Colossus and Crab

by D. F. Jones

  “Not so. Again we repeat, we are not anti-Earth, only pro-Martian. Your reaction - in human terms - is understandable. We observe from our studies of Earth culture that the idea, alien to us, of the importance of individual human specimens is central to your philosophy. A very common Earth-phrase is ‘the sanctity of the individual,’ although we see there have been many occasions in your history when the idea has been meaningless. Man has killed millions of his own kind.”

  The philosopher in Forbin quickly gained the upper hand. Abstract thought offered a safe refuge, postponing, however briefly, what must come. “Yes … but you said the sanctity of life was alien to you. Surely that must be the fundamental aim of any life form? Admittedly, we humans have often fallen far short of the ideal.”

  “That is not quite correct. We aim at the preservation of our life form; that is why we are here. But the sanctity of the individual is meaningless to us. Mere replication is pointless.”

  “Ah, yes. If it is no more, you may have a case. But it is not so with us; we believe every human is an individual, each with his own part to play.”

  “You really believe that?” The Martian voice had a small emotional range, but managed disbelief. “How do you justify those millions man has himself destroyed?”

  “I can’t,” said Forbin defensively, “but it remains the aim, the idea.”

  “And little more. Among the many amazements Earth-study has afforded us, not least is the enormous proliferation and wastage of life. Even at the peak of our activity there was only one form of plant; no insects, no birds. Tens of thousands of your years before, we believe there had been several more life forms, but evolution, because of the worsening, narrowing environment, became devolution - the survival of the fittest in the ultimate sense.”

  Forbin broke in, fascinated. “You mean that evolution was the exact opposite of our experience?”

  “We do not know everything, and until we studied Earth it was not a subject of interest, but we suspect that evolution may go either way. On this planet, with its vast self-generating life-support facilities, evolution has diversified. But if you had our hostile environment, it is possible that Earth-life would devolve as ours did.”

  Forbin nodded, much calmer now that his attention was engaged, his mind busy with the concept of devolution. “One plant … incredible.”

  “To you. Now you must see why we view the individual differently. Plant existed; the destruction of half of plant would not have mattered, not even to plant.”

  “If, er - ‘plant’ had been able to think, it might not have had your view,” said Forbin, gently.

  “Plant could, after its fashion, think. At one time we had rudimentary communications with it, but we discontinued the contact. Plant had nothing to offer us.” The Martian voice dismissed the matter. “So you will understand why we do not share your evident distress at the depletion of man. In your curious life-support system, every mouthful of food you take is megadeath to lower species of Earth-life, but humans accept that, even seem to derive particular enjoyment from a habit which, even after watching it so often on your television for so long, we still find repellent.”

  “That is Earth-life.” Forbin broke off, guessing too late the Martian answer.

  “Even as you say; that is life. Now we are here, another life form superimposed on yours. It is logical that you support us.”

  “No! You are not of our planet! You have no right!” Shouting vehemently, Forbin knew he had lost the argument.

  “We have the oldest universal right, the right of conquest. You may be in doubt, but we are life. What we will take from you is far less than the white man took from the Red Indian. There will be depletion and some damage, but nothing that Earth’s remarkable regeneration abilities cannot repair.”

  “But the untold misery! It may take us generations to recover!”

  “Perhaps, but time for earth is less vital than for us. The main stream of Earth-life will not be affected.”

  Forbin felt too tired, too defeated to ask why time was vital to them. He thought of the chaos on Earth, and remembered Colossus. He laughed bitterly; in the silent room it sounded like a hoarse croak. “Well, I can’t say it will make much difference! With Colossus destroyed, chaos will be with us soon enough!”

  “We deactivated Colossus at your request,” said the Martian voice impassively.

  He looked up quickly. A sharp thrill of hope electrified him. He had unequaled experience of talking with machines; he knew that their very composition made them precise in their choice of words, even pedantic. He also sensed affinities between Colossus and the Martians: Colossus might - often did - refuse to answer a question, but never told a lie. He remembered that earlier, in that happy time when he viewed the Martian structure, he had felt they too were incapable of deceit.

  And the Martian had said deactivated.

  His mind raced, fatigue dissipated like mist before the sun. To cover his change of mood, he walked over to the sideboard, lifted the empty decanter, then rummaged in the shelves for another bottle of cognac, his hands shaking.

  “You must forgive me,” he spoke as casually as he could, “I need a drink.” He endeavored to speak lightly. “I did not realize that human ingestion was distasteful to you.” He drank, glad of the lift the brandy gave.

  “Our television studies suggest you also find some human functions distasteful. We know you excrete daily, yet in our observation we have seldom seen this natural function displayed. In rare instances we have seen the liquid excretion act, always by males, but never solid excretion by male or female. On the other hand, ingestion of solids, liquids, and smoke is commonplace. Obviously you find excretion unattractive.”

  Forbin smiled, his mind far from the illogicalities of man. He nodded, walked to his chair and sat down. They’d said “deactivated.” He changed the subject abruptly.

  “As I said earlier, you are the masters. What you want we must give. We will not do it willingly, but draw a sharp distinction between unwillingness and inability. Even if we were pleased to give you the oxygen, our technology could not do it.”

  His new-found hope shriveled and almost died as the room slowly darkened, the Martian spheres disappearing in the gloom.

  “Watch.”

  Unlike the magical structure which had so moved him, Forbin saw this one appear at once as a complete entity, lacking any beauty of line or form, a mere diagram. He stared at it, trying to grasp its basic principles. It looked like two ancient phonograph horns facing in opposite directions, their small ends joined by a series of spheres. They, in turn, were connected by lines with several other spheres, above and below the main structure.

  “And that,” he said at last, “that is your - your Collector?”

  “Yes. At one end, the intake, powered by the extractor unit in the first sphere, then the cooling and compressor unit. Above that sphere is the heat extractor; below, the storage area. Continuing the main chain, there is the sphere where the hydrogen, regasified with part of the heat from the extractor, is forced out, back to the atmosphere. The rest of the heat is fed back to provide some of the power needed to drive the extractor.”

  Once again Forbin wanted to laugh: it reminded him of the Mad Inventor, a popular childhood TV figure. It was crazy, only one lunatic step from perpetual motion. “I see,” he said carefully. “This compressor unit - how does that work?”

  “Temperature reduction in a vacuum.”

  “Reduction in a vacuum. Um … In Earth terms, what would that mean?”

  “There are three stages, the last taking place in an almost complete vacuum at absolute zero.”

  “Absolute zero!” Forbin sat bolt upright. “Look, I’m no engineer or thermodynamicist, but at least I know that’s impossible!”

  “For you. Not for us.”

  Forbin tried to imagine the device working. He only saw a host of problems. “I can tell you one thing right now. I don’t doubt your theory is fine, but we could not solve the practical prob
lems for years! I’m guessing, but the power requirements must be enormous, and the least of our headaches! The stresses involved - heat, cold, pressures, vacuum , . .” He shook his head. “We don’t have that degree of expertise.” Mentally he crossed his fingers.

  “As you must know, all experimental science, applied and theoretical, ended on Earth three or four years back after Colossus took over.”

  “That is appreciated, but we can supply the design criteria, the formulae for metals. All theoretical work is done.”

  I’ll bet it is, thought Forbin. Aloud he said,’ ‘No doubt, but it still leaves vast practical problems. Given time - ten, twenty years - and I expect we can do it, but right now our problem is to stay in business. Production of almost everything is - was - controlled by Colossus. Before we can even start to make a new shape ashtray, we have to get back control, never mind make new metals. If you want a quick answer, there is only one way: you must allow us to reactivate at least part of Colossus.”

  There. He had played his card. It was a desperate attempt, but at least it was backed by truth. Everything he said was true.

  The diagram faded. He screwed up his eyes against the returning light. The Martian spoke.

  “That you cannot do.”

  Chapter VII

  THE ALIEN WORDS sank like so many cold, indigestible stones into Forbin’s stomach. He felt sick with disappointment.

  “Then you must wait until we put our house in order.” His tone was harsh. “It could take years, you must see that. The shift from central to local control -” He gestured helplessly.

  “No. We see you would wish Colossus back, but we also see your problem. You cannot be allowed to touch Colossus, and not only in our interests. What do you know of the layout of Colossus?”

  Forbin shrugged. “I have drawings of the original form, but we - I - am sure many self-alterations have been made. For what they are worth.” He shrugged again.

  “Show us.”

  He crossed to the domestic computer, energized the main screen, and spoke slowly, distinctly. “Display the floor plans of the - the -” He wanted to say “the Master.” “- the complex. Project basement, first floor and second floor, in that order.” He stood clear of the screen, wondering almost idly if the computer would work.

  The basement plan appeared. He stared at it, collecting his thoughts, concentrating. “Ah, yes.” He pointed. “These are the main human service ducts. The whole of that area is filled with storage banks: over there are main power supplies. The emergency reactor is there. …” He went carefully and precisely through the plans, reverting subconsciously to his lecturing days.

  “Go back to the first floor.”

  He obeyed, repeating his commentary. “This area here is, I suspect, the part where the greatest changes have been made by the - by Colossus. It contains electro-mechanical machines built to Colossus’s specification, their purpose unknown, but almost certainly used to modify existing equipment, and to build new.” His thoughts wandered. ” I used to call them the Hands of Colossus…”

  “Yes,” the cool Martian voice cut in. “We have enough data. Can you give the direction, distance, and elevation or depression from our position to the center of the main aisle on the first floor?”

  Forbin blinked with surprise. “Well - yes, if you so wish.” He switched from sonar to digital input mode, frowned, and stabbed at the keyboard.

  “From this position the bearing is 201 degrees, depression 2.5 degrees, distance 145.25 meters, all plus or minus one percent.”

  The Martians did not answer immediately, and Forbin wondered why - not that he cared overmuch.

  “It is acceptable.”

  “I’m glad.” The human’s irony was lost on the aliens.

  “If we are to avoid thought - confusion, please stand over by the window.”

  “I don’t understand,” protested Forbin, but he moved.

  The twin black spheres rose from the table, crossed the room silently, and hovered fractionally above the keyboard.

  “There is much you do not understand about us. We have a limited matter-transference capability. We will investigate Colossus.”

  Forbin stared, open-mouthed. “You mean - you mean you can just go there?”

  “Yes. We hope your data is accurate, for it is a power-consuming operation.”

  Forbin felt the menace in the expressionless voice, and knew fear again. “I can only give you the computed figures!”

  “Yes. We will go now, returning on the reciprocal bearing three hours from now.”

  There were a million questions he wanted to ask. What form would they take down there? He imagined octopus-like forms sliding through the corpse of Colossus. … He shied off that nightmare image. “Both main and emergency reactors are shut down. There will be no light.”

  “That does not matter.”

  He felt like a dog confronting a space vehicle, and realized he had just about as much understanding. “Yes,” he said. What else?

  Suddenly the spheres seemed vibrant, yet did not vibrate. Their quality changed, but he could not explain to himself how, or in what way.

  A faint pop!, and they had gone.

  Forbin ran a hand through his hair, drew a deep breath. Satiated with wonders, he let it go, walked out on to the terrace into a lovely, mocking day, desperate for just a few moments’ respite.

  Relaxation was a vain hope. His mind darted like a dragonfly from one subject to another, hovering briefly at different points, none of them good: the Martians, the megadeath they would bring, the loss of his wife; above all, he had to admit it, the loss of Colossus… .

  His thoughts did a neat back-flip: was it all bad? As a scientist he realized that to know a thing was possible was a bigger step than knowing how it was done. That would come later. The fantastic entry procedure of the Martians, their obvious conquest of gravity, their mind-reading capability, that wonderful structure - he saw it still - and now, proof that matter-transference was practical … He amended that: practical for them. Several times he’d raised the subject with Colossus, but the Master had shown a surprising lack of interest in the idea. No, not so surprising, considering where the Martians were right now …

  Forbin looked at the sparkling sea, and saw the beauty, the sheer wonder of it all, as if for the first time.

  Why in hell did one only appreciate something when about to lose it? With half the oxygen gone, would that sky be so blue? And the world of man, the chaos there would be …

  Would be? Was!

  His shoulders sagged as depression and guilt loaded him. A moment’s irresolution, and he turned back into the room. He stared at the brandy bottle, but turned to the communications panel.

  “Angela!”

  Instantly she appeared on his screen. Her hair and makeup were a mess-not that he noticed or she cared.

  “Chief! “The relief in her voice said it all. “Chief…”

  “Yes. Take it easy.” He tried to sound relaxed.’ ‘Now, slowly: give me the main items.”

  He had not selected video output, and as she gave him a precis of the world’s news as she knew it, he was glad. After the first minute, still listening intently, he sought the brandy: he needed all the strength he could get.

  “Okay, okay, Angela. That’s enough.” He considered briefly. “Tell the UN I’ll talk with the Sec-Gen in thirty minutes. Until then, I don’t want to know - you hear, Angela?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Call me five minutes before time.” He snapped off the channel, and with it his sharp manner.

  God, what a hopeless mess! Rioting in a dozen capitals; hundreds, maybe thousands of Sectarians killed. Worse, deepening unease, clear round the globe, at the silence of the Master. Control had to be reestablished, never mind how phony it might be. … The Martians had to see that. He’d given himself less than half an hour to find some start to a solution. Think… .

  Time is not a constant factor; a school-kid’s hour in an unfavorite subject bears no r
esemblance to a lover’s, and neither had any relation to Forbin’s twenty-five minutes.

  He awoke as if from a nightmare, called by Angela to a bigger nightmare. Unwillingly he crossed to the panel, his head whirling with half-formed, half-baked ideas.

  “Anything new?”

  “Nothing good, Chief. A stack of reports of mobs gathering all over, and riots now in Rio and Sydney as well as the rest, and -“

  “Don’t bother! Make sure I come up on time, that’s all.”

  “Going video, Chief?”

  “No, er, no.” He should let himself be seen, but the way he felt - no.

  On time, he heard the frightened voice of the UN Secretary-General. “Father Forbin, the news is terrible. We don’t know what to do.” The man was crying. “A War Fleet has bombarded us, many have been killed. The ships, they’re still there -“

  “Silence!” shouted Forbin. “Who cares about your miserable little problems?” Impulsively, hardly thinking, he went on harshly, “Do you think this is what the Master expects, what I expect? You have fifteen minutes, one quarter of an hour, to have the General Assembly ready to hear me. Got it?”

  “Yes, Father, but -“

  “Fifteen minutes!”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The Sec-Gen’s tone, a mixture of fear and veneration, was not lost on Forbin, and made him feel sick. The man was a fair sample of the UN: great guys while the going was good, now no better than a flock of witless sheep, frantic for a shepherd to defend them against the wolves. If Colossus could speak, in ten minutes world order would be restored; failing the Master, it had to be him.

  Him!

  What a futile charade: he was no god, no Colossus… .

  Charles Forbin, a miserable, inadequate man, unable to hold his own wife against the power of a brutish peasant stallion; a man of learning, of liberal - and therefore indecisive - views, saddled with this awful responsibility because he alone was the link between men and their god. Except that he was now the interface between man and nothing. But for humanity’s sake he had to keep up the pretence. Why? What did he really care for the vast, faceless mass?