Colossus and Crab (25 page)

Perhaps Joan’s reference to Socrates jogged his memory, recalling that the Greek philosopher, concentrating on a problem, stood all one bitter night in the open, physically switched off, thinking. Possibly Forbin felt that what Socrates could do for nine hours he could attempt for thirty minutes. He succeeded.

Ironically, Forbin emerged from the Sanctum in relatively better shape than most of his staff. He walked very slowly, unsteadily; so did many others.

The hasty defense measures had worked as well as could be expected. Thanks to the mandatory sedation pills - Forbin had thrown his away - no one had gone out of his mind, the ear-defenders had prevented deafness, but some had suffered motion sickness, and the sick quarters were busy treating cuts and bruises. Profiting from the first test, little equipment had been damaged, but a steady stream of reports to Condiv showed that the fabric of the complex had been less fortunate. Cracked walls were common, several ceilings had failed, and floor tiling had been ruptured or loosened. Fultone gave devout thanks that the complex had been designed to a rigid anti-earthquake specification.

A pale, set-faced Joan greeted Forbin as he walked through the outer office. He beckoned her to follow and went to his apartment, where the housekeeper and a maid were restoring order. One look from him and they left hurriedly.

The armored shades had been retracted, but one sickened glance at the fury raging outside was enough for Forbin. Luckily for his peace of mind, the torrential rain reduced visibility to a few meters, giving no hint of the extent of the storm.

“Curtains,” he said shortly, sinking thankfully into an armchair. She found the switch, and as the curtains closed the room lights came on, yellow and feeble after the continuous lightning. But armorglas and thick curtains could not muffle the lash of rain, the rippling crash of thunder. “Brandy - you as well.”

Taking the drink, he nodded to a chair, watching as she sat with her characteristic neatness which, even now, had not deserted her. Fleetingly Forbin wished again she was not quite so well integrated, self-sufficient, feline somehow, but without claws - no, with well-concealed claws… .

She sat, attentive, feet together, nursing a very small brandy. He motioned her to drink, wanting to take a little of the stiffness out of her.

“A while back, you said you owed me obedience. I’m taking you up on that. I need a personal assistant for a - a task. Won’t take long, but you’ll have to trust my right-thinking.” A faint smile lit his tired face. “You won’t like all I do; accept the assignment and you’ll have to go through with it, come what may. Understand?”

She nodded quickly, breathing faster, watching his alert eyes, eyes in such contrast to the worn features, the dough-like pallor of the skin.

“You give me the blank check, then?”

“Of course, Father.”

“Think, girl. There may well be danger.”

“I will do my best.”

He sat up straighter. “Good, good … First, all we do, unless it is obviously known to others, is our secret.” Her eyes widened with surprise. “Want to back off?”

“No, Father. I trust you completely.” Being human, she could not resist a thrill of pride at that “we” and “us.”

“Very well. Speed is vital. Call Transportation. My helijet is to be ready for takeoff in thirty minutes - destination, Southampton Main. Be in it, with an overnight bag. Tell Transportation and your staff I am taking a short trip to inspect damage.” Already she was on her feet. “And take a bottle of brandy.” He indicated the sideboard.

She wasted no words. “Accommodation tonight?”

He grinned mirthlessly at her. “Leave that to me.”

Puzzled and very excited, she left at a brisk walk; outside the apartment she ran.

Transportation raised a problem: the storm still raged, conditions were not suitable for flying, especially for the Father. Sharply she overrode the objection: the craft was to be ready. Her staff instructed, she ran frantically to her quarters, packed, and reached the launch cell with five minutes to spare. The pilot barely glanced at her, staring apprehensively at a TV scan of local weather.

Forbin moved more slowly, thinking. He visited the Sanctum. Inside the door he stopped; as expected, the Martians were still there.

“Checking the Collector cannot start until the weather abates. I cannot waste time waiting. I am leaving to inspect local damage.” He kept his voice level, his words factual.

“How long will you be absent?”

“Hours. Condiv will keep me informed of the check-state.”

“That is well. The first twelve-hour extraction period will commence as soon as the check is completed, subject to our inspection of the collection sphere.”

Unable to trust his voice, Forbin nodded and left, digesting that news. Why twelve-hour extractions? Not out of consideration for humans, that was certain. It had to be related to their need for regeneration; a continuous storm would block their movements. On balance, that was good news.

“Ready, Captain?” Joan looked very small, already gripped by the safety limbs of her seat. He smiled encouragingly at her; she smiled gratefully back. The pilot spoke.

“Yes, Director, but it’ll be a pretty bumpy ride - and takeoff will be a lot noisier than usual. I’ll have to fire her straight out and up.”

“We’re happy to be in your hands, Captain.” He climbed awkwardly into the seat beside Joan, who was relieved to see he had an overnight bag. As he sat back, the limbs grasped his legs, chest, and head; only his arms were free. He spoke into his microphone. “Ready, Captain.”

The pilot’s voice came clear in his ear, professionally calm. “Stand by for full-power launch. Open cell doors.”

The view was daunting: swirling curtains of rain, brilliant as crystal in the vivid lightning; rain that changed direction, now vertical, now horizontal in the tempest’s ground eddies. The jets sprang to screaming life. The craft jerked, straining at the holding locks, vibrant with power.

“Now!” Under the craft’s full power, the pins sheared, the plane was enveloped in flame. A fearful jolt, and noise and flame ceased; the sky was black, then brilliant electric blue. Bouncing and quivering, the helijet climbed steeply, seemingly stationary to its passengers, Forbin gripping Joan’s hand as the world reeled about them. Suddenly they were through the thick overcast, into blinding light and a clear sky. The craft still bumped and quivered in the strong turbulence, but its occupants felt enormous relief.

” ‘Fraid we’ve overshot Southampton, Director.” For all his professional calm, relief was evident in the pilot’s voice. “Right now we’re at three thousand meters. That’s Winchester to the right. I’ll spread rotors, take her down gently, and creep back to Southampton. Reckon it’ll still be bumpy.”

Forbin spoke. “I’ll look at Winchester first. Make a slow pass at four hundred meters.”

Banking, they glimpsed the storm, a vast black/gray dome, the top deformed by the strong - natural - easterly wind, driving the whole sinister mass slowly down-Channel.

But Forbin forgot that sight, staring in horror at the ancient city of Winchester. Hardly a roof remained intact; holes gaped everywhere. Bricks from demolished chimney stacks, tiles, and glass littered the narrow streets. Great sheets of lead had been stripped from the roof of the cathedral, and its great glories, the eight-hundred-year-old stained glass windows, were no more. Heavy rain added a final touch of desolation to the apparently deserted scene.

“Find out the weather situation at Portsmouth,” snapped Forbin.

Portsmouth reported high winds, direction highly variable and gusting to fifty knots but falling, with heavy rain and visibility at ground level, thirty meters.

“Go there.”

“Sir, landing conditions are pretty marginal.”

“We’ll take that risk, Captain.”

They made it, but the way the pilot wiped his face as he switched off spoke volumes. Two oilskinned figures ushered Forbin and Joan into a car, transferring them to a drafty office, wind howling in through a shattered window. Forbin cut short the apologies; he wanted a telephone - and privacy. The basement switchboard gave both. To the startled operator Forbin said, “I want the English Prime Minister, personally. Then you may go.”

Many lines were down, and it was ten minutes before Forbin said, “Prime Minister? Forbin here. I’m at Portsmouth helo terminal. I want the Admiral of your War Game fleet to report to me at once - and please instruct him to obey my orders implicitly.”

Chapter XXV

JOAN LIVED THROUGH the next few hours in a state of complete bewilderment. She made calls, took calls, arranged transport, took notes, typed orders, fixed food, drink, and oilskins - and watched over Forbin, doing all she could to ease his load. Forbin worked as if the devil was on his heels, giving orders but no explanations. His color was much better; he acted with a speed any man ten years his junior would have envied. She had never seen him in such a ruthless, dynamic mood. Even his proverbial courtesy had gone. He had no opposition, but the slightest hesitation and Forbin was down on the offender like a ton of bricks.

Within two hours of that first call, they were in conference with the English “Admiral.” He turned out to be an academic figure with bad breath, myopic eyesight, and a bald head, but whatever his outward defects, there was nothing wrong with his brain. Like Forbin a cyberneticist by training, he held the Director in obvious veneration, not as Father but as a preeminent scientist.

Collecting the oilskins and more brandy, Joan missed their urgent discussion, returning only just in time to leave with them, loaded down with baggage.

They piled into a car, which at once tore off through deserted, rainswept streets, swerving and skidding round the larger piles of debris, and bumping heavily over the lesser. She glimpsed over the baggage on her lap, the venerable shape of Nelson’s Victory lying on her side, two masts gone. The car swayed round a giant crane, skidded on its railroad track, and slid to a halt beside a gray painted monster. At once the Admiral shot out, clutching a large case, and closely followed by Forbin, ran up the gangway, leaving Joan to work out her own salvation. She commandeered the driver to help with the gear, and followed as quickly as she could. Rain still fell as if it would never stop. Hampered by her outside oilskin coat, she negotiated the gangway, keeping a careful eye on the men ahead. If she lost track of them, she’d never find them, not in that enormous ship.

Hotels apart, people of the twenty-second century had no experience of ships of any size, and Joan’s knowledge of ships down to and including sailboats were zero. Hurrying after the men, it seemed to her that this one was composed of sharp edges and steep ladders. Her youth told, and on the last of many ladders, she caught up as they entered a deckhouse.

“This,” said the Admiral, panting, “is - or was - the charthouse. We use it as the computer programing terminal. That’s realistic: a hit here in the old days would most probably wipe out most of the staff. In a game a hit obviously puts out ship control and -“

“Yes, yes!” Forbin cut in. “Get on with the program insertion!” He stepped out of the small compartment onto the open bridge, staring at the low rainclouds. “Wind’s dropping, yes, definitely dropping.”

Joan asserted herself. “You must put this oilskin on. Now!”

Meekly he allowed her to get him into it. “I think a small drop of that excellent cognac will do us both good. Put our stomachs in a good frame of mind before we go to sea.”

“Sea?” She stared at him in surprise. “You mean now - in this thing?”

He was more relaxed, disposed to talk. He smiled. “Be respectful, girl - this is Warspite, the flagship!”

She knew this was but a temporary letup in his manner, filling in time until the Admiral had completed his work. Before she could answer, the Admiral appeared in the doorway. “Program and coordinates are in, sir. But you do understand I shall have primary control ashore -“

“Yes, yes,” said Forbin impatiently. “Get ashore - and us moving!”

“The tide’ll serve for another two hours -“

“Damn the tide! We can’t sail too soon!”

197

“I’ve left a chart. Any time you want a position, call me.” He looked appealingly at Joan. “It’s a bit of a lash-up, sir.”

“So long as it works!” Forbin glanced meaningly at his watch. With a hasty duck of his bald head the Admiral scurried off down a ladder.

Forbin sighed with relief. “Let’s get in the charthouse and have some coffee with that brandy.”

Beside the small computer input position there was a big flat desk, and on it the chart. At the back of the charthouse was a bench with a padded seat. Forbin sat down, dropping again into his relaxed mood. For the present he had done all he could do; now he must wait and stay calm. “You know, Joan,” he confided, “I’ve long had a secret desire to sail in one of these ships.” He glanced out of the window, streaming with rain. “Gives one an idea of what it must have been like… . D’you know anything about ships?”

“No, Father.”

That pleased him. “Well, this is Warspite, a battleship. In their day, this sort of ship was the ultimate in sea power. Reasonably fast, massively armored, and carrying the heaviest guns, they could smash anything afloat. Warspite - a famous name - is a replica of one built in 1913. Out there -” He pointed to four rain-shrouded vessels at anchor. “- that’s Lion, then Dreadnought, the next one’s Nelson, and the last ship’s Temeraire. Marvelous names, dating back in some cases hundreds of years….” He sipped his coffee, staring pensively at nothing. He grinned, and looked years younger. “Can’t help wondering what all those old English admirals would think, a citizen of the USNA walking the bridge of a fleet flagship!” His mood darkened; he said soberly, “I don’t think they’d mind.”

Joan thought she saw an opportunity. “But what -“

“No! Your job is to keep notes, man the radio - and look after me.” He went on, more gently. “Seasickness bother you?”

“I don’t know, Father. I’ve never been to sea.”

He smiled, put a protective arm round her. “Nothing to worry about: you’ll be fine!” His honesty asserted itself. “As a matter of fact, I’ve not had much experience either. We’ll have to look after each other.”