by D. F. Jones
The plan before Blake showed what stood within the D, the Secure Zone. As his memory had told him, no building abutted on the rock face. Like it or not, the breakin would have to be in the open.
Site preparation completed, the engineers had hewn a series of caverns in the living rock. Only one entrance now existed, resembling a doorway; it was in fact the main ventilation intake, but as Blake well knew, certain death awaited any living creature that ventured in: death from intense radiation - and from other devices, secret to Colossus. Robots would fare no better. Blake remembered the trouble they’d had with the radioactive mincemeat, all that remained of an armored test vehicle, spat out in seconds by the defenses.
Within the Zone lay the buildings where Forbin’s team had labored to create the monster caged in the rock. There they had lived and worked in total isolation for years, their world bounded by a simple barbed wire barrier with one gate. This opened into the defense strip, a semicircular area fifty meters wide, flat and lifeless, protected by every device that man, ever at his best when devising ways of killing, could invent. Beyond that lay another, larger perimeter, a high fence of strange construction, again pierced by one gate, flanked by guardrooms and, beneath them, control and surveillance bunkers. Anyone who managed to deal with the ten-thousand-volt charge still had to contend with poisoned wire, nerve gas, and several other hazards. Even flying insects had a hard time; crawlers had no chance.
Watched intently by the Guard Commander and his assistant - Angela and Staples were busy with the stores - Blake stared at the drawings, refreshing his memory. In the planning stage, the super-computer which would defend the United States of North America had been conceived as a totally unassailable entity, capable of surviving the impact of a megaton weapon. Man might destroy himself, but even nuclear warheads could not do much more than dent the Rockies, and the requirement was for the machine to survive a first strike - and retaliate, even if its human masters were all incinerated. It was the philosophy of deterrence carried to its ultimate conclusion.
But as the work had progressed, one year, two years, three, Forbin and his staff had gradually come to realize that they were building better than they knew. Near conviction had grown to certainty. The computer could not be taken unawares; it might react only when the first-strike missiles were in flight, but it would react at inhuman speed. After months of argument Forbin had convinced the Chiefs of Staff Committee, including the President.
They had set out to build a bicycle and had ended up with an auto. Colossus was self-protecting, needing defense only against kooks.
Recognition of this fact made a big difference to the cost and, more importantly, time. Completed, only one entrance existed, but a very much larger hole had been necessary to get the excavated rock out and the equipment in. Originally, it had been intended to close the opening with a reinforced concrete wall a hundred meters thick. The new concept accepted, a wall of similar construction, fifty centimeters thick, would do.
Choking over his first cigar in a fortnight, Blake remembered all this. The wall was his target; a hundred meters right of the intake, it was designed to stop accidental entry, weatherproof the structure, and complete the defense circuitry. Floor, walls, and ceilings of the whole structure was lined with chrome steel mesh, set in cement. It had been widely publicized that to touch that mesh meant death to the world, for it was connected to the computer. Seismic movement would not trigger it, but any attempt to cut through it - indeed, any nonseismic movement - would trigger the missile-firing circuits.
Even if by some process then unknown the concrete of the wall, or any other part, could be gently dissolved and the mesh bared without movement, the attacker faced insuperable problems: the computer would sense the change in air pressure, humidity, temperature, and if those details could be overcome, there remained the mesh.
Someone suggested that a pre-prepared section of the mesh, a replica of the section to be cut, could be connected by leads to the system before the cutting started, thus preserving continuity. An answer was quickly found: the leads would alter the capacitance of the whole system; the difference would be minute, but well within the computer’s detective powers. Just to be quite sure, the conductivity of the mesh was varied. The system had been considered foolproof and, to date, had been. The human guard was there to deal with maniacs. Two had tried, one in a plane loaded with explosives, the other on foot. Neither had crossed the outer perimeter fence.
All this ran through Blake’s mind as he studied the plans. His first problem was of a very different character. The Guard Commander, a high-ranker in the Sectpolice, also had a fair idea of his charge’s powers. Judging by the portrait of Forbin over his desk, and by a framed “pilgrim’s badge” - proof of a visit to the Master - he was a member of the Faithful. Blake had to break it gently to him that all the rules he lived by were about to be flouted, and that as the policeman stood guard over nothing but a load of junk, nothing would happen. He hoped.
He went at his problem the best way he knew: headfirst. “You know about the recent troubles?”
“Yessir.”
“I have news for you. They’re not over.” A pregnant pause.’ ‘I act on the instructions, the personal instructions, of the Father.”
“Yes-sir!” The man’s reverence confirmed Blake’s hunch.
“Well, you’re not gonna like this very much, but you’ve every bit of ten seconds to get used to the idea: we have to get inside.” He jerked his head meaningly, his gaze never leaving the man.
Instinctively, the policeman’s hand moved to his gun, then stopped, the man staring stupidly at Blake. “Sir - that’s just not possible, sir!”
Blake nodded carefully; just one thirty-caliber bullet could settle everything. “I so agree: not possible for anyone -” His voice dropped. “- except me, armed with the authority of the Father.”
“But, but, sir -” stammered the unhappy man, “I have no authority -“
“Go get it!” Blake nodded towards the phone. “Call the Father. He won’t like it, but he’ll confirm my mission.”
Torn with indecision and anxiety, the Commander hesitated.
“Go on!” urged Blake, pushing too far. “Ask him.”
After eighteen months of glory as the guardian of the second most important area in the world, the policeman was paying for his insignia. Reluctantly he lifted the phone. Blake cut in sharply, “No radio channel. See you have a cable connection.”
Only too happy to oblige, the Commander got New York. “Gimme,” he gulped, “the Father.” Enlivened by the operator’s disbelief, he snarled, “Yeah, that’s what I said! Gimme the Father - and on cable, not radio! Sure - I want him personally.”
Leaning back, his eyes closed, Blake only heard one end of the conversation.
“Father,” began the man abjectly, “this is the Guard Commander, Secure Zone. I have Dr. Blake with me, he wants -“
There he stopped, bowing slightly as he took instructions. “Yes, Father.” Sweat beaded his brow. “Yes, Father. Of course, Father.” Shakily he passed the handset to Blake.
“Blake. Yes, the Guard Commander is satisfied.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow, and the man nodded hastily. “Yep. Fine here. How long to your next - er - experiment? Jesus! Yes, I’ll cooperate to the full - you know that - but it’s asking one hell of a lot. Yeah … okay, Charles. Good luck.” He hung up.
The policeman was even more respectful: anyone who could address the Father as “Charles” was entitled to all the respect going. Blake saw this - the forename had been deliberate - and pressed his advantage, tapping the plan. “That equipment store: send two men with Craftsman Staples, and be fast, man - fast!”
“Keys,” put in Staples. “We’ll need keys.”
Blake felt like screaming. “Yeah, keys - and if you can’t find them in thirty seconds, blast the lock off with them goddam guns!”
In less, the policeman ran out, followed by Staples, brandishing a bunch of keys. A screech of tires told Blake
no time was being wasted.
It brought no great relief. Forbin had told him the next test was scheduled in five and three quarter hours.
He’d try, but deep down he was convinced he’d never make it.
Chapter XXI
WHEN REVEALING THE object of their mission, Blake had briefly discussed the entry problem with Staples. He’d said he reckoned there’d be no missile reaction, adding bleakly that they’d work on that assumption anyway, especially as there was no other option. All the same, he did not wish to use explosives or jackhammers. There had been no need to enlarge on that angle to an old hand like Staples.
The craftsman took that with his habitual calm, and said he’d think about it, and presumably had, during the journey. No advocate of keeping a dog and doing his own barking, Blake dismissed that detail; he had plenty left to worry over.
Within minutes the Commander was back, smiling - Paul Revere with good news. “Sir, Craftsman Staples says to tell you the equipment is in fine condition!” That should get him some credit. “He’s breaking out thermal lances and hoses, sir - taking them to the wall, sir!”
“Great,” said Blake caustically. Lances and hoses? Fervently he prayed Staples knew what the hell he was doing. “Get our traps in your car and let’s move!”
Angela climbed in the back, playing her part by ear. The electric car moved off silently, through the inner gates, into the ghost township of the Secure Zone, in Main Street the cracked paving fought a losing battle against the gentle assault of weeds; once-shining plastic walls were blotched with yellow patches of algae and a buzzard heaved itself laboriously into the air at their approach, its discordant cries the only sound apart from the hiss of their tires.
Blake reflected on his strange return to what had been the center of his life for more than five years. He’d never expected to see the Zone again; through the distorting lens of memory it was familiar and unfamiliar, unexpectedly aged and somehow smaller.
Angela had the same depressing experience. She and Blake had dozens of memories in common; every meter they traveled brought back some recollection, but neither spoke.
Staples was at the wall, methodically laying out his equipment. Blake climbed painfully out, telling Angela to go find some nearby office or store where they could rest, then turned his attention to the craftsman.
“What’s your plan, Jack?”
“Heat,” replied Staples, getting on with his work. “Pick the area you want, we heat it then hose it. Should shatter the surface.”
“Urn. How deep?”
“The layer?” Staples shrugged. “Can’t say.”
“No other ideas?”
“Sure, but none faster - if we have the luck.” He shouted at a sweating guard. ‘ ‘Come on, get those cylinders movin’!”
Blake studied the sun-warmed wall, touching it as if to discover its strength and the secrets it contained. Not for the first time he held down a wave of panic, reminding himself that his had been the hand that switched the missile control off. He glanced apprehensively at the sky; the Martians could be up there. … To think like that was the road back to madness. He concentrated on the wall, picking a spot two meters above ground level. “Take that as the center.”
Staples was already lighting the thermal lances. “Put your goggles on and grab this,” he said to a nervous guard. “Go on - it won’t bite you!” He chalked a rough circle on the cement, “Aim there.” Soon the two men were painting the area with flame. Satisfied, Staples supervised a third man laying out the final length of hose. “Okay, get back to the fire-plug and test - then stay there.”
Angela returned in the Commander’s car without the owner. “I said he should get back to his office - maybe there’ll be an important message,” she explained, adding in a very different voice: “Or maybe not.”
Blake was equally glad to be rid of the man. Angela had brought a folding chair, and he sank gratefully into it. God - he felt so tired, the day so endless …
She was at his elbow with food and coffee. Irritably he waved it away, but she would not be put off.’ ‘Don’t be a damned fool, Blake. Eat!”
A long way back, in one of these same buildings, they’d been lovers - or, more accurately, they’d had sex together - once. For neither of them had it been a great experience; he remained “Blake” to her.
Staples took his share with slightly more gratitude, but kept his full attention on the wall and his watch.
“How much longer?” Blake had not meant to ask; Staples knew what he was doing, and there was no point in riling the man.
“Give it another five minutes.”
Slowly the time passed, the almost invisible flames having no apparent effect on the wall. Blake gripped the arms of his chair, forcing himself not to look at the sky.
Staples signaled to the man at the fire-plug. The hose bulged, snaking on the ground. He shouted, “Okay, stand clear, you guys!” As they hastily moved away, he took a sighting shot on the wall to one side, then swung the shaft of water at the target. Steam billowed upwards. The watchers heard a faint crackling sound. The steam vanished. He turned off the hose and dropped it, walking quickly to the wall, Blake shambling unsteadily after him.
Faint cracks crazed the still-warm surface, and in several places the wall was pockmarked. Staples picked at the cement with a pocket knife; thin flakes fell. He shook his head. “Reckon we’ve lifted one, two millimeters.”
“That’s too bloody slow!” Blake struggled with his temper. “At that rate we’d not hit the mesh for goddam hours!”
“Right,” agreed Staples calmly. “For speed it’s jackhammers or explosives.”
Blake shook his head.
“I could fix some mild blasting, Doctor.”
“What d’you mean, mild?”
“I could drill a pattern of holes, fill half with water, seal ‘em with iron cement, and try the heat on ‘em.”
“Why half - and how d’you keep the water in?”
Staples ignored Blake’s snappy tone. “Reckon the empty half will take some of the expansion. The water stays put ‘cause I’ll drill the holes obliquely, downwards.”
Blake rubbed his face nervously. “How long?”
“Mebbe an hour.”
Blake’s gaze searched the craftsman’s face for an assurance that was not there. He sighed.’ ‘Okay, Joe. Go to it. I know you’ll do your best. I’m gonna sleep. Call me before you have action.”
Suddenly he felt time was not vital. They’d never make it; Forbin and the rest would just have to take that thirty-minute run. At least it would give them a few hours’ more life - time for another good meal, a good lay - except they’d never know it was the last. …
Angela took him to a nearby office block; three sleeping bags were laid out on the dusty floor. Without comment Blake lay down, and was instantly asleep.
It seemed he had hardly shut his eyes when Angela shook him. Wearily he struggled up, with her help.
The target area was now marked by two concentric rings of irregularly shaped red patches. Staples explained tersely: the inner ring of sealed holes were loaded with water; the holes in the outer ring were empty. When heated, the steam in the inner holes would seek the weakest point; the concrete should rupture outwards to the second ring.
Blake grunted, Staples nodded, and the lances came into play, the men keeping to one side of the target. For a time nothing happened.
A whipcrack, and a plug disintegrated. Blake swore, and Staples frowned. Turning towards the craftsman, Blake felt a sharp blow on the shoulder. The air was full of flying fragments and firecracker explosions. He ducked. A guard yelled, dropping his lance; only Staples, prudently stationed to one side, remained calm, turning the hose on the wall, regardless of the unfortunate guards. The wall crackled and banged anew.
“Guess that’s done something,” said Staples, discarding the hose for a hammer and cold chisel.
Blake followed him into the steam, glancing at his watch: three hours left… . Hopeless
.
Staples poked the wall with the chisel, then jammed it in a crack and gave it a hard, sideways blow. Blake winced. He hit again, passed the hammer to Blake, grasped the chisel with both hands, and wrenched. An irregular lump, big as a grapefruit, moved, fell.
A short length of round steel bar, thick as a pencil, gleamed dully in the setting sun. Before Blake could stop him, Staples touched it.
“It’s okay. I checked the field before I started drilling. It’s not energized.”
“You don’t haveta prove it,” said Blake, handing back the hammer. He turned away as Staples renewed his attack. He daren’t watch.
At last, in a very long day, the sun he had seen rise eight thousand kilometers to the east was setting, the towering cliff above them was dark, and the distant hills were lost in a deepening blue haze. Back in the complex it would be night, a night fast wearing away towards a dreadful dawn and the next lethal test. That thought, reinforced by the powerful thudding of hammer on chisel, made up Blake’s mind.
“Okay Joe - jackhammers!”
Staples stopped, arms hanging loosely, breathing heavily. Several square inches of the mesh was visible. “I may cut the mesh. How about a secret capacitance circuit?”
Blake hesitated. The risk was hideous, but it had to be taken. “To hell with it! If there is a circuit - I doubt it - we’ll never get in, however much we pussyfoot around. Go ahead!”
Staples preserved his monumental calm. “You have to have a mighty good reason, Doc.”