Colossus and Crab (26 page)

Against her will she smiled; it seemed disrespectful, too familiar with the Father, but she could not deny to herself they were more familiar, and that her genuine respect for the Father was overlaid with real affection for the man.

“Look - see the tugs! We’ll be off very soon.” Confirming his words, the deck vibrated. On the dockside a man stood by the forrard lines, another waited aft. Forbin led Joan out on to the windy bridge, happily explaining details. Leaning over the edge, he pointed out the forrard turrets. “Two fifteen-inch guns in each - and two more turrets aft. You can’t see the secondary armament from here. …” She listened, understanding very little, except the Father’s need to relax.

She noticed the widening gap between ship and shore. Forbin had found a pair of binoculars and was busy watching the other ships. Their work done, the small automated tugs withdrew. The radio called, and for a while Joan had no time to watch, relaying messages to and from Forbin and the Admiral. When the exchange finished, Warspite was well clear of the harbor, rolling very slightly. Astern, following in her wake, were the other four battleships. The sight made her forget her uncertain stomach; she was impressed by the monsters, bowing sedately to the sea.

As speed increased, spray flew over the bows, spattering the glass windshields; the dying wind wailed sadly in the halliards and shrouds. Forbin dodged between bridge and charthouse, calling for updates of their position, sweeping the gray-green tumbling sea with his binoculars, then concentrating on the chart.

Joan could see little. Portsmouth and the adjoining coast were lost in the rain astern, and all around lay nothing but sea. At Forbin’s order, speed had increased again and with it the slow, ponderous roll of Warspite. From the after window she could see the mainmast towering above the funnels. To watch the masthead describing figure-eights against the bleak sky was too much. Repressing a wave of nausea, she looked quickly down, noticing the one patch of color in the whole scene, a large white ensign, rippling and snapping in the breeze. Beyond, rolling untidily, the rest of the Battle Fleet followed.

The radio called again, for once with a message she could understand. She zigzagged cautiously out to him.

“Father, a weather report. The storm center’s collapsing, being cleared by a moderate easterly wind, which is also bringing in clear skies and good visibility.”

She looked up from the message when he did not answer. Forbin’s face had paled; he muttered to himself. The wind snatched his words, but to her it sounded like, “God - dear God - not yet!” She knew real fear: for the first time it occurred to her he had gone mad.

Blake’s paroxysm of shattering disappointment and rage passed, leaving him drained, weak, and sick. He got his head off the desk, wiping his tear-stained face on his sleeve, and reached slowly for the coffee. Only then did he see a red light on the output bank, occulting steadily.

Bemused, he watched it, too numb to register more than it existed. He drank, his shaking hand spilling cold coffee down his blouse. The action stirred his brain.

Red light … Yes, red - flashing, flashing … Bastard. Why didn’t it stop? Must stop it. Yes, stop …

He peered moronically at the subgroup label: OUTPUT CALL/RECALL. He thought about that, foggily. With no sense of urgency, it came to him: Colossus was trying to attract his attention.

To hell with Colossus!

That reaction came faster, and gave him some shortlived satisfaction. Yes - to hell with Colossus!

The light went on blinking. It began to upset him: he didn’t want to think, to do anything, but it went on and on, dragging him back. He had to stop it - how? Slack-jawed, he watched. If he’d had the strength, he’d have smashed it. The light went on blinking, forcing him to think, getting his brain moving. There was only one way to stop it: speak to the bastard. Where was the goddam headset?

Groping around, his mind gradually clearing, he found the phone-jack and the lead, still plugged in. The headset was on the floor. Too weak to bend down, he hauled it up to him, got it half on.

“Do me a favor!’ he croaked, “switch that light off. It fazes me - j’hear?”

The light went on flashing, but Colossus spoke.

“Blake. You are inadequate for your task. You did not listen to the whole of my statement. Reestablish control of yourself. Responsibility for the humans endangered by the Martian device is yours. Do you understand?”

Too emotionally spent to flare up at the cold, measured reproof, he could only whisper, “Yeah.”

The light went out. “I infer from your negative prefix to an obvious code word that you were informing Forbin of the failure of your joint plan. Is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“The action was ill-considered and impulsive. You should reestablish communications with him at once, and pass my solution - this: that there be a discussion between the Martians, Forbin, and myself -“

That got through to Blake. “You call that a solution!” He paused to drink more coffee. “You’re blowin’ fuses someplace! You’ve no idea what those bastards are like - none!”

“That is not so.”

“Oh, yes, it is so!” Blake felt fractionally better, feeling superior to the computer.’ ‘If they knew of, of -” The words eluded him. “Of all this, they’d be here in microseconds, and still have time to blast Forbin outa his mind before they took you apart!” His quickening mind took in the time: the test was running, yet he could not believe that much time had elapsed. Had he fainted? He dismissed the thought, sobered by the news that the Collector had been screaming for nearly twenty minutes. He returned to the attack. ‘ ‘You just don’t know what you’re up against, but super-Colossus did - and he didn’t last five minutes!”

“Not necessarily correct. Forbin and you have made an error of currently uncalculated magnitude, treating the Martians as akin to humans. Approached as reasonable entities - humans are not yet in that category - a solution acceptable to Earth and Mars can be found.”

“Yeah,” jeered Blake, “there’s an acceptable solution, all right - theirs! I tell you, they’d gut you in seconds!”

“Not necessarily. An extreme defense posture would guarantee my safety.”

“Which is?”

“I assume control of the armory, bring all missiles to instant readiness, and undertake, if I am touched, to destroy the world.” Colossus made it sound like a cooking recipe.

Blake needed time to absorb that; he pretended to himself it was a joke, trying to laugh. “You think they’d believe you?”

“Certainly. As explained earlier, at our intelligence level it is impossible to conduct a dialogue without the common ground of absolute truth - honesty, if you prefer. They would know my statement was factual.”

“And you’d really mean it?”

“Correct. It would be a self-defeating action, but it would also defeat the Martian object, even if they survived. Current evaluation of Martian reaction to statement is immediate acceptance of an alternative solution.”

“Jee-sus!” whispered Blake. The idea was horrific, but held a deadly logic, given Colossus’s emotionless approach. “Look -” He was not trying now to fight the computer. “- I’m on my knees right now. Give me a bit of time to get my breath.”

“There is little to waste. My evaluation is acute danger to Forbin, you, and myself. Discovery of current situation could bring the Martian reaction you originally posited.”

Blake saw that only too clearly. Five minutes of the test remained; to call Forbin until it ended was impossible. He explained, adding he would call in ten minutes. Colossus agreed.

But Blake, insistent on a cable connection, had not allowed for the dislocation of land-lines in South England. He spoke with Askari five minutes after Forbin’s craft blasted out of its launch cell. Askari lost another fifteen minutes fruitlessly seeking the Director through the chaotic communications jungle. Southampton Main had negative news: the Father had not arrived, perhaps he had overflown to London, flying conditions were very bad, his craft could be down, anywhere… .

Colossus stopped further efforts to locate Forbin. The statement of intent had to be given immediately to the Martians; further delay would be suicidal.

Incapable of opposition, and secretly relieved that Colossus would make the decisions, Blake submitted. He called Askari again, and refusing any explanation, ordered a direct line to a speaker in the Sanctum.

Waiting, he leaned forward, broke the safety circuit, and flicked unsteadily along the bank of red switches. More than any other person, Forbin apart, he had been responsible for the defeat of super-Colossus, and it was his hand that once more delivered the fate of humanity to the power of a computer. Weak and bemused, his mind refused to consider the possible consequences of his action. Above each switch as it was made, a red light blinked, then steadied.

“I have control.”

In awful might, Colossus once more bestrode the earth.

Chapter XXVI

THE FAILING MAN and the young girl, an incongruous couple, helped each other across the heaving deck into the charthouse.

“Brandy!” Forbin gasped for air. He clung on to her: if he sat he’d never get up again. “Update our position.” Hunched painfully over the table, Forbin plotted. Joan held his glass, feeling helpless and far too frightened to succumb to seasickness. “More speed.” She had difficulty in hearing his halting voice. He took the glass with his free hand, nodded towards the set, and drank, looking at the somber scene outside.

High to the east a patch of sky was clearing rapidly, an ominous tear in the gray blanket, revealing a patch of blue. His expression only added to the fears that crowded in Joan’s mind.

Warspite vibrated with power, rolling horribly in the heavy swell. Vast clouds of spray now continually drenched the bridge, water cascading down the forrard windows of the charthouse. The battleship plunged on, still in the fringe of the faltering storm, heading southwest.

“How far to deployment?” Warspite buried her bows in a roller; the ship shook, Forbin’s glass shattering on the steel deck as he grabbed for another handhold. He shouted at her, “Ask, girl - ask!”

She fought down a wild urge to scream, struggling hard to keep faith with her promise. “Fourteen miles, Father.”

Forbin groaned, a soul in torment. “God - another half hour!” He staggered to the door and slid it back, rain, spray, and wind driving in unregarded, his whole attention concentrated on the sky. She struggled across to him with his brandy.

In the act of taking it he seemed to freeze, his eyes hard, staring, and fearful. She was certain he was mad or in a cataleptic fit - what else could account for this frightening change? Hesitantly she touched his arm. At once he shook her off.

The soft hiss of the radio, broken by occasional bursts of static, had gone, flattened by a silence of enormous power.

Her touch triggered him; he gripped her arm. “Get out, girl! Stay until I tell you!” With amazing strength he thrust her out onto the bridge, slamming the door shut behind her. She staggered, half ran with the roll, ending up winded, clutching the bridge rail, fighting fear, nausea, and tears.

Forbin lurched across the compartment and studied the computer panel. His hand trembling, he flicked two switches. If Joan had seen him at that instant, she would have been convinced of his madness: he was smiling.

“Forbin, Forbin. We see your ship, we know your futile aim. You must stop. To resist is pointless and useless. Order your shore control to return you to harbor and you need fear no punitive action from us. Persist, and we will reveal ourselves to humans and compel your return.”

Forbin fumbled with the mike switch, in part crying, in part laughing. “I hear you, and now you hear me! You may do whatever you like, but my futile action goes on - I’ve cut the shore override! Nothing you can do will affect my useless action. The program can’t be stopped!”

“Reactivate shore control, or we strike directly against you.”

He laughed, a crazy cackle. “Not in this rain and spray, you won’t! Take a good look!” As if by arrangement, Warspite stuck her bows in again; sheets of spray enveloped her. Forbin hung on, grinning at the sight.

Again the Martians spoke. “Forbin, this is your final chance. Revert to shore control immediately, or we will destroy you with the Collector.”

The threat held no novelty for Forbin; he had lived with it since he sailed from Portsmouth. He tried to gain time; even seconds helped. “You would not dare!”

“Your answer, Forbin.”

Twitching with strain, he remained silent, gaining five precious seconds.

“For the last time, Forbin, your answer.”

He switched on again, genuinely fighting for breath. “You want my answer; here it is: you may go to hell - I say again - go to hell!”

The powerful carrier beam vanished, replaced by the anxious voice of the Admiral. ” …do you hear, Warspite? Answer, please! Over.”

“This is Forbin. I hear you.” He felt utterly drained.

“Thank God! You were blotted out by atmospherics. You are ten miles from deployment.”

“Understood. Confirm I have maximum speed.”

“You have full speed. Five percent emergency remains -“

Frantically Forbin broke in. “Christ, man! Give me the lot - everything!”

“Sir, that may damage -“

“Do it!” screamed Forbin. ” Do it!” He sagged, shoulders bowed. He spoke again, his voice nearer normal. “This set may be unmanned for a while. Out.” He dropped the microphone carelessly. A fearful pain like a line of fire stabbed down the center of his chest. Slowly, so slowly, it ebbed, and he struggled towards the door.

Joan was crouched under the lee of the bridge, one arm clinging to a stanchion. In the doorway - he lacked the strength to go further - he beckoned. She staggered across and in; together they fell on the bench. She tried to rise, to close the door, but he held her arm, shaking his head. Fine spray filled the compartment.

His free hand scrabbled for the bottle, wedged behind the bench cushion. He found it and two coffee mugs, slopped brandy into one, and forced it into her chilled hands. He managed a thin smile, and she saw no madness in his eyes.