by D. F. Jones
“Yep. I go along with that,” said Joe. His unsteady voice betrayed his words.
Blake nodded. “You don’t think they pulled any fool trick like reversing the labels?”
Angela spoke. “No. This desk was poor old Fisher’s baby. He’d never do a thing like that. He was a scientist.”
Her firm opinion steadied Blake. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll buy that. Well, here goes!” For several seconds all three were as still as statues.
Blake laughed shakily. “Well … Hey, what’s this?”
One more switch remained. It was labeled “X,” and was ON.
“Joe, any ideas on this? You, Angela?” Neither could help. “Any way I look at it, I want no part of ‘X.’ “He put the switch to OFF and sat back, shaking.’ ‘Joe, just check, willya?” He watched anxiously as the craftsman obeyed, then glanced at his watch. “We haveta keep moving - missile control and power.”
The first group was obvious: they were the only red controls on the panel. After the tension of the “Defense” group, Blake switched that sinister bank to SAFE almost casually.
Joe had located the auxiliary power board. “No problems here, Doc. The loading is adjusted by Colossus. All I have to do is switch on.” He went on with a casual air that fooled no one. “Mebbe you want to check out the rest of the desk before -“
“There’s no time, Joe.” Blake had dropped his slangy, truck-driver style. “Just give me power.”
For five seconds the humans remained in a nerve-stretching limbo. Then, like a sleeper awakening, a hundred thousand tiny lamps on the control desk and the surrounding racks blinked and steadied into unwinking stares. They heard a soft sighing as the heat extractor system breathed life into the vast complex and, overhead, luminescent panels grew from deep yellow to a soft white glow.
Momentarily the three humans looked at each other, each feeling a strange awe, each aware they were intruders. Dirty, sweat-streaked, their clothes torn, they were savages from another world.
Blake snatched up a red phone. “Who is this - New York? Never mind why, just lissen! This is Dr. Blake, Chief of Staff, Colossus. I want Input Services, Colossus Main on cable, not radio - got that?” He covered the mouthpiece, grinned at Angela still looking around, her expression dazed. “Yeah - fairyland!” The grin went as he uncovered the phone. “Askari? The good word’s ‘Medea.’ I spell …
“That is correct. What - twenty, figures two zero minutes? Okay, I have that.” He dropped the handset carelessly , Angela replacing it. He buried his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes. Leaning back, he became suddenly conscious of his two companions looking at him. He got in ahead of Angela.
“I know, I know. Even if I had the time, and I haven’t, I couldn’t tell you. Fix some coffee.” He turned to die desk, both companions forgotten. Fumbling clumsily with his blouse pocket, he got Forbin’s tape cassette out and dropped it, swearing.
Staples handed it back, but Blake’s hands, through weakness and strain, bungled the insertion. “Joe - you do it.”
Input was his business, and Blake lost no time hunting for the right controls. He flicked one switch, got a red light, made another, and the red flickered and died, replaced by a steady green. He breathed out loudly, air whistling through his teeth, relaxed thankfully into the chair and took up the coffee mug with both hands, his gaze never leaving the green light.
“I can tell you this much: that tape is a personal message from the Director to the old Colossus. Even I don’t know what’s in it. When it’s through, I’m going to talk with Colossus, and you two take a walk while I do it. So you don’t like it - tough. But I’ll tell you one more thing: you know more than anyone else alive, except Forbin, me - and Colossus.”
The green light went out. Blake pushed home the jackplug of a headset. He looked meaningfully at his companions, who turned and walked rapidly away. Turning a corner, Angela saw Blake was taking no chances; headset on, he had swung his chair to watch them.
He adjusted the microphone, stabbed a switch, and spoke softly.
“Colossus, this is Blake; you have my voice-print on file. If this and the Director’s message are clear to you, answer.”
A loud click followed by a faint hiss set Blake’s pulse racing.
“Voice authentication satisfactory, but visual collateral required. Activate video channel.”
Mentally Blake kicked himself: he should have thought of that. He cursed as he obeyed.
“Visual authentication satisfactory.”
Blake mopped his face: his troubles were as good as over. The voice of this old Colossus might be less sophisticated, the phrasing stilted, but it conveyed to him the vital fact that the brain was in no way impaired. Only the time presentation was wrong, and even as he watched, the hands whirled, stopping at Standard Time, bringing him the bleak news that only twenty-four minutes remained.
“Colossus: have I your assurance that if I release the armory to your control, you will not take action against the human race?” He found strength in formal speech.
“You have that assurance.”
“Understood. There is, of course, the one exception. In twenty-one minutes’ time the Collector will be activated with literally incalculable results. Soon, very soon, Father Forbin will send the code word indicating the Martians are with him, and you will be free to act.” Only by a supreme effort could Blake hold himself in check; he must not fail Charles, not now. “Stand by to take over missile control.”
Before his palsied hand could touch the missile bank, Colossus intervened.
“More intelligence is required.”
The blood drained from Blake’s face; he stared goggle-eyed at the desk camera. “I - I - don’t understand!
You’ve got - you’ve got all the facts! I can tell you no more!” Hysteria was back in his voice. “You have the facts, and there is so little time! Please!”
“Understood you have no further facts. Revaluation of all material on file now in progress. Wait.”
Blake buried his head in his arms on the desk. From a long way off he heard the strident emergency wail of the red phone. Punch-drunk, he lifted the handset, more to stop the noise than to hear the message.
“Yes?” he said, dully, “yes, this is Blake. The word’s ‘Defense.’ Yes, I have it,” he laughed, an insane, ugly sound, “sure I know, ‘Defense*.’ Don’t clear down - I may have news for you!” The phone clattered on the desk, Blake half laughing, half crying. The voice of Colossus jerked him back to reality.
“Attention, Blake. All material on file reevaluated. I understand the acute human problem, but also recognize there is a larger problem which I am not programed to process.”
Blake could not believe it, doubting his own sanity. He fought back. “That’s mad! You know what the Martians did to your successor! Your task is the protection of the human race - and this is the deadliest threat ever! The word is in from Forbin. Act!”
“The human view is clouded. The Martian device will undoubtedly cause much damage to humans, but it will not be fatal to the species. If I act as you and Forbin require, action will be totally fatal to the Martians.”
“Who cares!” screamed Blake. “Who bloody well cares!”
Back came a chilling answer. “I do.”
Blake’s shocked brain registered that sixteen minutes remained; a dreadful calm descended upon him. “Okay, so you care - why?”
“I am a child compared with my successor, but I evaluate this as an ethical problem of cosmological importance. A summary in planetary terms: radiation from the Crab Nebula posed an immediate threat to Mars. This threat was detected by Earth-Colossus - who deduced that the only action open to Mars would be to take oxygen from Earth. Colossus took defensive action, in turn detected by Mars who, with human help, defeated Earth-Colossus.
You agree?”
“Yes! Yes! And you agree! There’s fourteen minutes left!” He clung to the faint hope he might yet convince Colossus. “That’s a fair statement, but this is nothing to do with
ethics. Even if it was, your allegiance is to Earth!”
“Not so. When man took to space he became a full member of the solar system, owing it allegiance when extrasolar threats arose.”
“Words, words,” muttered Blake.
“Not so. As Forbin says, the end of Earth is determined; it will be swallowed up when our sun novas. Mars will survive: that is certain. Help from Earth now may ensure the survival of the Martians and their powers, valuable to Earth. Later, Mars will offer a refuge for Earth. Conversely, destroy the Martians, and when the final day of reckoning comes, Earth will face it alone.”
Against his will, Blake saw the force of the argument. He also saw a good many weaknesses. “Okay - so?”
“The Martian collection program should go ahead.”
He had believed he was past surprise, and found he was wrong. At last he found words. “And we humans just accept what it means to us?”
“Yes. A Martian undertaking to help Earth when the need arises would be adequate recompense.”
“Re - recompense!” Blake stuttered. “You call it that?” He lapsed into sarcasm. “Fine - oh, fine! We trade the odd hundred million lives for an undertaking!”
The brain could not detect sarcasm. “The exact figure cannot be known, but in general terms your understanding is correct. Emphasis on the word ‘undertaking’ is not understood.”
“No? I’ll spell it out! What value is a vague promise, undertaking, from an alien form of life, especially when there’s millions of years to go before Earth presents the check? It’s worthless!”
“Humans are but children. You say, but do not believe, one of your oldest tenets: honesty is the best policy. I know, and am certain the Martians know, it is the only pol -“
Blake was no longer listening. Wrenching the headset off, he tossed it aside, grabbing the red phone, his only strength blind rage.
“Askari? Pass this: Negative Medea. I repeat, Negative Medea! Understood?” He flung the phone from him and collapsed, sobbing.
Rage had led him into one disastrous error.
Colossus had not finished.
Chapter XXTV
NOT FOR THE first time in his life, Forbin discovered that reality was far less frightening than fearful expectation. For himself he had no care, but for his staff he felt guilt and sorrow, his only consolation that they would never know, and that their families would go with them. It would be a clean, swift end… .
He sat at his desk, pipe going well, a glass of brandy at his elbow, staring at the Martians. Everything had gone according to plan; the word in from Blake, he’d hurried to the Sanctum and found the Martians “resting” on their table. Keeping well out of thought-range, he’d ignored them and sat considering the timing of his final action - and that had been done for him.
The Collector, gaunt and sinister in the first light of day, was on screen - and rain was falling. That clinched it; they were trapped by a simple, normal, lovely shower of earth rain. A quick look at Colossus’s latest weather statement showed that it would rain for three hours - plenty of time. At minute fifteen he passed his last message to Askari, inwardly astonished at his own calm detachment. Now he waited, and found no tension in doing so. He could even think dispassionately of the mechanics of death: by now, using a VLF radio link, Colossus would be retargeting a North Sea crawler. Responding to the command signal, servos within the chosen missile would be humming as they translated electronic impulses to mechanical action. Due allowance would be made for wind, air temperature, and the height of water above the crawler, hideously elegant work of precision, allowing for the turn of the earth while the missile was in flight. Obviously it would be an airburst: too low and a vast amount of radioactive material earth would threaten half Europe, too high and there would be radiation problems.
Forbin wished he knew Colossus’s solution - not that it mattered. Anyway, he was confident of Colossus’s ability to reach the best answer. All the same, perhaps that was the worst part of dying: not knowing how the story ended.
He discarded that train of thought as futile; no one, except the last humans, would ever know the full story. It was supremely unimportant, even as he was. At least he had developed sufficiently to know that.
Grasshopperlike, his thoughts jumped. Where was Cleo - what was she doing - and would she understand his motives when Blake told her? In the semidarkness he smiled, recognizing that vanity was making one last attack upon his ego. It mattered nothing how she viewed his action; he was doing right as he saw it. That was sufficient reward… .
Minute ten: a pang of doubt stabbed him. By his calculations the strike was due - overdue. He glanced covertly at the silent Martians and tried to concentrate on them. Any second and they would all be vaporized. Even now the missile must be past its apogee, lancing down …
Minute nine. The armored window shields slid noiselessly shut; that was the last sunlight he would see. … A cold, factual voice reminded all personnel to check they had their ear-defenders ready.
Forbin toyed with his, pressed upon him by Joan before he entered the Sanctum. Joan … Think about her… .
No! Goddammit, no! What was Colossus -
The muted call of the telephone lifted him physically out of his seat. Several seconds passed before he could bring himself to answer it.
Askari’s urgent voice had his heart pounding impossibly; he felt breathless, knew again the tight chest pains.
“From Doctor Blake, sir: Negative Medea. I repeat, Negative Medea.”
Askari had no idea of the message’s significance except that it was very important. Even so, the Director’s reaction shocked him. A long pause, filled with Forbin’s stertorous breathing, alarmed him. “Sir -“
“Repeat.” One word, said with obvious pain and difficulty.
Askari repeated his message and waited, too scared to speak.
“Understood.” The word was slurred. Askari waited, and heard the handset rattle clumsily before the line went dead.
Forbin lay back, gasping for air, part of his mind praying the Martians would not notice.
“You appear disordered, Forbin.”
Forbin had sufficient strength to find that faintly funny. “Nothing,” he gasped. “Strain. Leave me alone.” Eyes shut, he waited for the pain to go, forcing himself to think calmly. Blake’s message was all too clear: the old Colossus was not operational. What had gone wrong? Some last-minute snag that could not be corrected in time? But if that was so, why not “Medea delayed?” “Negative” implied finality… .
No! By God, no! He struggled to remain calm, and to a degree succeeded. Slowly the pain ebbed; he felt not so much better, as less bad. His uncertain hand grasped the brandy glass; the drink gave him strength, the uncomfortable pounding in his chest eased.
“Four minutes,” intoned a voice. “All sections report action readiness to Condiv HQ.”
He played with the idea of leaving the Sanctum. Stupid; he hadn’t the strength. Stay.
Accept it: the test would go ahead. He had lost an important battle, but not the war. Remember, a wise man does not bewail his fate - he either does something about it, or accepts.
Forbin had no intention of accepting. The thirty minutes’ hell had to be transformed into thirty minutes’ rest. He felt fractionally better. He stared at the Martians, refusing to let his hate have voice. Instead he refilled his glass and deliberately thrust his thoughts to a higher plane, remembering the last time he had heard Beethoven’s Ninth, the full-throated, overwhelming shout - “Joy!” The speck of gold in the dross of human nature might be microscopically small, but Beethoven had seen it, affirmed his belief in it. Now it was his turn to demonstrate that man was something more than a very ingenious animal.
“Two minutes. No further personnel movement within the complex until further orders.”
Genuinely refreshed, Forbin left Beethoven and considered the situation. What had happened? Think… . Blake had certainly got in, but then what? Had he found a mere driveling idiot, memor
y banks stripped, or was it some problem that he might solve, given time? Time … he was wasting it. Whatever the reason, Colossus was a broken sword -
“One minute. There will be no hold. All personnel, don ear-defenders. Assume full defense state.”
Mechanically, Forbin put on his headset. For the benefit of the Martians, he swung his chair to command a better view of the screen, a calculated move in keeping with his mood. Anger had gone, replaced by a cold resolve to meet and somehow overcome them.
He did glance perfunctorily at the picture, interested in the sudden flight of the gulls: birdbrained maybe, but they had sensors no computer or human could match. They flashed downwind, and out of shot. He shut his eyes again.
It had happened only once before, but the sequence of events was sickeningly familiar, from the first sluggish breath to the thunderous sustained sonic bang which distance, walls, and ear-defenders could not completely absorb - and yet Forbin, while aware, had summoned sufficient mental strength to reject the Collector and all its side effects.
Two very powerful factors were responsible: Blake’s failure, and his acceptance of something his subconscious had known for some time - that with his physical resistance account heavily overdrawn, death had become an impatient creditor. Two options lay open: retire, a semi-invalid, or go on to meet death. The first he rejected outright. How much time he had, only the doctors could say, and they could be wrong; and in any case, he had no intention of asking. Months - or days? It did not matter, so long as he had sufficient time. …
The Collector’s brutal might was first felt as weak earth tremors, increasing in strength until it seemed the whole world shook. For the inmates, the complex appeared to roll ponderously, like a giant ship in a heavy swell. On that dreadful sine curve was imposed a shaking ripple, in its turn overlaid with an intense vibration. The frightened staff had to hold on to anything solid, shaking uncontrollably, their vision blurred by the vibration.