The Mechanical Monarch

by E. C. Tubb

  The room was very quiet.

  Heavily the Matriarch slumped into her chair, and, for a moment, sat staring down- at her thick, broad-nailed, swollen-knuckled fingers. She was an old woman, her close-cropped hair white with age, and her heavy, almost mannish features seamed and wrinkled, the lips bloodless, the eyes surrounded by a multitude of tiny lines. She wore not the slightest trace of cosmetics, and, sitting at the wide desk, her shapeless body hidden in a simple dress of dull grey, she seemed like an old and weary man. It was only when emotion aroused her and her eyes flashed with an almost forgotten fire, that she resembled the militant female who had climbed her way to the highest pinnacle of government.

  But that had been long ago.

  A bell chimed in the office, its muted tone sounding strangely loud- in the deepening twilight, and one of the videophone screens flared with a sudden swirl of light, steadying into a coloured picture of a middle-aged woman.

  “Madam?”

  “Yes?” The Matriarch stared towards the screen. “What is it?”

  “Your secretary, Madam. May she enter?”

  “Admit her.” The picture dissolved into a swirl of colour and the screen returned to its normal darkness. At the same time, operated by the light-sensitive selenium cells, the room lights glowed into soft radiance.

  Softly the door opened and a woman entered the room.

  She was tall and with a curved slenderness and as she walked towards the wide desk her figure moved with the innate grace of a dancer. Unlike the Matriarch she wore a clinging dress of some iridescent black material elaborately worked in a fine pattern of golden arabesques. Long hair, black as jet, flowed from her high forehead and fell in smooth ripples to her sloping shoulders. Her skin was a milky white, -like whipped cream or white velvet, and her eyes were slanted pools of midnight beneath thick brows.

  “Good evening, Madam.”

  The old woman grunted, her broad nostrils twitching at the subtle aroma of perfume. “You may sit, Nyeeda.”

  “Thank you.” The secretary smoothed her dress as she sat in a vacant chair. “Have you finished your study of the agricultural figures, Madam?”

  “No, they can wait.”

  “As you decide. They aren’t important anyway, we know to within five per cent just what the yield will be.”

  “We knew that last year, before the crops were even planted, but I suppose that I have to go through the motions of checking the figures.” The old woman sighed as she stared at the heaped papers on her desk. “Have the Martians arrived yet?”

  “Not yet. They are orbiting at the moment and will land within an hour from now.” Nyeeda stared a little curiously at the old woman. “Don’t you remember the prediction? Comain gave the flight schedule and landing times.”

  Of course I remember, but it had flipped my mind. Anyway, these details aren’t important."

  “All details are important.” The girl spoke with a flat conviction. “The more data we can. feed into Comain the more accurate its predictions will be. I thought that was the whole idea of bringing the -colonists back to Earth.”

  “It is. While the activities of an independent group have to be considered the predictions cannot be as accurate as we would wish. You don’t have to instruct me on the basics of our ^civilisation, Nyeeda. I learned them long before you were born.”

  “Yes, Madam, I am Sorry.”

  “Forget it, girl, you are too young to have to apologise to an old woman, and you have been with me too long for us to misunderstand each other. How long is it now? Fifteen years?”

  “Not quite. I’ve been your personal secretary for ten years now, ever since I graduated from general duties.”

  “Of course. I remember now, Comain selected you as being the one person most suited to my needs. As usual the prediction was right, I’ve had no cause for complaint.”

  “Thank you, Madam.” Nyeeda smiled and relaxed in her chair.

  “Not that I approve of women in governmental positions using cosmetics, perfume, wearing jewellery and expensive clothes. But then, you are young, and as you grow older you will realise that these things pass along with other childish amusements.” The old woman shrugged as she spoke and the gesture robbed her tone of offence. “Now, about these Martians. They will be registered on landing of course, all five hundred and seventy-two of them. I trust that the necessary orders have been given?"

  “The metamen at the landing field have their instructions. They will conduct the colonists to the booths directly they leave the ships. The prediction is five nines against violence of any kind.”

  “Good. Has it been decided just what they are to do and where to live?”

  “Not yet. It was thought best to leave those details until after they had registered with Comain. The extra data will be essential if they are to be fitted in with maximum worth to society.”

  “I see. Has the Council any ideas on the subject?”

  ' “A few minutes were devoted to discussing the problem but it was felt that any further discussion would be a waste of time. Comain will decide as it must anyway.”

  “Yes,” said the old woman heavily. “Of course.” She bit her lips as she stared at the litter of papers on her desk. “Tell me, Nyeeda,” she said quietly. “Have you ever thought that at times we tend t,o place too much reliance on Comain?”

  "Why, no. Comain is efficient, we all know that, and not to use it would be utterly illogical.” Nyeeda frowned as she looked at the Matriarch. “You surprise me, Madam. You were one of the foremost to advocate the full use of Comain. It was you who ruled that all governmental positions should be filled by selection, and now it is .Comain who selects the r61ers, not the people.”

  “I know that.” The old woman spoke with a surprising sharpness. “That was my first ruling when I finally won to (the Matriarchy. I did it because even then, even though we had used the benefits of Comain for almost two centuries, the old political squabbling and manoeuvring still squandered our time and effort. That was a long time ago now, more than fifty years, and I swore to do it when my political rival, Lucy Armsmith, committed suicide after my election. She was a great woman, but she couldn’t stand defeat.”

  “Nothing like that could happen now,” said Nyeeda with quiet certainty. “The predictions of the machine are getting more and more accurate. A person would be an insane fool to try and go against them. If Comain predicts defeat then the person concerned doesn’t even argue about it, he just gives up and tries something else.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Nyeeda, very glad.” Something in the old woman’s tones made the young, girl glance at her with shocked suspicion. The Matriarch saw her expression, and shook her head. “No, girl, I’m not getting senile, just old, and when a person gets old their viewpoint can alter When I was a girl I lived by Comain, nothing was more clear than that it should be allowed to control the world. I was an idealist I suppose, but the young are always idealists.”

  "There is nothing wrong in that.”

  “No, but just lately, I have begun to wonder whether or not I did right. The predictions are getting more and more accurate, and, | as they show a higher percentage of probability, more and more people are doing exactly as Comain says they will do. They do it, and by so doing ensure that the prediction is correct. In a way it is a vicious circle, and sometimes, when I am alone and the world is dark, it almost frightens me.”

  “Frightens you?” Nyeeda laughed. “What a peculiar notion. Surely, Madam, you must be joking?”

  “No. I am not joking.”

  “Then ...”

  "Listen, Nyeeda. I’m an old woman, over eighty years old and even with the progress geriatics has made, that is still old. I have seen a great deal of change in the fifty years that I have been the Matriarch. There is not the struggle there used to be, the striving, the ambition. Now people seem to be easily contented, they do as the machine predicts, and it has been ten years since a request was made for restricted information. We are safe from war
, from famine, from actual want, but, in v gaining all that, have we lost something?”

  “If losing the desire to wage war is loss. then we may have done.” Nyeeda didn’t trouble to hide her contempt. “Always there has been this looking backward to the ‘good old days.’ Even as a girl I remember my father regretting the old times when a man could do as he wanted .when he wanted. He used to read old books, books describing wars and armoured men fighting with swords. He even made such a weapon, but of course he never used it for anything but to cut down weeds. He was a dreamer, content with the benefits of civilisation and pretending to long for the hardships he had never known.”

  “And you think that I am like that?” The Matriarch shook her head. “No, Nyeeda, I am not a fool. I do not want the old days of toil and want to return, but there is something else, a subtle intangible something which mankind always had and which I am afraid he may have lost. I refer to ambition.”

  “A man can advance himself, earn money, live richly and well. There are still opportunities.”

  “Are there? I doubt it. Now, if a man thinks of a thing to do, he refers it to Comain. If the prediction is favourable he does it, but he has no zest in what he does. Why should he? He knows before he starts that what he proposes will succeed. Now we have no failures, no lost causes, no battling hopelessly against fate and overwhelming odds.”

  “Why should we? A failure is effort wasted.”

  “Agreed, but it wasn’t always so. Men reached for the planets against all the predictions of logic and common sense. They died because of that dream, but they finally won through. Would we do that now?”

  “Would we wear skins and. eat raw meat? Would we use flint and steel to kindle a fire or pray to pagan Gods?” Nyeeda shook her head. “You know the answer to that, and the answer to your question must be the same. Why should we? What need is there to reach for the stars? We have our civilisation, it is a good one, and the people are happy. Let them remain so. What sense is there in idle fears and empty longing. We are what we are, our civilisation what it is, the past is dead and forgotten.”

  Silence followed her words, and in the silence the sound of the Matriarch’s heavy breathing sounded oddly loud. Against the night shrouded window the thin trails of stratoliners traced their fiery paths across the sky and far below, on the level plain surrounding the building, lights sparkled and shimmered in colourful array.

  “Thank you, Nyeeda.” The old woman smiled and something seemed to relax her thick-set figure. “I knew that I was right, but age; and the chilling of youthful ambition had made me doubt myself. What you say is true', we are safe now and divorced from the strains which lead to war. Now that the Martians have been recalled we can forget the unknown factor and the predictions will be accurate to nine nines per cent. Comain will assimilate their data, decide where they are to live and work, and the whole business of space travel can be refiled in the restricted information area of the machine. It will be there if ever we need it, but I doubt if we ever will. No. I was a fool to worry. Everything will work out as planned. Comain will guide us, save us from false decisions, and, as you mentioned, take over the governing powers."

  Slowly she rose from behind the wide desk and crossed to the high window.

  “Earth will be a paradise," she whispered. “The Matriarchy will remain the nominal head of state but all decisions will, as now, be referred to Comain. Once the Martians have been registered it will be inevitable. Nothing can prevent it.”

  Against the night slender tongues of flame stabbed from the heavens and a thin '•whistling roar began to drone softly through the silent room. The drone increased, the scintillating tongues of fire grew more brilliant, and the Matriarch sighed as she watched them.

  “The Martians,” she murmured quietly. “Coming home.”

  Nyeeda nodded, crossing to the high window, and together the two women, one old, the other still young, watched the descending space ships.

  CHAPTER XI

  Five men sat in a room and discussed their future. Carter, his young features taut with the effort necessary to move his body in a, to him, three times normal gravity, slumped in a chair and stared at the sagging cheeks of the old doctor. Wen-dis and Menson, used to a high G field while in space, didn’t seem to be affected by the gravity, though they gasped and sweated in the thick, humid air. Curt smiled" as he stared through a window, savouring the green fields and blue sky, his healed body tingling with excitement as he thought of the new world waiting for his exploration.

  “I’ve heard from the Matriarch,” said Lasser bitterly. “As I suspected they have dismantled the ships. We are here to stay.”

  Wendis clenched his big hands. “That means that we never go into space again, never see the cold stars, feel the thrust of rockets.” He swallowed as if ashamed of his outburst, then, almost defiantly, stared at the old doctor. “I’ve trained all my fife for space,” he gritted. “I know nothing else. What do they intend doing with me now?”

  “The Council will inform me as soon as they receive the answer from Comain.” Lasser wiped sweat from his yellowed features. “If you ask me to make a guess I’d say either the deserts, the poles, or, if they have work there, on a high mountain.”

  "What makes you say that, Doc?”

  “Logic, Meoson. We need a dry climate, low gravity, and thin, cold air. The only place on Earth where we can get most of those things is on a high mountain. The isolation wouldn’t worry us, we’re used to it, and, from their point of view, it would be ideal.”

  “Why?”

  “We’d be out o£,the way, and yet under constant observation. Without ships or transport we couldn’t leave the area and we’d have to do as we were told or our supplies could be cut off.”

  “Do you think that they will keep us together?” Carter licked his lips as he looked at the old man. “I thought that they might have split us up, a family here, a man there, and so on.”

  “Why should they? We aren’t rebels. They have nothing to fear from us. They only recalled us so that we could be fitted into a pattern. No, Carter, I think that they will keep us as a unit. All of us.”

  “What about Curt?”

  “Well? What about me?” Attracted by the mention of his name the young man turned from the window and smiled down at the old doctor. “I’m home again, thanks to you, and I’m eager to explore. What happens now?”

  “We don’t know yet, not until the Matriarch informs me just what is to happen to us.” Lasser wiped his face and neck as he glanced up at the young man. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” Curt grinned as he thumped his chest “All the soreness has gone and I feel like a dog with two tails.”

  “Good. Got over the journey yet?”

  “Just about. I don’t want to do it again though. The trip here wasn’t too bad, that dopes you gave me knocked me out and sent some beautiful dreams, but I had a bad time after we landed wondering whether or not you’d remember about me.”

  “You won’t have to do it again,” said Wendis grimly. “Mankind has made the last space trip.”

  “Maybe.” Curt shrugged and looked at the old doctor. “How did the registration go?”

  “As I suspected. The metamen were waiting for us and took us directly to the booths. Comain assimilated our data and is probably working On the problem now.”

  “So long?” Curt stared his surprise.

  “No. The machine can’t volunteer information. It has to wait until the right question is asked. The Council are probably doing that right now.”

  “I see.” The young man wandered over to the window and nodded towards a tremendous building, bright in the morning sun. “Is that it?”

  “That’s Comain. the main part of it anyway. The upper building is composed of governmental offices and living quarters. The palace you might say. The priestly apartments to the Deus Machina.” Wendis sounded bitter.

  Curt ignored the other man’s tone. He stared at the tremendous building, admiring its smooth pe
rfection and subtle curves, trying to visualise the man who had been his friend, the man who had laid the foundations of this new civilisation. Memory tugged at the innermost chambers of his mind. A man stepped from the mists of the past, a tall man, thin, with weak eyes and gaunt features. He smiled, a semi-ironical twisting of his lips, and a ghost-voice echoed from the ghost-body.

  “Hello, Curt.”

  “Comain.”

  “It’s been a long time, Curt. Sorry about that hatch."

  “Comain I”

  “We must get together sometime. You know where I live?"

  “Yes. Yes I . . .” Something jarred him. Something stung his face and pain seared its way through the mists of his mind. Pain, Pain and something more than pain, and he turned, his hands clenching and lifting in sudden rage.

  “Curt! Snap out of it man! What’s the matter with you?” Carter stood before him, his hand still lifted, ready to slap again.

  “You . . .” Curt swung, his fist driving to the other’s mouth, and before the young doctor could ward the blow Curt repeated it, feeling a hot tide of rage warm his stomach as he battered at the other’s features.

  "Curt! You fool! Stop it!” Wendis lunged forward, Men-son behind him, and together they held his arms. Carter dabbed at his damaged mouth.

  “Snap out of it, man.” The young doctor stared at his blood-stained handkerchief. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you feel well?”

  “You hurt me.”

  “I slapped your face. You were talking to yourself, I tried to snap you out of whatever it was had caused it.” He winced as he touched his mouth. “What happened, Curt?”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly all the rage seemed to drain from him, leaving him weak and ill, ashamed and defenceless. “I’m sorry, Carter. You startled me. I was thinking of an old friend.”

  “Comain?”

  “Yes."