Colossus (23 page)

Angela made as if to get up.

“Wait,” Forbin ordered. “Make a similar memo to Technical Group leader, to be ready to commence by 0800 GMT tomorrow. Better send copies of each to the other group leaders.

Forbin had spoken loudly, perhaps unnecessarily so, but Colossus gave no sign, the specification continued to roll out of the teletype.

He continued brusquely. “Type that lot now, and I’ll sign the authorization and you can deliver the copies immediately.”

In other, happier days Angela would have told her boss that slavery went out in Abe Lincoln’s time, but now she contented herself with a subdued “Yes, sir.”

When the memos were ready Forbin signed them with considerable flourish, and before Angela could even pick them up, said,

“Now go and hand them out, yourself, at once!”

Before she was halfway to the door, he called out, “Another thing—fetch me a pint of black coffee from the commissary, will you?”

She turned and spoke, her voice was meek, but the glint in her eye, and the slightly raised eyebrow more than canceled that out, “Would you like a whip as well, sir?”

“A what?”

“A whip, sir. They’re very good, you know, there’s strawberry and banana, and the raspberry is worth trying.”

“No, Angela, that will be all,” said Forbin stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

When Angela returned with the coffee, he was deeply immersed in the specification. She placed the container on the desk beside him, and he said, absently, “That’s very kind of you.” It was hardly in keeping with his image of the powerful man of affairs. Then Fisher appeared, peering nervously round the corner of the door.

“Come in, come in,” said Forbin heartily. “I want to talk to you about this job.”

Fisher most certainly did not catch on. He blinked at Forbin in surprise. “I don’t see how we can get on with our—” “Yes, I know all about that, Jack,” cut in Forbin hastily, “but this is a lot more important than checking those circuit diagrams.”

“Diagrams? I don’t—”

“I said, forget it!” said Forbin, genially ferocious. “Come and sit down, while I give you the rundown on this.”

The teletype clattered beside him. Fisher jumped as if bitten by a snake.

IS THIS GROUP A LEADER

“Yes,” said Forbin reluctantly. He had avoided names in his memo, but had not much hope of getting away with it.

WHAT IS HIS NAME

“This is Doctor Fisher.”

Fisher gave a fine impression of a hunted hare. “Do I speak?”

Forbin grasped his arm, none too gently, “Just act normally, Jack, nothing to get heated about.” Just to show how ordinary the whole thing was, he addressed Colossus.

“Colossus, this simulator is very complex; I’m not sure we can just build the thing straight off—parts will need testing, and there may be a little experimental work to do.” What would Colossus do, if the simulator did not work—blame him?

TESTS WILL NOT BE NECESSARY PROCEED AS INSTRUCTED AND SIMULATOR WILL WORK

And that was all there was to say on that point.

Forbin dragged the goggling Fisher from the teletype and forced him into a chair. He handed him the specification. “There—all you have to do is to work out physical layouts for that. As soon as you have a reasonable idea of the physical size of the device, let the head technical man know, so that he can start arranging a suitable space.”

Not for the first time in the past few days, Forbin saw that Fisher had aged considerably, and that, at the first sign of a new crisis he was more interested in getting his head in a hole someplace than in trying to deal with the trouble.

“It’s quite simple,” he said quietly. “Forget everything else, and get on with it.” He glanced at the wall clock. “The first watch should be on in a few minutes—get them started, then I think you should go and rest.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Fisher. “I don’t feel I can take much more, I really don’t.”

Forbin thought of the bottle of rye he knew Blake kept in his desk drawer, in open defiance of the Admin Standing Orders. He got it out, found a couple of plastic mugs, and poured two fair-sized tots. “Drink this,” he ordered. He was replacing the bottle when Blake walked in.

“Ah, Blake,” said Forbin. “I didn’t think you’d mind—I’ve just had a crack at your bottle of hard stuff.”

“Hell, that’s OK,” replied Blake, easily. He looked at Fisher, who was studying the specification, and as always, when actually working, on the ball. “This the job, Doc?”

Fisher nodded. “I think we had best break it down into the main groups of components. There appear to be three …” The teletype chattered briefly.

FOUR

Blake and Forbin looked at it together; Fisher just sat, wide-eyed, ready to scuttle.

“OK, Colossus, if you say four, it’s four. That saves us a lot of messing around.” Blake’s easy acceptance of Colossus as another person in the room, stiffened Forbin and quite probably saved Fisher from blowing his top.

Forbin sat down and began to think about the implications of this voice simulator. Why did Colossus want it? Could be the easy answer—that it would be easier to amplify written instructions. And conversation would be possible. But supposing the machine wanted to address a wider audience? It could be that Colossus intended to speak to the world. Well, if he did, he did. Forbin was not going to be diverted from the main task, the inhibition of the machines. If the world got a few nasty shocks on the way, it might do it some good. It might. Forbin drank his coffee.

“Colossus, I am now going to take a short walk—”

NO

“Why?”

BEFORE LEAVING YOUR FINGERPRINTS ARE TO BE TAKEN BEFORE THE CAMERA

“We don’t have fingerprinting equipment—’

USE RUBBER STAMP PAD AND BLOTTING PAPER AND PRESENT RESULT TO CAMERA

Forbin shrugged, there was nothing for it. A pad was produced and a rather imperfect set of prints taken. These were laid on the desk and Forbin noted gloomily that, after less than two seconds, the teletype made

SATISFACTORY YOU MAY PROCEED

He wondered at the definition of the camera; he had expected that it would be able to read typescript at that range, but to reproduce fingerprints, and not very good ones at that, made him consider if Colossus had been able to evolve a new system of identification. As he walked to the door, he exchanged significant glances with Blake. His initial elation at the success in arranging for Cleo to come to him, and at finding the surveillance less oppressive than he had expected, was damped down. This habit of Colossus’, leaving some difficulty to the last minute, was very disturbing. The fingerprint business, for example, could have been settled at the beginning. It left him with the nasty feeling that there were many such hidden traps waiting for him.

Outside, Forbin walked carefully down the illuminated sidewalk, and noticed that it was unusually empty, while the sidewalk on the other side of the roadway looked a lot more crowded than usual. It added greatly to his loneliness.

He scowled and blinked in the harsh light of the new lamps fitted in his office. Here at least he had always been used to the gentle, somehow human lamplight. Maybe, if all went well, he might get this altered, but this was not the time to raise the matter. Wearily he dropped heavily into his chair and surveyed his desk. There was a fair-sized pile of correspondence in tape and letter form—so much rubbish now, routine reports on tests, requests for data, the usual torrent of stuff from Admin—all outdated junk.

For a half-hour or so Forbin worked mechanically through some of the accumulation before him, reading, initialing, dictating. But at 1800 local time he decided he had had enough. Without a glance at the cameras, he scooped up the completed work, marched out of his office and dumped it all on his secretary’s desk. He paused and looked round, looking for any loophole in the surveillance that he might use, but there was no inspiration in the small room, nor yet any in his tired, depressed brain. He turned quickly on his heel and left.

In his living quarters it was the same story, bright light everywhere and the ubiquitous cameras and microphones … He poured himself a large bourbon, and switched on the TV screen. Immediately the outside world flooded in, and for fifteen minutes, he sat and watched a film avidly—but when it ended he realized that he had not the faintest idea what it had been about. He finished his drink and went into the bedroom and stripped for a shower. The cameras in the bedroom and bathroom were the hardest to take; thinking of Colossus as a human was no sort of help at all in this connection, for Forbin was essentially a shy man. In the shower he stood, grateful for the partial screen of the steam, thinking … thinking. If only to boost his morale, he must find some small way of defeating the invisible net around him. He dressed and headed back to his drink cabinet. There was a newscast on the TV. Forbin looked sourly at the newsreader, casual, genial. All right for you, you bastard, he thought, you can get up and leave the camera …

“… dateline Moscow, USSR. Pan-World reports a large meteorite fell early today in the Northwest Siberia. Official sources state that a small township was almost completely destroyed, and that casualties may add up to as much as two thousand. A large area of forest was also burned and scorched by the impact. A similar meteorite fell in Siberia around ninety years ago, but at that time the area was unpopulated. WHO and the International Red Cross have offered aid, but the Soviets state that they are able to render all the assistance required. Washington, D.C. Senator Kaufmann has said he will raise the question in committee of the responsibility for the malfunctioning missile which caused a shelter warning to be issued this morning for Texas. It is reported that the President has said he would welcome this opportunity to clear the matter up. Luxembourg, Europe. The USE Senate today voted to integrate—”

Forbin blanked out the TV screen. He felt sick, and barely controlled a wild impulse to hurl obscene abuse at Colossus. Two thousand! Two thousand human lives for a switched-off transmitter, and this could only be a beginning. There must be an answer somewhere … With renewed resolve he got up, put on a fresh shirt and left his quarters, not entirely sure where he was going. God knows, he reflected bitterly, there is not much choice; for sure he did not want to be alone with Colossus, or his thoughts, and that meant the CPO. En route, he remembered he had warned Bishop, the Presidential aide, to expect a call, and he had done nothing to arrange it. How could he fix it? The President had to be kept informed, and it might be that there was some news of Kupri. He recalled also that he must arrange for someone to monitor the Russian broadcast which would give the date of the meeting. There was so much to do …

In the CPO there was an air of brooding strain. The duty watch worked steadily on, speaking to each other only when necessary, and no one looked up or spoke at his entrance. He glanced round hopefully for Cleo, but she was not there. He would have been both surprised and distressed had he known that, at that moment, she was lying face down on her bed, having a good unscientific cry …

As he sat down, Forbin remembered another thing. He had to get the proofing of his bedroom started—with luck he might have only one night under the camera lights. Without a glance at the teletype he picked up the phone.

“Joe? Forbin here. Sorry to trouble you this late, but I have urgent work to be done in my bedroom—yep, bedroom. I want it done before nightfall tomorrow. Drop by, and I’ll fill in the details.”

Blake ambled over. “Sir, we have the main lines of the four major blocks of equipment roughed out.” He laid a sketch plan on the desk.

Forbin tried to summon up some enthusiasm, but the news from Siberia had drained away his earlier interest in the simulator. He looked absently at the drawing, patting pockets for his pipe, found it, and then replaced it—his mouth felt hot, dry and stale, like the entrance to a subway. “I could do with a touch of that rye, Blake—if you can spare it.”

“Sure thing.” Blake quickly fetched the bottle and poured him a drink. “I’ll leave you the bottle.”

“That’s good of you.” Forbin had an idea. “Um. Good. I must make a note of this brand.” He looked meaningfully at Blake. “Must call my liquor man—Bishop—some time soon and get an order in. Then I won’t feel so bad about cleaning you out.”

‘Ah, hell, don’t bother sir. You’ve got enough on your mind.” Blake nodded very, very slightly. “Maybe your secretary could fix?”

Forbin yawned. “I’ll leave it to you. Angela has his number. Now, what’s worrying you about this layout?”

“Nothing really.” Blake was quite casual, but Forbin knew he had got the message. He tensed up inside, half expecting the teletype to start, but tried to ignore the feeling and concentrated on Blake, who continued, “I thought you should OK this before we go ahead. I reckon that, provided there are no snags, construction could start by midday tomorrow. It’s standard equipment—there are a lot of amplifier circuits, diode blocks lying around that only have to be plugged in. Where would you like the voice output?”

Before Forbin could answer, Colossus chipped in.

INITIAL POSITIONS FOR VOICE OUTLETS 1—CPO

2—FORBIN OFFICE 3—FORBIN QUARTERS 4—COMMUNICATION CENTER Blake jumped slightly as the teletype clacked out its message beside him. He clamped his cigar more firmly between his teeth and said, “Well, now we know.”

Forbin did not answer. When Joe, the technician, came in, Forbin handed him a copy of the conditions Colossus had laid down.

“Get all the materials collected as soon as you can, but lay off the fitting until, say, 0800 tomorrow morning. I have to sleep somehow tonight.”

“Sure, sir.” Quite a speech for Joe. He regarded the order with pursed lips. “Yeah, OK.”

As he left, Forbin got slowly to his feet. “Before I hit the hay, is there anything anyone wants me for?”

Outwardly the remark was addressed to the group of workers, but everyone in the room knew full well the Controller was, in reality, asking Colossus’ permission to go. Blake’s mouth set in an even grimmer line.

“Thanks for the drink.” Forbin gave Blake a long stare as he made for the door. “A real help.” He called out to the rest, “Keep at it, boys—there’s little time.”