Colossus (13 page)

“Cleo, my darling,” he buried his nose in her still-damp hair, “I love the smell of your hair.”

Cleo, who had leaned back against him, stiffened slightly, and opened her eyes.

“It reminds me of new bread.”

“Charles darling, you say the nicest things.”

Forbin raised his head for a moment and stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror. “Do I? “

Cleo smiled, relaxed again and closed her eyes. His other hand, more enterprising than the first, had unzipped her blouse.

“Darling,” she said dreamily, “don’t you think we would be more comfortable—”

And then the phone sounded.

With commendable self-control, neither spoke.

Gently Forbin withdrew his forces, pausing only to kiss the back of her neck, and went to the phone. Cleo took a deep breath and looked at herself thoughtfully in the mirror as she zipped her blouse.

“Yes?” said Forbin in a tired, flat voice. He listened for a moment. “What! Both of them? I’ll be right over.”

And that, thought Cleo, is that. Charles the incipient lover was gone; Professor Forbin was right back on the job. “I’m sorry Cleo, but something odd is going on—”

“What, again?”

“This is new—both teletypes appear to have jammed at the same moment.”

“A line failure?”

“No, Fisher has checked with CIA—they’re getting the same effect at their end.” Forbin paused at the door. “Are you coming?”

“No, Charles. Unless you want me, I’ll sit this one out.” She felt tired, and the way things were, she did not care if Colossus and Guardian had discovered perpetual motion. “Right,” said Forbin briskly, and was gone.

Cleo contemplated herself once more in the mirror, then wryly reached for her brassiere.

In the watch room Forbin found the duty watch staring at the two teletypes.

“How long has this been going on?” “About four or five minutes.” “What do you make of it, Jack?”

“I’ve no idea, Charles. It could be a mechanical fault—but both machines went off at the same moment.”

Blake, unlit cigar jutting aggressively, spoke; “I reckon the transmitting speed is too fast for these machines. Don’t ask me why they did it together, I don’t know—but I know teletypes. It just ain’t in their natures to do more than two hundred characters a minute.”

Forbin called CIA, who confirmed Blake’s view. They were already taking high-speed tapes for a slow playback, and would start feeding it to the Zone as soon as they had enough.

“If this stuff is only twice as fast as before,” Blake said, “we’ll never catch up.”

Forbin let that pass. Fisher broke in to say that, when the speed had increased, both machines were deep in finite absolutes, out on the very fringe of known mathematics. Forbin was digesting this when CIA called and announced that the new speed was two hundred times faster than the old.

“Holy cow!” breathed Blake in a hushed voice. “Two hundred!”

Fisher, curiously enough, did not seem all that interested. He was reading the latest material, one hand plucking away at his eyebrows. He frowned, read it again, then without comment passed it to Blake.

Blake stared at it for a long time, then handed it back. “Mebbe that Russian bum, Kupri or somesuch, at Gorki or Leveson at Oxford might help, but not me. I know when I’m licked.”

Forbin also read it, without comment, and gave it back to Fisher. There was a long silence. Finally Forbin spoke. “That’s about all we needed. I’ve no idea what it means. None of us does, and I doubt if even Leveson would do any better than you, Jack.” He took a deep breath. “Both machines are now beyond the frontiers of human knowledge in whatever field they are now dealing with.”

“Check,” said Blake, flatly.

“And,” Forbin continued, “this material they’re exchanging may not be understandable to us for another decade—certainly not now.”

Fisher blinked at the paper in his hand. “Well, on the bright side, we have no valid reason for supposing that this exchange will go on. After all, we still assume this is only an intelligence-gathering operation on the part of both machines, each merely trying to size up, as it were, the opposition?” He stared at Forbin, “Well, don’t we?” Forbin remained silent.

Behind them, all around and enveloping them was the subdued and ceaseless chatter of the teletypes, like myriad hosts of tireless insects. In Forbin’s mind the sound had assumed a more menacing, frightening tone.

Chapter 12

Five thousand miles away the Soviet Premier was listening intently to his Chief of Defense, who had urgently requested the meeting. Also in the room, quiet and unobtrusive, was Academician Kupri, Chief Scientist of the Guardian of Socialist Soviet Peoples.

“Those, then, are the facts,” the Defense Chief was saying, “Academician Kupri and I have reached this conclusion. First, the output of both machines is too fast for any humans. Nevertheless, there is the risk that the Americans may process the slowed-up material and discover facts, transmitted by Guardian, that could endanger the State. The Americans have the same problem, but we cannot ignore ours for that reason. Second, we cannot stop their machine. There is clear evidence that there is interplay between them, so if we stop ours, the transmissions from Colossus may seduce Guardian from its duty.”

“You agree, Kupri?”

He did. In response to the Chairman’s question, Kupri spoke in a flat, unemotional voice of the extreme urgency—in his view—of the matter. It was vital that the USSR and the USNA agree to stop the transmissions simultaneously, and that it be done at once. Unknown intelligence was streaming out at an unimaginable rate, and while he, Kupri, did not like to see this most interesting experiment stop, he now realized he was in error in recommending that the facilities Guardian had asked for should be provided.

“I accept your views, Comrades.” The Chairman thought for a moment. “I will call the President and suggest we hand this matter to our experts for action. You speak English, Academician?”

“Yes, Chairman.”

The Chairman ordered his secretary to call Washington, then turned to the question of parameters. The Marshal was inclined to make difficulties, but the Chairman told him sharply he wanted his final views within twelve hours.

The secretary returned and said the President would be on the line in three minutes. The Chairman added that he intended telling the President that he would have an answer on the parameter question within twenty-four hours.

It was just after eight o’clock in the morning, Eastern Standard Time, in Washington. The President looked sourly at his watch; eight o’clock. He never felt at his best in the morning, and this was a bad one. Called at six forty-five, his eyes were barely open when Prytzkammer had thrust the phone into his hand.

“Sorry, Mr. President—it’s Forbin, says it’s urgent.” The President growled into the phone, “What now?”

“Sorry to call this early, Mr. President, but I don’t like the way this Colossus-Guardian exchange is shaping. We no longer understand what the machines are sending to each other, and the rate of transmission has been increased two hundred times.”

“So you work faster.”

“It’s more complicated than that …”

“If it’s that complicated, don’t try to tell me now. Grab an air-car and I’ll see you at a quarter past eight.” The President slammed the phone down, feeling a little better.

“Get the hell out of here, P. Let me shower and have my coffee. And make a note—that guy Forbin is all shot. I must think about a replacement.”

The morning did not improve when he was confronted with some particularly difficult paper work. The President was still wrestling with a knotty problem when Prytzkammer came in to tell him that a hotline call from USSR had been arranged.

“It’s bound to be those damn machines—get Forbin on the line—he’ll be in an air-car, and get him fast!”

But Prytzkammer did not get Forbin, for the Director had already arrived at the terminal and had taken a cab.

The President cursed his aide and Forbin impartially, the former for not arranging a staff car—all were fitted with a security-cleared phone—and the latter for being in a cab and therefore out of touch. Prytzkammer, one eye on the clock, just stood and took it. He had to.

“Forbin will be here in five to ten minutes, sir,” he finally ventured.

“I know that!” raged the President, “and that Russian will be on the line in one minute forty-five!”

For one hideous moment Prytzkammer thought the President would back down on the hotline call. He did the only thing he could think of.

“Will you back down on the hotline call, then, sir?”

“I don’t back down for any crummy bastard!” The President was a delicate shade of purple.

“Of course, Mr. President, sir,” said Prytzkammer submissively, “I’m sorry. With your permission I’ll get on the Moscow line.” He left hurriedly and the President glowered after him. He had a suspicion he had fallen for a sucker punch; on the other hand, blasting Prytzkammer had toned him up. Anyway, he could handle the Chairman, with or without Forbin. He poured himself his fourth cup of coffee, added cream and drank it, watching the sweep hand on his watch. Precisely on time he lifted the receiver.

“President speaking.”

“The Chairman of the USSR speaking. As this is a matter of urgency, I will speak in English. Mr. President, I am informed by my advisers that both Guardian and Colossus are exchanging data which our experts do not understand—and which they believe your experts will not understand either. The matter is made more serious by the sudden increase in the speed of transmission. I believe this situation is not in your interest, or mine, and I propose to you that we both stop these transmissions as soon as our experts can arrange it.”

Prytzkammer, listening in his own room, recalled the President’s view that Forbin was “all shot.” If he was, it looked as if it was catching.

“What is your objection to these transmissions, Mr. Chairman?” said the President.

“To be frank, at this speed we cannot be sure what our machine may reveal of our defenses. Equally, if we stop ours, and you do not stop yours, it is possible yours may influence or even inhibit our Guardian.” He paused to let that sink in. “You will appreciate that you are also in exactly the same position.”

“You consider this is urgent, then?” temporized the President. He was busy recalling what Forbin had said; as far as it had gone, it was clearly on the same lines as the Reds. Damn and the hell with Forbin, thought the President, conveniently forgetting he had hung up on his adviser.

“Yes, Mr. President, I do. I am informed that these machines are now sending at a rate of more than a thousand words a minute.”

“A thou—” The President managed to strangle some of his surprise. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

It was not lost on the Chairman. “Perhaps you have not been kept fully informed, Mr. President?” he said smoothly. “I have all the information I require,” retorted the President sharply.

“Of course, Mr. President, I am sure you have.” The Chairman’s tone was soft and mollifying, yet still contained a streak of unbelief.

The President thought quickly. “Very well, Mr. Chairman. I agree. We will stop both machines as soon as our experts have arranged a time, both to go off at the same time, and neither to be switched on for transmission without prior agreement or at least consultation with the other.”

“You do not wish to consult your experts?” queried the Chairman.

“No,” said the President firmly. He would show this Russian bastard who was the boss in the USNA.

“Very well, Mr. President, let me congratulate you on your speedy decision. When can you have your expert available on this line?”

“Ten minutes,” said the President promptly. Beat that.

“That will do excellently. I will see that my man is waiting. He will be Academician Vlassov Kupri; may I know the name of your expert?”

“Forbin, Professor Charles Forbin.”

“Thank you, Mr. President, for your cooperation.”

“Thank you for yours,” replied the President guardedly, and hung up.

He thumbed the button for his aide, but Prytzkammer was already halfway through the door.

“Did you get that, P? These cotton-picking computers talking at a thousand words a minute! I will have a few things to say to Forbin when he gets here.”

Prytzkammer was feeling rather daring that morning. “If you will pardon me saying so, sir,” he watched the frown gathering on the President’s brow, “I think you should remember that Forbin did try to tell you this morning …”

“Yeah, I know,” snarled the President. It was not much of a snarl; the aide knew his boss, and that if you had a watertight case and stood up to him, he would quickly subside. “Anyway, get Forbin here fast.”

Prytzkammer nodded and headed for the door.

“And get some more coffee sent up!” the First Citizen hurled at his aide’s retreating back. He thought of something else. “And tell my wife I can give her ten minutes at eight” At eight-ten Forbin was ushered into the PPA’s office. He looked tired, and none too sweet-tempered.

“Morning, Professor,” said Prytzkammer advancing with outstretched hand. “Forgive me for not arranging transportation from the terminal, but—’

“Oh, that.” Forbin dismissed the matter with a shrug as he shook hands briefly. “President ready?”

“I think you’d better let me give you the rundown first,” and with Forbin seated, Prytzkammer brought him up to date. He had not expected his news of the President’s action to be welcome; it would be a blow to the Professor’s pride. But he hardly expected the reaction he got.

“The bungling, stupid, ignorant clown!” Forbin spoke with great intensity, his teeth clenched. Prytzkammer glanced anxiously at the doors to the Presidential Sanctum. Fortunately Forbin’s voice was not overloud—yet.

“Now, now, take it easy, Forbin.”

Forbin did not take it easy, he swore. It was a long, involved and comprehensive swear.

“OK, Forbin, I know how you feel, but the old man did not mean to hurt your pride, the way he was fixed—”

“What in tarnation has pride to do with it?” Forbin looked genuinely puzzled. “Really, you people here are so far from reality. Prytzkammer, let me get it across to just one person in this freak show.” He leaned over the aide’s desk until his face was only inches from Prytzkammer’s.