision made the wavering stops, and no sort of hell can sway it. That was now Forbin’s state of mind. His fear lay not in the consequences of his course of action, but in the thought that he might be stopped.
Clear of the park, he dumped his radio in a garbage can. Now there was no evidence of the source of his material. Before that searing Fellowship contact, he had intended spending a day or two in the country, but now he could not get back fast enough. He remembered what the courier had said about brain examination technique as used by the Sect. “Deadly” he’d called it; if Cleo’s affection-mentally he skidded away from the word “love” —was being attenuated—a more comfortable word than “destroyed”—it might be due to some equally deadly brain manipulation.
He made for the airport. Disguise was now less necessary, although he was unaware of the fact. Forbin looked older, tired, and the hard-set determination of his mouth had changed his expression.
In three hours he was in London. In four, back in the Colossus complex, and in his pocket, the formula.
If it worked, the fission-fusion bomb by comparison would be a firecracker.
But first, how to get it to Blake?
Chapter Fifteen
Forbin’s sudden, unexpected return provoked a hum of surmise that, starting at the landing pad, spread swiftly to most humans in the Colossus complex.
Blake greeted the news with no more than a raised eyebrow and the comment that “maybe Charles had forgotten his tobacco.” What he thought he kept very much to himself and gamely stuck to his evening program of seduction, which, he was grimly aware, was known to Colossus.