Colossus and Crab (23 page)

He wandered around the complex, doing his best to allay the very real fears of his staff, and his manner did much to achieve his aim, especially with the Faithful. The complex was at the highest state of alert, all positions manned, but many had little to do except wait, listen to the countdown, and suck sedative tablets.

Only in Condiv was there bustle and action, but even so, all Fultone’s staff were strung up, edgy, none more so than the Italian himself. Forbin did not stay long; he had no desire to watch the preliminaries.

He was in his office when an unexpected, and as far as he was concerned, unwelcome hold came in the count: a backup check of the concrete apron before the Collector’s intake revealed some loss of adhesion in the surface of the concrete. At once he called Fultone, who was spattering his team with high-grade Neapolitan invective: the technically valid answer that the weakening had only occurred since, and because of, surface cooling, got short shrift. He told Forbin the surface would be spray-sealed, but part of the apron was currently underwater. Until the tide dropped the work could not be completed, and tides were beyond anyone’s control, including Colossus. The test would be delayed for twenty minutes.

The news neither uplifted nor depressed Forbin. What was twenty minutes more? All the same, he went to Input, Blake’s old domain. Askari, the undercover contact with Blake, sat at a communication console, his strong Afro face untypically grim. He glanced up at Forbin and his expression said it all. Forbin left. If anything came through, Askari would be on to him in seconds via his personal intercom.

He wandered on with nothing to do but wait, but unlike the rest of his staff, he had to do it alone. If Blake succeeded - and Forbin no longer held that possible - he would go at once to the Sanctum, and the moment the Martians were there he would call Askari, demand a sitrep on the South England defense state, and his work - his life’s work - would be done. The code word was “defense”; relayed instantly to Blake, the reaction would surely be swift. What missile the old Colossus would select he had no idea, but he guessed it would be a small one, probably from a submarine crawler in the North Sea. If - if - it came to it, Forbin prayed he would have the strength to sit passively at his desk. Some signs of strain would not alarm the Martians; faced with the thirty-minute test he was bound to be keyed up, but somehow he must not betray his awful secret. If he was lucky, the ordeal would not be long; allow ten seconds for the relay to Blake and for Blake’s reaction; another second for the computer, five for missile adjustment, five for firing sequence, and - what, forty, fifty seconds’ flight time? At most, there’d be two minutes from the time he called Askari. …

He wandered wearily on, wrapped in somber thought, unaware that he was not quite alone. Discreetly, Joan was trailing him. Angela had instructed her to be particularly alert in time of crisis: her charge could become totally forgetful of his own wellbeing. She had slept for two hours, but she suspected Forbin had not slept at all.

Slightly surprised, Forbin found himself on his terrace. The night was going, the first hint of dawn lay in the east, but the night wind struck chill. He returned quickly to the warmth and light of the living room - and discovered Joan.

He frowned. “What d’you want?” Insight gave him the answer. “I suppose Angela put you up to this?”

Rising from her curtsy, her manner calm, she avoided the question. “I thought you might need me, Father.”

His frown relaxed slightly. Whatever, he had been well served by women. If men had a fraction of their guts, staying power … Cleo - yes, Cleo - Angela, and now Joan …

“You take your job very seriously.” At that moment, he was glad she did. Any distraction from his thoughts was welcome.

She inclined her head, the wonderful auburn hair rolling sensuously, gleaming in the light. For a moment he thought she was going to curtsy again, and although she didn’t, he felt irritation at the gap she put between them, especially when he had a desperate need to talk with someone. “Goddammit, girl, I’m only a man!”

Her self-possession stayed. “Yes, Father - but you are also the Master of the World.”

He stared in fascination; that anyone so intelligent could believe such rubbish still amazed him.

“You really believe that?”

“Of course.”

“And that entitles me, a mere man, to your - ah, considerable respect and obedience?”

“Naturally.”

He shook his head and poured himself a small brandy, aware of her disapproval. “Go on,” he challenged, “tell me I shouldn’t. Angela would.” He saw the uncertainty in her face, smiled at her discomfort, and at once felt guilty: she was very young. “Sorry. I retract that. It was rude and unfair. I do apologize.”

She rallied. “Father, I hesitated because I cannot judge, or am not fit to judge, your reactions to your cares and responsibilities. You are wise, honest, and right-thinking; therefore anything you may want is likely to be reasonable. But -” Her voice was less subservient. “- I suggest you do not drink any more.”

He laughed, enjoying this odd girl. “You sound like Plato talking of Socrates!”

“I am not Plato, Father.”

He found the implication vastly flattering and at the same time, vaguely annoying.’ ‘Really! While I am not fit to clean Socrates’ sandals, I’m not that old!”

“I did not mean to imply you were, Father, although Socrates, when he died by hemlock for the good of Athens, was still, at seventy-one, hale and hearty.”

Forbin looked at her with new interest. “Are you a Greek scholar? Yes, I thought so. … Rather more, I suspect, a Philhellene?” She nodded. “So how can you possibly accept me as the Master and all this -” He pulled himself up sharply, realizing he trod dangerous ground. ‘ ‘You really mean that, with your background, you find no difficulty in believing in me?”

“None.”

Forbin could not resist a surge of male vanity. He said slowly, “So, trusting in my, er, right-thinking -” He looked directly at her. “- if I said I wanted -“

She cut him short, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”

Forbin laughed uncertainly. “It is, I assure you, an academic question, but if I, er, did - would you think less of me?”

“No.”

Forbin was absorbed. In a weird way, the girl was right; he did know so much more, did shoulder hideous responsibilities. Soon, they might both die; he had only to say the word… . Instantly he rejected the idea. “As a Greek in spirit, you know you may be wrong; I might take advantage of my position. And are you not shocked that the ‘Father’ -” He mocked the word. “- could have such ordinary, earthy thoughts?”

“No, Father. Thought is too fast to be controlled. Action is another matter, and there I trust your judgment.”

Forbin took a deep breath. “Girl, you humble me. If I have given offense, forgive me. I am astonished how right you are in your conclusions, however doubtful I find your reasoning.”

She allowed herself to smile, deeply pleased at his words. Before she could answer, their brief interlude was shattered.

“Askari to Director!”

The tense voice jolted Forbin back to the real world. “Askari, go ahead!”

“Director, this from the far shore by cable. Medea. I spell: Mike, Echo, Delta, Echo, Alfa - Medea!”

Forbin’s mind reeled. “Medea, you say?”

“That is affirmative!”

He stared blankly at Joan; she might as well have been Donald Duck. He looked at his watch: forty minutes remained. Slowly he looked up at Joan, dimly recalling their conversation. Forty minutes. He smiled at her beautiful, innocent face.

Chapter XXIII

ANGELA HURRIED, fearful of the crowding darkness, dimly aware of row after row of rack-mounted electronics. The cable turned sharply down one corridor of the brain. In haste she overshot, and knew blind panic until she found it again. Now she was running, the flashlight waving, her heels clacking on the tiled floor. Another corner; ahead she saw light and sharp, angular shadows. The relief was enormous, and she slowed down, her mind functioning again. She noticed how cold and fresh the air was, real mountain air. Mountain air? Inside a mountain?

She dismissed such trivia and her recent fear at the sight of the men, two black silhouettes concentrating on a vast horseshoe control desk, their subdued voices echoing faintly, rebounding from smooth metal surfaces, reaching her from above, behind.

Neither commented on her arrival, but Blake recognized that she was there. “Here, hold this light - higher, woman, higher!” Their frantic search went on, Staples working methodically inwards from one end and Blake, so far as his tension would allow, doing the same from the other side, talking to himself, his fingers lightly touching the controls as he read the labels.

Her woman’s eye was astonished by the clinical cleanliness of the desk: not a speck of dust on the gleaming plastic and alloy. Idly she looked at the central array, banks of switches, controls, lights, video tubes, all totally incomprehensible to her.

“What are you looking for?”

“For Chrissake, woman, shut up and hold that lamp higher!”

Staples was more informative. “We have to find the defense circuit - if there is one - before we switch on.

“Switch on?” Angela was bewildered. “Isn’t it working?”

Blake swore terribly, shutting her up, but her eyes were busy.

Hesitantly she said, “There’s a bunch of things with a thin red line drawn round them. One label says ‘Defense Group.’ I can’t read the rest.”

Both men glared at her, then followed her pointing finger.

“Up there.”

Blake licked his dry lips and lurched across, pushing her out of the way, reaching up to touch, to be sure. “Thank Christ!” he said fervently, then snarled at her, “Why the hell didn’t you say so!” He slumped into the control seat, forcing himself to be calm, reading aloud the secondary labels: ” ‘Entrance’ … um, leave that be. … ‘Flooding’ - flooding? Jesus!” He made sure that switch was off. “Gas” got the same treatment. He gave a sharp cry of delight. “Here it is - ‘Mesh!’ That has to be it!” The switch was at ON. He fingered it, assailed by sudden doubt and the sheer weight of his responsibility. “Well - doesn’t it?”

“Yep. I go along with that,” said Joe. His unsteady voice betrayed his words.

Blake nodded. “You don’t think they pulled any fool trick like reversing the labels?”

Angela spoke. “No. This desk was poor old Fisher’s baby. He’d never do a thing like that. He was a scientist.”

Her firm opinion steadied Blake. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll buy that. Well, here goes!” For several seconds all three were as still as statues.

Blake laughed shakily. “Well … Hey, what’s this?”

One more switch remained. It was labeled “X,” and was ON.

“Joe, any ideas on this? You, Angela?” Neither could help. “Any way I look at it, I want no part of ‘X.’ “He put the switch to OFF and sat back, shaking.’ ‘Joe, just check, willya?” He watched anxiously as the craftsman obeyed, then glanced at his watch. “We haveta keep moving - missile control and power.”

The first group was obvious: they were the only red controls on the panel. After the tension of the “Defense” group, Blake switched that sinister bank to SAFE almost casually.

Joe had located the auxiliary power board. “No problems here, Doc. The loading is adjusted by Colossus. All I have to do is switch on.” He went on with a casual air that fooled no one. “Mebbe you want to check out the rest of the desk before -“

“There’s no time, Joe.” Blake had dropped his slangy, truck-driver style. “Just give me power.”

For five seconds the humans remained in a nerve-stretching limbo. Then, like a sleeper awakening, a hundred thousand tiny lamps on the control desk and the surrounding racks blinked and steadied into unwinking stares. They heard a soft sighing as the heat extractor system breathed life into the vast complex and, overhead, luminescent panels grew from deep yellow to a soft white glow.

Momentarily the three humans looked at each other, each feeling a strange awe, each aware they were intruders. Dirty, sweat-streaked, their clothes torn, they were savages from another world.

Blake snatched up a red phone. “Who is this - New York? Never mind why, just lissen! This is Dr. Blake, Chief of Staff, Colossus. I want Input Services, Colossus Main on cable, not radio - got that?” He covered the mouthpiece, grinned at Angela still looking around, her expression dazed. “Yeah - fairyland!” The grin went as he uncovered the phone. “Askari? The good word’s ‘Medea.’ I spell …

“That is correct. What - twenty, figures two zero minutes? Okay, I have that.” He dropped the handset carelessly , Angela replacing it. He buried his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes. Leaning back, he became suddenly conscious of his two companions looking at him. He got in ahead of Angela.

“I know, I know. Even if I had the time, and I haven’t, I couldn’t tell you. Fix some coffee.” He turned to die desk, both companions forgotten. Fumbling clumsily with his blouse pocket, he got Forbin’s tape cassette out and dropped it, swearing.

Staples handed it back, but Blake’s hands, through weakness and strain, bungled the insertion. “Joe - you do it.”

Input was his business, and Blake lost no time hunting for the right controls. He flicked one switch, got a red light, made another, and the red flickered and died, replaced by a steady green. He breathed out loudly, air whistling through his teeth, relaxed thankfully into the chair and took up the coffee mug with both hands, his gaze never leaving the green light.

“I can tell you this much: that tape is a personal message from the Director to the old Colossus. Even I don’t know what’s in it. When it’s through, I’m going to talk with Colossus, and you two take a walk while I do it. So you don’t like it - tough. But I’ll tell you one more thing: you know more than anyone else alive, except Forbin, me - and Colossus.”

The green light went out. Blake pushed home the jackplug of a headset. He looked meaningfully at his companions, who turned and walked rapidly away. Turning a corner, Angela saw Blake was taking no chances; headset on, he had swung his chair to watch them.

He adjusted the microphone, stabbed a switch, and spoke softly.