“I have no need of a partner,” the Arbiter answered. “I am myself indestructible. As for the secrets, so-called, they were useless and have now been forgotten. I do not intend to pursue them.”
“But—but they were not useless! I am scientist enough to know that both theories were perfectly feasible. To say otherwise is to refuse to believe in progress. That you cannot possibly agree with, surely?”
“Progress in a perfect world is unnecessary,” the Arbiter said. “And I shall destroy anybody who attempts it! Just as I shall destroy those who question my absolute authority. The whole world must know that I alone shall rule the world’s destiny.”
Carfax nodded slowly, wily enough to keep his thoughts deliberately confused so that they could not readily be understood.
“I must broadcast the news of the President’s death,” he said.
“You have my full permission to do so—and to prevent any misunderstanding I will make the speech myself. Wheel the microphone across and give orders for a world hook-up to be made ready.”
Carfax obeyed because the overwhelming will of the thing made refusal impossible. But deep down in his scheming mind was a vague sense of incredulity. His bargain with the Arbiter to pick the brains of the more intelligent of the populace had utterly collapsed. For some reason this monstrosity did not want to advance; it existed, apparently, for an eternal Now.... But why was this?
Carfax was baffled—and frightened.
* * * *
The already smouldering resentment of the Workers spilled over completely under the stimulus of the news bulletins. First the deaths of the inventors—then of their beloved President! And to cap it all, there came the Arbiter’s own speech.
All over the world Workers and Intelligentsia alike listened to it in wonder; but it had the most meaning to those in Major City. To those Workers enjoying a break in the automat, the cold, biting words came as a physical shock, jerking them out of their usual somnolence.
“A new President will henceforth guide your destinies—the Arbiter. I was created for this purpose, and you have nothing to fear if you continue as you are and forget those fanciful notions, which brought death to their inventors. In a world of perfection further advancement is unnecessary.... Remember, then, I am the Ruler and can enforce my will. Obviously a human figurehead is both necessary and desirable, so I have decided that this position shall be occupied by Dr. Carfax, who will act expressly under my orders. This broadcast must be taken as implying the creation of a new order—not only for Major City but for the whole world....”
Whatever else the Arbiter might have said was certainly not heard in one particular automat for a small table, hurled by a Worker, went crashing into the speaker-equipment.
“Are we standing for this?” the man shouted fiercely, looking about him from the chair upon which he had leapt. “Do we take orders from this tin of brains and Dr. Carfax after they’ve murdered the President and two of our cleverest people?”
“No, we don’t stand for it,” the burly figure of Sherman Clarke pushed through the seething crowd and took the place of the man on the chair. “But we can’t rush into things unprepared! The Arbiter has power—great power, and it is backed by a body of militia. We’ve got to watch what we’re doing—“
Clarke stopped, unable to make his voice heard over sudden commotion. Then he realised what had happened. Armed officials had entered by the main door and were doing their utmost to clear the automat. Evidently the Arbiter knew already of the knot of dissention that had arisen—
Whatever it was, pandemonium broke out, the enraged Workers lashing out with their fists, the officers returning blow for blow with truncheons and stun-pistols. Everywhere was the sound of breaking windows, smashing furniture, mingled with cries of rage and pain....
Battered and bemused, his knuckles tingling, Clarke finally found himself outside the building with a small group of tattered men and women who had also escaped arrest or serious injury. Among them he recognised Brenda Charteris, Boyd Turner, and Iris Weigh.
“What happens now?” Turner demanded urgently, gazing at the swarming mob battling nearby.
“The annex,” Clarke rapped. “We’ll be safe there. Come on!”
They made the trip on foot, dodging down side streets and byways, and succeeded in reaching their destination without attracting attention and possible arrest. Only when Clarke had closed the heavily insulated door did the party feel they could breathe freely.
“Well, the die’s cast now!” Clarke looked round on the grimy, sweat-streaked faces, “All this might have been avoided if my original idea had been adopted. It has come to revolution after all, and we’ll learn things the hard way.”
“What can we do?” asked Brenda Charteris. “Attack the Arbiter?”
“Not yet—that thing is invulnerable. No, we must slip out of here and get provisions and medical necessities, choosing the right moment. Then we’ll stay in here, in readiness for a siege if need be, whilst Boyd Turner operates on me.”
“Operate on you?” Turner jerked the words out. “What are you getting at?!
Clarke regarded the anxious, determined faces turned towards him. “I want you to operate on me to give me that synthetic brain connection you mentioned. You can do it, can’t you? Using Clifford Braxton’s freezing apparatus?”
His eyes moved towards the corner of the room where the suspended animation casket lay, cables snaking into the wall power-sockets.
Turner was definitely uneasy. “It should be possible,” he answered slowly. “But I’ll need medical and surgical equipment—and an assistant....”
“I’ll assist you,” Brenda Charteris volunteered promptly. “I’ve had a full medical training—”
Clarke smiled, put an arm about her shoulders. “I was counting on that. Perhaps you can organise a party to get the medical necessities Turner will need? It shouldn’t be too difficult in the present chaos.”
“What’s the idea of this operation?” someone asked. “I’m damned if I can see what you’re hoping to achieve.”
“Superhuman intelligence,” Clarke answered deliberately. “The Arbiter was created by scientific genius, and the only way to fight it is to match it on its own terms. How, I’ve no idea at present—but I’m gambling an inspiration will come to me after Turner has operated. It’s our only hope....”
* * * *
When Sherman Clarke had remarked that the die was cast he had spoken absolute truth; but even he had underestimated the tremendous repercussions. They came to light when the second shift of Workers failed to go on duty.
Buzzers and sirens sounded in vain. The great Machine Halls, life-blood of the city—indeed of other places since the master controls were in the capital—were deserted for the first time in half a century.
When the news reached him, Dr. Carfax was seized with a real alarm. He sat at the main desk staring at the tele-plate as the news was given him from the Workers’ region by an excited official.
“Then get back the Workers who have just finished their shift,” Carfax ordered. “The automatic machinery that has taken over cannot function for long—the equipment wasn’t designed for complete automation so as to ensure a measure of employment for the Workers. The machines have got to be tended, or they’ll race themselves to ruin—”
“I’ve tried that, sir, but it’s no use. They’ve heard of the revolt of the other Workers and have joined them. Everything is in absolute chaos!”
Carfax snapped the contact-breaker and sat staring blankly in front of him. Loudspeakers began to chatter,
Cities wanted to know the reason for power fluctuation on the short-wave-energy band; others reported a severe drop on their feeder-lines—
Carfax glared impotently at the speakers; then he rubbed his forehead. There was a dull, throbbing ache there, the deadening, crushing force of the monster in the next room.
It was becoming intolerable....
Finally he got to his feet and went in to confront
the Arbiter. It stood there, immovable as ever, radiating that deadly mental aura.
“Arbiter, something has to be done!” Carfax insisted. “Revolution has broken out and the Machine Halls have been left unattended.”
“Very well, Carfax. Summon all the scientists you can find and bring them here to receive my orders. Mere disordered rabble need cause us no concern. I have instructed the Duty Officers to kill all militant Workers on sight and to bring to me the ringleader—Sherman Clarke.... Now go and get the scientists, no matter how far you may have to travel to locate them.”
Carfax hesitated momentarily; then he nodded. He had no particular desire to run into a mob of incensed Workers, but if there was no other way.... He glanced towards the adjoining room where lay the twisted body of the late Luther Nolan. He had intended a lying-in state, but now that revolution had broken out—
Quietly, he went out, an unexpected realisation stealing over him. That ache in his head had gone; he was no longer under the Arbiter’s influence! For a moment the wonder of it impressed him, then he began to cast around for explanations. There could be only one: that the Arbiter did not realise its mental range was limited. In that case—Carfax’s keen mind began to formulate plans immediately.
Cautiously he scanned the street. Things were more or less quiet at the moment. The Duty Officers evidently had matters more or less in hand...but it could only be a false quiet, for in the Machine Room power was racing under an automatic control that would eventually break down, and once that happened—!
Carfax frowned over a recollection. He had to see Sherman Clarke, and there seemed to be only one place where he was likely to be found—the Annex of Machine Room 7, where, the Arbiter had said, lay the late Clifford Braxton’s suspended animation equipment.
An aerotaxi came whirring by, alighted with spinning helicopter screws as Carfax signalled.
“City Centre—Control Room Sector,” he ordered briefly, clambering in.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to get you there safely, Dr. Carfax,” the driver said, turning. “There’s a lot of trouble—“
“Let me worry about that! Get started!”
The driver shrugged and started the motor. The taxi pursued the main street for a while, then the helicopters came into commission again as they rose towards the lofty Traffic Parallels.
Seated in the air-sprung cushions at the back of the vehicle, Carfax absently watched the everlasting symphony of windows and gleaming building frontages as the taxi climbed higher and higher. His mind was still busy, his plan almost complete. If he threw in his lot with Clarke, he might win the Workers over to his side and at the same time perhaps learn Braxton’s secret. Since the Arbiter’s mind-range was apparently limited, it could be isolated until a means of destroying it was discovered. Perhaps lead sheaths could be placed round the room in which it stood, blocking its mental compulsion....
Carfax smiled complacently to himself. There was, of course, that one profound problem to solve—why the Arbiter was so conservative. That, however, could come later....
The aerotaxi bumped gently as it reached the Third Traffic Parallel and began to proceed on its three wheels. Below, three hundred feet down, loomed the city canyons.
“So, Carfax, you are a traitor after all! I was not quite sure.”
Carfax jerked erect. He was quite alone in the vehicle, except for the driver beyond the partition—and yet he had distinctly heard that cold, merciless voice.
“You are listening to the thoughts of the Arbiter, Carfax! I removed my control over you deliberately when I sensed that you were confusing the issue. Thinking yourself free, you relaxed your mind and revealed your true intentions of contacting Sherman Clarke.... And now I see you are wondering why I did not wipe out Clarke when the revolution began. I couldn’t. There was a vast confusion of minds, all belligerent. I couldn’t single Clarke out amongst them. Now I cannot detect him at all; presumably he has placed himself behind the insulated walls of Machine Room 7 annex and thereby blocked my thoughts....”
Carfax felt himself begin to perspire. On each side of him was a three hundred foot drop....
“You thought my mental range was limited to the Presidential building, did you not? It covers the whole city! How do you think I destroyed Clifford Braxton and the other inventor? They died because, like you, they were a danger to my authority....
“Look down below, Carfax. You are looking into the abyss of Avenue Twenty-Seven. Deep, is it not? Open the door—look at it more attentively....”
Mechanically Carfax obeyed. There was an irresistible fascination about those depths. He leapt, suddenly—involuntarily....
He seemed to hover for a moment, poised beside the towering wall of the nearest building. Wind whipped his garments as he fell, twisting. Down, down—in an anguishing fall, which had eternity at its end.
A thin, high-pitched scream escaped Carfax’s lips then terminated with shocking abruptness as he smashed into the monolite pavement, blood pluming in a fine red rain.
CHAPTER 9
By mid-afternoon the Workers who were loyal to Sherman Clarke had gathered together the provisions he had suggested, together with a good range of other necessities and medical equipment.
“Any Workers handling the Machine Rooms?” Clarke asked.
“Apparently not,” Brenda Charteris replied; and Clarke set his lips.
“First breakdown will show this evening,” he said. “That Four-Purpose Atomic Transformer will eventually burn itself out. And if that goes—“
“You think we should let the city go to rot?” asked Thomas Lannon.
“I do, yes. For one thing it will give us a chance to free ourselves of the curse of machine control, and for another it will so shatter this city that Carfax and the Arbiter will have nothing left to control....”
“Carfax is dead,” remarked Iris Weigh. “I heard it over the speakers. He fell from a Traffic Parallel....”
“So, he too!” Clarke whistled. “The Arbiter is thorough if nothing else....”
“And what do we do now?” Iris Weigh asked.
Clarke glanced towards Braxton’s equipment and there was a general move towards it. For a moment he stood gazing down on the coffin-like casket, then he turned to look directly at Boyd Turner.
“You carry out that brain operation on me. What will happen when I come out of it—if I do!—I can’t say. I may be a fiend, a saint, or a genius!” He smiled grimly. “But one thing is certain—we must use the power while it is still running.”
“We haven’t much time,” Boyd Turner put in. “First of all I’ve got to shave your skull in readiness for the brain operation, then put you under the deep freeze. You’d best stand by, Miss Charteris.”
Brenda Charteris nodded promptly and moved to the side of the equipment. Fully conscious of the responsibility he was taking unto himself, Clarke moved across to a chair whilst Turner picked in an electric shaver.
“You realise,” Turner murmured as Clarke’s unruly hair was shorn away, “that you’re taking one hell of a risk? Here in this annex, with several people present, I won’t be able to take one-half of the normal sterilisation precautions for such an operation.”
Clarke rose from the chair, looking distinctly odd with his now completely bald head. “I realise it,” was all he said as he began to remove his garments.
“In here?” Clarke asked quietly, pausing at the broad lip at the end of the tubular casket.
“That’s it,” Turner assented, assisting him as Clarke pushed his feet and legs into the opening. Then he slid forward until he was stretched at full-length on the air-filled bed in the tube case.
Turner adjusted the air pillow so that Clarke’s shaven head was slightly raised, then with a taut look on his face, he closed the end of the tube and spun the heavy clamps, which secured it.
“Now—” Turner looked to where Brenda Charteris and Thomas Lannon were standing. The others had retired, by common consent, to the far end of the room. “Yo
u, Nurse, had better keep a watch on this bank of registers here. They will show exactly the state of Clarke as the freezing process continues. Respiration, heartbeats, blood pressure: they will all register.”
“I understand,” Brenda Charteris responded, studying the meters. “And if there is any divergence from what you consider safe, what am I to do?”
“Inform me immediately. Then I can vary the current to correct it.”
Turner turned to Thomas Lannon. “As for you, Tom, I’d like you to keep an eye on that specially-devised voltmeter beside you. If it gets beyond the red line let me know right away. My whole attention will be fixed on the control of the current, and I’ll have no time to watch anything else.”
“Right!” Lannon moved into position and fixed his gaze on the—at present—motionless voltmeter needle on the zero mark.
Within the tube Clarke lay motionless on his air bed, though his eyes were clearly watching everything through the transparent cover. He smiled faintly as Turner raised one hand with his fingers crossed—
Then he switched in the main power circuit, which transferred the current to the curious filigree of wires netted around the tube. Here and there contact points glowed brightly and there was a steady crackling as electrical energy surged and died, surged and died.
“Heartbeats seventy,” came the girl’s voice.
“Voltmeter fifteen hundred,” Lannon announced.
Turner made no comment. He knew the controls on the panel from previous experimentation with the late Clifford Braxton. Clarke himself was slowly becoming drowsy. He yawned prodigiously, and then at last made no movement at all. There was a faint mist on the inner side of the tube and Clarke’s nude body was covered with a myriad tiny droplets from the effect of condensation.
Rule of the Brains Page 5