by D. F. Jones
“Just get on with it!” Blake pulled himself up short. “Yeah, there’s a good reason, all right.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
Blake sank into the chair Angela had moved up, briefly wondering how Staples could be so goddam calm in accepting an order that might destroy the world. Perhaps, like Blake, he did not really believe there was a risk - but just suppose they were wrong? Blake went over the problem once again. To his certain knowledge there was no auxiliary nuclear power supply inside. Unlike the super-Colossus, men knew exactly what lay inside this older version. Again and again he reminded himself that he had cut the power, and that without energy nothing could happen. All would be well. The exercise did no good; he remained haunted by the fear of something overlooked, forgotten.
The taciturn Staples took Blake’s order with outward unconcern, but his actions were ultracareful. His ragged nerves tortured by the craftsman’s apparent slowness, Blake saw the sense in making haste slowly, but it was all he could do to stop himself screaming when Staples insisted on rigging floodlights before starting work.
Less than two and one half hours remained. Even if they got inside in, say, an hour, it left so small a margin… .
The muffled sound of the jackhammer made him turn. For a while he watched the slowly increasing cavity. Staples, who would not trust anyone else with the tool, had stripped to his sweat-stained undershirt. The insistent clatter and fatigue drove Blake back, shivering, to the Commander’s car. Angela sat beside him, produced coffee and whisky. Both stared in silence at the brightly lit work area. Blake had long since stopped worrying about the Martians. If they came, they came; it was all or nothing now. Questions teemed in Angela’s mind, but she had enough sense not to offer them. Three hours earlier, what they were now doing would, she was sure, have engulfed the human world in flame, yet nothing had happened. The Guard Commander, who was not as dumb as all that, had a man stationed, watching the “door.” Under normal conditions the black gaping mouth remained open, main air intake for the cooling system. Only in action status did an armored door slide shut, the computer going over to an independent refrigerated recirculation system. Once, for real Colossus had dropped that visor; ten minutes later, a city had died.
And that was Angela’s lead question: why had the door not moved? It was impossible - yet Blake had clearly expected, or at least had had grounds to expect, that nothing would happen. But if she asked, Blake would certainly bawl her out. She glanced cautiously at the hunched figure beside her, sipping his drink, staring blankly at the light.
But Blake was far from mentally idle, repeatedly rehearsing his action if once he got inside.
First, reach the control/test desk: thank God that was not far into the labyrinth. Bloody great old-fashioned affair, hundreds of switches and warning lights, it was not designed as an operational desk - no one man had a hope of controlling it - but as a comprehensive test bench. It had the only internal input facility, and Blake was fully conversant with that … and damn little else, he thought apprehensively.
Not for the first time, his mind baulked at that point. If he made just one slip, the moment power came on … He shook his head violently to rid himself of the vision. “What’s the time?” Angela told him. Jesus! Less than two hours left. … He grappled with the first problem: if they got inside, they’d have wrecked the defense integrity of the mesh. Before activation, the mesh-control circuit - circuits? - had to be neutralized. Vainly he tried to recall if there was a control on the desk. He couldn’t remember. Hell, it had not been his problem, not then… .
Angela holding a flashlight, he reread Forbin’s hurried notes. Mesh was not mentioned. Blake swore luridly. Suppose the control function was one hundred percent in Colossus’s hands?
Staples yelled. They scrambled out and hurried over. A roughly circular disc had been cut to the depth of the wire. The workman stood back, mopping his face. “There’s your mesh, Doc.”
Blake hesitated fractionally. “Go ahead - cut!”
“I’ll test first.” Staples’ tone brooked no argument.
With a delicacy that amazed Angela, he fitted tiny collars an inch or so apart on a length of steel rod, connecting them by leads to a meter. Several times he switched the device on and off; the needle remained inert. “Okay so far.” He looked at Angela. “You hold it, miss.” He produced a miniature pair of bolt-cutters. “You jist watch that needle, miss - hold it steady. Ready, Doctor?”
Blake nodded, his heart thumping: the tiniest deviation from zero would be enough. Staples positioned the cutters between the collars with care. “Keep the meter still - and watch. Now!”
Blake involuntarily jumped at the small click; Angela remained rock steady. The needle never moved.
“We’ll never get better’n that,” observed Staples.
“Okay.” Blake’s mouth twitched uncontrollably. “Cut!”
In a minute the job was done. Staples nodded to a waiting guard, leaning on a sledgehammer. “Right, son. Aim for the middle.”
At the fourth blow the inner skin cracked, no longer supported by the mesh; fragments fell inside. Blake, breathing more easily, tore his gaze from the crumbling wall to check the time. One hour twenty. He could not keep still, biting his nails, sweating.
Massively calm, Staples had other men hauling up a lighting cable and lamp. He ordered one dimly seen figure beyond the light to go fetch a chair on the double. Without argument the Guard Commander doubled.
The rough work was done. The gaping blackness beyond revealed nothing. Not given to fancies, Angela viewed it with irrational fear: this was like robbing the tomb of a long-dead king - except that what lay in that darkness was not dead, and held power beyond the wildest ravings of any megalomaniac who ever lived… .
With a few brisk strokes of hammer and chisel, Staples took off the worst of the jagged edge, dropped his tools, draped his jacket over the lower rim, and disappeared headfirst into the blackness. In seconds, red-faced, he appeared and grabbed the light, hauling the cable rapidly inwards.
Helped by the chair, Blake followed. Three weeks earlier he’d never have made it; for the first time he was glad he’d lost fifty pounds.
He called back to Angela, his voice high-pitched. “Get the car up to the wall, have a man guard the radphone. You stay close to here, listen for me!” Then he was gone.
Angela had other ideas. Detailing a second guard for her assignment, she, too, struggled through. Although a tight fit, anonymous hands got her generous rump inside. Her hair a mess, she looked out, her eyes hard and glittering in the light. “Thank you!”
“Thank you, miss!” The wit was safe in the outer darkness.
“Pass the coffee flasks!”
In seconds, the all-too-human touch of male hands was forgotten: Blake and Staples had gone, and the light with them. In a few short steps, Angela’s flashlight became the most important thing in all the world to her. In terror, shoulders hunched, she half ran, following the cable.
Chapter XXII
AT THAT MOMENT in time, Forbin was noting, with the calm despair of the hopelessly damned, that exactly one hour remained to the second and final test.
Red-eyed, unshaven - a common state in the complex that night-he waited, conscious of a sense of utter helplessness. Foiled by the Martian absence of any chance of a final intercession, his hopes struck bottom with Blake’s continuing silence. He had not expected progress reports, but he had prayed for just one word, a code word, from the Rockies. The fact that it would inevitably spell death to all in the complex was a mere abstraction; all he craved was release from the bad dream life had become, even if that relief was no more than total oblivion. But nothing had happened, and he sleepwalked stoically towards what must be.
All that could be done, had been done. The general warning had gone out hours back. Thousands upon thousands of humans were already in refuge, normal life suspended. No form of transportation by sea, air, or land moved; South England and North France were, within the
boundaries he had ordained, lands of the near dead, and nothing under human control moved in the seas between.
He wandered around the complex, doing his best to allay the very real fears of his staff, and his manner did much to achieve his aim, especially with the Faithful. The complex was at the highest state of alert, all positions manned, but many had little to do except wait, listen to the countdown, and suck sedative tablets.
Only in Condiv was there bustle and action, but even so, all Fultone’s staff were strung up, edgy, none more so than the Italian himself. Forbin did not stay long; he had no desire to watch the preliminaries.
He was in his office when an unexpected, and as far as he was concerned, unwelcome hold came in the count: a backup check of the concrete apron before the Collector’s intake revealed some loss of adhesion in the surface of the concrete. At once he called Fultone, who was spattering his team with high-grade Neapolitan invective: the technically valid answer that the weakening had only occurred since, and because of, surface cooling, got short shrift. He told Forbin the surface would be spray-sealed, but part of the apron was currently underwater. Until the tide dropped the work could not be completed, and tides were beyond anyone’s control, including Colossus. The test would be delayed for twenty minutes.
The news neither uplifted nor depressed Forbin. What was twenty minutes more? All the same, he went to Input, Blake’s old domain. Askari, the undercover contact with Blake, sat at a communication console, his strong Afro face untypically grim. He glanced up at Forbin and his expression said it all. Forbin left. If anything came through, Askari would be on to him in seconds via his personal intercom.
He wandered on with nothing to do but wait, but unlike the rest of his staff, he had to do it alone. If Blake succeeded - and Forbin no longer held that possible - he would go at once to the Sanctum, and the moment the Martians were there he would call Askari, demand a sitrep on the South England defense state, and his work - his life’s work - would be done. The code word was “defense”; relayed instantly to Blake, the reaction would surely be swift. What missile the old Colossus would select he had no idea, but he guessed it would be a small one, probably from a submarine crawler in the North Sea. If - if - it came to it, Forbin prayed he would have the strength to sit passively at his desk. Some signs of strain would not alarm the Martians; faced with the thirty-minute test he was bound to be keyed up, but somehow he must not betray his awful secret. If he was lucky, the ordeal would not be long; allow ten seconds for the relay to Blake and for Blake’s reaction; another second for the computer, five for missile adjustment, five for firing sequence, and - what, forty, fifty seconds’ flight time? At most, there’d be two minutes from the time he called Askari. …
He wandered wearily on, wrapped in somber thought, unaware that he was not quite alone. Discreetly, Joan was trailing him. Angela had instructed her to be particularly alert in time of crisis: her charge could become totally forgetful of his own wellbeing. She had slept for two hours, but she suspected Forbin had not slept at all.
Slightly surprised, Forbin found himself on his terrace. The night was going, the first hint of dawn lay in the east, but the night wind struck chill. He returned quickly to the warmth and light of the living room - and discovered Joan.
He frowned. “What d’you want?” Insight gave him the answer. “I suppose Angela put you up to this?”
Rising from her curtsy, her manner calm, she avoided the question. “I thought you might need me, Father.”
His frown relaxed slightly. Whatever, he had been well served by women. If men had a fraction of their guts, staying power … Cleo - yes, Cleo - Angela, and now Joan …
“You take your job very seriously.” At that moment, he was glad she did. Any distraction from his thoughts was welcome.
She inclined her head, the wonderful auburn hair rolling sensuously, gleaming in the light. For a moment he thought she was going to curtsy again, and although she didn’t, he felt irritation at the gap she put between them, especially when he had a desperate need to talk with someone. “Goddammit, girl, I’m only a man!”
Her self-possession stayed. “Yes, Father - but you are also the Master of the World.”
He stared in fascination; that anyone so intelligent could believe such rubbish still amazed him.
“You really believe that?”
“Of course.”
“And that entitles me, a mere man, to your - ah, considerable respect and obedience?”
“Naturally.”
He shook his head and poured himself a small brandy, aware of her disapproval. “Go on,” he challenged, “tell me I shouldn’t. Angela would.” He saw the uncertainty in her face, smiled at her discomfort, and at once felt guilty: she was very young. “Sorry. I retract that. It was rude and unfair. I do apologize.”
She rallied. “Father, I hesitated because I cannot judge, or am not fit to judge, your reactions to your cares and responsibilities. You are wise, honest, and right-thinking; therefore anything you may want is likely to be reasonable. But -” Her voice was less subservient. “- I suggest you do not drink any more.”
He laughed, enjoying this odd girl. “You sound like Plato talking of Socrates!”
“I am not Plato, Father.”
He found the implication vastly flattering and at the same time, vaguely annoying.’ ‘Really! While I am not fit to clean Socrates’ sandals, I’m not that old!”
“I did not mean to imply you were, Father, although Socrates, when he died by hemlock for the good of Athens, was still, at seventy-one, hale and hearty.”
Forbin looked at her with new interest. “Are you a Greek scholar? Yes, I thought so. … Rather more, I suspect, a Philhellene?” She nodded. “So how can you possibly accept me as the Master and all this -” He pulled himself up sharply, realizing he trod dangerous ground. ‘ ‘You really mean that, with your background, you find no difficulty in believing in me?”
“None.”
Forbin could not resist a surge of male vanity. He said slowly, “So, trusting in my, er, right-thinking -” He looked directly at her. “- if I said I wanted -“
She cut him short, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”
Forbin laughed uncertainly. “It is, I assure you, an academic question, but if I, er, did - would you think less of me?”
“No.”
Forbin was absorbed. In a weird way, the girl was right; he did know so much more, did shoulder hideous responsibilities. Soon, they might both die; he had only to say the word… . Instantly he rejected the idea. “As a Greek in spirit, you know you may be wrong; I might take advantage of my position. And are you not shocked that the ‘Father’ -” He mocked the word. “- could have such ordinary, earthy thoughts?”
“No, Father. Thought is too fast to be controlled. Action is another matter, and there I trust your judgment.”
Forbin took a deep breath. “Girl, you humble me. If I have given offense, forgive me. I am astonished how right you are in your conclusions, however doubtful I find your reasoning.”
She allowed herself to smile, deeply pleased at his words. Before she could answer, their brief interlude was shattered.
“Askari to Director!”
The tense voice jolted Forbin back to the real world. “Askari, go ahead!”
“Director, this from the far shore by cable. Medea. I spell: Mike, Echo, Delta, Echo, Alfa - Medea!”
Forbin’s mind reeled. “Medea, you say?”
“That is affirmative!”
He stared blankly at Joan; she might as well have been Donald Duck. He looked at his watch: forty minutes remained. Slowly he looked up at Joan, dimly recalling their conversation. Forty minutes. He smiled at her beautiful, innocent face.
Chapter XXIII
ANGELA HURRIED, fearful of the crowding darkness, dimly aware of row after row of rack-mounted electronics. The cable turned sharply down one corridor of the brain. In haste she overshot, and knew blind panic until she found it again. Now she was running, the flashlight
waving, her heels clacking on the tiled floor. Another corner; ahead she saw light and sharp, angular shadows. The relief was enormous, and she slowed down, her mind functioning again. She noticed how cold and fresh the air was, real mountain air. Mountain air? Inside a mountain?
She dismissed such trivia and her recent fear at the sight of the men, two black silhouettes concentrating on a vast horseshoe control desk, their subdued voices echoing faintly, rebounding from smooth metal surfaces, reaching her from above, behind.
Neither commented on her arrival, but Blake recognized that she was there. “Here, hold this light - higher, woman, higher!” Their frantic search went on, Staples working methodically inwards from one end and Blake, so far as his tension would allow, doing the same from the other side, talking to himself, his fingers lightly touching the controls as he read the labels.
Her woman’s eye was astonished by the clinical cleanliness of the desk: not a speck of dust on the gleaming plastic and alloy. Idly she looked at the central array, banks of switches, controls, lights, video tubes, all totally incomprehensible to her.
“What are you looking for?”
“For Chrissake, woman, shut up and hold that lamp higher!”
Staples was more informative. “We have to find the defense circuit - if there is one - before we switch on.
“Switch on?” Angela was bewildered. “Isn’t it working?”
Blake swore terribly, shutting her up, but her eyes were busy.
Hesitantly she said, “There’s a bunch of things with a thin red line drawn round them. One label says ‘Defense Group.’ I can’t read the rest.”
Both men glared at her, then followed her pointing finger.
“Up there.”
Blake licked his dry lips and lurched across, pushing her out of the way, reaching up to touch, to be sure. “Thank Christ!” he said fervently, then snarled at her, “Why the hell didn’t you say so!” He slumped into the control seat, forcing himself to be calm, reading aloud the secondary labels: ” ‘Entrance’ … um, leave that be. … ‘Flooding’ - flooding? Jesus!” He made sure that switch was off. “Gas” got the same treatment. He gave a sharp cry of delight. “Here it is - ‘Mesh!’ That has to be it!” The switch was at ON. He fingered it, assailed by sudden doubt and the sheer weight of his responsibility. “Well - doesn’t it?”