The Automated Goliath

by William F. Temple

  “They won’t have to,” said Coney gently. “Like all Government services, it’ll be free.”

  I looked at the long, black cable of the visaphone and saw it for what it had been all the time—an early exploratory tentacle of Goliath. Now it had tightened its grip on the Messenger and choked it to death.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said between my teeth.

  The three of us left Coney to play, and walked in silence towards the Piskie House. Halfway along the road, Bill gripped my arm and pointed up. Pam was already staring at the five flying saucers in V-formation which were traversing the sky very high and yet swiftly. They looked like blobs of mercury and gleamed in the sun. Making no sound, they vanished towards the east.

  “Something’s happening,” I said. “Something mysterious and mighty important. We’re beginning to see the effects, but the causes aren’t dreamt of in our philosophy.”

  “I feel that too,” said Pam. “I’ve felt it for a long time.”

  The Piskie House was dehumanized now but at least you could get free beer. We stung the Government for plenty. We sat by the window and let the robot servers work hard.

  “That insidious contraption wasn’t there last time I came,” said Bill, jerking a thumb at the big TV set above the bar.

  There were no other customers and the set wasn’t switched on. We left it that way.

  “Cornwall’s finished,” I remarked, gloomily. “It’s Goliath’s territory now. Well have to move on again, Bill. What about the Outer Hebrides Islands?”

  “That’s an idea,” said Bill.

  “Take me with you,” said Pain.

  “That’s an idea,” said Bill, again.

  “Doubt if we’d be safe from Goliath even there for long,” I said, still depressed. “These automation maniacs have more subtlety than I suspected. Look how they crept up on me! The typewriter, the recorder, and the linotype were all mass-produced models. Heaven alone knows how many of ‘em are scattered around the world. And all designed to fit into each other as part of the Goliath hookup.”

  Bill said, “Any new invention is usually an amalgam of two old ones. Once, you had a pen and a bottle of ink—two separate objects. Then some genius got the idea of fitting the bottle of ink onto the pen. Hence, the fountain pen. That’s how it goes.”

  “A plague on all inventors,” I said.

  “Except the man who invented beer,” said Bill, finishing his.

  Pam had drunk more than she was used to. She was looking out of the window with slightly glazed eyes. She said, suddenly, “Coney’s very handsome. I could go for him. Pity he’s a Government man. Where’s he taking our files?”

  “What?” I swung around and looked out. Coney was driving past in an open tourer. The rear seat was piled high with newspapers. I blundered out and shouted after him. He accelerated and shot off down the Truro road.

  Pam joined me, not too steady on her feet. “Let’s go see what he’s been getting up to.”

  We made for the Messenger office. It was empty, the machines silent, and the long file shelves were empty, too.

  “I get it,” I said savagely. “He’s going to search for anything I wrote which could be twisted to mean sedition. Then the Government would have a so-called legal excuse for confiscating the Messenger. No compensation for me.”

  Pam sighed. “Such a good-looker! It’s a shame. Let’s go back and drown our sorrows.”

  Back in the Piskie House Bill listened to our woe, then said, “The game’s up here. I’ll get the Pinto provisioned up and tomorrow we sail for the Hebrides.”

  The Pinto was his boat. We drank to escape and a new life.

  Next morning I wished I had a new head. The old one was throbbing like a war drum. Someone wasn’t helping by banging in the next room. In my pajamas, I went to see who.

  Arthur Coney, freshly shaven, smart, with a newspaper under his arm, was supervising a workman installing a TV set. He turned and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning, Mr. Madden. Nice job, don’t you think? Rosewood case, to match your furniture.”

  “What the devil are you doing in my house?”

  “It’s not your house, sir—it’s the Government’s.”

  True. Having used most of my capital to buy the Messenger, I’d been forced to take a rent-free, Government-owned standard house.

  “Then take that box of tricks right back to the Government. I don’t want TV.”

  “You don’t have to use it, Mr. Madden. But a new order says all standard houses must be fitted with TV. Most of them are already, of course—this must be one of the last. It’s all part of the plan to raise the standard of living.”

  “Either it goes or I go.”

  Coney shrugged. “That’s up to you, Mr. Madden. You’re free to go anywhere—including the Outer Hebrides.”

  I looked at him hard for a moment. “Coney, I want to speak to you privately. Come into the next room.”

  “Why, certainly.”

  In the bedroom, away from the workman, I said, “I don’t like my conversations monitored. I’ll take a bet these new sets—that one out there and the one in the Piskie House-have a microphone concealed in them. You’re spying on me. Why?”

  “I’m not. But I’d like some information from you.”

  He unfolded the newspaper. It was a very old issue of the

  Messenger. He pointed to a headline: The Flying Saucer of Moble Island. “D’you know anything about that, Mr. Madden?”

  I looked it over. It was Cornelius’ story, of course.

  “Why should I? It happened ten years before I came here.”

  “I know. But I’ve heard Cornelius used to talk about it a lot. You knew him well. Did he ever mention it to you?”

  “Yes. But he said no more than he said here in print. He had no theories—he was baffled by the whole thing.”

  “I see.” Coney retrieved the paper. “Perhaps he told his great-granddaughter more. I’ll try her.”

  “She may even like it.”

  He grinned. “I like her, too.” And I wondered if the concealed ear in the Piskie House had registered Pam’s opinion of him. He left with the workman. I went looking for Bill. He was on the beach fixing a fresh water keg in the Pinto.

  “We sail with the evening tide,” he said.

  “I’d like to take a short sail before that. Moble Island is only about four miles out, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  I told him about Coney, and added, That Moble Island story means something to the Government. I don’t think they’re happy about it—they’re trying to ferret something out.”

  “Okay. Help me roll her out.”

  We heaved Pinto over the rollers into the sea, and headed for the island. It was hardly more than a rock with a thin layer of topsoil. Still, there was enough earth to support a few stunted trees, bent over by the prevailing sea wind, and some spiky undergrowth.

  I noticed a black shape cavorting in the sea near the little beach. “Look, a seal.”

  “A queer-looking seal,” commented Bill, shading his eyes.

  It did look a bit odd, with a roundish head. It was hard to see because the sea was reflecting sunlight. The creature rode the breakers to the beach, then squirmed up the sandy slope. It vanished behind bushes.

  We landed there ten minutes later. I saw the track of the thing, a shallow trench in wet sand.

  “It was big and heavy—” I began, and then stopped, amazed.

  On either side of the trench, regularly spaced, were the imprints of great hands, with the thumbs as long as the fingers.

  “A very queer seal,” said Bill slowly.

  In silence we followed the track until it faded out on hard ground. We searched the whole islet. Nothing there but dwarf trees, bushes, weeds, and large spurs of mossy rock.

  “It went back into the sea on the other side,” said Bill.

  “It must have,” I said. On that side was only a low cliff. “Well, we’ve drawn a blank all round. There’s nothing he
re to interest the Government. Let’s go back.”

  We sailed back to Merthavin beach, and for a time I helped Bill stock the Pinto. “I’ll finish this,” said Bill, at last. “You find Pam. We’ll be ready to sail in an hour.”

  Pam wasn’t at home, so I made for the Piskie House. Coney’s car was outside it. In the bar was Coney himself, talking with Pam. Trade was fairly brisk. Gregory, the landlord with nothing to do, was sitting in a crowd, drinking.

  I said to Pam and Coney, “You two been talking all this time?”

  “Yes. Arthur’s good company when you get to know him,” said Pam.

  “You’ve got to know him? Dear old Arthur?” I was incredulous.

  “Not a hundred pet cent. I still can’t get why he thinks Goliath is a good thing and the Government can do no wrong.”

  “It’s simple enough,“said Coney, smiling. “I believe in the greatest good for the greatest number—and not just a few awkward individualists like you two.”

  At which moment the TV set, which no one had touched, switched itself on. The screen glowed brightly and blankly, faded, glowed, and faded with a steady rhythm. A voice from the set commanded, “Attention, everybody. Watch this screen, watch this screen.”

  The command was unnecessary. Curiosity drew everyone’s attention. The light maintained its periodicity.

  Presently, the same voice ordered, “You will now raise your right arm above your head.”

  To my surprise, not only Coney but all the others present did exactly that. Except Pam and me.

  “What goes on, Coney?” I demanded harshly.

  He ignored me, and the TV voice said, “If you are with other people, note those who have not raised their arms. They are enemies of the country. Report them to the police at once. If possible, detain them by force and send for the police. That is all. Drop your arms now.”

  The light died, the set went silent. There was silence in the bar. It seemed full of hostile eyes watching Pam and me. And these people were our friends and neighbors. Grimly, Gregory got up and started to approach us. Coney waved him back.

  “All right, Gregory,” he said, easily. “Leave this to me.” He stepped back a pace and drew a needle-pistol on us. “Right, you two. Walk slowly ahead of me to my car. Just that and nothing more. These needles can knock people out for an hour, but they’ll feel bad for twenty-four hours.”

  “You were right, Pam,” I said. “You never got to know old Arthur one hundred per cent.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” she said, with a little sigh.

  Coney shepherded us to the tourer. He motioned me into the driving seat, and got into the back seat with Pam. “We’ll go and pick up Mr. Brewster—he’s still working on his boat—and make up a little party to go to Truro.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “My responsibility ends then. They’ll probably send you to the concentration camp at the old Dartmoor Prison.”

  “For what crime?” asked Pam.

  “For being immune to hypnotism. Get going, Mr. Madden.”

  I drove slowly to give myself time to think. About the treacherous TV sets planted by the Government—from where were they switched on by remote control? How wide was the network? More pressingly, how were we to escape the net? I thought of a just barely possible chance.

  I stopped the car at the edge of the beach, ten yard from the Pinto. Bill was levering a heavy case of provisions into place with an iron bar. I began to whistle Schubert’s Ave Maria mournfully.

  Long ago, Bill and I were on the run through Germany after escaping from a prison camp. We were trying to pass ourselves off as German civilians. If either of us noticed we were being watched or followed, we whistled that warning tune casually, and just as casually indicated with the right thumb the suspected enemy.

  I hoped Bill would remember.

  “Mr. Brewster,” Coney called. From the corner of my eyes, I saw he was holding the needle-pistol low out of Bill’s line of sight. I rubbed my cheek thoughtfully, keeping my thumb pointing back at Coney.

  Bill sauntered over, carrying the bar. I was worried. He didn’t look at me. “Well?” he said coldly to Coney.

  Coney began to raise the pistol. Then Pam grabbed his wrists with both hands, and Bill tapped him smartly on the skull with the bar. Coney groaned and slumped back.

  “Good work, my friends,” I said. “Thought you’d forgotten, Bill.”

  “Old soldiers never forget. Thanks, Pam. What’s going on?”

  We told him.

  “We’ll have to take Coney with us,” said Bill. “He knows where we’re bound for. Maybe others know, too, and maybe not. We can’t help that. Also, we can hold him as a hostage. Anyhow, we’ve got to wring out of him just what the Government’s trying to pull on everybody.”

  He reached in and secured the pistol. Between us we carried Coney to the Pinto and bound him with rope from the locker.

  Then we set sail.

  There was a small gash on Coney’s temple. Pam bathed it.

  “You still gone on that quisling?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so. He’s such a nice hunk of man. I’m hoping Bill’s knocked some sense into him. Then he’ll be perfect.”

  Coney opened his eyes soon afterwards. “Thanks, nurse,” he said to Pam. Painfully, he took stock of the situation. We were a couple of miles out to sea. “So I’ve been press-ganged. You won’t get away with it, though. There’ll be a reception committee waiting for you in the Hebrides.”

  We looked at each other. “I was afraid of that,” I said.

  “There are other islands,” Bill said grimly.

  “Wherever you go, the Makkees will find you,” said Coney.

  “Who—or what—are the Makkees?” I asked.

  Coney looked up at the blue, empty sky. “You’ll learn before very long.”

  We were abreast of Moble Island when the Makkees tried to contact us, and it was no friendly approach. From the gray line of Cornwall, three flying saucers in formation came skimming. Without knowing their size, it was hard to judge their height. But each had a visible row of ports.

  They wheeled around, and the leader peeled off and plunged soundlessly toward us. It was big, all right, and in moments was rushing darkly over us, eclipsing the sun. Something like a white-hot harpoon darted down from it as it swept past. The shot missed, and flashed into the sea fifty yards away.

  There’d been no sound, no disturbance. Now suddenly we were smitten all ways. The displaced air in the saucer’s wake rushed together with the sound of twenty thunderclaps treading on each other’s heels. There was a concerted screaming, like a thousand pieces of flying shrapnel. Wheeeeee!

  The Pinto tossed and twirled like a stick in a cataract.

  And fifty yards off, with a bang to end all bangs, the sea exploded into steam and began to boil. Bubbles rose and burst, and a stinging veil of white vapor closed around us. The seawater which slopped over the sides was scalding; we yelled out loud when we were splashed.

  I was more scared than when the minnenwerfers caught me in open ground at Anzio.

  Then the turbulent air shredded the steam clouds apart. Through streaming eyes I saw the sky again, and a group of maybe a dozen other saucers circling like gulls, high, high above.

  Then the blue sky began to darken. It became mauve, then indigo. In it the white spots of the saucers swam dimly now, like fish in murky water.

  The Pinto began to settle down, the sea-swell was subsiding. Bill, with red scald marks on his hands, was cutting Coney’s bonds. Pam, her long black hair in wild disorder, was fumbling in the medicine chest. She eased our pain with a cooling salve.

  A purple twilight had fallen on the world. Yet the sun was still way above the western horizon; it looked pale blue.

  Coney sat up, rubbing his arms.

  “The Makkees?” I asked, indicating the misty saucers.

  He nodded silently.

  “They don’t seem to mind if they kill you as well as us.”

>   He shrugged. “That’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have fallen down on the job.”

  “Which was?”

  “Apart from generally supervising automation in the Merthavin area, to round up non-cooperative people like yourselves—not to be rounded up by them.”

  “Why did you take the Messenger files?” asked Pam curiously.

  “I was ordered to collect the files of any local newspaper and take them’ to Truro for electronic scanning. The Makkees are systematically reviewing all news items relating to flying saucers which have ever been published anywhere.”

  “What’s the point?” I asked. “They run the saucers; they already know all about them.”

  “That’s their business,” said Coney calmly.

  “Save the cross-examination till later,” cut in Bill impatiently from the tiller. “Keep an eye on those saucers. It won’t take a direct hit to sink us and boil us alive.”

  He was steering for Moble Island. He went on, “We’re sitting ducks out here. We’ll be safer in fox-holes ashore.”

  The saucer which had attacked us had rejoined the other two. Suddenly the three of them climbed steeply up the purple sky and joined the group circling at high level.

  Bill frowned. “Have they been called off? Strange—they had us at their mercy.”

  “The Makkees,” said Coney, “have no mercy.”

  There was a short silence. “This purple haze is very odd,” I said presently.

  “It’s eerie and unnatural,” said Pam with a little shiver. “I suppose the Makkees have caused it. Why? What are they up to, Arthur?”

  Coney compressed his lips and shook his head.

  “Damn you, Coney, who are the Makkees?” I burst out. “Are you one of them?”

  “No,” he said and would say no more.

  We landed on Moble Island. As we stepped ashore, the flock of flying saucers made off towards the mainland and were lost in the haze.

  “Maybe a feint to lure us out again,” Bill commented. “We’d best stay here a while and see what develops. One development is for sure. Coney here is going to talk. Or else I’ll tear his tongue out by the roots.”

  A voice behind us, deep as the bass pipes of an organ, said cynically, “And that, of course, will teach him to talk. Except that he won’t be able to.”