Fall of Colossus (7 page)

“Yes, yes, my dear. Once I’ve got this new extension arranged, perhaps I will slow down.” He went on, more to himself than to her. “Must get that sorted out. Quite unnecessary, I think. Quite.” He looked at her and smiled. “I won’t be late, my dear.”

Watching him go, a little aged before his time, Cleo felt her resolution harden. God! He was getting to be like a sleepwalker… .

At eight o’clock precisely there was a faint rustle in the bushes on one side of the terrace, and Blake, dressed in black, hopped lightly over the low wall. He grinned mischievously at her. “Is the coast clear?”

Despite her nervousness, she managed a genuine smile. “You fool!”

Blake looked at her thoughtfully, “Yeah… .” His expression became harder, businesslike. “Can’t stay long. It’s a cinch Colossus is tracking me.”

Instinctively, they had moved away from the light into the shadows at one end of the terrace.

“Wasn’t easy—had to get one of the boys to rig a light failure in my block—but I’ve managed to get the diagram out of the file and into another which is marked out to you. Should be in your office tomorrow morning. By then I’ll have the tape sample with it. Both in an envelope. Slide it out—drop the damned lot on the floor, or something—then you get it out.”

“How?” Fear was clutching at Cleo again.

He spoke without commenting. “The foolproof way would be in Charles’ pocket.”

She stared at him in amazement. “You can’t be serious!”

“Lady, this is not a game!”

“But if Charles got caught!”

Blake shrugged. “Sure—if! You know as well as I do that the Sect wouldn’t dare touch him without specific instructions from Colossus—and what are the chances of that?”

Cleo, fearful as she was, was tempted, but to endanger her husband, an innocent man… .

“No.” She spoke with utter finality. “Leave it to me. I’ll do it.” Blake squeezed her arm. “Good girl. Thought you’d say that. Anyway, after Charles, you’re the best bet. Neither of the papers has an electronic tracer on it.” He glanced quickly around the shadowy terrace. He pointed. “Stick the envelope behind the cushions of that chair. I’ll come in with Charles for a drink tomorrow evening and collect it. Next day I’m off.”

“Off—where?”

“Where d’you think, honey?” His teeth gleamed in the starlight “Betcha haven’t checked out those positions!”

“No, I haven’t.” She felt a fool. “Where are they?”

“The first is just outside St. John’s, Newfoundland.”

“That won’t be difficult. It’s only forty minutes from London to New York. St. John’s can’t be much more.”

“Sure, but I have to get to the exact location. The time-consuming part starts on the St. John’s landing pad!” He took her by the shoulders. “Bear up, Cleo! This time tomorrow you’ll have done your share, and I’ll be on my way!” He kissed her lightly on the brow. “Good luck to both of us—and if you get an attack of the shakes, think of Billy!”

She was hardly aware he had kissed her. “Teddy, if it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t even start.”

He nodded and jumped lightly over the wall. Halfway in the bushes, she saw his impish grin again. “Now you give yourself a drink—and if you need a good laugh, just look up the other position!” He waved once more, and was gone.

Slowly she wandered indoors. Without Blake’s comforting presence, the night had grown chill. She poured herself a stiff brandy, thinking of what had to be done tomorrow. She was on her way to bed when she remembered Blake’s remark about the second position and turned back for an atlas. It would have been easy to get it off the domestic computer, but that was too risky. There was no physical or electronic connection with Colossus, but none of the Fellowship trusted even the simplest calculator.

She plotted the position, then plotted it again. To make sure she was doing it correctly, she checked the first one. Yes, that was as Blake had said, just south of St. John’s. She turned to a larger scale map that gave details of the city and replotted the second position once more. Blake might have found it funny, but as far as she was concerned, it only added to her terror.

Anyway she worked it, that second position came out to the southern end of Central Park, New York.

Chapter Five

There were parts of the labyrinthian complex that Forbin only vaguely knew existed. In a building covering more than thirty square miles—and still growing—that was hardly surprising; in addition there were compartments whose very existence was unknown to him. This was one.

Sect Lodge One, located in a subterranean level deep below the public concourse, was housed in what had been designated as a general storage area. Colossus had reallocated it when the Sect became a recognized reality and of potential value. Apart from the rare maintenance worker ghosting by on his tricycle, few passed that way, and those who did knew better than to pry beyond the door bearing the Sect badge. Not that that would have done much to satisfy such dangerous curiosity. The inner door, blank and uninformative, opened solely to Sect members and only to them, after Colossus had checked their visual identity and electronic badge with the record. If both matched, the inner door opened.

But if the records failed to coincide, the inner door remained closed, and the outer one at once locked. An alarm sounded in a distant office, and the unfortunate, trapped, had to wait for investigation. Some members with claustrophobic tendencies had nightmares about this possible situation. Had a stranger penetrated beyond the inner door, be would have had a considerable shock. Outside, the gray, interminable corridor, decorated only by a spaghetti of service pipes, was a bleak, silent, and dustless service duct for humans, but inside that inner door… .

Beyond it were two doors, one leading to the members’ robing room, the other to the meeting hall. Some forty feet long and twenty feet wide, the hall was walled in shimmering gold, except for the short wall behind the Chairman’s place. That wall was draped from luminescent ceiling to dark-blue carpeted floor with a matching blue velvet curtain. On this hung the Colossus badge; through it projected two wide-angled lenses, the eyes of Colossus. Those two shining, black lenses gave the real bite to the scene; all the rest, including the long, bare polished table surrounded by the tall chairs, could be no more than theatrical trappings, but those cameras were for real… .

Six chairs ranged along each side of the table. At the head, beneath the badge, an even higher, more ornate chair: Galin’s. At this moment, all twelve chairs were filled by the senior members of the Lodge. They sat, some silent, some exchanging brief, subdued—but not, of course, whispered—remarks with their neighbors. Some fidgeted self-consciously with their magnificent white silk robes, blazoned on the left breast with the Sect badge in gold and crimson. All were waiting, trying not to look at the empty Chairman’s throne—or the lenses above it.

Galin, in his private robing room, considered that he had kept them waiting long enough, gave himself a final searching stare in the mirror, and rustled in, gorgeous in his gold robe. In those surroundings none thought of him as the onetime Archie Grey, except, possibly, the Chief of the Sect Security Police who, like all good security policemen, forgot nothing.

Certainly, Galin, standing silent before his chair, looked very impressive. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment as all stood to greet him. For a moment he remained silent, letting them have a good look at their boss, then in a high clear voice, he proclaimed the traditional words that opened and closed all such meetings.

“In the name of, and for, the Master!”

The Council, no less clearly, intoned the reply. “The Master’s will be done!”

Galin relaxed slightly, smiled comprehensively, and sat down. The rest followed suit.

“Brethren, unless anyone has any urgent matter to raise,” he implied that this was an astronomically remote contingency, “our meeting need not delay us for long.” His thin smile suggested that he was aware they were busy men, that not all their business was entirely laudable, and that he knew all their secrets, which in fact he did. The chief of police envied Galin’s smile; it packed a heavy psychological punch.

The Council, apart from a few throat-clearings, was silent.

“Good,” said Galin. “The first matter we will consider is the indoctrination of pilgrims… .”

For ten minutes there was a relatively free exchange of views. Not that anyone actively disagreed with Galin, or if they did, they soon allowed themselves to be converted to his opinion, convinced—and said so—by his superior logic. This gambit might not endear these people to the rest of their colleagues, but that was no more than a pity. A converted freethinker was a better image than that of the eternal yes-man. To be earnest, devoted, but not too bright was a good formula to use when dealing with Forbin’s successor-designate. But any way anyone played, it added up to wholehearted acceptance of Galin’s proposals.

“And now,” said Galin, leaning forward, carefully adjusting his sleeves, “we come to a most important, delicate, and sad matter.”

Expressions were composed to show their preparedness and ability to deal with such affairs, and all took care not to look at the cameras.

“I refer, of course, to Blake.” Galin’s voice was safe, neutral. “As we all know in our hearts, Doctor Blake is against the Master.”

Heads nodded sadly.

“But the Master, in his just, superhuman wisdom, allows no action without proof. There is no proof that Blake is active against the Master-yet!”

The last word came sharply, like the crack of a whip, making some look at Galin with even greater attention.

“No, not yet,” Galin repeated. “We know, of course, of his meeting with the debased, so-called poet Kluge. I, for one, cannot imagine they met to discuss Kluge’s crazy scribbles!” He smiled. “Whatever else Blake may be, I don’t think he has sunk that low” The smile vanished, the thin joke over; he continued in a curt, authoritative voice. “It is the Master’s opinion that Kluge is a courier for the well-known dissident arts group.” There was a world of disparagement in his voice. “What the Blake activists would want with that freakish collection is not known. It is possible that Blake is merely trying to waste our time, that there is no real significance in the association. Certainly, he did little to conceal his contact.”

The chief of police frowned. It worried him, too. Thank God—no, get it right—Thank Colossus, that Colossus was around to make the real decisions.

Galin clasped his hands on the table before him; spotless white cuffs showed inside his gold sleeves, lending an incongruously modern note to his archaic costume. He spoke more intimately.

“Frankly, I speak only of this moment.” The proviso would be a way out if he was later proven wrong. “I suspect this link, at worst, is no more than tiresome nonsense. These so-called artists complain that the Master inhibits their creative talent.” His sarcasm was heavy. “Sad! And complete rubbish! They seek to excuse their lack of ability; they are barren!” A glittering arm swept the art world into limbo. “No matter—but this does matter: within twenty-four hours of the Kluge contact,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, “Blake had a hasty meeting—alone—with Father Forbin’s wife!”

The Council shuffled its feet and did some collective throat-clearing to convey their shock. Only the chief of police was immobile, thinking. You had to hand it to Galin; he was getting to the meat, and very dangerous meat at that, with great care.

Galin was well aware he was sticking his neck out, although he did so less than that fat slob of a policeman doubtlessly supposed. “Yes, brethren, it saddens me, but in the service of the Master we must go wherever that service demands. I fear, I greatly fear that we must consider even the person of the wise Father’s wife.”

One councilor found the courage to speak. Alternatively, he could just be going on record with a nice, safe expression of horror.

“Brother Galin. No one doubts—least of all myself—your zeal or your ability, but is it really possible that Father Forbin’s wife… .”

“Brother Sampul,” Galin cut in smoothly, “your doubt does you credit.” His tone implied the exact opposite. “But you know that this is not the only—admitted unsubstantiated—evidence which suggests, I say no more than suggests, that Father Forbin’s wife,” his voice dropped to a new depth of grave solemnity, “may, only may, be actively involved with the suspected traitor, Blake.”

Sampul did not give up. “It’s very thin evidence.”

“Oh yes, I agree, but we cannot afford to ignore it. This matter may involve emotion. If it does, it is an area where we may be of particular service to the Master.” He looked hard at Sampul. “Or are you suggesting we do nothing?”

Sampul backed down very fast.

“I am glad of your support, brother.” Galin glanced around the table. “May I assume we are all agreed that we cannot ignore the matter?”

Many nodded, a few said yes.

“So we are unanimous?” Galin was just as keen on the record as anyone. His cold gaze fastened on each member in turn as he named them, forcing a verbal affirmative. Enthusiasm was to him immaterial; Colossus dealt in yeses and noes.

“Good.” Galin’s relief was hidden beneath a new briskness. “We are agreed, but before considering what must be done, we must consider what the Master’s enemies are trying to do. Here, we know little. Kluge may be an irrelevance, yet those meetings, so close, could be significant.” He gathered himself to play what could be the trickiest card in his hand. “The possible implication of Father Forbin’s wife has suggested to me… .” He hesitated. If this went wrong, his future was very bleak, if he had a future. “It suggests that the Master is not the subject of attack.”

The chief of police could see it coming and took off his mental hat to Galin. On the side he hoped Galin would fail. The chief fancied that the gold robe would need very little alteration to fit him.

“It could be,” Galin went on, his face impassive, but he could not stop the faint dew of perspiration on his brow visible to his neighbors in the hard, pitiless, and shadowless light, “that the target is Father Forbin. And who better to spearhead that attack than a subverted wife?”