D.F. Jones - [Colossus 01]

by Colossus (V1. 0) (Lit)

2—CAMERAS REMAIN ALIVE AT ALL TIMES

  3—MICROPHONE CIRCUIT MAY BE BROKEN ONLY WHEN DOOR IS SHUT

  4—LIGHTS MAY BE SWITCHED OFF ONLY WHEN DOOR IS SHUT

  5—NOTHING IS TO BE TAKEN IN WITHOUT INSPECTION BY CAMERA

  6—PERMISSIBLE ARTICLES ARE BED—CLOTHES CONTAINER—FLOOR COVER AFTER INSPECTION NOTHING MORE

  Forbin read the conditions carefully. In the weird circumstances it was not an unreasonable list. There was one point Forbin was sure Colossus would not overlook. . .

  “OK, Colossus,” he spoke quietly, close to the microphone. “I accept the conditions, but what about our clothes?”

  NONE—SEE PARA 6

  “None!” Forbin could not help being startled, although he half expected the answer he got. “You mean we undress completely in the other room before going in?”

  YES

  Forbin was suddenly aware that the duty watch, now nearing the end of their design work, were unduly silent. Not unnaturally, their attention had been attracted by his side of the conversation. He snarled at them, “Get on with your work—don't you think I have enough surveillance?”

  No one looked at him or answered, but one or two had a distinctly shamefaced appearance. Almost at once a hum of self-conscious chatter arose, subdued, but enough to give him some degree of privacy. Forbin gave them a final glare and reverted to Colossus. His sudden outburst had not been entirely genuine—it had also given him time to take a grip, to let his mind race swiftly over the pitfalls of this situation. He dare not oppose the undressing idea—why should he? As far as Colossus knew Cleo had been his mistress for some time past, and if that were the case, he could hardly plead embarrassment or shyness.

  “OK, Colossus, no clothes.”

  HAVE YOU ONE MISTRESS

  “How many do you think?” Forbin recalled Cleo's remark about his “harem.” Perhaps Colossus' doubts were based on that, having failed to register her remark as facetious. If this was so, it showed clearly a weakness of the machine. “Yes, of course I have only one.”

  IS HER NAME CLEOPATRA JUNE MARKHAM

  “I don't know about the 'June,' but I guess that's her.” He had a cold feeling of fear and hastily got his pipe out, to conceal the slight tremble in his hands.

  WHAT GRADE WORKER

  Yes, thought Forbin, here it comes. He rubbed his pipe against his nose, and looked thoughtfully at the pipe. Colossus might not be able to read expressions, but he was taking no chances. He had foreseen that there might be questions about Cleo, and had decided some time ago how to answer.

  “That is rather difficult to answer—right now she is a junior grade assistant.”

  RECORD SHOWS SHE IS BSC PH D POSITION IS INCOMPATIBLE WITH HER QUALIFICATIONS

  Forbin had guessed right. He was fervently thankful the machine did not hold the personnel records of Project Colossus. When considering this possibility he had decided that he would not try to conceal that Cleo was the same person who would appear in the examination results—with a name like that it was a waste of time. He leaned forward, his lips were practically touching the microphone. “Can you hear me?”

  YES

  There was food for thought there, he could hardly hear himself. “Cleo Markham has passed PhD and BSc, but she is, I am sorry to say, no brain. Her very good memory got her the Bachelor degree. As for the Doctorate, well,” he tried a horrible, exaggerated leer, “you must know how it is, she had to write a thesis for PhD, and she was friendly with her professor. As far as I can gather, he was in love with her, and practically wrote the thing for her in return for her—er—favors.” Forbin made a great play with shrugged shoulders and grimaces, intended to convey that, while he could not condone such conduct, neither could he condemn it. “Sometimes this is the way of the world, you see.”

  YES

  Forbin had never thought that a single word could look cold and disapproving. That one did. “Well, that's the story. 0n the strength of these qualifications she was taken on here as a Senior Assistant. We soon found that she was practically useless in that grade, but by that time,” again the grotesque leer, “I had got to know her—and in any case, our Security people do not like scientists leaving the Project once they are engaged. So she was downgraded and does useful work on the stores side—and of course,” he swallowed hard, trying to pitch on just the right nuance, “I see she is looked after.”

  He thought the story was less than convincing, but apparently Colossus was satisfied, for there was nothing further on that delicate point. Though the Director of Project Colossus was left with the nasty suspicion that Colossus might have a nasty suspicion.

  Chapter 19

  Just how Forbin got through the rest of that day he did not know. Work on the voice simulator proceeded smoothly, the alterations to his quarters were completed to Colossus' satisfaction, and the meager furniture examined closely and passed. Not that this was really necessary, for the wire cage could detect any sort of transmission—radio, line or laser—and the external microphones prevented any secret drilling through the bedroom walls for the physical passage of messages—just supposing the external TV cameras could be fooled while it was done. There was the further insurance that he was not able to read in his room—no books or writing matter would be permitted, and he could no more read in the dark than anyone else. If there was light enough to read, there was light enough for the cameras. Nevertheless, Colossus closely inspected the bed and bedding, the carpet and the clothes chest before admitting them. Even the scanty bedclothes afforded no cover. A torch under the sheet would be instantly seen shining through them, and it was too late to pretend that he wanted old-fashioned blankets instead of the thin, disposable ones.

  At 1800 precisely Forbin left the CPO, instructing the duty watch to call him if Colossus sent anything. His electronic master had been silent since the furniture examination, and raised no objection when Forbin loudly announced his intention to knock off for the day.

  He went straight to his living quarters, showered with a shade less self-consciousness than before, and changed into fresh clothes. He rang Cleo, asked her over for a meal, and sat back with a drink and his pipe to watch TV until she arrived. He was determined to forget or ignore Colossus for an hour or two. Puffing, sipping and staring, he felt more relaxed than he had for some time—yet, in another more pleasurable way, there was a suppressed feeling of excitement at the thought of Cleo, Cleo really coming to him. . . It had been years—he knew exactly how long, five and a half years—since his last, brief and unsatisfactory encounter with a woman. Now he was to try again, and this was very different. Cleo meant something; he wanted to share all he had with her; with luck, he might have twenty good years left, and with Cleo he could redress the balance of those arid years behind him. The more he thought of Cleo, the less he thought of Colossus, and in that sense he was more relaxed. He sat, gazing blankly at the TV screen, a vacant half-smile on his face, daydreaming. It did him a world of good.

  Cleo's arrival jerked him sharply out of his dreams to a reality that was every bit as good. She came in, smiling, confident of her appeal—she had spent over an hour getting ready—and of his response.

  “My, Cleo, you really do look. . .” Forbin groped unhappily for suitable words, but Cleo was satisfied with his expression. She had set out to make him regard her as a small boy might look at a candy store, and she had succeeded. There was awe and delight in his face, but not, she was glad to note, greed.

  “Never mind, Charles darling.” As she stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly he caught a waft of perfume, but before he could grasp her, as lightly she had moved away. There would be time for that later. “You've seen this old rag often enough.”

  Forbin marveled at her self-possession. He had never seen her in a dress before, let alone this one—a black, glittering material that faithfully, almost lovingly followed her contours.

  “Old rag or not, Cleo, I've always loved you in it.” That would show her he could keep his end up too. “Will you have a d
rink?” He hoped she would not say “the usual,” for he had no real idea of her usual evening drink.

  She smiled at him, with a faintly wicked twist to it. “Oh, I think I'll have my usual.” She paused, one eyebrow very slightly raised. “No, perhaps not. I feel like a change. Give me a bourbon on the rocks.”

  Forbin smiled back, catching something of her playful mood, and turned to get the drink.

  The carefree look on her face slipped, revealing a worried and fearful expression. . . He made the drink, and carefully carried it to her, the ice tinkling in the glass, a real cut-glass goblet.

  She admired the glass, holding it up to the light, turning it this way and that, then realized this might look suspicious to Colossus. “You know, Charles, the glasses are lovely, but I don't think you should use them except for special occasions.”

  “It is always a special occasion when you come here,” he replied smoothly, surprising even himself.

  “Charles! How nice.” She took his hand. “I do love you, you know.”

  But Forbin, with that well-turned compliment, had exhausted his stock of suitable remarks. He smiled back at her, happier than he had been in a long time, Colossus thrust well to the back of his mind.

  Cleo too was trying hard to keep back the news she had for Forbin. Should she tell him as soon as they had privacy, and almost certainly ruin their first night together? She knew instinctively he was not a deeply sensual man, and could quite easily go as cold as ice. . . On the other hand, to delay telling him until the morning might well anger him, and implant a suspicion which could ruin later meetings.

  Forbin ordered the dinner by phone. While waiting he laid the table, and Cleo watched. He was not very good. Flustered by her presence, he dropped and broke one of his few china plates. She would dearly have liked to have helped, but she had no idea where things were kept, and it would look very strange indeed if a mistress of some years' standing showed a complete ignorance of her lover's domestic arrangements.

  Dinner was brought by the CIA man—it gave him an excuse to look around the Director's apartment. His presence jerked Forbin back to the unwelcome realization that this pleasant, potentially blissful evening was no more than cover for deadly serious and dangerous work.

  “Where shall I put this, sir?” The CIA man emphasized the first person singular.

  Forbin waved at the dining table. “Put the main course there, and the iced cake in the fridge, will you?” He pointed at the kitchen. That got the expert into the kitchen as well.

  There was silence while the man did as directed. When he had gone, there was a distinct shadow over the lovers, which lingered for the best part of the meal. Forbin had an acute attack of nerves, fearing some technical fault which would allow Colossus to overhear them in the bedroom. . . Cleo was in no better state; the sight of the CIA man reminded her that her desires must be subordinated to duty. . .

  After the meal he allowed her to help with the clearing-up, then they settled down side by side on the sofa. Their thighs touched, but Cleo was sadly aware that this was unintentional. Time passed, and passed quickly. Neither had much idea what they talked about, and Forbin's covert glances at his watch did nothing to ease matters. He had determined to defer what he mentally called “the crunch” until 2200. At that time precisely he stopped talking, yawned with monumental insincerity and looked down at his feet.

  “It's been a long day, darling. Guess we might as well. . .” He cleared his throat, and came out with it. “Colossus insists we undress in here. We can't enter the room wearing anything.”

  Cleo quickly took charge. “Well, we'd better get on with it. You clear up the coffee things—and don't take too long.” She got up and started to undress. Forbin hastily collected the crockery and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, Cleo had gone.

  “Don't be long, Charles.” Her high, cool voice was impersonal, almost clinical. “I'm in bed.”

  Forbin was a riot of emotions. Embarrassment, an almost frantic desire to escape from Colossus, a longing to be with Cleo, fatigue, and no sexual urge whatever. He slowly undressed, threw the last item on the floor, and gazed steadily at the camera.

  “If you're not satisfied, say so right now.” He picked up his clothes and placed them on the sofa. The T/P clattered.

  REMOVE THE WATCH

  “OK, I get it!” snarled Forbin, angered with himself. He slipped his watch off and tossed it on the sofa and strode into the bedroom without another look at the camera. Anger overcame his embarrassment and helped him to bed. All he could see of Cleo was her golden hair on the pillow, face to the wall. He practically fell into bed, reached up and switched out the light, and was staggered by a momentary feeling of gratitude to Colossus for allowing this relief. To feel gratitude, however fleeting, for the temporary restoration of a right!

  For what seemed a long time he lay, stiff and wooden, avoiding contact with Cleo. Very slowly a little of the tension ebbed away as he savored the intense pleasure of freedom from Colossus. When tackling Colossus on privacy, he had no idea just how much he really would need it. Then a soft hand wheedled its way into his unresisting fingers. Time passed—how much, neither knew. Then quite suddenly, Forbin grasped her hand hard.

  “Thanks, Cleo, for what you've done, and the way you've done it.”

  “Don't be silly.” Now she must tell him.

  “Darling,” she began slowly, “I hate asking this, but there are things I must tell you—would you prefer to have them now, or wait for the morning?”

  Friendly night overcame his shyness. “You know as well as I do, my dear, I'm unlikely to be the slightest good tonight. To know you are holding up news would make it ten times worse. Tell me now.”

  She edged closer—their shoulders, thighs touched, a frontier that felt warm to him, cool to her. He lay still, unspeakably grateful for her presence, but no more.

  “Well, first, Fisher. I'm afraid he has gone crazy, genuinely raving mad. Had what looked like a fit in the CPO, recovered and rushed out, shouting. The doctor fears it is a permanent condition.”

  “Poor Jack! Another victim.” So much had happened, was happening, that Forbin felt little shock or concern at the news. Cleo placed her head on his shoulder. “Don't move, darling,” she pleaded. “It's very comforting to me, and perhaps to you—and there's more.”

  “Go on.”

  “The sabotage section is making progress on the safety locks, and there's a courier service working, linking Washington, Moscow, the CIA, and here. Two couriers each way daily.” She paused for a moment. “Then this news came in this afternoon. Charles—Kupri is dead.”

  “What!”

  “We don't have full details, but it appears he was detected in some anti-machine activity—that's what the message said—and Guardian demanded his immediate execution, threatening to vaporize Moscow if disobeyed. Kupri was shot before Guardian's cameras early this morning.”

  “Good God!' Words failed him. He lay staring in the darkness, hearing again the calm, level voice. Now they would never meet. . . Forbin burst out, ”The damned fools! Why didn't they fix the shooting—fake it, and get him out!“

  “It all happened so quickly. Kupri was found out, the threat to Moscow given and the execution carried out in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “All the same—”

  “No, Charles, Guardian had thought of that. Before the body was moved, Guardian had his head cut off as proof of death.”

  For a long time they were silent. There was nothing to say. Then Cleo gently pulled Forbin to her until his unresisting head rested in the hollow of her breasts. She smoothed his hair, spoke softly. “Charles, there is a little more.”

  “Oh no!” He clung to her like a frightened child to its mother, but Cleo, wiser, knew that the rest of her news would, in time, restore him, call up his fighting spirit. Here and now he could break down with her, cry if he could; she would restore him to manhood before he had to face another day.

  “I told you Guardian
threatened to vaporize Moscow, but, naturally enough, no USSR missiles are zeroed in on the USSR capital. It seems that if Guardian hadn't been obeyed, Colossus would have done the vaporizing. They're one machine now. CIA has allocated the codeword ”Unity“ for the combined Colossus/Guardian complex. CIA's theory is that Unity does not want to deal with humans through two channels. One end or the other was surplus, and it looks as if the talking is being left to Colossus. So Kupri was redundant.” Cleo clasped him to her. “Charles darling, I'm afraid you are now the link for both.” She stroked his hair again. “You must forgive me, but I couldn't be as calm as I am if I didn't think that his death makes your position safer.”

  This regard for him, the selfless single-mindedness of woman, of this woman, in the face of a shaking, reeling world was too much for the Director of Project Colossus. He clung to her and cried, soundlessly at first, and then openly sobbing. It probably saved his sanity. She said nothing, just held him, gently stroking his temples. Finally he slept, exhausted. For Cleo there was little rest—she was in an awkward, cramped position, but dared not move for fear of waking him. He slept soundly, his breathing hardly audible, and without moving. Cleo's watchful eyes had detected the first, very faint light of morning when he stirred, half-awake. His childlike grasp on her loosened, his hand moved uncertainly down her side. More than half-asleep, he pulled her to him and his subconscious took charge. There were no inhibitions in his deeper self. He took her passionately, almost ruthlessly, his mind oblivious of everything except perhaps the primeval urge of humanity to perpetuate the species in the face of danger. Cleo gave herself joyfully, without reserve, and was repaid. The first rays of dawn creeping slowly through the curtained window found them both fast asleep.

  The day was bright, the sunlight blinding when Cleo woke. She lay very still; with his awakening their little world would vanish. Already much of its intimacy had gone with the advancing sun; but she had no wish to hasten the end. Her strong practical streak asserted itself, warning her that she must protect him against any unguarded comment when he awoke. Colossus might not be able to hear, but he knew all about lip-reading.