The Mechanical Monarch

by E. C. Tubb

  He did.

  And again.

  And again.

  It almost grew monotonous. The dice bounced and spun, gleaming in > the brilliant lights find falling to show the inevitable seven. Each time he won he doubled his money, and around him, swelling like a dammed river, the tension of the watching crowd grew to a high-pitched excitement.

  “He can’t keep on winning,” said a woman. “I’ll bet a thousand against him this throw.”

  “What odds?”

  “Five to one.”

  “I’ll take it,” said a man, and chuckled as he saw another winning seven. “Want to bet again?”

  “He can’t keep on winning!” There was a note of desperation in the woman’s voice. “Another thousand.”

  “Same odds?”

  “Yes.”

  Curt thinned his lips as he rolled the dice. So he couldn’t keep on winning? Well, he would see about that. Grimly he concentrated on the spinning cubes, willing them to show a seven. They slowed, toppled, seemed to hesitate, then, with a final jerk, settled on the green cloth.

  “It can’t be true I” Frantic disbelief echoed in the woman’s voice. “Another seven! It just isn’t possible!”

  “You owe me a thousand,” reminded the man calmly. “Want to bet again?”

  “No. I haven’t any more money. Comain predicted that I wouldn’t lose tonight. Now I’ve lost. I can’t understand it!”

  “You want to throw again, sir?” The croupier stared at Curt.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve reached the limit for this table. I can’t cover your bet.”

  “Can’t you?” Curt shrugged and picked up the thick pile of credit notes. “I’ll pull out then. Here.” Casually he threw the dice, not thinking about them, not caring. They spun, fell, seeming to wink in the bright lighting.

  Snake eyes.

  Casually Curt moved from the table and sauntered across the room. He avoided the modernised roulette table, the mock battle game and the unfamiliar electronic devices. He found what he was looking for in a corner of the vast room, and stood, smiling down at the familiar red and black lay-out of an old-fashioned roulette wheel.

  Casually he placed a bet, and lost. He bet again, watching the spinning ball settle into its compartment, and smiled as the croupier raked in his money. Again he bet, and this time concentrated on the tiny ball, willing it as he had done the dice, concentrating his thoughts and fixing a colour in his mind.

  “Twenty black.” The little rake collected the bets and pushed out the winnings, and Curt stared at the little heap of money lying on the cloth before him. Again he narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on the leaping ball, and again it clicked into a black compartment. The heap of money grew higher, and Curt became conscious of a mounting excitement.

  This was no ordinary gambler’s lucky streak. He was lucky, he had always known that, but never before had he been as lucky as this. He remembered the dice and how he had willed them to fall on winning numbers. He thought of the leaping ball of the roulette wheel, and how he had lost until he concentrated on it. And now . . .

  It almost seemed as if he could control the spinning ball.

  He experimented. He bet on colours, on numbers, narrowing his eyes and willing the ball to register the number he desired. He won. He kept on winning. He won until it became monotonous and before him the heaped pile of credit notes grew and grew as the sweating croupier wielded his little rake.

  And around him grew a watching crowd.

  They followed his bets. They waited for him to place his money, and then poured their wealth upon the marked cloth. As he won, they won, and flushed faces and mounting tension ringed the table and the spinning wheel. Curt felt irritated at their presence, his nerves crawling to the flux of their avid emotion, and deliberately he began to lose, hoping that the watchers would leave him alone."

  “Ten thousand on the red.”

  The wheel spun, the tiny ball flickered around the compartmented rim, and the croupier gasped with relief as he stared down at the winning number.

  “Zero. Black.” His hands trembled a little as he cleared the board. “Place your bets.”

  “Ten thousand on the red.” Curt smiled as he looked at

  the spinning wheel, and smiled again at the disappointed sighs from the crowd. “Ten thousand on the red.”

  Again he lost, and again, and yet again. Behind him a woman muttered disgustedly as she moved from the table, and a man cursed as he saw the last of his wealth drawn beneath the croupier’s rake.

  “The streak’s over. He can’t win again tonight.”

  “I’m going to consult Comain. I was 'predicted a good night and I feel as miserable as hell. Broke too.”

  “Let’s try something else. There’s a hoodoo on this table.” “To hell with him. He’s cost me plenty.”

  Curt grinned as he heard the various comments from the disgusted crowd, and continued to lose at every spin of. the wheel. The croupier regained his calm as he saw the heap of notes dwindling and flowing to his side of the table, and his voice resumed its emotionless drone.

  “Place your bets. No more play.”

  The wheel spun and Curt lost.

  “Place your bets.”

  “Winning?” Wendis leaned over the table and Curt could smell the sickly sweet odour of exotic liqueurs on the young man’s breath. “How’s it going, Curt? Made enough to retire on yet?”

  “No.”

  “I thought so.” Wendis swayed and caught at the edge of the table to steady himself. “You can’t win on these tables. No one can win. We don’t stand a chance.”

  “Think not?”

  “I know not. The damn thing’s fixed like everything else on this rotten planet. The machine won’t let you win. It won’t let you do anything.”

  “You hate Comain don’t you, Wendis.” Curt stared at the spinning wheel. “Why?”

  “You ask me that?” Anger steadied the young man and he straightened, glaring at Curt. “Do you think I like being ruled by a collection of wires and tubes? Of course I hate Comain. Who wouldn’t? It’s only these gutless swine who are content to live in their safe, snug little world. I’m not like them. I’m a man, and I want to live as a man should.”

  “So you want to blow up the machine, ruin a civilisation, reduce Earth to anarchy and to civil war.”

  “Why not? I’m not interested in Earth. I’m only interested in Mars.”

  “Would money get you there?”

  “What?” Wendis licked his lips as he tried to think clearly through the mists of alcohol. “What are you talking about?” “If you had money, a lot of money, would that satisfy you? Could you buy a space ship, stores, arrange supplies? If you had wealth would the Matriarch permit you to use it to establish the Martian colony?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wendis slowly. “I’ve never thought about it. Yes. I suppose that it could be done. They only forced us to return because we were dependent on Earth for supplies. If we could have brought our own we’d never have come back.”

  “Very well then,” said Curt quietly. “I’ll get you money, a lot of money, and after that I' want you to leave me alone.” Abruptly he thrust what remained of the pile of notes onto the table. “The lot, on double zero.”

  “Yes sir.” The croupier smiled as he spun the wheel, and Curt narrowed his eyes as he stared at the dancing ball. Within his skull his brain seemed to be made of fire, burning and vibrant with rushing blood and crystal clear thought. Little tremors quivered his nerves and he felt his palms grow wet with perspiration.

  The wheel slowed and the ball clicked into a compartment. “Double Zero!” The croupier stared unbelievingly at the halted wheel. “You win.”

  “Leave it,” snapped Curt. “Spin again.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man sighed with relief as he spun the wheel. “As you -wish, sir.” He stood, leaning against the edge of the table, and waited impatiently for the wheel to stop. The young man was a fool. It was against all
possibility that he could win on the same number twice running. The odds against it were too high and the money was as good as back in the bank. Sweat started to his forehead as he stared at the tiny white ball in its compartment, and his voice was a croak as he announced the winning number.

  “Double Zero!”

  “Let it ride.” Curt smiled as he looked at Wendis. “So the wheel is fixed, is it? A man can’t win, you said. Well? What am I doing now?”

  “Double Zero!” The croupier sounded ill.

  “Let it ride.”

  “Double Zero!”

  “Let it ride.”

  The pile of money mounted, spilling over the table and falling to the floor. Wendis stared at it, his eyes clearing and his breath quickening as he watched the croupier mechanically thrusting more money to the mounting pile.

  “Curt! What’s happening here?” '

  “Place your bets,” whispered the croupier sickly.

  “Let it ride.” Curt stared at the young miner. “Do you think that will be enough?”

  “I don’t know. How much have you won?”

  Curt shrugged, staring at the spinning wheel. It stopped, the tiny ball clicking into its compartment.

  “Double Zero!” The croupier dropped his rake. “Again! You’ve won every time. I can’t understand it.”

  “Spin your wheel,” snapped Curt.

  “I can’t. You’ve broken the bank. There’s no more money.” “What? Impossible. This table hasn’t got a bank. There’s no limit.” Wendis glared at the pale-faced croupier. “Spin that wheel!"

  “Hold it, Wendis.” Curt stared at the pile of money. “There’s enough here for what you want.”

  “What I want? You mean that you’re giving it all to me?” “Not all." Curt stuffed some of the money into his pockets. “You can have the rest, you and the colonists.” He looked at the croupier. “How much have I won?”

  “More than any other man in history,” 'whispered the croupier. “All the money in 'the room. Twenty million credits!”

  He stared sickly at the great heap of credit notes littering the marked cloth on the table.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Nyeeda sat at her desk and conducted the normal business of the day. As usual she wore iridescent black and the late afternoon sun reflected from a wide band of intricately fashioned gold around her wrist. Her secretary, a plainly dressed, middle-aged woman, worked quietly at her desk and aside from the soft clicking of her typewriter silence filled the office.'

  A videophone chimed its muted warning and the screen flared with swirling brilliance.

  “Yes?”

  “Report from the Trans-European Stratolines, Madam. They state that one of their passenger transports is overdue at the airport. The flight had a three nines favourable prediction.”

  “Then the ship, will arrive,” said Nyeeda flatly. “Three nines is a high probability. Nothing can have happened to the stratoliner.”

  “As you say, Madam.” The woman pictured in the screen hesitated and glanced at something in her hand. “Further reports. Three cases of unpredicted accidents in the city. The reclamation squads arrived too late to save the brains, and death was final. Five cases of complaint that high probability predictions did not materialise. One request from the owners of the casino for consultation with Comain on the restricted level.”

  “What?” Nyeeda frowned as he stared at the screen. “For what reason?”

  “The prediction of profit has proved utterly wrong. The casino was almost bankrupt last night.”

  “What of it? Don’t they know that it is impossible for Co-main to predict anything depending on utter chance?”

  “Yes, Madam, but they request a personal interview with the Matriarch.”

  “I will attend to them. Anything else?”

  “No, I . , ." The woman paused as someone outside the range of the scanners attracted her attention. “Fresh news on the stratoliner. Madam. Wreckage has been sighted fifty miles out to sea. Examination proves that it must have come from the missing ship.”

  “What!” Nyeeda swallowed and the middle-aged woman sitting at her desk paused in her work and stared at the young secretary. “I will attend to it,” snapped Nyeeda. “Inform me of any fresh developments.''

  “Yes Madam.” The screen blurred and went dark.

  For a long moment Nyeeda sat motionless at her desk and, when at last she moved, it was with a grim determination. “I am going to consult Comain,” she snapped at her secretary. “Then I shall visit the Matriarch. Record anything of importance.”

  The middle-aged woman nodded and resumed her typing.

  An elevator carried Nyeeda deep into the heart of the building and she left the cage at a point three hundred feet below sea level. A metaman, its scanning eyes flaring with ruby light, stepped before her, then, as she gave the password, stood aside and let her pass. A short passage opened onto a wide area, and crossing it, the girl pressed her palm against a sensitise^, plate sunken into the wall beside the thin slit of a closed door. Machinery hummed as the lines of her palm registered on the plate, and, the pattern tripping the electronic relays, the door slid smoothly to one side, exposing a small chamber.

  Within that chamber waited Comain.

  A chair, a low shelf, a scanning eye and speaker, a microphone and a helmet of some dull metal. That was Comain. Not the machine of course. Not the ranks of memory banks and the intricate miles of wire, the compact atomic piles and the millions of electronic tubes, these were hidden far below, but, nonetheless, this was Comain.

  Nyeeda sat on the chair and stared at the scanning eye. A switch moved beneath her fingers and a cold, utterly inhuman voice, echoed from the speaker.

  “Yes?”

  “Nyeeda, secretary to the Matriarch, accredited and authorised to use restricted level.” She pressed her bared left wrist against the scanning eye as she spoke the routine identification.

  “Yes?”

  “A passenger transport of Trans-European Stratolines has been wrecked. The flight had a favourable prediction of three nines. Why did it crash?”

  “Insufficient data, Don the helmet.”

  Obediently Nyeeda rested the dull helmet over her long black hair. A red lamp flashed on the panel and she removed it, waiting patiently for the machine to speak.

  “The unknown factor,” droned the speaker. “Three nines is not certainty.”

  “It is as near to it as to make no difference. This is the first time such a thing has happened. Explain.”

  “No. accident was predicted. No accident should .have taken place.”

  “It did.”

  “The unknown factor.”

  “I see.” Nyeeda bit her lip. "What of the other things?”

  “Three unpredictable accidents show the influence of some unregistered force. All predictions must be suspect until full data is given.”

  “Full data has been given,” snapped the girl “With the registering of the Martian colonists every person on the planet has given his or her information to the memory banks How can there be an unregistered force?”

  “There is such a force.”

  “I see.” Nyeeda frowned at the blank wall of the cubicle. As usual when consulting Comain she had an almost overwhelming impression that she spoke to a living person instead of what was no more than an elaborate machine. Long ago the typed symbols of the original predictor had been replaced by verbal and aural communication and .the inevitable result was that people tended more and more to regard the machine as something intelligent and alive. It wasn’t, of course, the responses came from the memory banks, were translated into words, and echoed from the speaker, but the impression remained and it was hard not to think of Comain as a man.

  “Predict the time of discovering this unknown force.”

  “A paradoxical question. As the force is unknown it is impossible to predict its date of discovery. If such a prediction could be made the force would not be unknown.”

  “I see.” Nyeeda stared
at the ruby light of the scanning eye. “What of the casino?”

  “No prediction is possible for the so-called law of averages. It is just as likely for a coin to fall heads a million times as it is for it to fall either way each time.”

  “But you didn’t predict that the casino would be almost bankrupt.” -

  “Unknown factor.”

  “Explain.”

  “Prediction was based on known data. Knowledge of persons involved precluded any one of them continuing to gamble after reaching a certain figure. Normal win and loss of the casino would have evened out. Some force disturbed that prediction.”

  “The same force that caused three unpredicted accidents and wrecked a stratoliner?”

  “Prediction, of unknown factor nine' nines probability.” “Is it a man?”

  “Insufficient data.”

  “It can’t be a man.” Nyeeda stared helplessly at the panel of the machine. “We know that every man and woman on Earth has registered, and yet you say that there is an unknown factor. Can you give a date for the beginning of this unknown force?”

  “No such force detected before the landing of the Martian colonists.”

  “So they are to blame.” Anger flushed the secretary’s white cheeks. “They have caused nothing but trouble, but we’ll stop it now. Ill see that they all re-register, that should clear up this mystery.” She hesitated,.looking at the machine, conscious as she always was of- the questions which could be asked if only she dared to hear the answer.

  She could find out the date of the Matriarch’s death. She could find out whether or not she would succeed to the Matriarchy. She could even find out the date of her own death. If she dared to know the answer.

  She didn’t. She knew it, knew too that if she did ask the knowledge of her question would be recorded in the machine and others could find out what she had done. Slowly she left the cubicle, the door sliding shut behind her. The metaman stared at her as she passed and the elevator carried her back to the top of the building.

  When she arrived the Matriarch was waiting.

  “Well?” The old woman thinned her lips as she Stared at her secretary. “Did Comain give you all the answers?”