Fall of Colossus (8 page)

Jesus! the police chief thought. How’s that for a smear? The silence was deafening.

Undeterred, for he did not lack courage, Galin went on. “We must be vigilant and untiring, brethren! The Master, far, far beyond us, cannot be expected to waste his time on the miserable, puny emotional levels of our worthless lives. It is our great task that we, the Sect, should act for him in this lowly field!” His voice hardened. “And if, for the furtherance of our Master’s unknowable designs, we have to act, even against the person of Father Forbin’s own wife, we will do so! As humans, we know that if we did, in time even Father Forbin would come to recognize that we acted in his and the Master’s best interests!”

Galin shut his eyes to conceal his fear as he took one final chance.

“If I am in error, I pray the Master will correct me!” No one moved. Even the police chief held his breath. Colossus remained silent.

Chapter Six

Forbin settled comfortably in the armchair before the Sanctum window and poured himself a brandy. Excellent brandy it was, too; Colossus, without consulting him, had ordered the very best that France could produce. Forbin had protested, but not very much. Of course, he knew it was the silliest sort of vanity, but that “Reserve pour M. le Directeur, COLOSSUS” label pleased him. Certainly, it was magnificent stuff; far better than Forbin appreciated. He was not to know that Colossus analyzed one bottle in every dozen to make sure the standard was maintained. This was hardly necessary, for the order from Colossus had said that any complaint from Forbin would incur Colossus’ displeasure with the suppliers… .

This evening, it was a somewhat larger drink than usual. Forbin had a good deal on his mind and needed the extra lift to talk to Colossus. Even now, stiffened by the brandy, he was in no hurry to start. He stared out at the panoramic view. Dimly, very dimly, he could make out the long black hulls of the British battle fleet anchored off Spithead. Here and there, on the decks of some ships, repair parties were working, the men invisible at that distance, but their activities revealed by their brilliant lights. He thought about the ships for a while, postponing his session with Colossus.

As he would readily admit, outside his work he was a simple man, and his pleasures matched. It never crossed his mind that he could have anything within—or without—reason. A word to Colossus, and anything would be his, but he never gave the word. He wanted very little, and like most men—and many women—he was fascinated by the Sea War Game.

Colossus had invented it, although the underlying theory was as old as the Roman “bread-and-circus” policy, designed to keep the plebeians happy. It certainly did that.

The basic idea was simple. Any state, or combination of states, whose total population exceeded twenty million was allowed its own fleet. This fleet fought others in regional, zonal, and global leagues, culminating in the World Final. It served as an outlet for man’s aggressiveness, local pride, and desire for spectacle. Tens of millions watched local battles, and the annual final had hundreds of millions glued to their TV screens. Baseball, football, tennis, golf, and their electronic variants were virtually swept into oblivion. Given near-perfect TV coverage from ships and satellites and cameras unhampered by poor visibility, it was practically the ultimate in mass entertainment.

But Forbin wasn’t so simple that he did not see the reasons behind the game. Colossus was the final arbiter, referee, and judge; the masses could never forget him. Also it channeled man’s hero-worship towards the ships, and the more humanity identified with machines, the better.

In detail it was a very complicated game. All ships were, of course, fully automated, controlled from the shore by the state’s “Admiral” and his staff, but although they were largely responsible for the success of their fleets, they did not get the masses’ adulation. When a fleet failed, however, it was a different story.

To ensure that no one had a technological advantage, ship design was frozen as of May 31, 1916, the date of the Battle of Jutland, the last real clash of those ancient monsters, the battleships. Few people had any idea what the war had been about, who had fought in it, or were even dimly interested; but the ships, that was another matter. States were allowed to choose the design they liked. Those who long ago had a seafaring history tended to choose their own traditional styles. The rest selected whatever they thought best for their local conditions. So there were replicas of the old USN with their strange wicker basket masts, chunky German battleships, many-funneled French, pagoda-like Japanese, as well as Russian, Italian, and British. All, externally, were exact copies, but there were differences. Shells had reduced explosive charges—except for the annual finals, when full charges were permitted—torpedoes were similarly treated, and all ships had nuclear power plants and no human crews.

Forbin, although a citizen of the USNA, had, by association, become a supporter of the British fleet and knew every detail and characteristic of every ship. When he could, he followed their fortunes, but as each contest lasted three days, unlike most people who only worked a twelve-hour week, he could not often spare the time.

He stared at the distant black shapes, wondering if Lion was there. He’d watched her recently, rolling and plunging through a full gale, slamming up vast sheets of spray as she had raced into action to save two exposed cruisers. He’d watched, perched on the edge of his chair, willing her to get in range in time; then, the sudden orange-red ripple along her whole length as her main armament had blasted into action… . She’d taken a hammering from the South Australian fleet, but she’d got the cruisers out… .

He spoke without looking up. “Is Lion out there?”

“Yes.”

“Good ship, that,” said Forbin, who could almost become seasick in his bathtub. “Too wet in a head sea, though.” He paused. “Have you ever considered an air or land version of the game?”

“Yes, and rejected both. Air warfare is not telegenic, land is impracticable without robot soldiers, and with them, unrealistic. Also, too much land would be required.”

“Yes, of course.” Forbin’s mind flew off at a tangent. “You’re quite sure about dolphins?”

“Yes.”

Forbin cleared his throat, but said nothing. He sipped his drink, then lit his pipe.

“Anything of interest on hand?”

“Nothing of note. The population file is being updated, a sudden rise in the South Carolina birthrate has initiated an investigation into local conditions nine months ago. So far nothing significant has been noted.”

Forbin grinned. “Anything else?”

“A minor disturbance in Honshu. I have identified and isolated the ringleader and ordered her arrest. I am addressing an Arab delegation in New York, umpiring games in the Arctic Ocean, Yellow Sea, and Northwest Pacific. Also watching experimental projects in New Moscow, Warsaw, and in the Deccan.”

As always, Forbin was staggered at the diversity of Colossus’ activities. He grinned. “Is that the lot?”

“As far as humans are concerned, yes

His grin faded. “There was another overload this evening.”

“Yes.”

Forbin relit his pipe. “Will this extension, er, obviate these, um, occurrences?”

“How is your health, Father Forbin?”

Forbin told himself that he was not scared to press his question; he wasn’t going on with it because he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.

“Oh—I’m fine.” He spoke self-consciously, “I don’t think much about my health.”

“You must take care. You must not drink to excess.”

“Oh, rubbish!” cried Forbin, putting his glass down. “You know very well I don’t, but a little in the evening helps.” He hesitated, knowing the impossibility of conveying the effect of alcohol—in moderation—to Colossus. “It makes me happy.”

“Are you happy?”

That startled Forbin. As far back as he could recall, that was a question Colossus had not asked before. He completely forgot the earlier subject of conversation.

“Am I happy?” Mentally he walked around the question, inspecting it. “Yes,” he said at last. “Most of the time I am. Yes. Why d’you ask?”

“Your health and happiness are important to me.”

Despite the fact that he knew there had to be a hard, practical reason, Forbin was touched. “Yes—but why?”

He got a straight answer. “The expectation of life is longer for a happy, healthy man than the opposite. I wish to preserve you as long as possible.”

“That’s nice to know.” Forbin smiled, a little slyly. “But I don’t see how you can help with happiness—human emotion, you know! No, I can’t grumble—speaking selfishly. I’ve a good home life, and my work is absorbing. Any scientist in that state is, by definition, a happy man.”

“Does that hold true for the scientist’s family?”

“I guess so.” That was another surprise. “Why?”

“As has been said before, you spend more time with me than you used to. Before establishing yourself here, you spent sixty-one percent, awake or asleep, with your mistress. Now, married to her and being the father of her child, the percentage has fallen to forty-nine percent and is continuing to do so at an average of point two percent per lunar month.”

“I can’t argue with your figures,” said Forbin stiffly, “but I resent your implication. Forget all that Group Four nonsense! My love life’s fine, but naturally, with a child, the balance has to alter. There is Billy to care for as well, not just me.”

“Your wife has help. The child is growing, requires less servicing.”

“Servicing!”

“Attention, if you prefer a less exact word. There is a nurse, who is chiefly responsible for your son.”

“Really!” snapped Forbin. “This is one subject I do know more about than you!”

“That is demonstrably not so. The proportion of your wife’s time spent in this center has not changed significantly in the last twenty-five months. Lacking surveillance of your residence, I have no exact figures, but measurement of external activities and duration of visitors’ stays indicates that she does not spend all her spare time with your child.”

For a moment Forbin was groping in the dark. “Oh—oh—I get it! You’re thinking of our favorite pain in the ear, the tireless committeewoman, Mrs. Armsorg!”

“It is true Mrs. Armsorg occupies an inordinate amount of file space, mostly evaluated as aimless activity, but I do not refer to her, but to Doctor Blake.”

Forbin nodded. “Sure, he’s around—why not? He’s a friend and very often single.”

“When did you last see him in your residence?”

“Let’s see … sometime last week. Friday, I think. Yes, Friday it was—why?”

“That is ten days ago. Doctor Blake has visited your residence twice in the past two days.”

Forbin frowned. “I wish you’d stop calling it a ‘residence.’ Anyway, so what if he has?” He turned to face the slit. “Look, what are you getting at?”

“You did not know?”

“Well, no; I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think Cleo mentioned it. What’s your point?”

“To demonstrate that not all your wife’s time is taken up with your child, in order to refute your argument that she has less time available for you.”

“All right, I accept that, but why d’you pick on Blake? He’s not the only visitor.”

“I do not wish to disturb you, but Doctor Blake is suspected of antimachine beliefs, and recently he consorted with a man, a poet, against whom there is strong evidence.”

Forbin’s laugh was tinged with relief. “So because Blake knows a man who doesn’t like you, and Blake meets my wife—really! What did this poet do to incur your suspicions?”

“He wrote a poem.”

“That figures! You didn’t like it?”

“I neither like nor dislike, but recognize this man is hostile:”

“Aw, be reasonable,” pleaded Forbin, “there are thousands, maybe millions who don’t like you—is that news? So this is one. He’s a poet. They’re nearly always antisomething.”

“That is true, but there are aspects of this poet that suggest he is more dangerous than most. It is not desirable that he should consort with a senior member of my staff who is himself a Grade Three suspect.”

“You go too far.” Forbin was faintly uneasy and gained time relighting his pipe. “In all probability, their meeting had nothing to do with you.”

“Nothing in Doctor Blake’s file suggests he has an interest in poetry.”

“So? Their mutual interest could be anything—drink, boats, women.

“The poet does not drink, sail, and is homosexual.”

“It’s still nonsense! Blake, above all men, knows you are unassailable. It is illogical that he would be actively against you!”

“You have agreed that humans are frequently illogical.”

There was a silence while Forbin poured himself another brandy. He had a nasty, growing suspicion that Colossus had been steering the conversation and would go on doing so. He muttered to himself, “She must have forgotten.” He gulped down the brandy, coughed. “When did Blake call?”

“Yesterday afternoon, on the beach, by your wife’s invitation, to see your child.”

Forbin’s relief showed. “Oh, well! There you are! Blake’s the kid’s godfather—and he’s fond of Billy!”

“Possibly,” admitted Colossus, “but the indications are that they are meeting at this moment. It is usual human practice to put their young to bed much earlier than this.”

Forbin tried to sound casual. “Yes? When did he arrive?”

“Exact timing is not possible; between 2002 and 2004:

The expression on Forbin’s face hardened, but he did not answer. Colossus, weak on emotion, continued. “There is not, at this time, any suggestion that your wife is implicated in any activities with Doctor Blake with or without the poet, but it is correct that you should be warned that, outside your home, constant surveillance is considered necessary.”

“Yes,” said Forbin thoughtfully, “yes… .”

Cleo had the TV scan on, but paid it so little attention that she did not notice that the holographic circuit was one hundred eighty degrees out of phase. The commentator’s face looked like a hollow mold. She was thinking of what the next day would bring.

… you are, folks! The Argentine fleet has won the United States of South America regional semi-final for Zone Two, outmaneuvering their Mexican rivals to score a fantast-ic 1749 against 1527 points, confirmed by Colossus! Later, you’ll hear an assessment of the victorious admiral’s tactics—and the influence the weather… .”