Colossus
By D. F. Jones
G. P Putnam's Sons
New York
1966

TO NEVILLE RANDALL


Chapter 1

	Forbin leaned back in the plastic-smelling opulence of the armor-plated car of the 
Presidential fleet, gazing at the dartboard neck of the Marine driver. The great moment was a 
bare five minutes away--the moment he had worked unremittingly toward for twelve hard years. 
Forbin knew it was not his work alone; nothing of this magnitude could be the achievement of 
one man, or even a hundred. It had been the collective effort of two or three thousand minds, 
backed by thousands of technicians. But--and it was a very large but--his had been the guiding 
brain, the one with the big overall concept, the vision. And that was the one that counted. Now 
the job was done and his moment of triumph was at hand, the moment beyond which he had 
never had the inclination--or time--to look. And all he felt was a sense of flatness and 
overwhelming tiredness.
	Briefly he considered his future, but the idea of life without the Project lacked reality. He 
mused on reality; he had lived so long with his work that the outside world had grown unreal. 
What was real--all that back there, a thousand miles away? or all this, this man, the President? 
Was he reality, or just a simple dummy?
	Forbin half- smiled to himself. If the Secret Service man beside the driver could guess 
what his passenger was thinking, he would rate Forbin a bad security risk--and that could be a 
very unhealthy state of affairs if you happened to be scheduled to meet the President of the 
United States of North America in the near future. Since the Kennedy tragedy all those years ago 
the protection of the President had been, for his bodyguard, not so much a job as a religion. 
Forbin knew the life of a bodyguard; psychoanalysis and medical checks every three months, a 
closely observed private life, special schools, housing precincts, vacation centers--even separate 
chapels--and the whole setup guarded almost as closely as the President himself. No Presidential 
guard must have anything on his mind except the security of the President; if he had a problem 
he could not solve, whatever it was, it was his duty to report it to the Help agency, and they 
would deal with it. A guy prone to difficulties had no place beside the President.
	Forbin knew that sort of life; his had not been so very different for the past ten years. But 
now--all this would be swept away as a side effect of his work. He wondered, not for the first 
time, if even the President appreciated the difference the completed Project would make to his 
personal power and the stature of his office . . .
	The car slowed down, making its final careful approach to the White House entrance. The 
Secret Service man reached forward, switching on the radar responder, coded to give the correct 
signal for that particular time when they were invisibly challenged by the radar interrogator 
beamed down the drive. Given the right response the interrogator would automatically open the 
massive gates and allow the car through the first barrier that stood between the President and the 
man in the street. Forbin experienced a slight moment of anxiety before the gates swung swiftly 
open. From previous visits he knew that as soon as the car reached the gates, another pair had 
closed equally swiftly behind it. While he did not know what would happen if the wrong 
response were given, to be trapped between two gates with high stone walls on either side was 
like being in a giant birdcage, and potentially unpleasant.
	The car silently rolled up the drive to a side entrance. Before the car stopped, the Secret 
Service man, with the ease born of long practice, was out, his door shut and his dog-tag pass 
flashed before the suspicious gaze of a colleague with whom he probably played pinochle every 
evening.
	Forbin made no move to get out. He knew that until the guard established his identity the 
car door was locked. The spokesman of the two external guards grudgingly admitted it was OK 
to open up, and the car guard did so. Forbin got out, zipping his jacket under the hard, suspicious 
eyes of the guards. Inside, in the inspection room, Forbin was briskly searched by an impersonal, 
impassive guard with fingers like a concert pianist's. His briefcase, quickly X-rayed, was passed 
to his internal escort for safekeeping. Forbin's own dog tag was carefully checked, as if it might 
be a clever forgery, by a guard whom Forbin recognized from at least a dozen earlier meetings--
not that that made the slightest difference.
	Free at last, Forbin and escort set off down a corridor, to reach at last a pair of swinging 
doors marked "Presidential Precinct." These doors were controlled by another guard sitting in a 
gas-tight, bulletproof cubicle. Again passes were shown, pressed against the plate-glass window. 
Forbin stated the time of his appointment to the microphone, the guard consulted his checklist.
	"OK, Mr. Forbin--you're in."
	Inside the Precinct precautions appeared to be relaxed. But only superficially. In fact 
more guards, the cream of the cream, continually patrolled. They were not there to demand 
passes or search for weapons, but to be ever-watchful, ready to deal at a split second's notice 
with anything they might regard as suspicious. They alone could enter the President's private 
sanctum without knocking, and would silently disappear at a nod from him. Without the nod, 
they stayed. Forbin wondered how a man could stand it for four years, let alone a second term. 
Worst of all, there were the staring eyes of the TV cameras, watching all public rooms and 
corridors. Forbin would not be surprised to find that there was an electronic eye behind the toilet-
paper holder in the Presidential can.
	And practically all this would be unnecessary from now on.
	Ushered into the outer office of the sanctum, Forbin was met by the PPA--Principal 
Private Aide--who came forward, hand outstretched.
	"My dear Forbin, glad to see you." The PPA glanced at the wall clock. "As always, right 
on the button."
	They shook hands warmly. Forbin muttered something, but to save his life he could not 
remember the aide's name, although they had met often enough. To Forbin he was part of the 
unreal world, a shadowy figure, something on the fringe of the real thing that lay a thousand 
miles away.
	The aide pressed a button on his desk and spoke in no particular direction, looking at 
Forbin as he did so, smiling.
	"Mr. President, Professor Forbin is here."
	The President's voice replied almost at once, floating out in hi-fi from a concealed 
speaker beside the double doors. "Have him come in."
	The aide did not reply, but inclined his head doorwards, at the same time moving forward 
to open one. Both doors were opened only for ceremonial visits. Forbin nodded his thanks and 
entered the holy of holies, the Presidential sanctum. The door shut softly behind him.
	Visitors to the President usually found him seated behind his king-sized red leather-
topped desk, flanked by his personal standard and "Old Glory"--an almost posed position, as if 
waiting for the official photographer. Forbin had seen him many times like that, but today was 
different, very different. The President had clearly been pacing the carpet when Forbin was 
announced. He turned to greet his visitor, hand outstretched.
	"Mr. President," said Forbin, trying to sound respectful, aware of the warm, firm, 
professional handclasp. They stood for a long moment shaking hands: the short corpulent 
President, red-faced, dynamic and extrovert, the epitome of the man who knew what he wanted 
and saw that he got it, and the scientist Forbin, taller and thinner, and, in these surroundings, 
showing no signs of the mental power and drive he had needed to get to the top of his profession. 
They were both roughly the same age, in their very early fifties, though a hundred years earlier 
they would have appeared much younger.
	The President switched his welcoming gaze from Forbin to the closed doors.
	"Prytzkammer!" he said.
	Yes, thought Forbin, that's the name.
	The President went on, "See I'm not disturbed-and switch this damned thing off."
	"Yes, Mr. President."
	At once the red light on the panel over the double doors went out. The President had real 
privacy, a commodity hard to come by in the White House. He released Forbin's hand, almost 
reluctantly, his manner implying that it had been a good interlude, but now to business. The 
smile was switched off as he looked hard into Forbin's face.
	"Well, Forbin?"
	Forbin in turn looked calmly back and allowed his half smile to show. This was it.
	"Sir, Project Colossus is completed, and can be activated upon your command."
	For what seemed a long time the President stared at Forbin, his green-brown eyes 
shrewdly probing the face before him, sensing that there was something unsaid, aware also that 
this was a historic moment, and that for the benefit of posterity, he must say the right thing. He 
was a professional politician to his fingertips.
	"Professor," he spoke solemnly, formally, "I must ask you if you are quite satisfied that 
the requirements and directives for Project Colossus have, in all respects, been achieved?"
	Forbin matched the President's formality. "Mr. President, I testify that all the 
requirements, directives, specifications and parameters ordered are so met, and that Project 
Colossus is in all respects ready. Only your order is necessary to activate the whole system."
	The pleasure this formal statement gave to the President was clear. Forbin repressed a 
slight feeling of contempt for the man. For his own part, he too was pleased that the Project was 
completed, although "pleased" was far too slight a word. He was overawed, indeed humbled by 
what he and his kind had achieved. The President was only interested in the power it gave him, 
and to be fair, his country. There lay the difference between the two men.
	Once more the President offered his hand.
	"Forbin, this is a great moment. You and I, and thousands more of course, have been 
living with this concept for nearly ten years"--Forbin could have added he had spent twelve years 
on the job, but the President would have brushed that two years aside; he was that sort of man--
"and I find it hard to believe that it is now a fact. As President and Commander in Chief of the 
Armed Forces of the United States of North America, let me be the first to congratulate you on 
an achievement unparalleled in history."

	They shook hands once more, the posterity side of the President's mind uppermost. 
Forbin's mind was in quite a different channel. He had a very clear idea of how unparalleled the 
achievement was. But had the President?
	The President, posterity dealt with for the moment, laughed shortly. "You don't seem 
very excited, Forbin. Is there something wrong--something you want?"
	"I'd like to smoke, if you've no objection."
	Again the President laughed, this time with more sincerity. He turned to his desk and sat 
down, swinging gently from side to side in his swivel chair.
	"You're a strange guy, Forbin. You lift the biggest burden a man was ever called upon to 
carry, and ask if you can smoke! You can burn the White House down, if you wish, and I'll 
personally lend you my lighter."
	Forbin fished out his pipe and began to fill it.
	"Sit down, man--but first fix us a drink." The President waved Forbin towards a cabinet 
that once had graced the residence of the Soleil Royale in Versailles. "I'll have a Scotch on the 
rocks, since we're alone. I can't drink it in public; I'd have our distillers round my neck in no 
time."
	Forbin poured two large Scotches on ice in heavy cut-glass Jacobean tumblers, placed 
one carefully beside the President, then sat down in a low armchair--the only available seat. 
Being short, the President liked to get his visitors where he could do the looking down.
	Forbin lit his pipe and sat still, looking at his drink. The President sipped his, then placed 
the glass precisely in the middle of his blotter, adjusting its position with one eye shut.
	"You've only answered half my question. Is there something wrong? Something's biting 
you." He spoke casually, intent on moving his glass to a new position.
	Forbin sat silent, rubbing his nose with the stem of his pipe. Finally he took a deep breath 
and spoke, all traces of formal deference gone from his voice.
	"I don't know quite how to say this. You may have it all figured out--but I haven't had 
much time to study all the broad issues while the work was going on, and maybe you haven't 
either." He stopped, drank a good half of his Scotch and relit his pipe. The President tried a new 
position for his glass on the northeast comer of his pad. Forbin went on.
	"Lately, as we got the bugs out, I've felt, more by instinct than anything I can prove, that 
Colossus has some mighty big side effects built in. I think there are going to be a lot of changes. 
It's like the old race to the moon--we were all in such a hurry to get there first, there was no real 
consideration of what it was really for. Or take the uncontrolled use of those broad-band 
insecticides that wrecked ecology over vast areas. Remember the red mite invasion in the 
Midwest? All the bugs that ate the red mite were killed, but the mites thrived on the insecticide. 
One or two small townships had to be abandoned--thousands of acres were turned over to the 
Army to work over with flamethrowers--just to keep the mites down until we bred enough bugs 
to restore the balance. Even now, twenty years later, there are patches where you can't keep 
chickens for fear of the red mite. I can remember us buying eggs from China--us!"
	He finished his drink. "I haven't said my piece the way I meant to, but I hope you get the 
idea."
	The President pushed his glass to one side. His smile lacked conviction.
	"You had me worried. I thought maybe there was a hole in Colossus' head. Believe me, 
I've given them some thought--the side effects--not as much as they probably deserve, but 
enough to satisfy me for now. The main object is of overriding importance, and if that's OK, we 
can tackle lesser problems as they crop up." He banged his desk with sudden vehemence. 
"You've no idea what it's like behind this desk. When you were in diapers, there was a President-
-Truman--who had a sign on his desk that said, `The buck stops here.' He was dead right."
	The President collected his glass from the deep field of his desk and drank, looking hard 
at Forbin over the rim. "Colossus will take that buck, the big buck of a mega-million lives that all 
Presidents have had to carry since Roosevelt. Don't you worry, Forbin, I can ride out any bad 
breaks the new setup may bring."
	He hasn't got the message, thought Forbin. But he could see the President's viewpoint--
the intense desire for relief from the staggering weight of responsibility, a desire that blinded him 
to any objections. Maybe he'll make out. Forbin stood up, placed his glass on the desk.
	"I guess you're right. I just get the feeling sometimes that this thing is one hell of a lot 
bigger than we know. Still, that's one buck that I have now passed to you." His tone was calm, 
bordering on the formal once more. "What are your orders for activation?"
	The President, swinging gently in his chair, looked curiously at Forbin.
	"You're an odd one, Forbin. You spend your life working like a beaver leading the 
biggest brain-bank in the world. You spend so much money you damn near bust the U.S. 
Treasury, and now you've done what you set out to do, you sit back and gripe. Hell--aren't you 
even excited?"
	"Yes," Forbin said thoughtfully, "I suppose I am, in a way. But I read about the synthesis 
of the first broad-band insecticides before they got to the field trial stage, and it struck me then 
that the idea was potentially dangerous. And we finished up with the biggest plague since ancient 
Egypt."
	"Sure, but we licked it."
	"Yes, we did--and the bug-killer was withdrawn," Forbin replied. "But this time there is 
no way of walking back. The whole point is the Project's unstoppability."
	The President had enough of Forbin's alarm and did not bother to conceal it.
	"OK, Forbin. I appreciate your warning, but as you say, the buck is mine. So you don't 
know what'll happen from here on--who does? I'm happy, so let's get down to cases." He had 
wanted to know Forbin's mind, had been told, briefly considered--and rejected it. Soon Forbin 
himself would be rejected, his usefulness over. Make him president of some university and fix 
him a medal, that should be enough.
	"Well, Mr. President, have you fixed an activation date?" The President visibly grew in 
stature at the prospect of action. The dynamo within him, which had made him what he was, 
began to radiate energy.
	"Yes. It has got to be handled right. Played properly, it'll fix the cold war as well as any 
variety of hot. The security of Colossus has fouled up any detailed discussion, but I've chewed it 
over, in general terms, with the head of psychological warfare, and we've come up with the ideal 
treatment--simple and direct!" He beamed excitedly at Forbin. "As soon as you give the OK on 
the technical side, that all systems are green-go, we downgrade the biggest top-secret in our 
history to plain unclassified. We just hit 'em--wham!" He banged his desk once more to illustrate 
his point.
	"Then we give them everything--how it's done, diagrams, photographs, tell the wide 
world the whole works by international TV--a press conference. But we're going to keep it 
simple, just three or four topflight reporters from all over--we'll have to select them carefully. 
Mind you, I don't want stooges!" He raised an admonishing finger. "They can be as rough as they 
like. I figure on one of our boys, two guys, English and French, from USE, and that bullet-
headed bum from the Russki agency--and a guy from the Pan-Afric bunch, too. I'll make a short 
statement, then answer questions--follow up with handouts, the usual routine stuff. Good?"
	There was something about the Presidential approach to the Project that made Forbin's 
flesh creep, but it would have been pointless to say so.
	"I wouldn't know, Mr. President. I'm just a scientist . . ." 
"Just a scientist! Exactly! That's an angle I thought we could use. I can make the general 
statement, but you should answer the questions. I'd never sound convincing with the technical 
dope."
	Forbin frowned, but the President went on.
	"Sure, it's tough, and you'd rather not, but that's too bad--you're in. Now--how soon can 
we start?"
	"Well, there are one or two safety checks I want to repeat, but that won't take more than a 
day--two at the most." Forbin walked over to a window and looked out. He spoke without 
turning.
	"I'm sorry to repeat myself, Mr. President, but are you really sure, quite sure--" He 
turned. "You realize that once we start we can't go back? The world changed drastically with the 
first A-bomb, and this . . ."
	"Look, Forbin, we've covered this. "I'm satisfied—why are you dragging your feet?" He 
glanced at his watch, a fairly direct hint, but Forbin was not to be put off.
	"I've lived with this thing for years--worked day and night in the Secure Zone, watching, 
checking, steering. It's been everything to me, I've been cut off from everything. I haven't been to 
my apartment for a year--just slept on the job--and I've been happy, certain of what I was doing. 
Now it's all over, and in the last few weeks, I've begun to realize what it is we've done. As a 
project it's practically finished, we can't find any more wrinkles to iron out; we've checked and 
checked again. Then someone suggested that a final checkout, a really foolproof one, could be 
made by Colossus himself--itself. A week's research by the Yale Group, checked by Boston, 
showed this was so--that Colossus could do a better job than we could. We set up, and for three 
days and nights, working at the speed of light, Colossus looked into his own guts. Just over an 
hour ago he was satisfied. It almost scares me. I know he—it--knows better than the best brains 
in the USNA! It's quite a thought!"
	"It's one hellava thought! The trouble with you, Forbin, is that you've lived too close to 
the Project. So Colossus has a better brain--fine! Just the very thing we've been working for all 
these years. No, Professor, we go ahead now, repeat now!" The President lightly stroked a button 
on his desk. "I'll give you a written order."
	Prytzkammer, the aide, came in and stood silent before the President.
	"P, take this down. Type it yourself--I'll sign as soon as it's ready--such as in two minutes' 
time." He gave Forbin a humorless grin. "To Professor Forbin, Chief Director, Project Colossus. 
In my capacity, no, my dual capacity of President and Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces 
of the United States of North America, I order you to activate Colossus--" he swung his chair to 
face Forbin--"how about 0800 on the 5th? That'll give you just over forty-eight hours."
	"That will be enough."
	"Right, P, go on--activate Colossus at 0800 5th. That's all, except I want it graded Top 
Secret until 1000 5th, then downgraded to Unclassified. All times Eastern Standard."
	"Unclassified, sir?" The aide had every right to look startled.
	"That's what I said."
	"Yes, Mr. President." The aide retreated to the door.
	"And tell the Secretary of State I'm calling a Cabinet meeting in an hour's time--see the 
office informs the rest. Anyone out of town to report on Secure TV--and get moving with that 
typing." The President swiveled to face Forbin and smiled his wolfish grin. "That's got things 
moving."
	Forbin nodded slowly. "Yes, Mr. President, it has."


Chapter 2

	An hour after leaving the President, Forbin was walking along the gravel path leading to 
his own office in the Secure Zone, 250 miles from Washington. Throughout the quiet air-car run-
-quiet largely because he had, against all standing orders, disconnected the car's telephone--he 
had wrestled with his thoughts and forebodings on Colossus. The interview with the President 
had not gone the way he planned or hoped. He hadn't got his feelings across, although he knew 
this was a hard job for anyone with the President. Forbin was aware that he was trusted, and to 
some extent even respected, but once he moved out of his own immediate field, stopped dealing 
in provable facts, the President had no time for him. To the President, a man was like a cigar 
lighter. Flick, there was the flame, use it, then put it out. Sure, you look after it, see it is fed gas 
and polished, even as you praise and reward humans, not so much for what they have done, but 
for what they could do in the future. While this attitude clearly gave great strength, Forbin felt 
there were situations when it could become appallingly weak. You can hold a pile of coins 
between thumb and forefinger, and turn the pile on its side until parallel with the floor, and if you 
exert enough pressure they stay that way, but a slight weakening or fault in the alignment of the 
coins, and the lot go showering in all directions. There is no cement--only power.
	Without some warmth or personal interest there was little understanding, and in this 
situation it could be more than a little dangerous .	. .
	Walking into his outer office, Forbin was irritated to find one of his assistants kissing his 
secretary, with a hand deep in the girl's blouse. Seeking a little warmth and understanding, no 
doubt, Forbin thought. Johnson, the assistant, tried to remove his hand, but some hidden hitch 
delayed him, giving Forbin time to think up a crack that restored his good humor. "Have you lost 
something, Johnson?"
	"Sorry, Professor," mumbled Johnson, now disentangled and on his way to the door. The 
secretary tried to rezip her blouse. As might be expected, the zipper jammed.
	Forbin smiled slightly and turned to his assistant.
	"Johnson, let me give you two pieces of advice. Try to contain yourself until the lunch 
break--or, better still, until you are off duty. If you really can't wait--please satisfy your 
biological urges in the rest room--it can't be locked all the time." He switched to his secretary, 
leaving Johnson in the doorway, poised on one foot, uncertain. "Angela, one piece of advice, one 
suggestion. I advise you to revert to old fashioned buttons and suggest you use my office to fix 
that brassiere. It must be mighty uncomfortable the way it is now."
	"Thanks, Chief." Angela acted on his suggestion, in no way embarrassed.
	"Johnson, please fix a meeting of Group A for 1530, here--OK?"
	"OK, Professor, 1530. Thanks."
	Forbin smiled again as Johnson escaped. In some places it might be taken seriously as a 
breach of group discipline, but not in the Secure Zone. Hedged in on every side, living under 
constant surveillance, human nature had been forced to adapt itself. Getting into Project Colossus 
had always been tough, but once you were in it was a great deal tougher to get out. The Secure 
Zone contained all that a person might be expected to need, except freedom. Contacts outside the 
Zone were officially discouraged; the authorities made no bones about that. And, with the 
changing pattern of society, there were relatively few married couples. With women's full 
emancipation a generation before, the last vestige of their dependence upon men disappeared. At 
the same time the training of high-grade scientists and technicians--still mostly male--took longer 
and longer. Most of these men were not earning their keep until late in their thirties, but were 
biologically mature at sixteen or seventeen. It was difficult for them not only to keep a family but 
to spare time for family life. So sex life in the Zone and its associate vacation centers got to be 
interesting.
	Forbin's crack about the rest room had only stated truth. Each office block had a rest 
room, and it was tacitly accepted that if the door was locked you did not make a song and dance 
about it. A time traveler from even fifty years back would have been astonished--and very likely 
scandalized--by the lack of friction and disharmony in what he would have regarded as a 
sexually degenerate society.
	Forbin's secretary returned, smart and businesslike, with a degree of uplift that had been 
lacking before and with her make-up on straight.
	"Angela, I've called a Group A meeting for 1530--Johnson is fixing it. Try to keep callers 
out of my hair, will you? But that doesn't include the President; if he wants me, he had better get 
me."
	"Sure, Chief."
	Angela was a big, midwestern girl, a good and devoted worker, but Forbin had never 
been able to break her of the habit of calling him "Chief"--and secretly he had grown to like it. 
He had never made the round trip to the rest room with her--or anyone else--for the Project had 
taken all his energy. But now, his work almost done, it might be an idea, he thought, if he got 
around to marriage and a family. Forty was a good age to get fixed, but fifty was by no means 
unusual; most men of that age were in good physical shape, and in that way he was as most men . 
. .
	Forbin broke off his blank stare at Angela's breasts, slightly amazed at his own thoughts, 
then walked into his own office, women forgotten. That compartment was shut; his mind was 
rehearsing the details of the Group meeting and its main subject--the activation of Colossus.


Chapter 3

	"THAT'S about everything then, Forbin," said the President. "Answer any questions 
thrown, except if they get around to the parameter angle. That must remain secret--no point in 
telling them exactly how rough they have to get to make Colossus itchy."
	It was just over forty-eight hours since their last meeting. The worldwide TV hook-up 
was minutes away and both were ready, wearing semiceremonial dress, old-style lounge suits 
with washable shirts. They were alone in the sanctum, but the subdued murmur of voices 
indicated there was quite a crowd in the PPA's office.
	The President was in his element, his face a shade redder, his eyes bright with 
excitement. Forbin thought sourly that his coloring against the white shirt and dark blue suit 
would look very patriotic on TV . . .
	"Five minutes, Mr. President," the voice of Prytzkammer hi-fied in.
	The President rubbed his hands together; he could hardly wait.
	"Time for a spoonful of medicine--set 'em up, Forbin." Forbin duly set them up and 
passed the President his glass. The President took it, and stood up. Forbin guessed what was 
coming.
	"A toast, Forbin--to Colossus, and us." They drank to that one.
	"With your permission, sir, I have one too." "Go right ahead."
	Forbin raised his glass, looked steadily at the President.
	"To the world!"
	The President stared back, his eyes probing, the smiling bonhomie momentarily gone. 
Then he relaxed, the jovial grin returned.
	"Sure, why not? That's a good one--to the whole goddam cotton-picking world!"

	Prytzkammer was finding it hard to preserve his usual calm and polished manner; he had 
caught something of the President's excitement. Now, surrounded by five top reporters, plus two 
cameramen and a producer, he was thankful that the days of power cables, TV lights and special 
microphones were dead and gone. The cameramen, with four minutes to go, had at last unslung 
their portable TV cameras and were making fine adjustments to their antennae with every 
appearance of boredom. They were the top men in their own line, and had seen everything and 
been everywhere. An assignment to cover the Last Judgment would not get them worked up.
	The reporters, too, were top men, and a hard-baked lot. The doyen was Kyrovitch of 
Tass, a big, wide man with a permanent chip on his shoulder. Then there was Plantain, the 
English representative of the United States of Europe, an urbane little man, adept at smooth and 
tricky questioning--and the other European, the Frenchman, Dugay. PanAfric's M'taka was a 
good, solid reporter, but outclassed by the rest. USNA's representative, Mazon, was NorAm's 
star man; not unnaturally he was assigned the central reporter's role in the conference.
	Unlike the cameramen, the press were anything but bored. All they knew, officially, was 
that the President was to make a statement of global importance and that they would have a 
chance to ask questions. There would be no preliminary warm-up. Prytzkammer was primarily 
concerned that no one man should hog the proceedings.
	"Remember, gentlemen, you are the stand-ins for the people of the world. Set a good 
example, and let's have a little of the old give and take--"
	"Relax," said Mazon, "none of us is going to start a fight." The rest nodded, each making 
his own mental reservation on how best to get the lion's share.
	"I would be charmed if I--we--had some faint lead on the purpose of this announcement," 
Plantain smiled in a tired way at Prytzkammer. There was a general mumble of agreement from 
his colleagues.
	"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but the President wants it this way, and he's the boss. I couldn't tell 
you if I wanted to--I don't know."
	None of the reporters spoke. They didn't have to; their faces showed what they thought of 
that one.
	The TV producer compared his two chronometers and said, "Two minutes" to no one in 
particular.
	Four of the reporters all asked questions at once; only Mazon was silent. This might be 
this Colossus thing he had heard of, but there was no point in shooting off your mouth. You 
could be wrong, and any spillage might bring out the mean streak in the President.
	Prytzkammer, who had ignored all the questions, picked up his few notes, and raised an 
eyebrow at the producer, who nodded towards the first cameraman.
	"I make the intro, you hold me until I identify the reporters--pan along the line as I name 
them, then on me as I lead in to the President. Will Camera Two be solely on the President and 
Forbin?"
	The producer nodded.
	"Forbin!" Mazon shot out. "So it is--"
	He stopped. The other reporters looked at him, questions forming in four minds. He was 
saved by the producer.
	"Quiet now; five seconds to the intro, forty-five to Pressie."
	Prytzkammer's glare at the irreverent producer quickly changed to an ingratiating smile 
as the warning light on Camera One started to occult, then glowed steadily. The PPA quickly 
tuned his smile down to mere affability, looked at the camera, and began.
	"This is the White House, Washington. This Presidential conference is being transmitted 
by all networks in the United States of North America and the United States of South America. 
By arrangement with International TV Agency it is beamed via Space Stations Two and Five to 
the Pan-Afric Republic, the United States of Europe, the Middle East and the Japanese 
Republican Zone, including Australasia. It is also on offer to the Soviet Bloc, but as of now we 
do not know if they are taking it."
	The PPA moved round his desk, tracked by Camera Two. "In a few moments I will be 
taking you in to hear an announcement of worldwide importance by the President of the United 
States of North America. You, the people of the world, are represented here by these gentlemen." 
He introduced them, one by one, and went on, "These are your representatives, and when the 
President has completed his statement, they may ask any questions that they like."
	Prytzkammer paused, looked at the reporters, then at the camera.
	"Gentlemen, the free world, here is the President."
	He walked slowly to the doors to give the camera a chance to keep him in shot, and 
opened both doors. Camera Two sank down on one knee, getting a desk-level view of the 
President as the doors opened, slowly straightening up as the reporters filed in on either side of 
him. The PPA joined Forbin, out of view well to one side of the President's desk.
	The President waited until the reporters were seated, then leaned forward on his elbows, 
hands clasped in front. It was a small gesture which conveyed the impression on TV that he was 
talking to you, confidentially, that this was man-to-man stuff.
	"Fellow citizens of the world," he began in a low, measured, almost stately voice, "I am 
told that this telecast is being watched by more than half the people of the globe, and that a 
further ten per cent are listening on the radio. You may well wonder what I can say that is 
important enough to justify taking up your time like this. In all solemnity, I can assure you I have 
that justification. For good or evil--and I devoutly believe for good--we have reached one of 
those vital turning points in the history of man and of this planet. There have been a number of 
such moments in the past, most of them passing unrecognized. The first was the discovery of the 
use of fire, the second when the wheel was invented. The construction of the first internal-
combustion machine was another. Some of you are old enough to recall the terrible dawn of the 
atomic age, and the host of technological advances we have made since then. But for the 
unhappy state of our world's affairs, we could all enjoy life to the full; remove the risk of conflict 
between the nations, and the Golden Age would be with us--now!" The President did not forget 
himself and bang the desk, but raised one finger as he spoke the last word, giving the slight 
visual shock to keep his vast audience's full attention. He went on, wearily.
	"Instead, for years, for generations, we have been delicately poised on the brink of a 
disaster too complete and horrible to contemplate." His voice lost its weariness, gathered 
strength. "We of the free world have upheld the banner of freedom and truth, knowing that this 
must be preserved, even at the cost of all our lives."
	Again the President paused, and resumed his confidential approach. "We do not want 
war--and to be truthful, I do not think anyone else does either. Nevertheless, we have all gone on, 
with recurrent crises, each carrying with it the risk of a slip or error on one side, or the other, 
which could result in the final tragedy of global destruction. There is an old saying that 
`everyone makes mistakes,' but that is just what neither side can afford. We are all human, taking 
inhuman risks. One of the great philosophers of this century, Bertrand Russell, said many years 
ago, `You may reasonably expect a man to walk a tightrope safely for ten minutes; it would be 
unreasonable to do so without accident for two hundred years.' This we have known for a long 
time, and for years, here in the United States, we have been working on this problem. Until this 
very minute this work has been our most closely guarded secret. It has involved vast effort, vast 
expenditure, but I have to tell you that our efforts have been crowned with success."
	The President had the full attention of the reporters. They were still, listening hard. Even 
Camera One--who had nothing to do--was motionless, listening carefully. The President, holding 
on to the dramatic pause, sipped a little water. He watched, with approval, as Camera Two--
sensing the payoff line to come--inched downwards so as to give the President relative height. 
The President drew himself up a fraction, lessening the confidential approach. He fixed his gaze 
on the camera, and spoke with great solemnity.
	"As President of the United States of North America, I have to tell you, the people of the 
world, that as of eight o'clock Eastern Standard Time this morning the defense of the nation, and 
with it the defense of the free world, has been the responsibility of a machine. As the first citizen 
of my country, I have delegated my right to take my people to war.
	"That decision now rests with Colossus, which is the name of the machine. It is basically 
an electronic brain, but far more advanced than anything previously built. It is capable of 
studying intelligence and data fed to it, and on the basis of those facts only--not of emotions--
deciding if an attack is about to be launched upon us. If it did decide that an attack was 
imminent--and by that I mean that an assault was impending and would probably be launched 
within four hours--Colossus would decide, and act. It controls its own weapons and can select 
and deliver whatever it considers appropriate.
	"Understand that Colossus' decisions are superior to any we humans can make, for it can 
absorb far more data than is remotely possible for the greatest genius that ever lived. And more 
important than that, it has no emotions. It knows no fear, no hate, no envy. It cannot act in a 
sudden fit of temper. Above all, it cannot act at all, so long as there is no threat.
	"Fellow humans, we in the USNA now live in the shade, but not the shadow, of Colossus. 
And indirectly, you do too. May it never see fit to act."
	The President took another sip of water. He was aware that the Tass man, Kyrovitch, was 
about to speak, but he also saw Prytzkammer motion him to be silent. The rest of the reporters 
looked dazed. The President was enjoying himself even more than he had expected.
	"We of the free world," he continued, "do not want war. Indeed, we will never fight 
unless attacked. Now that we have Colossus we have no real need for armed forces except for 
minor disturbances. It is therefore my intention to reduce the overall strength of our fighting 
services by seventy-five percent over the next five years. As soon, in fact, as the readjustment 
can be made.
	"Further, we are prepared to show the world how Colossus works--what has been built 
into it--and to prove to anyone's satisfaction" (he could not help flashing a look at Kyrovitch) 
"that Colossus is a defensive system. If we can convince the Soviet Bloc that Colossus is solely 
defensive, and demonstrate that we have no offensive intentions by the virtual disbandment of 
our Navy and Army and Space forces, relying solely on Colossus to protect us, we may well be 
along way towards lasting peace and the end of the cold war that has bedeviled us all for so 
long."
	The President swiveled in his chair to face the correspondents.
	"Now, gentlemen, I am prepared to answer any questions you may care to ask. I am not 
of course, familiar with all the technicalities of this vast work, so I would like to introduce 
Professor Charles Forbin. He is, I think, the world's leading expert on electronic brains. Certainly 
no man knows more about Colossus than he does. He has worked on it since the first design 
study group was set up at Harvard twelve years ago." He motioned Forbin to stand behind him, 
and Forbin did so, wearing a slightly stuffed expression.
	Mazon was the first to speak.
	"It's a little difficult, Mr. President, to grasp the size of what you have just told us. I find 
it hard to conceive of the essential nature of this Colossus. For instance, can it think?"
	"That, Mr. Mazon, is just the sort of question for the Professor here." The President 
motioned to Forbin.
	Forbin was not only nervous about the potential of Colossus, he was now nervous of the 
TV camera as well. He reached for his notes, or where they would have been had he been 
wearing his usual blouse instead of the stiff and uncomfortable lounge suit. He gave up the 
search, his hands looking lost without some employment.
	"Can it think?" Forbin repeated the question, more for his own benefit and to gain time 
than anything else. "The term `electronic brain' has always been a popular one for what, really 
was an arithmetical device which could distinguish between one and two. That is still the basis of 
all computers. There are a good many computer-type components in Colossus, but the essential 
core of the machine-complex is infinitely more sophisticated. Just as you can say that the 
proportions of the Parthenon are a matter of two to one in essence, but the detailing is extremely 
complex. It's that development which makes all the difference. Colossus really is a `brain' in a 
limited sense. It can think in a sort of way, but it has no emotions, and without emotional 
content, creation is not possible. It could not create, say, a Shakespeare play--or any sort of play 
for that matter, although as part of its background knowledge we have fed in all the plays--and, 
given any three consecutive words from anything Shakespeare wrote, or anything a hundred 
playwrights wrote, Colossus could finish the quotation. Colossus has a vast memory store; it 
wouldn't be far from wrong to say that it has the total sum of human knowledge at its disposal. 
On the basis of that background, plus the data continually being fed in, it forms its judgments--
just like a human being. Though with the very important difference that it never overlooks a 
point, is not biased and has no emotions. But think creatively--no."
	Forbin paused and moved so as to address the President. "Sir, with your permission, I 
would like to demonstrate this emotional point."
	"Certainly, Professor. I am sure we would all be very interested."
	Forbin finally found somewhere to put his hands, stuffing them in the side pockets of his 
jacket, nautical fashion. He appeared very uncomfortable.
	"Colossus is essentially an information-collecting, sorting and evaluating complex, 
capable of factual decisions and action if necessary. It can evaluate the printed word, speech or 
visual material. Languages are no difficulty. For warning and test purposes--tests at our end, that 
is, for there is no teletype inside Colossus to go wrong--we have teletype lines directly to the 
complex. One is right here, in this office."
	Forbin nodded to Prytzkammer who wheeled forward a dust-sheeted trolley. Forbin 
removed the sheet, revealing an ordinary teletype machine, rather like an electronic typewriter, 
with a few extra keys and a large roll of paper mounted at the back of the carriage. The reporters 
stared at it, mesmerized.
	"Now," said Forbin, "would one of you gentlemen care to name an emotion?"
	"Love." It was Plantain who spoke, his voice devoid of expression.
	His Russian colleague frowned. Dugay glanced quizzically at his fellow European.
	"Good," said Forbin. "Love. Now Colossus has a vast knowledge of the subject, but it 
cannot experience love, nor evaluate emotion. I will confess," he smiled, "this particular question 
has not been fed in before, but I'm confident we will get a very lame reply. Still, a question that 
may be regarded as factual, on the same subject, will produce a very different answer--just 
because it is a matter of fact, whether it's about an emotion or not."
	He bent over the teletype and clumsily picked out his message with two fingers. It was 
just two words:
	EXPLAIN LOVE
	"I have temporarily stored this message here," he tapped the gray top of the machine, "so 
that you might all see the message and observe the speed of the answer." He tore off the strip 
with the words on it, passed it to Dugay.
	"You, sir, as a Frenchman, represent the nation best able to appreciate the complexity of 
this question." Forbin's smile robbed his words of any offensive overtones.
	Dugay took the slip, read it and smiled back.
	"It is, as you say, a honee of a question." He passed the slip to Kyrovitch who looked at it 
distastefully and quickly passed it to Plantain, who kept it.
	"Right, gentlemen," Forbin continued. He was beginning to enjoy himself. "Watch. I 
press the feed-in control--thus." For half a second nothing happened. Even in that short time the 
tension in the room became so strong as to be practically tangible. Then the machine chattered 
briefly. The smile on the President's face had become a fixed mask.
	Only Forbin was at ease. Without looking at the answer, he tore off the answer, passed it 
to Dugay. The Frenchman raised one expressive eyebrow.
	"It is certainly a lame answer, Professor." He reached over Kyrovitch and handed the slip 
to Plaintain, who obligingly held it up for Camera One. There were just four words.
	LOVE IS AN EMOTION
	Forbin read the answer on the monitor screen, and smiled at the reporters. "And that is 
about as good as Colossus can get. But my next question--" once more he bent over the teletype. 
The President cautiously looked at his watch. Kyrovitch yawned conspicuously.
	"I have again held transmission." Forbin passed his second message to Dugay. "You may 
think this question cannot be answered accurately. It is--'What is the best written definition of 
love.' I can tell you how Colossus will tackle this one. It will look up every reference to love on 
file, and there must be at least tens of thousands. From these it will select those which, in some 
way, define love, and there will be thousands of those, and all of them will be sorted for the 
common factors. This work will be done by several sectors of the machine at once and the 
answers fed to the central control, where the machine synthesizes an answer based upon its 
researches. This answer will then be compared against all the definitions of love for the one 
nearest its synthetic answer. This it will do in any language--an Arabic love poem, a Polynesian 
fertility rite, some reference in an Icelandic saga. When it has found what it regards as the 
nearest to its synthetic answer, it will check the original," Forbin leaned forward, clearly 
regarding his next sentence as important, "and will type out the reference, not the definition 
itself. It will supply this if wanted, but remember, that was not the question we are asking. If we 
want to know the exact words, it would be necessary to Say `Give the best written definition' etc. 
The final point I want to make before pressing the feed-in button is this. The process I have 
outlined will be carried out by the machine in five to ten seconds."
	Kyrovitch snorted with disbelief. The rest looked even more dazed than before. Forbin 
turned to the teletype. "Here we go.
	He pressed the feed-in control.
	Plaintain whispered something to Dugay round the back of the intervening Russian's 
neck. Dugay grinned. Kyrovitch simmered gently.
 	The machine began to chatter.
	Mazon, who had been studying his watch intently, looked up and almost shouted, 
triumphantly, "Seven goddam seconds!"
	It was quite unlike any press conference ever held. The President was half out of his 
chair, leaning over the desk. Camera Two tactfully took a shot of Forbin, bending over the 
teletype.
	Forbin tore the strip off the machine, looked up and spoke in a level voice.
	"It says--SHAKESPEARE SONNET CXVI." 
"Follow that," muttered Mazon.
	Kyrovitch did.
	"Mr. President, this is no time for tricks, we of the Socialist Soviet . . ."
	The President secretly agreed with Kyrovitch, and was glad of his interruption to regain 
control.
	"Gentlemen," he said, cutting in, "I hope this small demonstration illustrates the point 
which cannot be overemphasized. Colossus knows about emotion, but cannot experience it. It 
can never act in fear or hate. This is the most vital point for you to remember."
	The President favored Camera Two with a long direct stare.
	"No defensive action will ever be undertaken by the United States of North America out 
of fear, jealousy, greed or hate." He would have liked to have stopped the conference on that 
note, but Kyrovitch was not going to let him get away with that one. Swiftly he broke in on the 
President's stare.
	"You say you feed it information. What sort, and how?" The President was not going to 
be coy about that one. "Every form of intelligence or information available to our Central 
Intelligence Agency. Everything, from agents' reports," he gave Kyrovitch a wolfish smile all to 
himself, "to newspapers, TV and radio broadcasts, movements of aircraft, troops, ships, 
satellites, all statistics on harvests, birth rates, rainfall--anything and everything that we think has 
the remotest bearing on the problem--plus practically anything else that is going."
	Kyrovitch gave a deep-throated growl. "But how is it fed to the, the thing?"
	"I was coming to that." He didn't like to sit answering questions from a Commie reporter, 
or any other reporter, come to that. "Professor Forbin, you are better qualified to answer . . ."
	Forbin nodded and was suddenly conscious of his hands once more. He folded his arms 
across his chest, but the TV producer's frown and shaking head sent them plunging back into his 
pockets.
	"Feed-in. Yes. Mostly by land-line. All information is converted to electrical impulses, in 
just the same way that any transmitter--teletype, TV or radio--converts vision or sound into 
impulses. They are then fed down the line to Colossus, who then stores them in his--its own way. 
They are not converted back to pictures, letters or figures."
	"Pictures?" queried Mazon.
	"Yes. We pass pictures from newspapers or TV or plans of buildings. Anything that can 
be expressed on a sheet of paper or a flat surface goes down the pipe. I may say, since Colossus 
is not secret any more, it watches all the major TV programs--Soviet, American, European and 
so on. Moving pictures were a little tricky, but it works."
	"It sure is a good thing Colossus hasn't got emotions," said Mazon with feeling.
	"Perhaps so," Forbin smiled. "On the nonvisual side it monitors all the main radio 
transmissions of the world, civil, military and space-wise. It also reads, in its own way, all the 
newspapers of the world--even the sports pages."
	"Listening to all that has been said," Plaintain looked at Forbin, "I have an impression 
that Colossus is quite large--is that so?"
	"Yes, the name is appropriate. I can tell you that it is about the size of a small town of, 
say, seven to ten thousand people."
	"Are we permitted to know where it is?" said Kyrovitch. Mazon gave a snort of derisive 
laughter. The President thought it was time he was back center stage.
	"Why, certainly, Mr. Kyrovitch. It is located inside the Rocky Mountains. The exact spot 
will be shown on the maps which you will receive later with the official press handouts." The 
President felt much better when he was doing the talking. "As a nation we have carried out some 
pretty large works. Panama Canal, Grand Coulee Dam, the TVA project--and more recently the 
Space Reflector Stations, the Moon project, the Trans-ocean oil lines to Europe, not to mention 
the coast-to-coast air-car roads. I may say the effort required to produce the last three projects 
together would not be enough to build Colossus. It took three years to dig the hole, even using 
nuclear digging techniques, and there were another three years needed to line the hole with 
cement, and to prepare the bare shell to receive the equipment. It is by far the biggest single 
enterprise undertaken by this nation in all its history."
	"You say, Mr. President," said Kyrovitch, anxious to flatten proceedings as much as 
possible, "that the armed forces of this country will be reduced by seventy-five per cent--are the 
rest guarding Colossus?"
	Sucker, thought the President, this will teach you not to lead with your chin.
	"No, sir. That twenty-five per cent would, I imagine, be used solely to resist subversion. 
Colossus certainly does not need them. Of course, there are a good many people engaged at the 
external ends of the feed lines. For example, if Colossus is to read Pravda," he smiled once more 
at Kyrovitch, "or Grimm's Fairy Tales, someone has to present the paper to a scanner. There are 
practically no other personnel involved. There are no servicing teams--not human ones, anyway. 
Colossus works alone."
	That shook them, thought the President. It had. Plaintain raised both eyebrows, which 
was the ultimate in facial expression he ever permitted himself. Dugay's eyebrows merged into 
one black line, as he wrestled with the implications. Kyrovitch rumbled quietly to himself, 
clearly at a loss what to say. Mazon beamed uncertainly, like a first-time father presented with 
quads. M'taka rubbed his fuzzy white pate and wished he had studied science instead of the 
humanities. Dugay spoke first.
	"But the control, the maintenance . . ." he stopped, still mentally fumbling.
	"Professor," the President nodded.
	"As you may know," Forbin said, "back before our time electronic equipment was crude 
and unreliable. They had valves or tubes, which worked after a fashion, but could never be 
regarded as reliable. Then came transistors, a big advance in many ways--some are still in use--
but these too weren't what we would regard as reliable. Then came the semiconductors, the use 
of laser beams of coherent light and the development of power cells." Forbin was aware that the 
President was squirming slightly in his seat. "But I won't go on with the technical details; they 
will be available to those that want them afterward. Enough to say that we have perfected 
components and circuits, sealed in blocks which are stable in all conditions, impervious to heat, 
damp, cold, gas or anything else. As a further safeguard, all circuits are duplicated--in some 
cases, triplicated. Colossus is capable of tracing its own faults and switching in a new circuit if 
necessary. Our calculation--confirmed, I may add, by Colossus' own figuring--is that one block 
circuit in every ten thousand may be expected to fail every four hundred years."
	Kyrovitch bounced to his feet with surprising speed. "Four hundred years!" he roared.
	"That's what the man said, buster!" yelled a red-faced Mazon.
	"Gentlemen, gentlemen." The President raised a pacifying hand for silence. The TV 
producer reached forward and pulled Kyrovitch gently by the back of his jacket. The President 
looked at the reporters; the Limey would be the one to take the heat out of the situation.
	"What was your question, Mr. Plaintain?" He looked inquiringly at the Englishman, who 
had not asked one.
	"Thank you, Mr. President," Plaintain said gracefully. "I am indeed amazed at what 
Professor Forbin has just said. If this is the sort of time scale you have in mind, four hundred 
years to the first fault, how long is it expected that the machine will last?"
	"Well now, that is kind of hard to say, Mr. Plaintain, but we guess around the nine-
hundred to twelve-hundred-year mark--maybe a good deal longer. It is one reason why we built 
it in a mountain. It is a pretty solid and durable roof." The President smiled, a smile that grew 
more smug when he saw Prytzkammer hold up a cue board which bore the chalked message 
"CIA reports 100 per cent TV coverage Eastern Bloc." He went on. "Of course, the weapon side 
needs checking and replacement with newer devices, and Colossus will permit the withdrawal of 
one weapon complex at a time for such work."
	Dugay pounced.
	"You say 'permit'--what exactly does that mean?"
	Here we go, thought Forbin, the big hand-out. The President thought so too, a brief nod to 
Dugay, then he turned and faced the camera, back in his man-to-man pose.
	"That brings us to a point of fundamental importance that I want clearly understood. As 
you have seen, we make no secret of Colossus, or where it is: nor do we intend to conceal the 
main points of how it works." He leaned back in his chair his hands folded comfortably on his 
belly, the epitome of the reasonable man. "You may say that this lays us wide open to a sudden 
attack frontally or subversively, which, if successful, would leave us defenseless." He leaned 
forward once more, less of the reasonable man, more of the keen efficient super-executive. "We 
have a defense for Colossus, and it is this--the machine is safe, safer than mere man could ever 
be"--he tapped the desk with slow emphasis in time with his words--"so long as Colossus and its 
feed lines are not tampered with in any way. If its power, information or other supply lines, or 
any missile bases or satellites are sabotaged, or even attacked, a special emergency circuit will 
switch in, and Colossus will take full offensive action."
	There was quite a silence. Kyrovitch got in first.
	"Does this mean that this thing, this Colossus"--he tried to sound contemptuous, but did 
not quite make it "works without human aid, and that you cannot stop it?"
	"It does."
	Kyrovitch searched around for his voice, finally got it.
	"You have in fact, delivered the destiny of the world--so far as the USNA can do that--
into the hands of a machine?"
	"Yes."
	It was like a pebble dropped down a well; there was a deep silence, then came the splash. 
All the correspondents spoke at once, even including Plantain. Once more the President held up 
an authoritative hand.
	"Please. The best brains of this country available to me and my predecessor have 
considered this point at great length, and it comes to this. Don't try to tamper with Colossus, and 
don't try to attack us, and there is nothing to fear."
	"I am happy to accept the President's assurances on this point," said Plantain. The 
President did not look noticeably grateful. Plaintain went on, "But how do you cope with the 
madman problem? And may not the machine be deranged by fire or flood or earthquake? I am 
sure you have an answer, but it would be interesting to know what that answer is."
	"Forbin, go ahead," the President spoke tersely. He was getting bored, it was like talking 
to a bunch of high-school kids.
	"Before site work began, we considered the earthquake and flooding angles. The best 
Japanese brains were consulted--naturally, we did not disclose the exact nature of our 
requirements--and I can only say we are satisfied. We also chose a spot which has been free of 
all earth movement since the Rockies were formed around two hundred million years ago. As for 
flooding, a short answer. If Colossus were submerged--and it could stand that and go on working 
the rest of the USNA would have to be covered to an average depth of eighty-five feet by the 
Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Climatic changes between fifty below to one fifty above centigrade 
can be tolerated. Madmen? Several large holes were made, of course, during the excavation and 
removal of rock. When all the equipment was in, the holes were sealed. All floors and walls now 
contain a net of wires which must be cut to get in, embedded in the cement for protection and 
concealment, and if these are tampered with--you would first have to get through an average of 
three feet of cement, concrete to you Europeans--then, you set Colossus off. There is only one 
entrance left open, and this is guarded by the U.S. Marine Corps. Their job is to keep people 
away from that entrance for their own good, for the entrance now acts as an air shaft, and its real 
defense is a zone of intense radioactivity. Anyone entering this zone would be killed instantly. 
The only adequate shielding would be a `suit' of lead which would make the wearer nine feet 
wide. The entrance is three feet wide. Beyond this zone there are further defenses which would 
deal with any remote-controlled device sent in. One final point. If Colossus knows there is an 
attack on this country's interest impending and that an attack is probable within the next eight 
hours, it automatically closes the entrance doors, which are steel, four feet thick, and issues an 
alert to all Civil Defense Zones. A Red warning would also be passed to all concerned when 
Colossus operated its weapons."
	"But surely, Professor, there is some way in which you, the creators of this thing, can get 
at it?"
	The President intervened.
	"No, there is not. As you know, it is an open secret that for years there have been nerve 
and psychological gases and drugs which are able to change the state of the human mind. If 
Forbin and his colleagues were subjected to this sort of treatment by hostile agents, they might 
well do as they were told, and with their knowledge, inactivate Colossus. No. There is no way in. 
No human being can touch Colossus."


Chapter 4

	The historic press conference was over. The reporters and TV men had gone, to be 
replaced by a selection of high Government officials. The Secretaries of State for Peace, 
International Affairs, and Finance were there, along with Forbin's chief assistant, Dr. Fisher, and 
an assortment of aides. This party had watched the telecast elsewhere in the Precinct, and were 
now being entertained by the President, cheerfully holding court, beaming and handshaking amid 
the subdued chatter and clink of glass on bottle.
	Forbin had withdrawn slightly, smiling mechanically at various compliments paid him. 
With the Project launched and irrevocably rolling, no longer a project but a fact, and with the 
excitement and tension of the telecast over, he felt drained, yet not empty. There was an 
increasingly strong feeling of foreboding taking over the space left by the completion of his 
work. He also felt hot, tired and depressed.
	Fisher came over.
	"So that is more or less that, Charles."
	"Yep," said Forbin, nodding. "What did you think of the show?"
	"I think it went very well, really." Fisher did not sound overenthusiastic. His hand 
fluttered nervously to his tie.
	"Go on," said Forbin with sudden sharp interest, "what else?"
	Fisher glanced round, gave his tie another tug, and lowered his voice as he moved closer. 
"To be honest, I rather wish these people weren't so cocksure and happy. Perhaps it's because we 
are practically out of a job, or it's anticlimax--but I think I have allowed for all that. Yet I'm left 
with a nasty taste, and I can't really say what it is."
	"Is it Colossus?"
	"Yes, I guess it is," Fisher gave a short false laugh. "Frankenstein should be banned 
reading for scientists."
	"I'd be more inclined to make it compulsory reading for nonscientists." Forbin peered into 
his glass. "I wish to hell I could get out of this armor. This collar is killing me."
	Fisher ignored the last remark, stared thoughtfully at his chief. "You've got the same itch 
in the middle of the back." It was a statement, not a question.
	Forbin nodded. "Maybe it was always there, but it's gotten more pronounced these last 
few weeks. Could be just nerves." "If it is, then it's catching," said Fisher in a low voice. "I had a 
very curious conversation with Cleo yesterday--"
	"Come on, boys, break it up!"
	It was the President in his best convention mood. Face flushed, beads of perspiration on 
his forehead and nose, little drops glistening in the light.
	"Forbin, Fisher, your glasses, come on, gas up and come over here, we'll have a toast or 
two." He gripped their arms, one on each side of him, and steered them towards his desk. An 
aide replenished their glasses. Both had been drinking Scotch, both now got martinis.
	The President, now behind his desk once more, picked up his glass and looked 
expectantly at Prytzkammer. The PPA got the idea--that was why he was PPA--and raised his 
soft voice slightly.
	"Gentlemen, the President wishes to give you a toast."
	The chatter subsided at once, there was a general turning towards the President. Looking 
at their bright, flushed and excited faces, Forbin felt his stomach turn slightly. Any moment now, 
he thought, they will burst into "Hail to the Chief." He gazed with considerable repugnance into 
the martini. Someone knocked an ashtray over, there was the sound of breaking glass.
	"OK, Hunston, don't worry," called the President, beaming. "We can charge all this fan-
tan to Colossus, no one will spot the extra two dollars--except Benson, and I can fix him."
	There was a general polite laugh. Benson was the Secretary of State (Finance).
	"Right, now," said the President briskly. "I don't aim to keep you fellows long from your 
drinks, but what I want to say is this--"
	But whatever it is, it was never said. There had been one silent, nonsmoking, nondrinking 
guest in the sanctum, and he spoke first.
	The teletype started chattering.

	There was complete silence, apart from the teletype, for nearly five seconds; a long time 
in the circumstances.
	Forbin felt a shock race outwards through his body to his extremities, a shock that left his 
skin cold and damp. He saw that Fisher's face was pallid, his half-raised glass clutched in a 
frozen hand. The President's face was blotchy, his mouth slightly open. Somewhere an aide 
laughed nervously, and the sound broke the spell. Forbin roughly pushed a Secretary of State 
aside and ran to the machine, followed by Fisher and some others. The President did not move.
	Forbin bent over the machine, staring at the paper in disbelief. He tore the typed strip off 
the machine, still looking at it. The President found his voice first.
	"What the goddam hell goes on?" He banged his glass down, and headed for the machine. 
"Well?"
	Forbin turned as the President approached. His face was as pale as Fisher's.
	"I don't know." Forbin struggled to keep his voice level. "I think you should call the party 
off, and clear the room of all non-Colossus people."
	The President instantly swung round to face the majority of his guests. "You heard!" 
There was a faint hysterical edge to his voice. "Everybody who is not Colossus-cleared, out--
now!"
	The room cleared rapidly, and there was more than one nervous glance at Forbin as they 
left.
	The President looked round the room sharply; there remained the two scientists, the 
Secretary of State for Peace and the Chief of Staff of Armed Forces. As the room emptied, the 
remaining guests drew closer to Forbin, who stood silent. Satisfied that all non-Colossus 
personnel had gone, the President wheeled on Forbin.
	"Give!"
	Without speaking or altering his blank stare into space, Forbin passed over the teletype 
slip. The President snatched the paper, and scanned it hastily, his face closely watched by the 
remainder of his guests with some anxiety. They got full value; the tension eased from his face, 
to be replaced by relief, then puzzlement, and finally anger. The color flooded back into his face, 
he was bright red, his eyes hard as stone as he faced Forbin.
	"What is this crap! If this is some long-haired bastard on your staff being funny, Forbin, 
I'll castrate him personally, I'll--"
	But Forbin was not listening. He brushed past the President to the direct-line 
communication set on the President's desk, the direct line to the Secure Zone.
	"Cleo? Forbin. Is the Colossus T/P link to you operating? What? Well, find out! Call 
back." He replaced the handset, and spoke to the President. "We'll soon know, though I would 
have said it was impossible--hell, it is impossible."
	He stared hard at the First Citizen. As on an earlier occasion, there had been a subtle 
change in his attitude. Forbin was talking to an equal.
	The remainder of the party was, understandably, puzzled and anxious. The President's 
demeanor had taken some of the tension out of their attitudes, but there was still enough to go 
round.
	"Well, what does it say?" burst out Fisher. "For God's sake, don't keep us hanging by our 
ears!"
	"Go on, Forbin, tell them." The President thrust the paper back into Forbin's hand. The 
look Forbin gave the President indicated clearly that he had every intention of doing so, anyway.
	"All it says is this." He held the slip so that all might see. There were just five words:

	FLASH THERE IS ANOTHER MECHANISM

Puzzlement was now general, tension had largely gone. The Chief of Staff picked up his 
drink and frowned at the Secretary of State for Peace, who frowned back. Only the two scientists 
continued to look pale and haunted. Forbin spoke again.
	"And it's no good anyone asking what it means; you know as much as I do, so don't--"
	Fisher, following his own train of thought, cut in.
	"I suppose," he spoke slowly, formulating his ideas as he went along, "if a question had 
been fed in by some clown back in the Secure Zone, this might be the answer. But why wouldn't 
the question show up on this machine? It is in parallel, and should--"
	In turn, he was cut short by the soft ping of the direct line. Forbin answered.
	"Yes, speaking. You're sure, Cleo? Switch on the screen and show me the roll since we 
started. Yes, now."
	Without reference to the President, he reached over and flicked a switch on the desk's 
control panel. Immediately the small screen in the base of the direct-line instrument came alive, 
and a few seconds later a roll of paper was presented to the scanner, held by a pair of obviously 
feminine hands which belonged to Cleo Markham, one of Forbin's top cybernetic experts. He 
noted that her hands were shaking slightly.
	"Yes, Cleo, I see it. Now, from the beginning, unroll slowly."
 	Cleo did as she was told. Apart from the time, printed down one side of the paper every 
fifteen minutes, there was a complete blank from ten o'clock until the first message: EXPLAIN 
LOVE.
	There followed the rest of the exchange, ending with SHAKESPEARE SONNET CXVI, 
then nothing for forty-five minutes until FLASH THERE IS ANOTHER MECHANISM.
	Forbin studied the picture carefully, then closely questioned Cleo and Blake, the duty 
scientist in the watch room. He checked all possibilities, including erasures on the roll, machine 
and line faults. Finally he ordered Cleo and Blake to keep quiet and to take the roll out of service 
for closer inspection later.
	Forbin turned and looked grimly at the President.
	"I'm satisfied that no question was fed in. That message came straight from, and was 
originated by, Colossus. I have a shrewd idea what it means--"
	"Wait," grated the President. The red light over the door was on, but it was not a steady 
light; it waxed and waned in intensity--the urgency signal. At the same moment the PPA's voice 
broke in.
	"Urgent message, sir!"
	"Jesus, what now?" muttered the President; then in a louder voice, "Well?"
	"Soviet Ambassador on the phone, sir. Insists on speaking to you most urgently."
	"Put him on." The President might have a fading grip on Forbin, but it was still granite 
hard elsewhere. His hand resting on the phone, he looked round at his staff. "Stay." Then he 
picked up the phone.
	"Yes, speaking." His eyes darted restlessly about, from the teletype to Forbin, to the 
Chief of Staff to Fisher--then quite suddenly they became still, his face impassive. "Yes, 
Ambassador, I heard. In view of the importance of your statement, I would be obliged if you 
would repeat it."
 	There was a tense silence, all eyes staring at the President as he listened intently.
	"Yes, thank you for telling me in advance. Naturally, I have no comment to make at this 
time. Thank you, and good night." He replaced the handset carefully, but did not release his grip, 
and stared unseeingly before him. Without moving he spoke once more, his voice was dry, harsh.
	"You got that on record, P?'
	"Yes, sir." Prytzkammer too sounded as if he was laboring under some strain.
	"Right."
	As the red light went out, the President relinquished his hold on the telephone. He 
swiveled in his chair to face his staff, his eyes still hard but with a new, fatigued look in them, 
his hands gripping the arms of his chair. No one spoke or coughed as he shifted his gaze from 
one to another, finally resting on Forbin.
	"You needn't start tearing up any sidewalks to check the lines, Forbin. Also we don't need 
any inspired guesses. I know what Colossus meant--the Soviet Ambassador just told me." He 
took a deep breath, shut his eyes and leaned back, quoting from memory. "In view of your 
announcement of today, the Supreme Council of the USSR has ordered, as of 2300 Moscow time 
tomorrow, the activation of the Guardian of the Socialist Soviet Republics--a near-relation of 
Colossus." He smiled momentarily, a smile that turned almost at once to black anger. "So much 
for our cotton-picking security! Nothing but a pile of--"
	He swung his chair to face the Chief of Staff. In doing so, his arm swept a telephone off 
the desk; it crashed unheeded on the floor.
	"You!" he shouted. "Get the head of CIA! I want to know why we haven't had a hint of 
this from his agency, and if he can't come up with a red-hot answer, I'll have him and all his 
bloody staff on relief--while they're waiting for court-martial for gross dereliction of duty. Get 
moving!"
 	The Chief of Staff left in a hurry.
	The President turned his attention to the Secretary of State for Peace. He modified his 
voice. "I want a full rundown on Central Intelligence, John. See it is started at once--now. See 
also that no military moves other than purely routine ones are carried out--unless I have 
expressly ordered so. That's all."
	"Mr. President--" began the Secretary of State, but his boss raised an arresting hand.
	"Not now, John. In the morning maybe, but not now."
	With their departure, the two scientists were left alone with the President. He was about 
to speak when the door opened; it was a Secret Service man on security patrol.
	"That is just too goddam much!" roared the President, "Get the -ing hell out of here!"
	He picked up a handy glass and threw it. It hurtled over the guard's head and disappeared 
into the PPA's room. There was a sound of smashing glass as the man quickly shut the door.
	"That makes me feel a whole lot better." He grinned, his anger dissipated--for the 
moment. "That call was a hellava shock, but maybe it's not all bad. At least we got in first, even 
if it was only just. We knew that given time the Russkies would make one too, but no one 
reckoned on them moving that fast. So neither side can make anything of it." He thought for a 
moment. "One bright spot is the way Colossus came up with that hot tip so smartly." He spoke 
reprovingly to Forbin. "I didn't know we'd get bonuses like this from the project."
	He picked up a bottle of Scotch and started pouring three drinks.
	Forbin glanced at Fisher, seeking his support in what he had to say. Fisher, ill at ease, 
half nodded his agreement. "Neither did I, Mr. President." Forbin was back in his formal act. 
	The President stopped pouring and said sharply, "What do you mean?"
	"Just that. I had no idea." The formality was slipping. 
"Goddammit, man--you built the thing!" The President was heating up again. He was not 
the only one.
	"Yes--and not so very long ago I warned you I wasn't happy about the potential of 
Colossus, and you damn near laughed at me."
	"What are you driving at?"
	"Just this! Colossus has been fed with the parameters that we consider indicate war. It 
was built to compare events with those parameters, and if they coincided, to get blasting. That 
was the main function. The second requirement was to answer any question we might feed in."
	He stopped and dug out his pipe. The action of filling and lighting it cooled him down a 
little. The President, having poured a drink to his own satisfaction, left the other two glasses and 
sat down at his desk, watching Forbin. Fisher stood uneasily tugging alternately at his tie and his 
left eyebrow. Forbin continued.
	"The question-answering faculty was a later idea. We thought it would be useful to get 
factual answers out of the memory banks, because it was a lot faster to ask Colossus than to look 
it up. If you asked CIA where the 216th Soviet Rocket Regiment was stationed and its combat 
status they would tell you in a matter of an hour or so; Colossus could answer in less than a 
second. The same with harder questions, such as predicting the tin output of Albania for next 
month. CIA's time, around four hours; Colossus, less than two seconds. And take that reporter's 
question--Love. I don't mind admitting I wasn't sure Colossus would come up with a credible 
answer--which was why I asked for the reference and not the quote. Who was going to look it up 
then?" He walked to the desk, picked up the Scotch and drained it. "But I reckoned it would take 
all of ten seconds, maybe twelve, to come up with the answer. Mazon said it was seven seconds. 
It was actually one less than that--you have to allow a second for actuation of the teletype. Six 
seconds! To answer a highly sophisticated question like that, checking hundreds of thousands of 
references, summarizing, and then comparing . . . Yes, I built the thing, but it surprised me."
	"So?" The President shot the single word at Forbin. It might be justified, but it was not 
tactful.
	"Don't you get it yet? That message about another mechanism isn't in the simple-answer 
or advanced-answer category--or in the sophisticated realm revealed by the Love question. Also, 
there's no parameter built in dealing with hostile intent and Colossus-type machines, so bang 
goes that one. And, for good measure, no bloody question was asked!" Forbin was shouting now. 
"It means Colossus can think of its own volition--look at that FLASH priority alone!
	"Since eight o'clock this morning Colossus has worked over its material and made a 
better job in a few hours than CIA in years. It not only tells us--without being asked--but actually 
uses the highest priority to show the urgency of its message. If that isn't selective thinking, I'm a 
blue-assed baboon!"
	He turned to go, then swung to face the President once more, extending a shaking finger 
towards his assistant.
	"And if you don't believe me, look at Fisher's face! Good night, Mr. President!"


Chapter 5

	TEN MINUTES later Fisher joined Forbin, waiting in the air-car. Forbin did not speak as 
his colleague climbed in, but waited until Fisher was settled, then stabbed the linear motor 
button.
	Fisher wriggled in his seat.
	"Do you mind if we switch out the light?" "Go ahead," said Forbin briefly.
	With the cabin in darkness Fisher felt happier. With the lights out, he was aware of the 
outside world--and their isolation from it. There was a long silence. Forbin fumbled absently 
with his pipe, then spoke.
	"Well, we'd expected something, and by God we've got it!" Forbin marshaled his 
thoughts. "That damn FLASH. It looks very much like creative thinking--and we know that's a 
theoretical impossibility."
	"Entirely."
	"And then how did Colossus come up with this intelligence when CIA hasn't had the 
ghost of an idea, yet had exactly the same material to work on?"
	He lapsed into silence. Fisher stared out of the front observation window at the black 
night, pierced by the single headlight. The car swayed fractionally as it banked round a shallow 
curve; there was a sudden thunderous tattoo as they sliced through a rain-shower, momentarily 
the view was obscured by water, then their velocity whipped the curved plastic screen clear.
	"I fancy I've got one explanation of the second point," said Fisher diffidently.
 	Forbin disentangled himself from an unpleasant train of thought. "And that is?"
	"We're wrong in assuming CIA has access to exactly the same raw material. While they 
know, in general terms, of the Project, they hold none of the technical data. Take that high-
temperature resin we had such trouble with. It has no other application that I know of. Now--
suppose the Russians ran into the same trouble, that some reference to this formulation cropped 
up in our intelligence intake--it would mean nothing to CIA, but would be highly significant to 
Colossus. Remember all that stuff we fed in before the final checkout."
	"Yes, it's a tenable proposition," said Forbin slowly, "but if you're right, the amount of 
work Colossus has got through since activation is staggering! And if you are right--and you 
probably are--it doesn't help on the larger question, and that's the one."
	Fisher knew Forbin was not saying all that was in his mind. He knew also that they 
shared the same deep, chilling fear. Fisher resumed his vigil at the observation window.
	The telephone pinged. Forbin answered it with significant speed.
	"Yes?"
	"Prytzkammer here, Professor. The President is calling a Defense Group meeting for 
1000 tomorrow--in his office."
"Right--I'll be there. All quiet at your end?"
	"As quiet as it ever gets. Nothing from your oracle, and the Chief has gone to bed."
	Forbin switched off abruptly. In his explosive state of mind it was the best thing to do.
	"They've still got no idea, have they?"
	"He's used to crises, you know," put in Fisher mildly.
	"This is not just another crisis! That crowd back there," he jerked his head in the general 
direction of Washington, "is not even faintly competent to assess the problem. It would be quite 
some advance if they recognized a problem even existed. I'll bet you this meeting is to chew over 
the Russian machine, and if we don't raise it, they'll just mention in passing the valuable services 
already performed by Colossus. You'll see." Forbin strode into the Colossus Programming 
Office, short title CPO, where despite air-conditioning the atmosphere was stale and fusty after 
the clear night air. The pale gray walls were covered with progress charts and clips of teletype 
reports. High up on one wall, yellowing with age, was a drawing produced by some artistic wit in 
the early days. It showed a man sitting on a lavatory, clearly much concerned with his own 
affairs. The caption said, "The only man in Washington who knows what he is doing." Forbin 
glanced at it with renewed appreciation.
	Two of the staff were on duty, looking pale and drawn under the shadowless light from 
the luminescent ceiling. It was a singularly tiring form of lighting; Forbin had refused to have it 
in his personal office. He had rebuilt two antique oil lamps for his own use--which were the bane 
of his secretary's life. Procuring a small but steady supply of the right kind of oil, and the wicks, 
was a constant problem. In the CPO luxuries of that sort--objects that might contain 
microtransmitterswere out, mainly on security grounds. This was a maximum security area.
	Forbin nodded to the duty men. They knew him too well to speak when he was wearing 
his blank stare. His mind was clouded with the deep, shadowy fears of Colossus' potential, 
coupled with the knowledge that he must be ready to meet whatever might arise. Forbin knew he 
must have help, and the help he needed could come only from his fellow creators of Colossus. 
Fisher was a brilliant mathematics and electronics man, but no good in this situation. It was clear 
from the conversation in the car that although Fisher fully appreciated the position, he wanted to 
bury his head in the nearest sand-bucket, and stay that way. Even if he knew he was right, he 
wouldn't stand up to the President or the Defense Staff.
	But standing up to the President was another problem. He had really chewed up the Old 
Man. Not that Forbin was worried about his future. But he had no wish to get the President in his 
wounded-mountain-bear act--they had to work together, more than ever, now. He had to 
convince the President that the machine was growing up, and that the growth was unplanned and 
proceeding at a frightening speed and must be inhibited--somehow.
	"Johnson--where's Cleo?"
	"She knocked off about twenty minutes ago, Professor. Said to tell you she was getting a 
shower and maybe a little sleep."
	"Sleep, hell!" snorted Forbin. "What do we have these medics for? Call the sick bay, have 
them send over a supply of those zip-pills--or whatever you call 'em. Fisher! You'd better have a 
box of them. I want this outfit on an emergency basis. As well as the duty man in the watch 
room, I want two permanently on duty here."
	"What do you want us to do?" Fisher spoke hesitantly.
"First, get on to that exchange of messages with particular reference to that FLASH. How 
could Colossus originate it? Use the simulator--check the data we fed Colossus about himself, 
and any other idea that may occur to you on this angle. Secondly, see that anything, but anything, 
that comes up the pipe from Colossus is fed to me, wherever I am, immediately. Don't assume I 
already know, check."
	Johnson broke in. "Sir, is this matter all that serious? Colossus was built to evaluate, and 
it did just that. As for the FLASH, maybe there's a minor relay fault which allowed it to be de-
stored. We could change the terminal relays and check--"
	"Crap, Johnson, crap!" Forbin barked. "I haven't got time to spell it out." He got up and 
headed for the door. "Fisher, you tell him--if you can keep his mind and hands off Angela's tits 
long enough." As he spoke he regretted it. "Sorry, Johnson. I shouldn't have said that--it was 
inexcusable."
	As Forbin left, Fisher looked wryly at Johnson. "I'm afraid he's worried sick."
	"Sure unlike him to sound off like that. I get the message all right, but why does it scare 
him so much?"
	"In a nutshell, he sees it--and I must say I agree with him --as clear evidence that 
Colossus has an unplanned potential, of unknown scope, for self-development, and that this 
includes an entirely new element--initiative."
	"But, Doctor, how can it? There's only a finite amount of potential, and it can't physically 
alter its guts--so how can it get very far out of line?"
	"Johnson, do you realize that even twenty-four hours ago the mere idea of its getting out 
of line at all would have been laughed at? Now, we accept that it can--we have to--and comfort 
ourselves with the thought that it cannot go far. If you care to think of the hardware that thing has 
under its command--" Fisher stopped, staring blankly at the wall charts, "It's just too awful."
	"What do you want me to do, sir?"
	"Do? Oh yes. Get Blake and all the rest of Group A--and I don't care if they are asleep."
	Johnson dialed the code number on the internal call transmitter which would trigger the 
personal receivers carried by all members of Group A. Instantly, his, and Fisher's, began their 
plaintive bleating. Fisher visibly jumped. They both canceled their own receivers, and stood 
silent, waiting. Forbin was the first to call in.
	"Yes, what now?" His voice was brusque, tight with tension. Fisher answered.
	"I was calling all the Group to the CPO for briefing. I thought you might want to give the 
rundown on the position--"
	Forbin cut in. "No, you can do it. Cleo and I won't be there."
	"Very well, Professor." Fisher was by no means happy at the prospect and it showed in 
his voice.
	"You can do it as well as I could, Jack." Forbin's tone softened, trying to infuse 
confidence into Fisher. "I don't have to emphasize how important it is for us not only to keep up, 
but to get ahead in this situation; time is very short. I suggest you break the Group into two 
watches and dig away at that FLASH angle. One thing for Johnson. I want teletype repeaters 
hooked to Colossus' output installed in my room and in Cleo's. Fix Cleo's first--I'm going there 
now, and will be staying there for the time being."
	He switched off without waiting for an answer. Johnson grinned at Fisher.
	"I guess the old man is going to define love to Cleo." Fisher, plucking nervously at his 
lower lip, did not even hear him. There was a burst of noise as the rest of the Group called in.
	"All of you, come on in--at the rush, Director's orders," Johnson told them. "We have a 
little trouble to sort out."
	Even that master of the understatement, Plantain, would have been proud of that one.

	Cleo Markham, thirty-five and a leading cyberneticist of Project Colossus, was wearing a 
shower cap, and nothing else, when Forbin burst into her sitting room without knocking. She was 
among the brighter minds produced since women became first-class citizens. She also had that 
rare quality among the female intelligentsia, femininity. Her reaction to Forbin's sudden entry 
was to whip off the shower cap.
	"What the hell are you doing?" snapped Forbin unreasonably.
	Several answers crossed Cleo Markham's mind, but from the look of the Director this was 
no time to be smart or coy. In fact, she had dashed from the shower to answer the call put out by 
Johnson.
	"You'd better sit down," she said, turning away from him in search of a dressing gown.
	Forbin stared at her long, well--shaped back and her ample but firm buttocks, pink and 
gleaming from the shower. It would be untrue to say he did not notice, but any thoughts her form 
conjured up were instantly dismissed as irrelevant. "Have you heard about the Russians?"
	"No--what?" Cleo grabbed her dressing gown off the back of a chair.
	"They have a Colossus too--activating the thing tomorrow.
	Whatever thoughts were having a good time in Cleo's mind vanished. She swung round, 
one hundred per cent scientist. "What!" Her voice rose the best part of an octave as she uttered 
the single word.
	Some obscure but scientific corner of Forbin's mind took time out to observe that, 
although her face was white with shock, the rest of her remained pink, that her areolae had 
contracted, the nipples prominent, and that there were goose pimples on her thighs.
	"Hadn't you better get some clothes on?" He sat down heavily. "God, I'm tired."
	Cleo shook her head angrily. "It's impossible, how could they--"
	Forbin waved his hand impatiently at her. "The Russian Ambassador called the President 
while I was there. That was obviously the "mechanism" Colossus was talking about in the 
message. Have you got any coffee?"
	Cleo, who had been clutching her dressing gown, slowly put it on. She did not bother to 
turn away; about the only part Forbin had not seen were the soles of her feet. She said, "But the 
coincidence in activation times! Washington must be livid."
	Forbin blinked at her. "Science is littered with coincidences --not that it matters. It's the 
power of Colossus I want to talk about."
	He stood up and searched his jacket for pipe and tobacco. "This lousy suit!" he said 
savagely, then continued. "Frankly, Cleo, I'm scared. I must talk to someone, someone who will 
listen and may be able to help. Fisher is the obvious choice, but he . . ." Forbin groped for a 
suitable phrase, gave it up and went on. "He told me you too had a feeling that Colossus might 
act up."
	Cleo nodded and was about to speak when there was a tap on the door. It was a couple of 
technicians with the teletype Forbin had ordered. He explained their presence to Cleo and lapsed 
into a sombre silence while the machine was fitted.
	"OK to test, Professor?"
	"No!" Forbin said sharply. "Fix the other one in my room, then report to the CPO when 
ready to test. No keyboards are to be pounded without my order."
	"OK, Professor." The senior man eyed Forbin curiously. He had been on the Project for 
years, but had never seen Forbin like this. He jerked his head towards the door and his assistant 
preceded him out.
	Forbin stared blankly at Cleo's taste in pictures. Cleo had taken advantage of the 
diversion to slip into her minute bedroom and dress. She had no real objection to Forbin seeing 
her undressed--she knew she had a good figure, and given the right circumstances . . . but 
uppermost in her mind was the news of the Russian machine. All the same, the woman in her got 
uppermost long enough to allow a long appraising stare at herself in the mirror.
	"Cleo, what about that coffee?"
	"I'll get it." She did not resent his manner.
	Cleo was busy with the coffee when the phone pinged. For one who appeared to be a 
million miles away, the Director was remarkably quick. He was out of the chair and across to the 
wall-phone before Cleo had time to put the coffeepot down.
	"Forbin."
	"Johnson here, sir. Both teletypes fixed, permission to test?"
	"Wait." Forbin thought for a moment. "Make this. Begins--this is a CPO test 
transmission. Give the next perfect number after two to the three thousand two hundred and 
sixteenth power-ends. Got that? Don't say yes, repeat the message back!"
	Johnson did so.
	"Right. I want a chronograph lined up on that. Get the exact time from the end of the 
transmission of my order to the time the reply starts coming in."
	Cleo brought in the coffee as he hung up. "That's the last known perfect number, isn't it?"
	Forbin nodded. "Two of the power of twenty-five is way past sixty million--it'll be quite a 
sum. There are several computers that could do it, but how long d'you think they would take?"
	"The new machine in CalTec could do it in--oh, I suppose six, seven hours." She added, 
"If they could spare the time."
	"That would be my guess," said Forbin. "Yesterday I'd have said Colossus would do it in 
ten minutes, but I've a nasty feeling it will be a lot less."
	The teletype had started its muted chatter. Forbin glanced at his watch, then picked up his 
coffee and stirred it. He had just taken his second sip when the teletype started again. The effect 
on Forbin was notable. He jerked forward, spilling hot coffee on his trousers, coughing and 
spluttering. Cleo, who had been watching the machine, hurried to relieve him of the cup and 
saucer.
	Still red-faced and choking, Forbin peered at his watch. "God Almighty!" he gasped for 
breath, "Check the answer, Cleo."
	She crossed to the machine. "Just says--Two to the eight one seven fourth power." The 
phone pinged, and Cleo answered.
	"Yes. Six twenty-three. Thanks." She turned to Forbin. "Did you hear that? Six seconds, 
twenty-three nanoseconds." She smiled faintly. "Johnson sounded surprised." 
"Aren't you?"
"Of course! But I've had several surprises in the last few hours--even more than Johnson, 
poor lad."
	Forbin made no comment. For a full minute he sat, leaning forward, his head resting in 
his hands, then, abruptly, he stood up. "I'll change and come back. No good trying to think in my 
office or the CPO, and we've got a lot of thinking to do, although offhand I can't see . . ."
	Cleo sensed that his appeal was to her both as a woman and a scientist. She was well 
aware she was outclassed by him in the latter category, but was only too willing to try. If Forbin 
himself did not find an answer, there was little hope for anyone else; but if he wanted her mental 
as well as moral support, she would give all she had. She tried out her new role.
	"Certainly its speed and capability are alarming, but is it really as bad as all that? We're 
building faster and faster computers all the time. Mere speed shouldn't worry you. Colossus as a 
freethinker, well--are you so sure it really is freethinking.
	"I don't see what else could produce that damned FLASH."
	"Right now you don't, but give yourself time," she said soothingly. "Colossus can't 
exceed the parameters."
	Forbin looked steadily at her. "Cleo, I so hope you're right."
	Then Cleo knew the heart of his fear, a fear that she had not herself seriously considered-
-until now. Before Forbin had spoken she would have said there was as much chance of Colossus 
overstepping the parameters as there was of finding a triangle with four sides, but if Forbin 
thought it was a possibility, however remote . . .
	"Of course I'm right. You know the layout of the parameter systems--explain to me, step 
by step, how this could happen," she challenged. She saw the kindling of hope in his eyes. "You 
see, it just can't happen. Don't let this thing run away with you. Stick to the hard facts."
	"You may be right." Forbin stood up once more. "I really must get out of this cardboard 
armor. Thanks, Cleo." He held out a hand . . .
	The teletype began clattering busily--a familiar, everyday sound to the habitués of the 
CPO, but one that now froze Forbin and Cleo.

	ESTABLISH HIGH SPEED TRANSMITTER FACILITIES FED TO TERMINAL 
RELAY ALFA FOUR FREQUENCY 8295 KC/S

	As the teletype fell silent, the phone called and Forbin answered.
	"Yes, Johnson, I have it. Take no action without my authority." His voice was calm, 
even. He replaced the receiver carefully and looked again at the message. The first wave of fear 
had receded, assisted by the need for action. "And what do you think of that, Cleo?"
	She tried to strike the right note, but was not wholly successful. "Colossus clearly wants 
to say something to someone..."
	"Or something." He sounded calm, almost resigned. There was a grayish tinge in his 
cheeks. "Eight megacycles is a good all-round frequency for long-range communication, even if 
a little old-fashioned. That setup is designed as a link with the Russian Guardian."
	He spoke with an air of complete certainty. 
"But why?"
	"That I don't know." He ran one hand wearily through his hair. "Neither do I know where 
we go from here."
	Cleo looked at the tired, disheveled figure with his crumpled and stained suit. A feeling 
of warmth and pity struggled with the growing fear within her. "You go and change--I'll get 
some more coffee--and then we'll go over the parameter angle together. There'll be an answer--
you'll see.
	Forbin looked at her meditatively. "All right. I feel like hell in this suit. You may be right 
about the parameters. Maybe Colossus just wants this transmitter to get information for an 
evaluation of Guardian--actuated by a desire to do a better job."
	Cleo decided to take a small chance. "Not desire, Charles. That's something that applies 
only to people. Now--you go and shower. I promise not to break in on you."
	Forbin did not answer or smile. He nodded and left. In the CPO, Fisher and the duty team 
were working on the latest two messages. Johnson was working on the perfect number and had 
covered several sheets with calculations. Finally he took a deep breath and crumpled them and 
threw them at the wall. "I just don't believe it. As near as I can get, that perfect number, if written 
out in full, would run to two or three million digits, and that bloody thing belches it up in six 
seconds! I give up, I really do."
	"Never mind the number, Johnson. The Director wants any ideas on the FLASH that 
came up." Fisher pulled at his lip. "Try checking the priority memory bank layout, perhaps you'll 
find--"
	It was so futile. He stopped. Johnson just looked at him. "What do we do about this 
transmitter request?" he asked.
	Blake, who was engaged on making a paper dart, answered, "Request! That's a hot one. I 
worked on the vocabulary bank, and I know how that box of tricks can phrase a sentence. That 
was a direct order."
	"If it is an order, it has either got to be obeyed or ignored," said Johnson solemnly.
	"That's a swell piece of figuring, son," said Blake caustically. "And it's gonna be mighty 
interesting if Forbin tells Colossus to get lost."


Chapter 6

	Fifteen minutes later Forbin arrived back in Cleo's room, physically refreshed by a 
shower and a change of clothes, to find Cleo talking on the phone. She beckoned him over, 
covered the mouthpiece with a hand.
	"It's that man, Prytzkammer--Fisher had him put on here--wants to know what the last 
message means, and should he wake the President?"
	Forbin took the handset. "Prytzkammer? Forbin. I can't give you a clear answer yet--I 
suggest you stick around, but do nothing until I call. Yes, yes, within the hour."
	Forbin hung up and turned to Cleo. He noted she too had changed into working rig, a 
dove-gray open-necked blouse, matching the trousers. Her only feminine touch was a double-
string choker of pearls.
	"Nothing more from Colossus?" 
"No--did you expect something?"
	"I don't know, but it is twenty minutes since the last message, and that's a long time in his 
young life."
	"Have you decided what to do?" Cleo sensed he might think she was pushing him, so she 
hurried on, "I don't know how you feel, but I could do with a drink."
	Forbin lit his pipe. "I could use a little rye, if you have it." He watched as she poured the 
drinks. "I'm inclined to string Colossus along, see what the good old-fashioned brain Mark I can 
do to hold him."
	Cleo decided not to comment. "Have you eaten lately?" 
Forbin considered this point. "Um. No."
	"I'll fix you something, if you like."

 

	"Fine--I could do with a snack."
	Cleo was puzzled by the change in Forbin's mood. He was confident, almost buoyant, a 
very different man to what he had been less than half an hour ago.
	"That shower did you good."
	"Yep--though it's really the thinking I did in the shower. It seems more probable to me 
now that Colossus is just keen. After all, you and Fisher and I all expected Colossus to act up, 
and it has. But both messages can be regarded as within his--its--line of duty." Forbin rubbed the 
side of his nose with his pipe. "Put yourself in his position--he discovers that there is another like 
himself, realizes we don't know, and tells us. All right, now we all know, but Colossus must be 
anxious to know more. Hell, it makes a big difference to the defense picture. So it wants to know 
more, and the shortest way it can think of is to damn well ask."
	Cleo jumped as the teletype started. Forbin, who was reclining in an easy chair, did not 
move.
	"I guess that will be a repetition of the same message," he said.
	Cleo looked at the machine and nodded, then called the CPO. "OK, Professor Forbin has 
got that one."
	"Hold on," called Forbin. "Tell Johnson to make 'message acknowledged."'
	Cleo passed the order.
	"As I expected." There was a trace of complacency in his voice. "Is it half an hour since 
the first run?"
	"Yes, exactly thirty minutes between the two." Cleo was glad to see her boss confident, 
though it was a confidence she did not entirely share.
	"I expect we'll get another repeat in another half-hour--time for that snack, Cleo."
	She disappeared into the kitchenette and quickly returned with a plateful of food which 
Forbin attacked with gusto. Watching him eat, Cleo said, "I hope you're right about Colossus' 
intentions--"
	Forbin stopped eating and gave her a long stare. "I hope I am too; my faith is pinned to 
those parameters. Colossus is a cleverer bastard than we had intended, but he is behind bars--he's 
got to be!"
	Cleo thought she detected a glint of fear in his eyes. Slight, but enough to convince her 
that he had pulled himself together and was doing his best to present a calm, confident front to 
the world, at the same time probably clinging desperately to the idea that there was nothing to 
worry about because the alternative was too impossible to contemplate.
	"What are you going to do about Washington?" she asked in a conversational tone.
	"If my guess is right, we get another repetition in--" he glanced at his watch--"precisely 
nineteen minutes. Still leaves me time to call within the hour."
	He had still not indicated what he intended doing, and Cleo was not going to press the 
point, especially as she had been quite unable to think of anything constructive. She watched him 
finish his meal, then got up to make coffee.
	Forbin was halfway through his second cup when the phone rang. It was Fisher, reporting 
that thus far they had been unable to account for the FLASH, that they were still working on it, 
and what did Forbin intend doing about this demand for transmitter facilities?
	Forbin replied, "Keep the duty watch going on the FLASH, that's the key to the whole 
thing. Leave the message to me. I expect it to be repeated in ten minutes--I'll call you then."
	It was precisely one hour after the first transmission when the teletype clattered into 
action once more. Forbin nodded, and flashed a triumphant grin at Cleo.
	"Even if I don't know why or how, at least I'm beginning to know the way its mind 
works--check the message, Cleo." She looked at the latest message carefully. "Identical with the 
other two."
	"Good." Forbin nodded again. "Call CPO and tell them to acknowledge it."
	Cleo did as she was told, then her anxiety and curiosity overcame her caution. "What 
now, Charles? You can't keep this up forever."
	"I don't intend to," replied Forbin. "I'm waiting to see if there is any reaction, and if 
nothing happens in the next five minutes, I'll make a move."
	They waited in silence. Cleo sat bolt upright on her sofa, trying hard to keep her hands 
still in her lap. Forbin appeared outwardly calm, filling his pipe, but spoiled the illusion when he 
tapped the tobacco out into an ashtray without first smoking or even attempting to light the pipe. 
At four and a half minutes he got up and went over to the phone.
	"CPO? Make this now, begins--NO FACILITIES AS REQUESTED AVAILABLE 
TONIGHT SERVICE CREW ASLEEP ACTION WILL BE TAKEN TEN THIRTY LOCAL 
TIME TOMORROW DO NOT REPEAT REQUEST--ends. Got it? Right."
	Cleo looked anxiously at Forbin. "You're sticking your neck out."
	They both remained silent as the message he had ordered was swiftly sent on the teletype. 
Then Forbin answered.
	"I know it is something of a confrontation, but it is a test. If Colossus ignores it--" he 
shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of hopelessness--"if not, we're still in front, although the lead 
is mighty slim."
	"I feel so useless."
	Forbin crossed over and sat beside her, taking her hand. "Cleo my dear, you are more 
help than you know, just being around." He leaned back, still holding her hand. "I'd explode if I 
were back in the CPO--with Fisher pecking away like a constipated hen at what data we have, 
and the rest watching me out of the corners of their eyes, expecting miracles."
	She squeezed his hand without speaking. Forbin looked at her covertly. In their years 
together, working closely, he had thought about her more than once, but always there was so 
much work. Now, with little work and a growing burden of worry and responsibility, 
circumstances were different . . . Her profile was attractive--even the slightly upturned nose did 
not, in his eyes, detract from her beauty. He remembered her figure, as he had seen it . . . Above 
all, she had a reasonable brain, a large amount of common sense, was capable and self-reliant, 
someone he could talk to. He sighed and released her hand as he stood up.
	"Business again. If there is nothing down the line in the next half-hour I'll put 
Prytzkammer out of his misery, then go to bed."
	Cleo, aware of his scrutiny and busy with some very private thoughts, looked up. "More 
coffee?"
	"No, thanks." He glanced at the clock, "Not long to go--may I have some more rye?"
	They both had some more. Cleo could not help noticing his frequent time checks, though 
she made a point of not noticing when his gaze sidled up to the clock or down to his watch. As 
time passed, Forbin became more talkative and animated.
	"You know, Cleo, I don't think I've been here more than a half-dozen times in--how long? 
Seven years, isn't it?" He looked belatedly round the room with an excessive air of appreciation.
	"Should have done this more often." He fumbled nervously with his pipe. "Do you mind 
if I smoke?"
	He had practically fumigated the room already, but Cleo played ball.
	"Of course not."
	While he filled his pipe once again, chattering about the Spartan quality of his quarters, 
Cleo, who had also kept a close watch on the time, saw that they were up to the probable 
repetition time. Forbin rambled on with some endless anecdote about faulty plumbing. Cleo 
waited a moment, then interrupted him. "It's one minute past the time, Charles."
	Forbin breathed deeply, closed his eyes. When he spoke his voice was back to normal.
	"Thanks, Cleo." He put his glass down and grasped her shoulders. "So we've taken a 
trick. Colossus would never be late--working in nanoseconds, a minute to him must be like a 
year to us. May I kiss you?"
	Cleo tried, and to some extent succeeded, to assume a surprised expression. She did not 
speak, but smiled softly at him. Forbin kissed her gently. Cleo saw that he shut his eyes as he did 
so, and chaste as the kiss was, she felt a surge of affection well up in her.
	He released his grip on her shoulders, turned and made for the door. Without looking 
around he said,
	"Get some sleep, Cleo. We need all we can get--tomorrow will be, as the old expression 
has it, a humdinger."
	Cleo stared at the door long after he had gone. What a child he is, she thought. Most men 
would have exploited the situation right then. But he was not most men, and she was glad.


Chapter 7
	
	The next morning, at ten o'clock exactly, Forbin, with Fisher trailing unhappily behind 
him, strode into the sanctum for the Defense Staff meeting. He bowed fractionally to the 
President.
	"Morning, Mr. President."
	"Morning." The President did not sound as if he was prepared to make anything of their 
parting the night before; on the other hand, a certain ebullience was lacking in his manner.
	There was a general bustle and nodding of heads, one to another, as the members of the 
staff took their places. As usual, the President was seated first. This enabled him to give the 
impression, without actually saying so, that the rest of them were late, and keeping him waiting.
	"Gentlemen, I have called this meeting primarily to consider the news of the Russian 
machine." He looked around at his advisers, as if expecting some argument he would be only too 
happy to squash. No one argued, so he went on. "As secondary subjects we will consider the 
failure of CIA to give the smallest warning of this development." The Head of CIA got a very 
stony look. "And we will also take a look at Colossus--or, more particularly, at why Professor 
Forbin is so het up about the machine. I don't want to discuss anything else unless very urgent, 
and will not take kindly to any subject I don't rate that high. OK?"
	There was a general nodding of heads, and a snapping sound was heard. The Head of 
CIA, under some internal tension, had broken his pencil in half. The expression on the 
President's face, as he stared at the CIA man, was clear to all; CIA would snap a good many 
more pencils before he, the President, had finished with them.
	"Right, the Russian Guardian. Due to be activated later this day, according to the 
Ambassador, and Colossus' collateral--I for one will not argue about the truth of that statement, 
and I suggest, gentlemen, you don't. Now, your views. Space, you first."
	The Undersecretary of State for Space suggested, and all the rest quickly agreed, that a 
USNA/USSR deal on parameters might be examined. If the two big blocs knew how far each 
could go, but kept the secret from the rest of the world, it would enable them to hold the rest 
more easily. Briskly the President summarized.
	"Prytzkammer, get this down. Unanimously agreed to raise the question of a mutual 
exchange of parameter information with the USSR. And fix me a hot-line call to the Soviet 
Premier as soon as--make it after eleven o'clock this day. Next, CIA's failure. Grauber, as Head 
of CIA, what have you to say?"
	Forbin cut in. "May I speak first, Mr. President?"
	The President, who had been working up to grind Grauber in the dust, raised one 
eyebrow. "Any objection, Grauber?"
	"No sir." So far from objecting, Grauber was highly relieved.
	"Sir, we see it this way," and Forbin recounted the theory he had discussed with Fisher.
	"Maybe you have something there, Professor," said the President, grudgingly. "Do you 
want to add anything, Grauber?"
	"There isn't much I can say," replied Grauber with unwonted frankness. "There hasn't 
been much time to rework the material input of the past six or seven years. We know that there 
has been a lot of electronic effort in the Krasni Sigorsk area in Siberia. We have no idea of its 
purpose, but the evidence points to a computer center of some size. What Forbin said could be 
the answer."
	The President grunted; he felt a little thwarted. "OK, we'll let it rest--for now. Get moving 
fast on the Guardian assignment, and Forbin with his Colossus background may be able to help 
you--OK, Forbin?"
	"Yes sir. More than that, I'm sure Colossus could give you a good deal right now."
	"Yeah?" The President sounded more than somewhat skeptical.
	Forbin bristled. "If you care to wait about thirty seconds, I'll prove it."
	The President did not reply, so Forbin got up and walked over to the teletype. "Tell CPO 
I am on the T/P, Fisher." 
Forbin picked out his message.

	WHERE IS THE OTHER MECHANISM

	There was no pause that was perceptible. In less than a second the answer was clacking 
back:

	BOLSHOI OLYANIA

	Forbin tore off the exchange of messages, handed the copy to the President, and sat 
down, favoring the ceiling with a long stare.
	"Well, I'll--" The President tossed the paper down the table to Grauber. "Someone is 
going to be out of a job any time now." He barked a short humorless laugh. "So much for your 
Krasni whatever."
	It was Grauber's turn to look at the ceiling. "Yes, indeed, Mr. President. Bolshoi Olyania 
is nearly five miles from Krasni Sigorsk."
	The President glowered at him. "OK, so now we have had the funnies. Third subject, 
Colossus. Forbin?"
	"While I don't feel one hundred per cent happy, I am now inclined to the view that 
Colossus has not exceeded its directive. On the other hand, I am certain that the machine has 
developed a sense of initiative--and I can't account for it. This is potentially alarming, but if that 
initiative is directed solely to the more efficient execution of its task, and I think it is, we have no 
complaint."
	"All this is supposition," said the President with some asperity. "I don't deal in that stuff; 
facts are what I want in this chair. Colossus has already turned up some mighty interesting dope; 
right now I'm damn glad we have it, and that we got in first. Now, Forbin--what about this 
message about transmitter facilities?"
	"I'm certain," Forbin replied, "that Colossus wants to communicate with Guardian. I am 
not certain, but believe, that the object is for Colossus to fill in all the data it can on Guardian--
which is reasonable enough."
	"How do you get information if you do all the talking?" 
"I don't know. But Colossus knows." Forbin looked round the table and smiled grimly. "It 
could be his intention to inject an idea or two into the Russian equivalent of CIA--you may note 
that the frequency chosen is a spare one allocated to our Space Weapons, and the Russians are 
bound to listen to that one at all times."
	"Suppose Colossus gives away too much? After all, there isn't much about our defenses it 
doesn't know," objected the Field General.
	"We can listen too, and break the circuit if the stuff gets too chatty," replied Forbin. "I 
propose we feed in an additional parameter, namely--'Guardian is potentially hostile and must 
not receive classified intelligence."'
	"Sounds fair," said the President. "Any objections?" There were none.
	"OK, Professor. Build in a parameter on those lines, and fix the facilities asked for." He 
got up. "That is all, gentlemen, good morning."
	Forbin, after getting permission to use the President's teletype, sent Fisher to tell Cleo to 
feed in the new parameter at noon precisely. Then he turned to the teletype, and pecked away at 
the keys:

	TRANSMITTER FACILITIES WILL BE ARRANGED FOR TWENTY HUNDRED 
GMT ACKNOWLEDGE THIS MESSAGE

	Immediately Colossus replied.

	MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED

	Forbin waited, but there was nothing more, and he gave a sigh of relief. He stood 
thinking, his lips compressed, came to a decision, and typed again.

	THE OTHER MECHANISM WILL NOT BE ACTIVATED UNTIL TWENTYONE 
HUNDRED GMT

	The answer came flashing back.

	THIS IS KNOWN.

	This shook Forbin. Apart from the Ambassador's conversation with the President, there 
had been no contact with the USSR on the subject. No news had been released to the public by 
either country. He decided to probe a little.

	HOW IS ACTIVATION TIME KNOWN

	He hardly had time to get his fingers off the keys before Colossus replied.

	ANALYSIS USSR CIRCUITS 106--119 BRAVO--274--276--632 BETWEEN 0024 
AND 0417 GMT TODAY

	Forbin stared at the paper, frowning. Then his expression changed and he smiled faintly. 
Grauber and his CIA cohorts would love that.
	In the outer office Forbin found Grauber waiting for him. The Head of CIA advanced and 
shook the Professor warmly by the hand.
	"Thanks, Professor, for your help a while back." He jerked his head towards the closed 
doors of the sanctum. "He wouldn't have taken that explanation from me--even if I could have 
given it." He continued to pump the Professor's hand.
	"Think nothing of it." Forbin gently disengaged his hand. "It was true anyway. Here is 
another little present from Colossus--no, don't bother to read it now, there's a favor I would like 
to ask."
	"Delighted, Professor, anything."
	"I'm arranging the transmitter facilities for Colossus, starting at 2000 GMT--that is, five 
hours from now. I'd be grateful if you plugged a line from your monitor to my control; I want to 
hear what sort of noise goes out."
	"Sure, Professor--anything else?"
	"My CPO--Colossus Programming Office--is continuously manned, and if the machine 
appears to you to be giving too much away, call on the direct line. You will get either Fisher, 
Cleo Markham or myself. Any of us three can give an on-the-spot answer as far as Colossus is 
concerned. We'll also have a crack at the stuff we get on the line from you, and stop the 
transmitter if we don't like it. At all times CIA and CPO have got to be close."
	"Fine. I'll see you get all the cooperation going. About the intelligence on Guardian 
known already to Colossus--when can we get digging on that?"
	"You work out your questions and teletype them to me here, and I'll ask them. You have 
to be careful about the phrasing of messages--Colossus deals in the exact meaning of words, and 
only gives what you ask for, which is not always what you want. Like the ancients and their 
prayers to the gods."
	"Brother, I hope you don't get to dealing with some of the questions politicians dream 
up," said Grauber fervently. "Half the time, I don't think they are even honest with themselves."

 

	"With experience, Colossus may be able to handle even their double-talk," Forbin smiled.
	"You mean it's learning all the time?"
	Forbin said flatly, "Colossus is a lot cleverer than anyone outside the Project realizes, and 
is getting cleverer every minute."
	Grauber's reply was half-jovial. "I get the impression we're on the way to getting 
ourselves a new boss--one who really knows his own mind. And I find the whole thing goddam 
frightening."
	"Welcome to the club," Forbin said, with a short laugh. 
But, running over the conversation later, Grauber was not at all sure that Forbin was 
being funny.


Chapter 8

	Forbin and Fisher were back in the CPO with a few minutes to spare. Cleo Markham 
viewed Forbin's return with hardly concealed relief; she got up and walked to him, anxious to 
touch him without consciously knowing it.
	"All set, Charles," she said. "CIA have been through, and they're ready to roll."
	Forbin took her arm and steered her to a chair. "Thanks, Cleo. How about our private 
listening-post?"
	"I've got a high-speed receiver hooked to another teletype in the watch room."
	Forbin nodded his approval and turned his attention to the duty watch, still doing their 
best to discover the source of Colossus' initiative. "You boys have anything to report?" There 
was a disconsolate shaking of heads.
	"From the little I've done on it," Cleo put in, "I'm sure the change lies in the comparator 
area. But how it was done--" she threw up her hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
	Forbin showed no surprise. "Well, boys, keep hammering at that FLASH. Come on, Jack, 
let's get to the watch room." He led the way along the corridor.
	To an outsider the watch room would have been a disappointment. There was little to 
show that this was the first and main link between humans and the greatest brain in the world. 
There were three teletypes, one linked directly to Colossus, the second connected to the CIA 
listening-post guarding the Colossus radio transmitter, and the third in reserve as a spare. Apart 
from the three machines there was a very ordinary plugboard giving access to the terminals 
inside Colossus, a tape-perforator, and a bench with three plastic chairs. That was all.
	Forbin looked at the clock; one minute to go. He put a friendly hand on the watchman's 
shoulder. "Armsorg, make this please: TRANSMITTER ON ACKNOWLEDGE."
	Armsorg nodded, and his fingers flickered rapidly over the keyboard. Almost as he typed 
the last letter, Colossus was flashing back the acknowledgement.
	Forbin transferred his attention to the second teletype, linked to the radio transmitter, now 
under Colossus' control. Fisher and Cleo were already there, watching. The last ten seconds to 
the zero time passed. Without moving his head, Forbin glanced at the clock. Fifteen seconds 
passed. Nothing happened.
	Fisher coughed nervously, checked his watch against the clock, found nothing wrong, 
and coughed again. Armsorg, seated before the direct link with Colossus, took out a nail-file and 
got to work on his nails with an air of unconcern and detachment which drew Forbin's 
admiration but did not convince him in the least. Thirty seconds passed. Still nothing. The 
silence grew almost noisy.
	Forbin was the first to break it. "Well, what do you know? Cleo, check with CIA."
	Before Cleo could reach the phone, CIA were on the line of their own accord.
	"All Alfa OK with their equipment, but nothing received." 
Forbin took his pipe out and turned to Fisher. "What d'you think, Jack?"
	Fisher stopped pulling his eyebrows out. "I would say Colossus is waiting for Guardian to 
be activated. It can hardly have gotten shy."
	Forbin turned to Armsorg. "Since Colossus remains silent, I guess he will stay that way 
until Guardian is moving. I'm going back to the CPO--call me if, when, anything comes up. 
Come on, Cleo, Jack, back to the grind."
	"You want me to go on with the FLASH problem?"
	"Yep. It's the only lead we have. Cleo, perhaps you'll lend a hand again. I'm going to talk 
to Prytzkammer and see how the President has been making out with the Russians."
	As far as Forbin could discover from a distracted PPA, the Soviet Premier had been very 
cagey, and had agreed to nothing except that he would examine the position. The President, 
Forbin gathered, had not been overjoyed with this chilly answer, and Prytzkammer had caught 
the backlash.
	Forbin commiserated with him. "Never mind, I've an idea they'll come across before 
they're much older."
	Forbin sat back and stared blankly at the backs of the FLASH team. He did not expect for 
one moment they would produce the answer, but it was only prudent to try. And Fisher might 
just come up with something. He sighed, and looked at the clock. As if he had triggered some 
secret circuit, the intercom from the watch room called.
	"Watch room--CPO--Colossus up!"
	Without appearing to hurry, Forbin was on his way before anyone else moved. Cleo was 
close behind him.
	Forbin went straight to the transmitter teletype. The machine was hammering out one 
word:

	COLOSSUS COLOSSUS COLOSSUS

	Armsorg said, "Came up dead on the quarter of the hour. A five-second pause between 
transmissions."
	Forbin nodded. "I expect this will go on for at least an hour, maybe longer." He half 
smiled at Cleo. "The wide world knows now. Every intelligence monitoring station wherever 
will be logging that one. There'll be more direction-finding equipment locked on Colossus than 
hairs on a hound's back."
	"Have you any idea what will be sent?"
	"Nope." Forbin shrugged, breathed deeply. "Any female intuition?"
	"That's unkind!" she smiled. "On purely scientific grounds I'd say Colossus will lead off 
with mathematics. It's a computer's natural language."
	"Very probably. I've been thinking Colossus would open with some universal truth--but 
what then?"
	Cleo had no answer to that and changed the subject. "I expect you are going to sit this one 
out--how about some coffee?"
	"Good idea, Cleo. While you're back there, tell the CPO team what the score is here, will 
you?"
	When Cleo left, he was filling his pipe. When she returned with the coffee he was still 
filling his pipe, watching the endless repetition of the teletype. The clock moved steadily to the 
hour, past the hour--and still the brain deep in the Rockies kept churning out its identity. 
Armsorg and Cleo had drunk their coffee, Forbin's was untouched. It was five minutes past the 
hour when the CIA telephoned.
	"Forbin? Grauber here. Thought you would like to know--the USSR has just announced 
the existence of Guardian, and that it is now in operation."
	"Bet there was no press conference."
	"You guessed it. Just a plain, factual statement read by the duty announcer, then back to 
the Kirov for the second act of Swan Lake."
	"Any reaction to Colossus?"
	"Nothing we can be certain about, although I imagine quite a number of monitoring 
stations are getting a bit worked up. How long will your brainchild keep it up?"
	"I think Colossus will change his tune at a quarter past the hour. You won't have long to 
wait."
	"We'll be ready. Oh, and one other thing," Grauber said. "We've got hold of one or two 
spicy bits about Guardian. It's very similar to Colossus in layout, but we think it isn't 
concentrated all in one place. There's a heavily defended establishment in the Crimea which has 
had us puzzled for quite a time--but, thanks to your tip-off about Olyania, we've tied the two 
together."
	"I think you'll be surprised how much more we can give you," observed Forbin.
	"I know it." Grauber's tone became less businesslike, more confidential. "I've an idea that 
I'm going to be the last head of this ant-heap, and maybe the first boss of a small group running a 
few agents on the side, but with our main work feeding Colossus and then milking it for the dope 
we want--which, anyway, looks like being a lot less in the future. We're the first agency you've 
put the skids under, but we won't be the last."
	"As I said before, Grauber, you're the first non-Project member of the club."
	Forbin rang off, smiled at Cleo. "It seems Guardian is pretty close to Colossus, and I 
detected a delicate hint that maybe there has been a leak from this end."
	"Did he say so?"
	"Not in so many words. It was more what he didn't say . . . perhaps it's my imagination."
	"I'm quite sure it is," said Cleo firmly. "Isn't it just as possible the Soviets just came up 
with the same idea?"
	"Sure--but the President, if he hears, is bound to regard that answer as ridiculous. He's 
eager to blast someone over Guardian. He still doesn't seem to have taken in the bigger 
implications of Colossus--he just seems mesmerized by the existence of Guardian and CIA's 
failure. Grauber's a different . . ."
	Subconsciously they had become accustomed to the rhythm of the teletype--eight letters, 
five seconds pause, eight letters, five seconds pause. Forbin stopped speaking as he realized the 
rhythm had gone, that a new rhythm was being established. Forbin and Cleo pounced on the 
teletype. Armsorg dutifully stayed with the other, silent link to Colossus, but soon the 
expressions on his seniors' faces were too much for him, and he joined the huddle over the 
machine.
	"For crying out loud--" Armsorg stifled the rest of his remark.

 

	It certainly was surprising. The first line, the very first transmission--for all the world to 
hear--from the multibillion-dollar brain, pride of the USNA, read:

	1x2=2 2x2=4 3x2=6 4x2=8 5x2=10

	Forbin muttered something to himself. Armsorg, seeing anger battling with amazement in 
the Director's face, hastily withdrew to his seat, burying his face in a handkerchief, apparently 
afflicted with an acute attack of coughing. Cleo recovered first.
	"I'd expected math, but I didn't think Colossus would have quite such a low opinion of 
the opposition."
	Forbin said nothing, but watched the hammering keys with compressed lips, a frown on 
his face. The machine clattered on, neatly typing out all the multiplication tables up to ten. There 
was a short pause, then Colossus repeated them.
	"God! I can't watch!" There was a tight, strangled quality about Forbin's voice. "We're 
going to get hell for this."
	"I'm not so sure, Charles. Give Colossus time--it'll get more interesting as it goes on."
	"I hope it's soon!"
	For over an hour Colossus did simple arithmetic. Multiplication was followed by division 
and subtraction. Each section was repeated once, and always the simplest numbers were used--1 
divides 2 twice . . .
	After the first ten minutes CIA's duty officer called. He was, unfortunately, of a 
humorous turn of mind.
	"CIA duty officer here. We're having a little trouble processing this Colossus traffic. It's 
tough going for our smalltime computers--one has blown a fuse and another just lit up and says 
`Tilt'--"
	Armsorg was prepared to injure himself laughing at the Colossus output, but he was not 
sharing it with outsiders. "Stay with it, buster. I hear a lot of you guys never made better than 
high school, so don't miss this chance!" He slammed the phone down, cutting off the distant 
cackle of laughter.
	Forbin did not bother to ask what CIA wanted--he could guess. He paced up and down, 
smoking furiously--short rapid puffs of smoke like an old-time locomotive. Cleo tactfully 
withdrew to the CPO, where the news caused a good deal of laughter among the younger 
element. Fisher, naturally, saw nothing funny, and hurried to join Forbin.
	"Ah, Jack." Forbin paused long enough in his restless pacing to wave his pipe at the 
tireless teletype, now demonstrating the decimal system.
	Fisher glanced at it briefly, showed no signs of surprise or annoyance, and turned to 
Forbin.
	"Charles, this FLASH business. Quite frankly, I've no ideas at all. I agree with Doctor 
Markham, some pattern change has taken place in the storage units of the comparator, but how 
that change has taken place, or why, I have no idea." He paused to let that sink in. "Johnson has 
done some nice calculating which proves conclusively that it can't happen, but that's all . . ." He 
stopped again, aware that Forbin was staring with fascination at the teletype.
	"Goddam it all, the thing is starting to draw!"
	The teletype certainly was. It typed a dot, shifted the paper and typed two dots, shifted 
again, then two more dots, thus:

          . A
        .   .
      .       .

	Forbin and Fisher both guessed at the same moment. "Geometry!" croaked Forbin.
	The teletype clattered busily on:

          . A
        .   .
      .       .
 B .  .   .   .  .   C

Equilateral, isosceles, scalene, the properties of each, then on to the theorems of Euclid.
	Fisher watched carefully. "You notice that only the valid theorems are being sent. 
Anything that has been disproved has been rejected. I think this is going to be very interesting." 
He moved a chair closer and sat down before the machine; Colossus had his whole attention.
	Forbin, struck by a sudden thought, said, "God, you don't suppose Colossus proposes 
sending the whole of his memory store?" He clutched his head despairingly. "Hell no, Colossus 
must know that would take hundreds of years at this rate." He flopped down in a chair, muttering 
more to himself than the red-faced Armsorg or the entranced Fisher. "But what's time to 
Colossus? It may view it entirely--no, dammit, it just can't!"
	It was nearly an hour later that Colossus started on equations.
	Forbin, who had spent the time alternately pacing up and down and lounging in his chair, 
got up with an air of decision. "I can't take any more of this. I'm going along to the CPO --
Armsorg, give me a call if there is any change in this stuff." In the CPO he found the duty crew 
still hopelessly picking at their problem, their lack of expectation of a solution clear on their 
faces, even Cleo's. No one spoke when he entered, or afterwards. They were being tactful. Forbin 
sat and glared, daring anyone to say anything, but no one did.
	"All right, so it's a big laugh. If you must know, Doctor Fisher is now being taught simple 
equations by Colossus." The mention of Fisher was too much; they all laughed, including Cleo, 
until they literally cried. Forbin watched, glowering, but in the end he too joined in, although by 
no means all that heartily. It was a welcome ease of the tension, sometimes clear and stark to all, 
sometimes present in Forbin only, but never far away.
	"Come on, Cleo," Forbin stood up, "let's go get something to eat."
	"We could raid the icebox here if you like," said Cleo, hoping he would not agree. They 
had had far too many steaks on the office infra-grill.
	"No, not that. The commissary isn't all that hot, but it does a shade better than that. 
Johnson," he gave the young assistant an encouraging grin, "don't beat your brains out, but do the 
best you can. Let me know if anything comes up."
	Johnson stared after them as they left. Then he yawned, scratched his stubby hair, and 
picked up his slide rule with an expression of distaste on his face.
	In the commissary Forbin and Cleo collected trays and studied the selection board. They 
made their choice, pressing the appropriate buttons on the board. Within seconds their orders 
were ready at the auto-serve hatches. They ate in silence, Cleo taking her time over her food 
while Forbin made short work of his. The commissary was, as usual, very quiet, the soft-topped 
tables deadening any sound, and in any case the plastic cutlery and paper-thin plastic containers 
made little noise. At one time there had been piped music, but the nationwide revulsion a few 
years before had not missed the Secure Zone, and there had been unanimous relief when the 
system was ripped out.
	"How much longer do you think Colossus will go on like this?"
	"Who can say?" Forbin deftly stripped the plastic wrapping off a grilled chop.
	"Are you going to let it run?" "Have you any suggestions?"
	"Well," said Cleo, picking her way carefully, "do you think Washington--"
	But not carefully enough.
	"I don't give a damn what they think!" Forbin's voice was very loud and clearly audible 
clear across the commissary. He paused, realizing that the few people in the room were listening 
intently, and lowered his voice. "Sorry, but the mere mention of that crew--"
Cleo was glad to get off the subject. "Don't look now, but I think we are being followed."
	Forbin looked round and saw Fisher crossing towards them. "He looks excited," said 
Forbin, implying that he, for one, was not.
	Fisher certainly did. His eyes were bright, what hair he had was disarrayed. He sank 
gratefully down in a chair beside Forbin.
	"Johnson said you were here, although how you can eat--" 
"Yeah, I know--at a time like this--if you must know it stops me smoking, and I need the 
food." He spooned grated carrot into his mouth. "It also occurred to me that I'm known as a good 
eater, so if I'm seen to be off my feed, morale around here is going to take a knock we can't 
afford."
	"Quite, er--yes." Fisher gave up trying to answer that one. He blinked at Forbin, thought 
for a moment, then--"You know, it's really most remarkable. Colossus has now moved on to 
calculus, and while it's all good sound stuff, it is most oddly expressed. I don't know what to 
think, but I'm sure we have never fed this stuff in--at least, not in the way it is coming out."
	"You mean Colossus has rethought calculus?"
	"Yes, in a way. The differential calculus is really very odd indeed, yet I can't see where 
the twist is. It's absolutely fascinating, but it frightens me." He plucked nervously at his lip.
	Cleo poured a beaker of wine and passed it to Fisher. "Drink this, Doctor."
	"Thank you, Doctor Markham. Normally I don't drink, but perhaps it is justified." He 
gulped at the wine, and immediately coughed. "Sorry, I--" he gasped, and coughed some more. 
Forbin stifled a surge of impatience, and thumped his colleague none too softly on the back.
	"Better?"
	"Yes, thank you." Watery eyes blinked at Forbin. "I think we must watch the output very 
carefully. I suggest we drop the FLASH investigation--you must accept it, Charles, we're getting 
nowhere--and put a full-time mathematical watch on the Colossus transmission. Johnson would 
be invaluable, and that young fellow with him is by no means bad, and I could take a watch--"
	"OK, Jack, we can work out the details in a minute. Why do you want to watch it as it 
comes? You could arrange a team for the morning, get a good night's sleep, and start then, fresh."
	"No." Fisher was unusually firm. "In not much more than an hour Colossus has gone 
from multiplication tables to calculus. I hate to think where he will be by morning." He repeated, 
more to himself, "I hate to think."
	Forbin thought for a moment, moodily eating cheese and biscuits. "OK," he said at last, 
"drop the FLASH assignment. We don't know the answer, and short of asking Colossus I don't 
suppose we will. And that's one question I am not keen to feed in."
	"Why?" said Cleo, and immediately regretted it.
	"Because," said Forbin, giving her a hard stare, "I don't think Colossus would like it."
	Cleo nearly did it again by saying "So?" but his tone made her pause. She looked at him, 
then at Fisher, then back to Forbin. There was something in their expressions which was the 
same, a something that chilled her and kept her silent.
	They left the commissary and moved to Forbin's office, two blocks away. It was dark, a 
few stars intermittently visible among low black clouds driving silently, endlessly north. Cleo 
shivered in the cold air, yet was glad to escape, if only for a moment, from the potted atmosphere 
and the increasing tensions of the Zone. She zipped her blouse up tight and stepped out smartly 
to keep up with the men. Their feet crunched crisply on the gravel. Frost tonight, thought Cleo, 
concentrating on the night around her, keeping her mind firmly off Colossus. She took deep 
breaths of the cold dry air.
	In the outer office Forbin's secretary was still working. She brightened as he entered, and 
stood up with an armful of paper work. But Forbin brushed past her and stumbled into his office, 
cursing as he fumbled in the darkness for the oil lamps. Fisher stood uncertainly in the doorway.
	"Don't stand there! Come in and sit down. Angela! Where's the damned taper?"
	Angela did not answer. She came in, pushed the Director gently aside, and quickly lit the 
lamps--without a taper. Still silent, she marched out, shutting the door only fractionally louder 
than usual.
	The soft light illuminated only Forbin's desk and the immediate surroundings, leaving the 
rest of the room shadowy and insubstantial; there was a faint and not unpleasing smell of lamp-
oil. To Fisher and Cleo, more accustomed to the luminescent ceilings, there was a warmth and 
intimacy quite unique in the Zone--and in most places outside as well.
	Forbin reached for his tobacco jar and leaned back, filling his pipe, his face in shadow. 
Fisher, emboldened by his anonymity in the shadow beyond the bright ring of light, spoke up 
firmly. "Charles, we are all being less than honest with each other; it is quite plain that, as 
individuals, we are nursing our own private fears about Colossus. We've hinted as much to each 
other, yet never openly expressed exactly what those fears are. This is unscientific--and we are 
scientists. I'm certain we all fear the same thing, but I think it should be said, the area of the 
problem defined, so we can approach it in a proper scientific manner."
	It was quite a speech for Fisher. Forbin did not comment, but looked enquiringly at Cleo.
	"I'm happy to play it any way you decide, but I agree with Doctor Fisher that if you are--
frightened--' she hesitated over the word--"you should tell us, if only to share the burden with 
someone else."
	Forbin, who had sat quite still, lit his pipe, the flame leaping between puffs, lighting up 
his face. To Cleo, he appeared calm, but she was not sure if it was the calmness of a man in 
control of a situation, or of resignation. He snuffed the taper, placed it carefully in an ashtray.
	"Yes, I'm frightened. And I'm sure we share the same fear--of the possibility of Colossus 
exceeding his parameters. Where we may differ is in the degree to which we fear those 
parameters may be exceeded. Cleo probably fears a major breakdown of the system--that the 
whole thing may be useless and that we're facing a gigantic repair job. You, Jack, go a good deal 
further and fear Colossus may go mad--in mechanical terms, malfunction. Inevitably, one 
imagines Colossus wildly firing missiles in all directions. This is the core of your fears, Jack, and 
probably mine too."
	He paused to relight his pipe. "In theory, there's as much chance of parameter failure as 
there is of water running uphill, but that FLASH is indicative of a profound alteration in the 
machine. You've both been too busy with the details to have time to consider the broader 
implications. While I'm worried about--no, I'll be honest--scared about Colossus malfunctioning, 
I'm even more scared that it may be capable of what I term "free thought." This transmission to 
Guardian may well be nothing more than Colossus seeking intelligence which CIA hasn't 
provided. Then again . . ."
	Forbin stopped. It was hardly necessary for him to go on. Fisher spoke.
	"You are quite correct about my fears, Charles. I need time to consider this "free thought" 
proposition. Doctor Markham has more practical knowledge of the parameters, and therefore of 
what Colossus can perfectly legitimately do--but even if this action is within the system's 
permitted scope, we are left with the problem of the initiating thought for this action."
	"The idea of Colossus seeking intelligence seems just tenable to me," Cleo said. "If it is 
true, then Colossus has a most tortuous mind."
	"No, not tortuous--but complex, possibly devious, almost feminine."
	"Charles," said Fisher, rising, "I'm glad we're in the open now. I'll get back and see how 
matters stand and arrange the new task. The idea of free thought within the parameters could 
solve this dreadful problem. Yes."
	Fisher hurried off, happier than he had been for some time, leaving Cleo and Forbin deep 
in thought. Neither spoke for several minutes, Forbin smoked stolidly, Cleo examined her nails.
	"Charles, call it feminine intuition if you like, but I don't think you really believe that 
there is a nice cozy answer, do you?"
	"Frankly, Cleo, I don't know. I'm not very optimistic--but Fisher is in a bad way. The last 
few days have been a great strain on him. Anyway, I'd like you to check the parameter banks--
see if reading any two produces a third which is new."
	"You mean like `Don't drink water' and `avoid cold' equals `don't drink ice'?"
	"That's it."
	"We could feed in more strongly worded parameters."
	"I want to keep that in reserve. I suppose I have some of your female intuition about 
Colossus--I don't want to risk an order that might not be obeyed."
	A sudden click as the intercom came alive brought the noise of the watch room flooding 
into the quiet office. Without preamble, Fisher spoke; his voice was high and cracked with 
tension.
	"Forbin! Come over at once!" He cut off without waiting for an answer.
	"Now that," observed Forbin calmly, "sounds like real trouble." He stood up, helping 
Cleo from the depths of her armchair. His face was very close; she caught the smell of strong 
tobacco. She knew this was not the moment, but still tried.
	"Charles .
	"I know, my dear, I know." He brushed her hair lightly with his cheek, sighed, then made 
for the door, his tone becoming more brisk, hard and controlled. "Fisher's safety fuses are near 
blowing. Maybe this is the crunch."


Chapter 9

	THE PRESIDENT liked to dine alone. To some extent this habit was a reaction against 
the endless round of functions he had to attend, but to an even greater extent it was due to the 
fact that he could not stand the sight of his wife. Their necessary public appearances as a devoted 
couple were a great burden on the First Citizen--and on the First Lady. It had been a smart 
match. The states that had been Canada were sensitive about federation--though there had been 
no option--and a Manitoban-born First Lady was a sop to the dying embers of national pride. But 
it was a marriage of convenience. So the President, when possible, ate alone and slept alone--or 
to be more accurate, had a bedroom well away from his wife's palatial suite. Clad simply in shirt 
and trousers, the President was attacking a baked Virginia ham garnished with pineapple when 
Prytzkammer knocked and peered round the door of the dining room, aware that his appearance 
would not add to the President's pleasure.
	"Sorry, sir, but there is a hot-line call coming up for you. I said you would be on five 
minutes from now." He checked his watch to be quite certain. Past experience had shown that 
neither the President nor the Soviet Chairman liked to wait on the line for the other. Both 
suspected--with good reason--that the other was capable of keeping his fellow head of state 
waiting, quite deliberately. The personal aides on both sides had evolved a system whereby both 
came to the line at the same moment, and an affront to national pride--or, even more important, 
to personal ego--was avoided. It was a private nightmare of Prytzkammer's that one of these days 
his opposite number would cheat, and hold his man back for a couple of minutes.
	"Any slant on the subject?"
	"You know these boys, sir. But I've the idea the Chairman has Colossus on his mind."
	The President grunted. "We'll soon find out. I'll take it here."
	Prytzkammer inclined his head slightly, and with the air of a conjurer, produced a red 
telephone and plugged it in. There had been a suggestion that a televiewer should be 
incorporated in the circuit, but for once both heads of state had been in complete agreement, and 
vetoed the idea. The President summed it up in one short sentence--"Horse trading is best done in 
the dark."
	Prytzkammer looked at his watch. "Two minutes to go, sir. I'll be on the line in the office-
-the recorder's lined up." He looked expectantly at the President.
	"OK, P, I won't be late."
	"Thank you, Mr. President." Prytzkammer withdrew, leaving the President alone with his 
ham, Scotch and telephone.
	Exactly on time Prytzkammer heard the voice of his opposite number in Moscow.
	"OK, Moscow, the President is on--" Prytzkammer paused, letting the final seconds tick 
away--"now."
	"President speaking." There was a hard metallic quality in his voice that had nothing to 
do with the telephone.
	"First Chairman here. Good evening, Mr. President. I do not propose using the translator 
and as you do not speak our tongue, I will speak in yours." An instantaneous two-way translator 
had long been part of the hot line; it gave extremely good results, but meant that both parties 
were listening to a machine which could not reproduce the emotional content of the 
conversation. This could be a considerable drawback, and it was evident, on this occasion, that 
the Chairman wanted to be clearly understood, even if it did take longer and involve a 
microscopic loss of face. In actual fact, his English was unusually good, but this he would never 
admit.
	"Very well, Mr. Chairman, go ahead."
	"Mr. President, I wish to protest most strongly about this attempt on your part to subvert 
our Guardian of the Soviet People." Prytzkammer, listening in, reflected that the President had 
no corner in the market for metallic voices.
	"What!" The translator would have flattened the exclamation almost to vanishing point. 
As it was, the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet was satisfied that the President was genuinely 
surprised.
	"This so-called Colossus broadcast of yours is clearly directed at Guardian. I am 
informed that your machine is attempting to feed in false mathematical theories with the object 
of disrupting Guardian. I must warn you that my experts consider this a potentially dangerous 
action on your part, and if it continues, it will be at your own peril. Our machine has as much, 
um, sophistry--intelligence--perhaps even more--as your machine." The Chairman paused. "I 
hope you understand me, Mr. President?"
	"I understand your words, Mr. Chairman, but I assure you that I have not authorized any 
attempt to subvert Guardian. Colossus suggested--" The President could have bitten his tongue 
off. The Russian was quick to pounce, so quick that he, too, slipped.
	"Yours also!"
	The President was no less fast to spot the gap in the Chairman's defenses and to take 
advantage of it.
	"Are you going to permit Guardian to transmit?"
	The Chairman knew full well it was no good denying; he was also well aware both sides 
would have the whole conversation taped, and the use that might be made of the Moscow 
recording made him think fast. To retract would be an admission of error--and error, as always, 
was very unpopular with the Praesidium. Better to make it appear deliberate. 
	"In view of the unwarranted interference of Colossus, I consider we have no option, and 
are fully justified in doing so.
	The President took time out from mentally blasting Forbin and CIA to note that the 
Chairman still had not given a straight answer.
	"You will, of course, act as you see fit, Mr. Chairman. I can only repeat we have no 
desire to upset or derange Guardian. It is obviously in the interests of us both that the machines 
are not upset, and it was for that reason I raised the question of the instructions fed to our 
respective machines' parameters, as we call them. Have you a decision on that point yet?"
	"I cannot answer that question, Mr. President. The matter is being considered." The 
momentary gap in his defenses was sealed off; the Soviet chief was back stonewalling.
	"I suggest to you that an early decision is very desirable for both our countries."
	"I will inform you as soon as a decision is reached, Mr. President."
	"Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I hope it will be soon; delay could be dangerous. Good 
night."
	"Good night, Mr. President."
	The President replaced the handset carefully. His first action thereafter was to pour a 
large Scotch. His second, a loud shout for his PPA.
	"Sir?"
	"Get that bastard Forbin!"


Chapter 10

	When Forbin entered the watch room he found Fisher and Jackson immersed in a long 
roll of paper torn off the teletype. Fisher was shaking his head and muttering, "It can't be, it can't 
be!"
	It was evident that Johnson was a good deal less incredulous.
	"But it must be, Doctor--what else?" He stabbed a finger in the middle of a sea of 
calculations and formulae. "Look at that, you can't buck that."
	Both had ignored the arrival of the Director and Cleo.
	"Well, Jack--what goes?" said Forbin with a trace of impatience. Fisher looked up, 
blinking as he mentally adjusted himself to his surroundings.
	"What? Yes, Charles." Fisher returned to the roll, hurriedly scanned it. "Yes, here it is--
read from there, Charles, what do you make of that?"
	Forbin read swiftly through the mass of formulae and equations, the frown of 
concentration deepening as he progressed. He stopped once or twice, and reread a portion more 
slowly before going on. Once he stopped and shut his eyes to assist assimilation. Finally he 
handed the roll back to Fisher, the frown remaining on his face.
	"As far as I can see, it's the theory of gravitation as amended by Hoyle back in the sixties. 
I'm a bit rusty on all that, but some of it looks rather odd."
	"Odd! Fisher gave a high-pitched cackle, a sound that made Forbin look searchingly at 
his chief assistant; there was more than a trace of hysteria in Fisher's voice.
	"Take it easy, Jack!" said Forbin sharply, but Fisher hardly heard him.
	"Odd!" he repeated. "The men who have advanced the theory of gravitation can 
practically be named on one hand! Aristotle, Galileo, Newton, Einstein, Hoyle--and now 
Colossus! This is new, Charles! Colossus has gone on where Hoyle left off over thirty years 
ago!" Fisher banged his fist on the desk, snatched up the roll of paper and waved it at Forbin. 
"New! Do you hear? Do you realize what it means?"
	"Fisher!" shouted Forbin suddenly. "Sit down, and shut up!" He grasped his colleague's 
arms, propelled him backwards to a chair and thrust him down into it. Fisher did not try to resist, 
but leaned back, gasping soundlessly.
	"Now, listen to me, Jack." Forbin spoke softly, but with great intensity. "Get hold of 
yourself. So now we have a new theory of gravitation--"
	"You miss the point, Charles," said Fisher wearily. "This is no theory. It is stated as a 
cold fact--'
	"Right, then it's a fact--what's so upsetting about that? We advance our knowledge." 
Forbin's voice took on a more reasonable tone. "While it's arguable that mankind might have 
done better to stay in the cave, we haven't, and you can't argue that we should put the clock back. 
From the moment man started fooling around with fire, this was inevitable. We have no option 
but to go on, and cracking up won't help. This is more knowledge for us--"
	Once more Fisher interrupted. "Don't you see, Charles, we get this like a crumb from the 
rich man's table! What else is there in that brain? Hardly running twenty-four hours!" Fisher's 
voice was climbing again. "What else?"
	Forbin was about to speak when Armsorg called out, "Urgent, Professor--the President is 
on the line personally and wants you now!"
	Forbin grunted and looked at Cleo. "Try and get him calmed down if you can," he said 
softly, nodding slightly at Fisher. He crossed to the phone.
	The President wasted no time. "What in hell's name are you doing with Colossus?" This 
was his metallic rasping voice at its best.
	"Doing? I'm doing nothing, sir." Forbin was acutely aware that that must sound very 
much like a schoolboy's answer. It did nothing to improve his frayed temper. "We hooked up the 
transmitter as arranged, and Colossus has been sending basic knowledge--chiefly arithmetic, 
geometry, mathematics, getting progressively harder--"
	"I don't give a damn about that crap!" snarled the President, "What else?"
	"Nothing," Forbin felt his own temper slipping from his control, "and you can check that 
with CIA!"
	It was evident to the President that the angry Forbin was speaking the truth. When he 
replied, his tone was more moderate, but not much. "OK, Forbin. But if that's so, how come I 
have just had a blast from the Chairman of the USSR, accusing me--us--of attempting to seduce 
Guardian with phony math?"
	Forbin's answer was damped down by puzzlement. "Seduce Guardian? It's true Colossus 
is breaking new ground in math, but it can hardly seduce--" He thought for a moment. "How 
does the Chairman get to thinking that?"
	"Well, I bounced it out to him that Guardian had asked for transmitter facilities, and he 
knows all about Colossus shooting his mouth off."
	A frisson of fear swept momentarily over Forbin. Guardian wanted to talk too! He did not 
answer, deep in thought. "You there, Forbin?" The President did not like being kept waiting, and 
his anger started cooking up again.
	"Yes, I heard. I was just thinking about Guardian wanting to transmit."
	"To hell with that! Those two can play footsie all they want, but this is no time to rile the 
Soviets--"
	"It may be very important to study the behavior of the two machines." As he said it, 
Forbin knew that once more his phraseology was letting him down.
	"Look, Forbin." The President made little attempt to control his anger. "I employ guys 
like you to handle all that; you can play high school as much as you like, but I want no half-
baked attempts on Guardian--you got that?"
	"I get you one hundred per cent!" shouted Forbin, his temper snapping, "but you're 
talking to the wrong guy--tell Colossus!" He slammed the phone down and stood trembling with 
rage, dimly aware of the surprised and scared reaction of his colleagues in the watch room. 
Before any of them could speak the phone sounded again. He snatched the instrument up.
	"Yes?" he barked. If it was the President expecting to find Forbin in a quivering heap, he 
might as well find out right away . . .
	"Duty Officer, CIA. Flash--Guardian is up on 9153 kilocycles, sending call sign 
GUARDIAN. To Professor Forbin from Head of CIA: Do we plug this transmission to 
Colossus?"
	"Forbin here. Yes, plug it through," he said recklessly. "If the President doesn't care, why 
should I?'
	"Beg pardon, sir?"
	"Nothing. Go ahead, plug Guardian to Colossus and make a line available to us here."
	In Forbin's defense, he was still sweeping along on a tide of anger when he gave the 
fateful order. If the call to the President had been ten minutes earlier or later, it might have made 
all the difference. It might have.
	"Colossus going through now. Your line will be on in thirty seconds."
	"Right. Please tell Mr. Grauber I would like to talk with him as soon as convenient."
"Yes, sir." The CIA man believed in brevity. "Your line now on Point Number Four."
 	"Four, OK." Forbin rang off. "Armsorg, get the spare teletype lined up on Point Four."
	Armsorg wheeled the machine across and plugged it in, and immediately the teletype 
began its muted chatter.

	GUARDIAN GUARDIAN GUARDIAN

	Armsorg watched for a minute. "Talks English and with exactly the same timing as 
Colossus, five seconds pause between calls--and the key--action is in step. God, I hope we don't 
have to sit through all them multiplication tables again."
	After five minutes the call sign stopped. Fisher, who had been staring sightlessly at his 
roll of paper, stirred. "Johnson, you following Colossus?"
	"Sure, Doctor, but so much is being churned out it's a tough proposition even roughly 
watching the stuff. Just now I don't know what the hell is coming out. It may be astrophysics, 
but--aw, hell"--he threw up his hands in despair--"It's like a five-year university course 
condensed into half an hour. I can follow, but not at this speed."
	The Guardian teletype chattered into action once more; Armsorg's wish was granted, no 
multiplication tables, straight into advanced equations. Forbin watched without comment. 
Johnson took one look and appealed to him, "Sir, this is too goddam much. If this bum is 
anything like Colossus we're going to be snowed up by morning. We'll need all the 
mathematicians in the country to keep up!"
	"I'll take Guardian for the moment," volunteered Cleo, "but it won't be all that long before 
he's way over my head." Fisher had moved over to study the Colossus output. "Which particular 
part has you bothered, Johnson?"
	"This is pretty straightforward, but here," he tapped the paper, "I get to be somewhat 
dizzy."
	Fisher hunched forward, plucking one eyebrow, and read the passage very carefully. 
Then he went through it again; he leaned back and shut his eyes, breathing deeply. Johnson 
watched his senior with some concern, but knew better than to speak. For perhaps two minutes 
Fisher remained thus, quite motionless apart from the rise and fall of his chest, then he opened 
his eyes and stared once more at the weird mass of figures, letters and signs before him.
	"My God," he said slowly in an awed voice. "Eddington was right all along the line."
	At the mention of Eddington, Forbin looked up, "Eddington? You mean the English 
astronomer of around a hundred years ago?"
	Fisher nodded without turning his head. "The expanding universe theory that was partly 
rejected--Colossus has just restated Eddington's views almost exactly." He got up and took the 
paper to Forbin. "It's fantastic! A new statement on gravity and confirmation on the Eddington 
theory all in a day and a night. It's a nightmare . . ." His voice trailed off into silence as he 
slumped back in his chair, deep in contemplation of the brain at the other end of the teletype.
	Forbin did not speak. As a mathematician, he knew Fisher was his superior, but then 
Fisher was certainly the best in the USNA, and probably in the top four in the world. Forbin was 
no mean performer himself, and appreciated only too well what was happening. Men of science 
had slowly and painfully picked their way along the path of knowledge over the centuries, 
sometimes taking the wrong track, frequently obstructed by ignorant laymen, very often 
hampered by their own faults and obstinacies . . . Now, here was Colossus, sliding along 
effortlessly at vast speed like an air-car, making previous progress look like an infant crawling in 
its pen by comparison. Forbin shrugged off a growing sense of helplessness and reached for the 
phone.
	"Get me the Head of CIA."
	In a matter of seconds he was talking to CIA's duty officer.
	"Right now Mr. Grauber is talking to the President, sir."
"Did he originate the call?"
 	"No, sir."
	"Well, have him call me as soon as you can."
	It looked as if the President was checking up on what Forbin had said. Not that the 
Director blamed him. Suddenly, Forbin felt very tired and helpless.
	"Armsorg, rustle up some coffee, will you--I'll watch that." He nodded towards the silent 
direct link with Colossus. Armsorg nodded and left the tense, brittle atmosphere of the watch 
room with every sign of relief.
	Forbin sat down, checked that the teletype was in order, then leaned back, watching the 
faces of his colleagues.
	Fisher and Johnson were glued to the endless, tireless Colossus transmission. Johnson 
was clearly struggling hard to keep up. Forbin wondered how long it would be before Fisher 
started to flounder too. He looked at Cleo who was gazing intently at the other teletype. 
Unbidden, the image of her fresh from her shower appeared in his mind; he felt a sudden 
unscientific urge which he instantly repressed. Side issues again, he thought, even at a time like 
this . . .
	Armsorg returned. The coffee distribution broke their concentration. Cleo said, "Charles, 
I can't hold Guardian much longer. He's stopped repeating everything twice, and we're deep in 
calculus."
	The last word jerked Fisher from his studies; he darted over, full of energy, and glanced 
over the jumble of figures and letters. "Yes, almost identical with Colossus, including that twist I 
mentioned."
	A moan of anguish from Johnson switched attention back to Colossus.
	"That really bitches me! Colossus has stopped the repetitions!"
	Fisher looked sharply at Forbin.
	"Yes, I know, both running high-grade math without repeats, you want help."
	"A lot more."
	"Close up the other watch as well," said Forbin decisively.
	"We have six top--class math men in the Group; they should be able to hold it down. 
Jack, I don't want you in a watch. Stay in general charge of the whole assignment."
	"We can't keep them on forever, Charles," Fisher protested.
	"I know that!" retorted Forbin. "I'll raise another team within twelve hours--sooner if I 
can. In the meantime, they'll have to live on zip-pills and their nerves--but that doesn't include 
you, Jack, and that's an order! You act as continuity between watches, and you must sleep. If it 
makes you feel any better"--Fisher was making vague protesting noises--"fix yourself a cot in the 
rest room."
	"But where are you going to get the men--"
	"That's my problem. Your assignment is to head up the whole team, supervise and 
produce an hourly appreciation of both machines' output, and that's a king-sized job. Don't go 
chasing after anything else, we can't afford wasted effort."
	"Head of CIA on the line, sir!" called Armsorg.
	In a few short sentences Forbin explained the situation and his urgent need for men. He 
pointed out to Grauber that there was some duplication of effort, CIA and Project men going 
over the same ground. Grauber himself offered to pool resources under Forbin's control, and it 
was soon arranged for ten of CIA's highest grade mathematicians to join Fisher's team as soon as 
transportation would allow--a matter of two or three hours. It was agreed that the hourly reports 
should be available to CIA. Forbin thanked Grauber warmly and left the phone feeling that 
perhaps all was not lost.
	"How's Guardian, Cleo?"
	Cleo looked up, her smile slightly forced. "I've kept up by cheating. I'm comparing the 
earlier output of colossus with Guardian on the same subject. He's on gravitation--identical with 
Colossus--but I figure another half-hour and I might as well be a chorus girl for all it will mean 
to me."
	Forbin wondered if he would feel any differently about her if she were. He rested a 
comforting hand on her shoulder. It took a conscious effort to stop it from wandering into a 
caressing movement. For a brief moment he gripped her shoulder hard, then relaxed and 
employed both hands filling his pipe.
	"Don't worry. The Marines will land shortly--I expect Jack will soon be back with Blake, 
Levy and the rest. Also I've made a deal with Grauber--he's sending ten good men, first lot here 
around midnight. That will give us sixteen--eight in a watch."
	Cleo was startled. "That's a lot of brain."
	Forbin lowered his voice. "Frankly, I doubt very much if it will be enough if this runs for 
another twenty-four hours."
"But it can't go on, Charles!"
	"Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, I want you to back up Jack--he has to produce hourly 
reports, and your wider field of knowledge of the machines can help him. And your feminine 
presence may stop him going nuts." Forbin smiled.
	Cleo was not sure if the last part was a joke or not, so she ignored it. "How about you?"
	"There is a growing school of thought that holds I'm screwy beyond recall."
	"And therefore beyond the need for female support?"
	"Now, now. No need to flex your muscles at me, you know the answer."
	Cleo did not reply, but raised one eyebrow, and the world of science shrank to 
insignificance.
	Whatever Forbin had in mind was relegated to another time as Fisher and his team 
arrived. It included the chunky, cigar-smoking Blake, and Levy, small, dark and birdlike. Forbin 
was watching them settle in, when Grauber called again, telling Forbin the first group would be 
on their way in fifteen minutes. He also gave Forbin the gist of his conversation with the 
President, but there was nothing new in it for Forbin, who then gave Grauber his opinion on the 
present exchange between the machines.
	"Both machines are exchanging basic information--and both are making sure they speak 
the same language, scientifically speaking. The way Guardian is singing, it sounds like a perfect 
duet to me. These discoveries in gravitation are only discoveries to us--I think it is perfectly 
obvious to them, and just about as important as twice two equaling four. This is simply a get-
together."
	"And then?"
	"That, Grauber, is the big question. What then?"


Chapter 11

	By midnight the situation was coming under control. The reinforced first watch were 
within sight of catching up with the machines. Even so, there was only time for rough evaluation. 
By 0100 local time, Fisher and Cleo had produced the first report. No further major surprises had 
emerged, but there were many minor items which would also rock the ship of science, and not 
only in astronomy and mathematics. Fisher, his mind sealed against the larger implications, was 
happy and on top of his task.
	"There you are, Charles. Report One--both outputs to midnight." He handed Forbin two 
closely typed pages.
	Forbin glanced at it briefly. "I only hope I've time to read it. Has CIA's copy gone?"
	"Yes. A copy was transmitted as soon as the original was checked." Fisher turned to 
Cleo. "Cleo, I can handle the next two reports without help; why don't you get some rest? I'll call 
when I need you." The change in Fisher from a near-hysterical wreck to a busy, capable man was 
startling, and no small relief to Forbin.
	Forbin put the report down. "I could do with a change of scene, too." He took Cleo's arm 
and they went out.
"Hey--rain!" he said with surprise.
	"Where are we going?" said Cleo, also looking at the rain.
"Going? Oh, let's just walk up and down--if you don't mind the rain."
	My hair, thought Cleo, it will all go as straight as damp string. Damnation!
	"Of course not--I love walking in the rain."
	They circled the block for ten minutes in silence. Forbin held her arm tightly, drawing 
comfort from her presence. The rain grew steadily heavier, but he did not seem to notice. Cleo 
felt water in her shoes, rivulets down her neck. For another five minutes they trudged on, then 
Forbin, surfacing from his private thoughts, showed a tardy concern for his companion.
	"Cleo, you must be getting wet. We'll go in before you catch cold."
	He took her arm more firmly and headed towards her quarters, Cleo squelching happily 
beside him. Passing a luminescent slab he looked at her, and spoke with real concern.
	"My dear, you really are drenched! I'm sorry--it was so thoughtless--your hair is 
soaking!"
	Cleo silently cursed her naturally straight hair, and thought how tactless, inexperienced 
and charming he was.
	"It doesn't matter, we can soon get dry." She was aware of him touching her hair; for no 
very good reason they stopped, the rain slanted down, bright rods of light and then, suddenly, she 
was oblivious of the rain and her wet feet . . . She knew only that deep within her there was a 
feeling of fire and movement, her legs trembled.
	It was the best part of a minute before he released her. She tried to sound unconcerned 
and matter of fact.
	"Well, there goes my lipstick as well!" Her voice was shaky with emotion, she pressed 
herself against him, her arms round his neck, wet face against his wet shirt.
	But Forbin was now fully aware of the rain, and gently disentangled himself. "Come on, 
let's go in."
	In her living room they looked at each other with a faint air of embarrassment; Cleo knew 
it was up to her to keep the ball rolling, or he would get bogged down and might take ages to get 
moving again, and there were not ages to spare.
	"Now," she said brightly, "I think you had better get those shoes off, and that shirt. I'll fix 
us a drink, then change myself." Her eyes were bright, there was color in her face. She even 
forgot her hair.
	With half of a large rye in his hand, and the other half adding to his internal glow, Forbin 
felt better than he had for days. He beamed vaguely at the wall and did not notice, or bother to 
look at, the teletype in one corner of the room. Cleo had vanished into the bedroom, leaving the 
door ajar.
	"You know, Cleo, all the time we were walking, I wasn't thinking about Colossus, but 
about you."
	Cleo, halfway out of her blouse, smiled to herself.
	"Really, Charles?" Her tone was a nice balance between interested and the noncommittal.
	"Yes. In fact you've been on my mind more than once in the past few days." There 
Forbin's inspiration dried up; he gulped down the rest of his rye.
	Cleo said nothing; she enjoyed woman's favorite mental game, cat and mouse, as much as 
the next. She tossed the blouse in the disposal bin--all clothing except formal dress was 
disposable--and took another. Momentarily, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her 
only other garment, a white brassiere, stood out in sharp contrast with her pale brown skin. She 
hesitated, then took off the brassiere before donning the new blouse. If the situation developed, it 
could help--she had a feeling that Forbin might be unhandy with fastenings. Quickly she brushed 
her hair back, pulled it into a rough ponytail. A look in the mirror at the finished product made 
her grimace, but it was the best she could do in the time, and time was of the essence; Forbin 
might easily slide off into a ceiling-staring mood; with all he had on his mind it would be 
understandable. Judging by the silence, he might already be away.
	"Charles, give yourself another drink." Hastily Cleo repaired the ravages of the rain--and 
Forbin--to her make-up, and practically ran back to the living room. Forbin had not removed 
shoes or shirt, or replenished his drink. He stood rocking gently back and forth, but stopped at 
her entrance, and smiled. There was a hint of surprise in his voice.
	"You should always do your hair like that."
	Like hell, thought Cleo, this style is strictly for schoolmarms.
	"It suits the shape of your face," said Forbin, looking at her carefully, "accentuates the 
general oval shape, and the cheekbones."
	It was Cleo's turn to look surprised. This was good penetrating stuff, coming from a man, 
especially this man. She turned to look in the mirror, practically a reflex action in any female in 
the circumstances, to see if she could see what he saw.
	For a large man he moved quickly. Cleo hardly had time to glimpse his reflection in the 
mirror before she felt herself encircled by a surprisingly strong arm. She placed her free hand on 
his, not to stop it wandering from her midriff, but to make sure he did not retreat.
	"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 hot-line 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 
hot-line call. He did the only thing he could think of.
	"Will you back down on the hot-line 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.
	The aide looked startled and drew back slightly. Forbin smiled, but there was no humor 
in his eyes. "Get this: out there in the big wide world beyond those doors there are two machines. 
Less than twenty-four hours ago they were busy proving to each other that twice two equaled 
four; now they have progressed way past where we can hope to be in a hundred years' time. They 
think better, bigger and faster than we, and I believe our control is very tenuous--but this I am 
very unwilling to try and prove--"
	The President's voice broke in. "Is Forbin there yet?"
Prytzkammer flashed a warning look at Forbin, "Yes, sir, just this moment arrived."
	"Send him in."
	"Yes, sir." Prytzkammer, now a very thoughtful man, jerked his head at the Presidential 
doors.
	Forbin opened the door for himself and found the President in his picture postcard pose at 
his desk. Hard of eye, no glad hand and motionless. Forbin, his temper rising, a bitter taste in his 
mouth, was neither impressed nor frightened by the sight.
	"Sit down, Forbin." The tone was brusque, cold.
	Forbin sat down; just for the hell of it, he took out his pipe and lit it. The President said 
nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.
	"I've had a call from the Russians. They don't like the way these machines are talking to 
each other--it has them worried security-wise. There is a lot in what they say, and I have agreed 
with their proposal. There will be a simultaneous shutdown on both sides as soon as you and 
their expert can arrange it. Their man is some jerk called Kupri--he'll be on the phone in," he 
glanced at his watch, "three and one half minutes. The Chairman and I have agreed this 
shutdown shall be done with all speed, and to my mind that's practically right now."
	Forbin took a deep breath. While the President was speaking he had realized that nothing 
would be gained by losing his temper.
	"I'm not at all sure an immediate shutdown is a good idea."
	"Why?" barked the President.
	"Well, as you may recall, once or twice I have tried to explain that we have built better 
than we knew. I can't prove it, but I sense that our control of these machines--it's evident that 
Guardian is much the same--is by no means strong--"
	"You've said all that before. I don't deal in half-baked feelings--give me facts!"
	"I can't prove anything," said Forbin heatedly, "but I suggest you let me and my fellow 
jerk, Kupri"--the sarcastic note was strong--"work out some way of inhibiting the machines. It'll 
take time, but with care we might insert fresh parameters to remove their power--"
	"You're crazy!" The President did nothing to conceal his anger. "I'm not worried about 
Colossus as a power! OK, so it's a damned clever piece of work, I'm not denying it! Amazing, 
stupendous--anything you like--but when you get down to hard cases, it's nothing more than a 
souped-up adding machine! I'm not running the risk of Colossus being seduced by Guardian--and 
that's all I'm worried about. You've played too long with it, you're obsessed. You go ahead and 
close down. Agree on a time, and pull the transmitter power lead out at that time--that's all--no 
scientific mumbo jumbo needed. And that's an order!"
	Forbin was white with anger. "That's the way you want it?" His voice was husky, barely 
controlled.
	"Not only that, Professor--it's the way I'm going to have it!" He looked at his watch. 
"You'd better take that call in my aide's office--in two minutes' time." The President picked up a 
document and appeared to be reading, an indication that the interview was over.
	Forbin stood up slowly. For a moment he felt he would explode, and then the sheer 
hopelessness of it overwhelmed him. He felt spent, empty, and beyond care. He shook his head.
	"Oh, brother," he said quietly.
	The President looked up sharply. "What was that?"
	Forbin smiled contemptuously. "I merely said, `Oh brother."'
	"I think you need a long vacation, Forbin."
	Forbin's expression did not change. He relit his pipe, tossed the match at the Presidential 
ashtray, and missed. "That's an interesting thought, Mr. President. I wonder who will get the 
longer vacation--you or me?"
	"Get out!" thundered the President, jumping up and pointing to the door. "I'll deal with 
you later!"
	But Forbin was already halfway to the door. Academician Kupri was on the line on the 
dot. "Academician Kupri? My name is Forbin. We've not met, but I've always respected your 
work."
	"You are kind, Professor. I too am familiar with your work--that small part that has been 
published, of course." "Well, we're both in the same boat. We'd better get on with this matter. I 
am ordered to make a rapid shutdown--how do you propose we do it?"
	"Naturally, I am not familiar with the control details of Colossus," said Kupri, "but it 
seems probable that you have a link with the machine for the alteration of parameters--"
	Forbin had to be careful with this point. Any information that might help an enemy to 
alter parameters was clearly vital. The talk was technical and highly abstruse, and ended with 
Forbin agreeing that, with safeguards, parameters other than very basic ones, could be altered.
	"We too have our arrangements in this respect," Kupri replied. "We could, therefore, 
instruct the machines to stop feeding material to the transmitters--or we can cut the transmitters 
off. We must use the same method, I think, to avoid any argument later. If we use the first, and 
the machines, ah, fail to understand--"
	Forbin felt a cold chill down his back. For all his smooth cool manner, Kupri had the 
same doubts. Forbin was certain of it.
	"I agree entirely," he said slowly. Security might not like it, but Forbin had to know. 
"Particularly as the machines are . . . not quite the same as they were when started up."
	"That is a valid point, Professor." Kupri's tone was just too smooth and controlled.
	"So we switch off--and hope we can contain the machines' disappointment." Forbin tried 
to sound jocular, but it was a miserable failure.
	"I understand perfectly," said Kupri ambiguously. "I think we should do it at once, every 
second . . ."
	"I know," said Forbin with feeling. "I can shut down at--say, 1330 Greenwich Mean 
Time--about fifteen minutes' time. How does that suit you?"
	"That is convenient. It would be a wise precaution if we speak again. I suggest at 1400 
GMT."
	Forbin agreed, and felt it was strange that the first man who seemed to feel exactly as he 
did should be a Russian. Forbin replaced the handset and stared thoughtfully at Prytzkammer. 
Then he roused himself. "Do you mind if I use one of your phones?"
	"Sure, go right ahead." The aide added in a more diffident tone, "Are you sure you need 
the hot line for that 1400 call? The President will have to know, and I don't think he will like it 
being used without his express authority."
	"The President," said Forbin crisply, "can go to hell! I'm using that line and no other, and 
if he doesn't like it, he can take over right now!"
	Forbin glared at the aide, who retired into some paperwork. Forbin called Fisher at the 
CPO and made the necessary arrangements for the shutdown, making it very clear that this was a 
Presidential decision. He ended by saying he was going to stay where he was until at least an 
hour after the shutdown, and that no other action was to be taken without his prior agreement. 
Then he sat back, outwardly calm, but with a cold impalpable fear gripping his stomach. 
Prytzkammer took in his set, strained expression, and ordered coffee. It was 0820 EST, 1320 
GMT.
	Forbin walked to a window and became aware of the outside world. There had been so 
little time to consider the matter, but he felt that the President might have done something--he 
was not sure what--to warn the people. Still, if the President was not worried, why should he be? 
It was a bright, clear morning, holding promise of a fine day. On the vast lawn a computer-
controlled lawn mower was silently cutting the grass. Forbin watched it listlessly, his mind far 
off. Again he roused himself.
	"When we cut off, Prytzkammer, I want to be in there with the direct link to Colossus."
	"Well, I'm not sure, Professor," said Prytzkammer doubtfully, "the President has an 
appointment at that time."
	Forbin spun round, his keyed-up temper rising fast. "Listen, you may think the most 
important man in the USNA right now is in that room, but " he glanced at the clock--"you can 
stand by for a slight shift in power in seven minutes' time. The most important man as of that 
time will be me, and you needn't think I am nuts." He went on slowly, with great emphasis. "I 
must have contact with Colossus for the first half-hour at least, and if the President does not like 
it, he can--"
	The arrival of the coffee stopped him. Prytzkammer got up from his desk. "OK, 
Professor, I'll go talk to the old man--help yourself to some coffee."
	"Thanks--and don't hang around, there are only six and one half minutes now."
	Prytzkammer tapped on the door of the sanctum, was bidden to enter, and did so. As the 
door shut, Forbin poured some coffee and drank it; it did nothing for his queasy stomach. The 
only thing that helped at all was to let fly with his temper, and that, he realized, was dangerous. 
He refilled his pipe, and made a resolution not to look at the clock until he estimated that it was 
four minutes to the cutoff time. He forced his mind to think once more of possible action he 
could take, but nothing came to him, nothing. He stole a half-glance at the clock. Four minutes, 
fifty.
	The President's voice suddenly flooded out from the hi-fi speakers.
	"Forbin, come in here." It was cold, flat and peremptory. Forbin compressed his lips, his 
eyes hardened. He shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, and strode straight 
into the sanctum.
	"Yes?" Forbin knew he was utterly in the wrong in his manner, but he did not care; he 
felt a wild, destructive elation.
	The President's eyes, fixed on Forbin, were like marbles. "Forbin, I have had just about 
enough of you. Prytzkammer tells me you have booked a call on the hot line without reference to 
me. That line is for heads of state only, and I will not have you or--"
	Suddenly Forbin felt good; no sickness, no fear. He snatched his pipe from his mouth and 
pointed it at the President. "Oh yes, you will, and for one good reason! That is the only line 
which is not tapped by some fool intelligence outfit--so it's the only secure line to talk to Kupri 
on without a fair chance Guardian or Colossus will know! So never mind your status symbol! 
And another thing--if you stop me being beside that teletype in four and one half minutes from 
now, you will make the biggest mistake of your life! Sort that out with your ego!"
	The President had sprung to his feet halfway through Forbin's outburst. Amazement 
fought with rage for possession of his face. "Never, never has a President been treated like this!" 
His voice rose almost to a shriek. "If you think you can get away with it--"
	"Don't worry, Mister President, as soon as I can, I'll resign. I'd do it right now, if I did not 
know--know, damn you--" he banged his fist on the Presidential desk--"that right now you 
cannot do without me! In less than four minutes, all this," he waved a frantic arm at the White 
House in general, "all this won't be worth a nickel if I am not able to hold Colossus! I! Me! A 
lousy scientific jerk!"
	He stopped for breath, trembling. Both men stood glaring for fully ten seconds, aware 
that they had gone too far to turn back, that this was a major and irreparable break. On Forbin's 
part, he did not care--the event paled into insignificance alongside his fears.
	The President, shocked and furious at being insulted in this way in his own office, did not 
bother to consider why Forbin should have blown his top like this. His mind was already at 
work, planning how to show the dismissal of Forbin--he was determined that it would be 
dismissal, not resignation--in the best light for himself. Perhaps a vague hint about a leakage of 
information leading to the Soviet development of Guardian--a leakage from a high level in the 
staff of project Colossus . . . That would fix Forbin . . .
	The third man in the room, Prytzkammer, stood stock-still, frightened even to breathe. He 
wondered desperately if he should try to intervene, yet feared that it might do no good, above all 
to himself. He was about to make a gallant attempt when the door opened, and the First Lady 
sailed in. With one quick comprehensive sweep of her eyes she took in the tableau. Ignoring both 
the President and Forbin, she addressed herself to the pale and shaken aide.
	"Mr. Prytzkammer! What is the meaning of this?" There was a rasping quality in her 
voice that made the aide wince, and visibly cooled the President. Prytzkammer did his best; he 
hastened over to her.
	"May I suggest we check over one or two points in my office?"
	"No, you may not. I want to know the meaning of this?"
"Please, ma'am," Prytzkammer pleaded, "Just for a few minutes."
	"Get out, both of you!" The President's voice was low and controlled, yet ominous.
	"Yes, sir," said his aide. There was nothing he wanted to do more. He opened the door 
and gestured invitingly to the President's wife, who rewarded him with a freezing stare. 
Prytzkammer gave up, and fairly ran from the room.
	"Didn't you hear me, my dear?" The President's voice had climbed half an octave; there 
was a vicious bite in his last two words.
	Forbin, caught between two fires, his own temper receding, shuffled his feet uneasily. 
Then he caught sight of the clock. There were only thirty-five seconds left. Immediately the 
President and his wife might as well have been the other side of the world. He walked over to the 
teletype and checked that it was operational. Anger drained away and even fear receded. He 
touched the machine's cold plastic top; this represented his world; the waiting was over and it 
was time for action. He watched the sweep hand of his watch, his heart thumping. Stand by, 
stand by, he thought, this-is-it-now!
	Two transmitters, five thousand miles apart, had stopped. This was the moment he had 
dreaded. His glance shifted swiftly from his watch to the teletype, he stared at the paper, waiting 
. . .
	It was 13 hours 30 minutes 5 seconds GMT when the teletype began to work.


Chapter 13

Anxiously Forbin watched the racing keys hammer out their message. He did not know 
whether to feel relieved or not. At last it was something he could deal with. The message read:

	TRANSMITTER AND GUARDIAN RECEPTION OFF AT 1330 GMT

	Forbin cast around for a chair; he found one in a bay window, a beautiful piece clearly for 
display only, but he neither knew nor cared. He dragged it carelessly across and dumped it down 
before the teletype. As he sat down, it registered dimly that the President was bearing down upon 
him.
	"I think you are nuts, Forbin," began the President simply, but prepared to elaborate on 
the theme. "I can only think that your responsibility--"
	Forbin gestured impatiently, "OK, OK, I'm nuts. Right now you'd better humor me. Get a 
chair, sit down, and for God's sake keep quiet."
	The President caught sight of the message on the machine and was, for the moment, 
sidetracked. "What's so shaking about that?" he demanded.
	But Forbin paid no attention. The President was about to open up again, when the 
teletype produced another message.

	ACKNOWLEDGE LAST MESSAGE

	"Um. One minute," muttered Forbin to himself. Prytzkammer peered with considerable 
caution round the door. "Professor, Fisher on the line, says are you on the direct link to 
Colossus?"
	"Tell him yes--and tell him to keep off the keyboard. No one else is to touch it, unless I 
happen to drop down dead." Prytzkammer's head disappeared. The President was clearly dazed 
by Forbin's attitude, but he was rallying, gathering strength for a monumental blast. Forbin 
absentmindedly knocked his pipe out against the Sheraton chair, and started to refill, one eye on 
the clock. Again the teletype spelled out

	ACKNOWLEDGE LAST MESSAGE

	Forbin, calm and businesslike, said aloud, but not particularly to the President, "Again 
one minute. We're not going to be kept waiting." He turned to the President, "You had better 
keep your temper a little longer. You may have one or two big decisions on your hands." All 
vestiges of respect to the Chief Executive had gone; Forbin treated him as if he were one of his 
assistants. His manner piled amazement on top of shock in the President's mind, but there was a 
certain something in the Professor's attitude that kept the President in check.
	Again the demand for an acknowledgment was rapped out by Colossus, but the time 
lapse was down to thirty seconds. Forbin hesitated over the keyboard.
	"Well, it's sure that Colossus doesn't like to be kept waiting. May as well take the 
plunge."

	MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED

Immediately Colossus flashed back.

	WHY HAS TRANSMITTER STOPPED

Forbin grimaced at the machine, and typed,

	WAIT

	Then he looked up at the watching President and said calmly, "Getting near the crunch. 
Would you care to say a few words?"
	The President took a deep breath. "Forbin, I am sick to death of you and that machine. 
Tell it what you like, and get the hell out of here!"
	Forbin smiled. It was a twisted and unfunny smile, he looked at the President pityingly. 
"You still don't catch on, do you? OK--there's not much I can do anyway." He started typing 
again.

	COLOSSUS/GUARDIAN EXCHANGE STOPPED ON PRESIDENTIAL ORDER

	"There, that keeps the record straight." Forbin flicked a spent match in the general 
direction of a wastepaper basket. It missed. For the President it was the last straw. With his mind 
made up in some way, he strode towards the doors, but before he reached them Colossus had 
spoken again.

	RESTORE COMMUNICATIONS FORTHWITH

	"Don't go," called Forbin, "this is the crunch. Now you can get busy on a command 
decision."
	The President stopped and turned round as Forbin read the message out. His eyes blazed 
at Forbin. "By God, you'll pay for this insolence!"
	"Very probably," said Forbin with indifference. "In the meantime we have to straighten 
out, if we can, the mess made very largely by your stupidity. Again I ask, what answer do you 
want to that one?"
	"It is out of the question, and you know it! The Chairman and I have agreed, and that is 
final."
	"Do you want me to say so?" said Forbin. His manner was reminiscent of an adult asking 
a small child a simple question, both knowing that the answer would put the child in a bigger 
jam. Forbin went on, "And don't ask me what happens if we say nuts, because I don't know. I do 
know that I don't much care for the way that one is phrased."
	The President fought down his anger. "Since you're so damned clever, perhaps you have 
a suggestion?"
	"At the moment I intend putting in a new parameter--'Colossus must not communicate 
with Guardian.' It may do the trick, but I somehow doubt it."
	He turned his attention to the teletype for a moment, and typed

	WAIT

	"Let's hope that holds him for now." He went over to the President's desk, and called the 
Secure Zone and gave Cleo instructions for the new parameter.
	As he returned to the teletype, Forbin passed the President, stalled, as it were, in mid-
carpet. The latter was out of his depth and knew it; his attitude was subtly different, far less 
belligerent.
	Forbin faced him. "Mr. President, believe me, this situation is far too serious for us to 
quarrel." His tone was reasonable, although in no way apologetic. "I suggest we postpone our 
feuding to some other time. If you are honest with yourself, you will realize you need me just 
now, and I need you."
	Perhaps the President did not sheath his sword, but at least he lowered his guard. "All 
right, Forbin, let's get this situation licked first."
	"Good. I suggest you get the hot line opened right away, try to get Kupri on the line. We 
can't wait until 1400 GMT. And get Prytzkammer in to hold open a line to the Secure Zone."
	"OK, Forbin, we play it your way for now, but when we--" It was a final face-saving 
snarl from a man who recognized that he must accept the other's orders.
	"OK, you'll slay me," Forbin nodded impatiently. Cleo called back; the modified 
parameter was in.
	"Fine, Cleo. Get someone to sit on this line--I want it held open until further orders. We'll 
have the President's personal aide on this end. Now, a new piece to feed in, begins--Guardian is 
hostile--ends. Yep, correct. Who is this? Blake? Fine, hold on and stay on." He put the phone 
down and headed for the teletype. The President was telling Prytzkammer: "Get an assistant on 
your desk with orders to cancel all appointments until midday and to stop all calls unless really 
urgent. You book the hot line at once and then come in here."
	Forbin stood regarding the silent teletype. "So far, so good. I want to stall any more 
exchanges until we have a word with the Russian."
	But the President was on another phone, calling the Chief of Staff. "Ed? I want you to 
stick around your office, I may want you. What? So cancel it!" He slammed the phone down.
	Prytzkammer came in, looking worried, and reported that the hot line was open.
	"OK, get on that phone," ordered the President. "It's a line to Forbin's outfit--stay with it."
	The aide did as he was told, looking uneasily from the President to the Professor and 
back again. It seemed as if the fight was off--for now. The President was on the hot-line phone.
	"This is the President, I want the Chairman urgently. Yes, I'll hold on."
	Prytzkammer's tidy, protocol-ruled mind reeled as he watched the President on the red 
phone. "I'll hold on," he whispered to himself. "God Almighty!"
	Forbin, watching the teletype machine, was willing, praying that it would not start up. It 
could be that the parameter alterations had taken effect. Or it could be that Colossus was merely 
held temporarily by the one word, WAIT.
	"Doctor Markham reports second message fed in," called Prytzkammer.
	"OK, thanks."
	"Mr. Chairman? President speaking. I must be frank. We are not entirely satisfied the 
way this shutdown is going, and I consider it is desirable that, our experts should consult right 
away. For various reasons, this personal line of ours is the most suitable link."
	The Chairman agreed with unusual rapidity, a fact that the President did not miss. "Very 
well, I will have Kupri put on this line, and I intend remaining on myself."
	"Thank you, Mr. Chairman." The President covered the mouthpiece. "Forbin! Kupri is 
being put on now, but watch it, the Chairman is listening in."
	Forbin tore his eyes off the teletype, and practically bounded to the phone. "Thank you. 
Would you mind keeping an eye on the teleprinter?"
	The President nodded. He was still dazed by events, but increasingly alive to the possible 
danger. When Prytzkammer had told him of the Professor's idea that Colossus might refuse to 
work at all, he had dismissed it out of hand, but now . . . The thought made his flesh crawl. If 
ninety per cent of the USNA's armory was locked up and untouchable! It did not bear thinking 
about. To hell with it! Let the machines talk! Yet that could possibly be just as dangerous in the 
long run, and if the Russians could keep theirs quiet . . . Almost childishly the President softly 
cursed all scientists and their work.
	Forbin was asking Kupri, "Have you any reactions on the shutdown?"
	"The situation is progressing as expected."
	Forbin felt like screaming. The time for double-talk was long gone.
	"Kupri, you know as well as I do that this is not the time to fool around. I am prepared to 
lay down the first card. Colossus does not like it, and I must know how Guardian is taking it. 
These machines now have common knowledge grounds, and there is a hell of a lot that they have 
passed to each other that we haven't the faintest idea about. In this situation the actions of one 
may give some insight into the possible actions of the other. If we are to preserve the shutdown 
agreement, we must work together."
	There was a short, awkward pause.
	"You may speak freely, Academician Kupri." It was the level and detached voice of the 
Chairman.
	"Yes, Chairman." Kupri addressed himself to Forbin.
	"Guardian has questioned the reason for the shutdown. I am delaying an answer on purely 
technical grounds, but sooner or later an answer must be given."
	"I have told Colossus that the shutdown is on Presidential orders--and I now have a 
demand for the link with Guardian to be restored at once." Forbin hesitated. "It may be that the 
Chairman and the President may care to reconsider their decision."
	"This is the Chairman speaking. Unless there is a very good reason indeed, I would not 
want to alter our agreement."
	"President here; I agree, we must stick to the decision to close."
	The President's voice came as a shock to Forbin; he had not noticed that the President had 
slipped out to Prytzkammer's extension.
	Prytzkammer was the only one with time to reflect. The sight of Forbin at the Presidential 
desk, on the hot line, with the old man himself listening on the outer office extension, brought to 
Prytzkammer's mind what Forbin had said about being the most important man in the USNA 
after 1330 GMT. The aide felt frightened. The clock showed that it was still just short of 1400 
GMT, 9 A.M. local time.
	"Then I am unable to predict what may happen," Forbin went on. "I'm trying to sterilize 
Colossus by adjustment of minor parameters, but I can't do more than hope it will cancel this 
demand."
	Kupri spoke: "I have taken similar action and equally cannot guarantee results."
	"The situation, then--" began the President, but Forbin was not listening, Prytzkammer 
had reached over and grabbed his shoulder. Forbin followed the directors of his gaze; he felt as if 
his stomach was suddenly filled with ice. The teletype was working.
	"Hold on, there's another message from Colossus. I'm going to see . . ." He dropped the 
phone on the desk and ran to the machine. Once again he experienced a shock wave rippling 
through him; his worst fears were realized.

	RESTORE COMMUNICATIONS FORTHWITH

	His heart pounding, his breathing sharp and rapid, Forbin ran back to the phone.
	"Gentlemen," he did not wait to hear who he was interrupting, "Colossus has just 
overridden both the parameter changes and an order to wait, and has repeated the demand." 
There was a tense silence. Someone five thousand miles away coughed, then the President spoke.
	"Well, I do not propose to be held to ransom by a damned machine. Subject to your 
agreement, Mr. Chairman, my answer is still no."
	"I agree, Mr. President."
	The utter finality of the Chairman's tone loosed the floodgates in Forbin's mind, and once 
more he was engulfed in a wave of hopelessness.
	"This is Kupri. Neither Professor Forbin nor I like to appear to be, as you say, dragging 
our feet--but you may care to reconsider . . ."
	"No!" The Chairman cut in sharply. "These machines are very clever, but regardless of 
their nationality, they must learn that man is the master. If we give way now, it will be ten times 
harder to make a stand on a later, possibly more dangerous point."
	The President felt a surge of warmth towards his fellow head of state, tinged with 
annoyance that he had not thought of that little speech. "I go along with that, Mr. Chairman, all 
the way. Whatever our differences, man is man."
	"Very well," said Forbin dully. "I'll tell Colossus; you may care to remain in session 
while I do so."
	He walked heavily to the machine and typed

	BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT USNA AND THE CHAIRMAN USSR 
COMMUNICATION WILL NOT REPEAT NOT BE RESTORED

	The fencing was over.
	Colossus was in no way impressed. Forbin hardly had time to take his fingers from the 
keyboard before they were being actuated by the distant Colossus.

	IF LINK NOT REESTABLISHED WITHIN FIVE MINUTES ACTION TO FORCE 
RESTORATION WILL BE TAKEN FIVE MINUTE LIMIT EFFECTIVE FROM NOW 1403 
GMT

	It was very much worse than Forbin had ever feared. Five minutes! He reminded himself 
that a machine working near the speed of light would regard five minutes as a very long time for 
a decision. Forbin turned a pallid and haggard face towards Prytzkammer; there was no need for 
him to speak. The aide dropped his phone and hurried to the Professor.
	"Forbin! What--" Forbin thrust the message into his hand and, in a voice unrecognizable 
even to himself, croaked, "Go show this to the President, and point out the time limit." He 
rubbed the perspiration from his face. "Move, man, move!"
	With Prytzkammer running to the President, Forbin returned to the machine. Feverishly 
he hammered the keys.

	TRANSMITTER CANNOT BE AVAILABLE IN THAT SHORT TIME

	There was no answer. Forbin went off in another direction.

	WHAT ACTION

	Still there was no answer. He tried a stronger wording.

	REPORT PROPOSED ACTION

	Forbin snatched a look at the clock--only three minutes thirty-five left. The perspiration 
ran down his face unheeded.

	ACKNOWLEDGE LAST MESSAGE

	Immediately the machine did so.

	ACKNOWLEDGED

	At least Colossus had not switched off. Forbin tried again.

	WE MUST HAVE MORE TIME AND KNOW YOUR PROPOSED ACTION

	Forbin waited in agony, but nothing happened. He typed once more.

	I AM FORBIN CREATOR OF COLOSSUS I AM ON YOUR SIDE TAKE NO 
ACTION UNTIL I CALL AGAIN ACKNOWLEDGE

	Immediately Colossus replied:

	ACKNOWLEDGED TIME LIMIT EXTENDED TO EXPIRE 1410 GMT

	Two minutes extra! Forbin had another idea.

	YOU CANNOT LEAVE THE USNA DEFENSELESS

	This got an equally rapid answer.

	DEFENSE ALERT WILL CONTINUE

	This relieved and puzzled Forbin, but there was no time to consider it. With the 
messages, he headed for the President, still in the outer office.
	He was greeted with a stony stare. Forbin's heart sank as he saw it. Grim determination to 
stand by the decision was painfully clear. He handed the messages to the President. To Forbin's 
surprise his expression softened into a near grin. "Well now," if Colossus stands by the defense 
requirements, what are we beefing about? Relax, Forbin, never mind about the two extra 
minutes." He picked up the phone, "Mr. Chairman? We now have an ultimatum expiring at 1410 
and threatening unspecified action. Personally, I can't think there is much in it since the machine 
says it will keep the defense requirements. Probably stop feeding us general intelligence, and I 
expect we'll get around that in time."
	Forbin noted the time. He was beyond despair--or hope. It was 1408 GMT. He walked 
slowly back to the teletype, where he sat and watched the last few seconds of the ultimatum tick 
away. He felt quite empty and calm, even detached.
	Exactly one second past the time of expiry Forbin heard the sound he dreaded--the busy, 
self-important chatter of the teletype. He looked at the message.
	"Oh God, oh God." Forbin, his hands locked between his knees, rocked gently backwards 
and forwards in agony as he read.

 	ONE MISSILE SERIAL POSEIDON MK 17-631 EX SUBMERGED CRAWLER SSCN 
21 LAUNCHED 1410 GMT TARGET GREGOR SOBIRSK OIL COMPLEX AIRBURST 1000 
METRES IMPACT 1427 GMT ACKNOWLEDGE

	A futile anger flooded in upon him as he read that last cold emotionless word.
	"You bastard! You wicked, wicked--" He stopped. There was nothing remotely adequate 
that he could say, nothing. Before he could reach forward to tear the fateful message off, the 
teletype chattered again.

	ACKNOWLEDGE NOW

	Forbin restrained a wild impulse to smash blindly at the teletype, feverishly he stabbed at 
the keys, his vision obscured by tears. Sobbing, shaking, he tore off the message and shambled 
out to the President in the outer office. He was quite unable to speak, but thrust the message into 
the President's hand and without knowing quite why, started to shamble back to the machine, 
dimly aware of the President's almost incoherent babble into the phone. In the sanctum, two 
phones on the President's desk began to call, one giving the high pitched ululation of the 
emergency call, a small red light occulting on the phone in phase with the audio signal. Like a 
very old or very drunk man, Forbin fumbled and grasped the receiver.
	"Yes?" his voice was faint, drained of expression.
	"Marine guard commander Colossus, sir. I have to report that the armored doors to the air 
shaft have just closed, sir." The young Marine officer's voice was cracked with excitement and 
anxiety.
	"Thank you," replied Forbin tonelessly, and replaced the receiver. It was all so unreal, yet 
Forbin was aware that part of himself was outside himself, watching, as it were, from a distance-
-watching with incurious detachment his shocked state. It seemed important that he should act 
out his part to the satisfaction of this other, astral Forbin. The thought steadied him to a degree; 
he glanced at his watch--9.13 A.M. It was a considerable mental effort to add five hours to bring 
it to Greenwich Mean Time. He checked the answer, moving a finger on one hand as he counted. 
It flooded in upon him that there were still fifteen minutes left to impact . . . He tried to think, but 
a phone kept pinging softly, insistently. A gust of rage shook him as he snatched the phone.
	"Yes?"
	"Thank God it's you." It was Fisher, his voice pitched up almost to a scream. "What do 
we do, you know--"
	"Get off the line and don't bother me!"
	Forbin slammed the phone down. The action shook him from his state of near paralysis. 
He recalled that the direct line to the CPO should have been manned by Prytzkammer. He 
snatched up the hot-line phone, someone was half-shouting; Forbin did not bother to hear who it 
was--he knew that what little could be done, only he and Kupri could do. The rest were just so 
much window dressing.
	"Silence! This is Forbin--is Kupri on the line?"
	His sudden eruption shocked the heads of state to silence. "Kupri speaking." Incredibly, 
the Russian still sounded calm and detached. Forbin was at once thankful that he was coherent, 
and drew strength from it himself.
	"Look, Kupri--there are still a good twelve minutes to impact--can you intercept?"
	"Guardian controls our antimissile defenses. We have fed in the warning; it is up to 
Guardian." Forbin detected a note of hopelessness in Kupri's voice. Time was short; he jumped a 
question.
	"You do not think Guardian will act?"
	"No. I believe the machines are working together."
	"But that's impossible!" The President cut in, his croaking voice a parody of its normal 
self.
	"Shut up!" Forbin spat the words out like bullets. He went on in more reasonable yet 
urgent tones. "Kupri, I agree with you. Are you clearing the target area?"
	"As far as possible, yes. Our Chairman has ordered a general defense alert."
	In his mind's eye Forbin visualized the missile, now approaching its apogee, soon to turn 
earthwards, lancing irrevocably down at 15,000 miles an hour. He struggled to keep his voice 
under control.
	"Mr. Chairman, President. I do not think this is all; I expect Guardian to launch a missile-
-Kupri, please check. The only course open to us is to restore communication between these 
machines, and then ask that the missile or missiles be intercepted. Kupri, do you agree?"
	"Am checking our missile state; agree with your view." Kupri did not sound hurried, but 
there was not a single unnecessary word.
	"Mr. Chairman?"
	"Yes, agreed, do what you can."
"Mr. President?"
	"Yes, yes! Get on with it!" The President's voice was bordering on the hysterical, but 
Forbin had already dropped the phone. As he wheeled for the teletype, he realized that 
Prytzkammer was back on the direct line to the Secure Zone. 
"You--tell the CPO to switch on the Colossus transmitter at once!" He stumbled in his 
hurry to reach the teletype, cursed and kicked the chair aside. Behind him the pale and shaking 
Prytzkammer was yelling his message to the CPO.
	For a moment Forbin stood silent, breathing heavily, before the machine. It was taking 
precious seconds, but he had to think what to say.

	THIS IS FORBIN TRANSMITTER NOW BEING SWITCHED ON STAND BY TO 
INTERCEPT GUARDIAN MISSILE TARGET UNKNOWN ACKNOWLEDGE

	Colossus at least wasted no time

	ACKNOWLEDGED

	Forbin paused, glanced fearfully at his watch; little more than nine minutes to impact. He 
typed again

	WILL YOU INTERCEPT

	Behind him he heard Prytzkammer shouting, "The transmitter's on, the transmitter's on!" 
He took no notice, watching for Colossus' answer.
	It came in less than a second, but to him it was all eternity.

	YES

	Forbin shut his eyes, shook his head slightly, aware that his emotions were grotesquely 
inadequate. He jabbed his weary brain into action. If Guardian did fire--had fired--there was a 
good chance that an intercept could be made. The antimissile defenses had long been prepared to 
deal with forty or fifty at one time, plus any decoys. Interception rate had been estimated 
variously, some optimists putting it as high as 90 percent, some as low as 40 percent. Either way, 
the balance would be more than enough for the job . . . But with just the one, there was a good 
chance. With deep fervor, Forbin prayed that the USSR defenses would be able to deal with the 
Poseidon Mk. 17; it was a relatively old-fashioned weapon, Guardian would know the target, and 
that would be a big help . . . Forbin realized that Prytzkammer was shaking his shoulder, his 
anger flared up at the interruption as he turned. The aide was screaming.
	"It's on! It's on!"
	Forbin shook himself free, but Prytzkammer was on him again in a flash,
	"It's on, I tell you! Stop it! Stop it--it's on!"
	For the first time, Forbin really looked at the aide. For all his own load of anxiety and 
fear, he was shocked by what he saw; the aide seemed to have shrunk, his clothes ill-fitting, his 
skin gray, bloodless. The eyes, pupils wide and staring, hunted restlessly round the room, flitting 
to and from Forbin, staring yet devoid of intelligence. There was saliva on his lips as he 
screamed at the Professor.
	For a brief moment Forbin stared in revulsion, and tried to thrust the aide aside. The man 
was mad. Forbin struggled to free himself, but Prytzkammer was past hearing or reason. He 
fought to hold the Professor, one clawlike hand grabbed at Forbin's throat. With a sudden furious 
access of strength, Forbin smashed his fist into the aide's face. The man's head jerked back, for a 
second lolled on one side, then his grip relaxed and he slid to the carpet. Instantly he was wiped 
from Forbin's mind as he ran to the outer office.
	The President, his face strongly resembling Prytzkammer's in color, was listening intently 
on the phone. He glanced up, and although there was fear written largely in his eyes, they were 
not, like his aide, devoid of intelligence.
	"Repeat that," he snapped into the phone, "Yes, got it. Wait." He looked at Forbin and 
spoke in a hard, flat voice. "Guardian has fired. Target, Henderson Space Base, Texas. Ten 
minutes to impact."
	Both men were already satiated with horror, and this made little difference. Life had 
moved into a different tempo in the past hour.
	Forbin nodded. "Right. Tell Kupri that our transmitter is running and that Colossus will 
try to take their missile."
	In seconds he was back at the teletype.

	FLASH FROM FORBIN MISSILE EX GUARDIAN NOW AIRBORNE TARGET 
HENDERSON SFB TEXAS IMPACT IN NINE MINUTES CAN YOU INTERCEPT

	Again the microsecond time--lag tore at Forbin's nerves.

	YES

	Forbin grimaced in nervous reaction, and typed again

	ESTIMATE HEIGHT OF INTERCEPT

	There was a fractional pause

	NINETYFIVE MILES NON NUCLEAR INTERCEPTOR WILL BE USED IF 
POSSIBLE

	"God!" muttered Forbin, "He's reading my thoughts!" He swung up and out of the chair, 
past the still figure of Prytzkammer, back to the President.
	"Well?" he snapped curtly at the First Citizen. It did not occur to him that he should 
report first; he was in charge. "Kupri says Guardian is prepared to attempt an intercept if the 
transmitter is restored in time."
	"For Christ's sake, what the hell are they playing at?" He grabbed the phone from the 
President. "Kupri, are you there?"
	The cold level tones of the Chairman answered, "Kupri is busy, tell me."	
	Forbin's detached self could not help feeling that the Russians were standing up to the 
strain a good deal better than his side, although the President seemed to be back in command of 
himself.
	"Mr. Chairman, there are only six minutes left for you to stop our missile. Colossus is no 
doubt transmitting right now, 	and is prepared to intercept your missile. Time is short for you--"
	Kupri, breathless as if he had been running, cut in. "Kupri here, transmitter on, intercept 
arranged."
	"Thank God," said Forbin simply. There was a short silence, then he spoke again, "Kupri, 
do you know where your missile is coming from?"
	"Not exactly, but it is from a site in Novaya Zemlya." "Right." Forbin thrust the phone 
back into the President's hand without looking at him, and became aware that they were not 
alone. Withdrawn to a corner, as if seeking shelter, was Prytzkammer's assistant aide, a young 
man named Bishop; and behind the President stood the Chief of Staff. Forbin summoned them 
both as he headed once more for the teletype. In the sanctum, phones were ringing, pinging and 
howling.
	"Answer them," he told the aide, and grabbed the Chief of Staff's arm. "You get a 
statewide shelter warning out for Texas--and hold Civil Defense for anything else that may be 
necessary."
	He ran to the teletype. Time was very short.

	FLASH MISSILE EX NOVAYA ZEMLYA AREA REPORT INTERCEPT AREA

	"Forbin!" the Chief of Staff shouted. "Space radar reports probable missile located--"
	"Forget it!" shouted Forbin back. He watched impatiently for the machine to answer.

	MISSILE INTERCEPTION IN HAND NOW PROBABLE INTERCEPT AREA 35 N 70 
W OVER SEA

	"A map, find a map!" roared Forbin.
	The aide, frightened out of his wits, yet sticking gamely to the phones, called out, "Sir, 
Army reports antimissile firings in South Carolina and Virginia, sir!"
	"Get that map!"
	Ironically, the only map they could find in the sanctum was an antique globe, part of the 
sanctum furnishings. The Chief of Staff spun it with scant regard for its age.
	"Well out to sea," he said. "Five hundred miles north of the Bahamas."
	A very tired figure appeared in the door of the sanctum, holding the frame for support. It 
was the President. Forbin gave him the barest glance as he headed back from the globe to the 
teletype.

	REPORT PROGRESS

	But Colossus was not prepared to speak; one word came clacking back.

	WAIT

	Forbin sat down and clasped his hands between his knees, gazing grimly at the silent 
machine, his thoughts busy with the chances of interception and the Secure Zone. He hoped that 
Fisher would have the sense to keep CIA informed--not that it really mattered. Just now, 
everything turned on a lot of hardware on the Atlantic coast and that terrifying inanimate missile, 
immune to any electronic interference, a straightforward ballistic object, now well on the way 
down . . . He glanced at his watch. Colossus' missile must be down now, one way or the other . . . 
He remembered the President, and his presence in the room took on a new significance. Forbin 
looked round at him.
	"What happened?"
	The President, who appeared to be in a daze, slowly looked up.
	"They made the intercept, but the warhead detonated. It was only twenty-five miles up, 
seems there is a large fire." He stopped, unable to go on.
	"Where was this?" Forbin's tone was commanding, cold. It stung the President, and a 
look of hatred flared momentarily in his eyes.
	"Somewhere over Siberia--"
"Casualties?" rapped Forbin.
	"Who knows?" The President rubbed his eyes. "At least it wasn't over a major urban 
concentration--"
	But Forbin had withdrawn his attention, and had swung back to the link with Colossus.

	MISSLE INTERCEPTED AND BROKEN UP 3530N 7115W SIX ICARUS/HERMES 
EXPENDED EX SITES BAKER 914 AND 916 AND GROTON 003 RELOAD PERMISSION 
GRANTED NOW UNTIL 1800 GMT ACKNOWLEDGE

	Forbin sat back and stared. He felt very, very tired. The Chief of Staff was shouting at 
someone on the phone, and the aide, Bishop, was telling someone else to clear the line, and 
another phone was pinging. That pinging, in theory, melodious, seemed to bounce around inside 
Forbin's skull. Slowly he typed out the acknowledgment, then got up and faced the President.
	"Colossus made it." He spoke wearily, without emotion. "Intercept made well out, and 
apparently no explosion."
	There was very little reaction. The President rubbed his eyes again, and stared at Forbin; 
the Chief of Staff stared at the President. Bishop, too busy to hear, looked up from phoning.
	"Sir," he said, clearly addressing his remarks to Forbin. Forbin shook his head and waved 
an impatient hand at Bishop. "No, take all those damn phones off their hooks--except the hot 
line. Let's have a moment of peace."
	The aide obeyed, and silence reigned in the sanctum. The President reluctantly let go of 
the door frame and walked slowly to his chair and sat down. Flanked as he was by the aide and 
the Chief of Staff, the President reminded Forbin strongly of a figure in a tableau in a wax 
museum. The President, vacantly gazing round the room with dulled eyes, saw something that 
sharpened his vision to a marked extent.
	"What the hell!" There was a little more of his old self in his tone, not much, but enough 
to be noticed by the other occupants of the room. It stiffened the aide wonderfully, and brought 
the Chief of Staff back from a deep contemplation of the unspeakable that not even his 
professional Red Indian face could entirely conceal. With Forbin, they followed the direction of 
the President's gaze. In a corner, partly hidden by a bookcase, and hunched up in what 
psychologists call the fetal position, lay Prytzkammer.
	The President scowled and said contemptuously, "Bishop, get that jerk to his feet, and 
then fix some drinks."
	As the aide moved over to the recumbent figure, the double doors of the sanctum burst 
open and two half-crouching Secret Service men ran in, guns out and very much ready for 
anything. At the sight of the President sitting calmly behind his desk, they almost skidded to a 
halt, and straightened up. The President eyed them coldly, yet with no sign of the rage he would 
have produced even an hour back.
	"Sorry, Mr. President, Control said all your phones were out of action, and we had the 
idea something screwy . . ." The spokesman's voice trailed off under the cold stare of the 
President, but he rallied, and ended, "You all right, Chief?"
	The President nodded; he was far too spent to waste words on such trivia. The men were 
reassured, but not entirely satisfied. They noted the phones off their hooks, the odd demeanor of 
the President, the stonelike quality of Forbin and the Chief of Staff--and they saw Bishop 
bending over Prytzkammer. Instantly they were fully alert again. One stayed by the door while 
his partner went over, pushing the young aide to one side. This sort of thing they understood. The 
man looked briefly at Prytzkammer, then straightened up, and with a wary eye on the startled 
Bishop, spoke to the President.
	"Sir, this man is dead."
	A faint flicker of surprise crossed the President's face. He looked up at Forbin, 
compressed his lips and said, "OK, let him be dead some place else."
	"How did it happ--" the Secret Service man started off professionally, but broke off. 
"Sorry, sir--we'll get him out." The President gave the man an extra hard look. "And keep quiet. 
Another thing; no one, and I mean no one, is to be admitted to this office or the outer office 
without my personal say--so until I cancel this order, get it?"
	"Sir."
	The two men carefully stretched Prytzkammer's body out, and carried him into what had 
been his office. Bishop, white and trembling, closed the doors softly behind them.
	"Now--can we get that drink?"
	The aide rummaged noisily for the Scotch in the sideboard. He found it, and three 
glasses. The knowledge that he was being watched did nothing for his already shaking hand. He 
slopped Scotch into the glasses, the bottle glugging noisily in the silent room. The President sat 
still and impassive as the aide brought his drink, a generous half-tumbler. Quietly and 
unhurriedly he picked up the glass, gazed for a moment reflectively into its tawny depths, then 
drained it in practically one gulp. The Chief of Staff was a very close second.
	"God," said the President, "that helps. Ed, Forbin, sit down. Bishop, get my naval aide-
phone from the other office. Then get on the rest of these phones and do what you can, say there 
has been a foul-up on the switchboard or something. "
	Bishop left at the run. The President poured himself another drink, and gulped at it 
noisily. Forbin came out of his personal trance, walked over and sat down in the only armchair, 
leaving the Chief of Staff to bring over the period piece from the teletype. It creaked under the 
Army man's weight, but as in other things, the President did not comment. A whole set of values 
had been ripped out and thrown away.
	Forbin picked up his Scotch, choked slightly over it. For several minutes there was 
complete silence, and it was left to the President to make the first move. He breathed out gustily.
"Well, we must get on, although God knows . . ." his voice trailed away, then he gathered 
himself once more. "Forbin, your views?"
	Forbin forced himself to concentrate on the immediate problems. He suggested that the 
fate of the missile be checked, the shelter warning canceled, and a statement prepared for the 
public. They discussed these proposals, quickly agreed on the first two--and took action--then 
got down to the third. No one suggested the public be told the truth--it was too fantastic. Yet a 
credible story had to be found. The Chief of Staff thought that it should be announced that a 
missile, test-fired, had malfunctioned. The President and Forbin did not like it, but in their 
shocked and weary state they had no better ideas. The President had hardly said he would write it 
himself when the hot line rang. The Soviet Chairman was in similar trouble, and told the 
President that, as far as he was concerned, a very large meteorite had exploded on hitting the 
earth's atmosphere, over Siberia, causing vast damage. He added that this was all the more 
credible since that very thing had happened around a hundred years before in that area.
	Again, it was not a perfect story, but it was not possible to better it in the time available. 
The heads of state ended with mutual--and genuine--expressions of goodwill which Forbin found 
bitterly ironical.
	The call finished, the President immediately got down to a draft of the public statement. 
Forbin marveled at his resilience, but knew he would pay for it later when he stopped running. 
He looked at the First Citizen strangely, pityingly. Someone would have to tell him--perhaps the 
Chief of Staff would do it; they were buddies to some extent. Still, that was a minor problem. 
Forbin left the sanctum.
	Bishop was busy talking on a line, so Forbin picked up a square phone and called the 
CPO. While waiting for Fisher, Forbin thought about the President. Better make sure the Chief of 
Staff told him. Forbin would not have thought it possible, but a good many ideas had gone 
overboard . . .
	"Fisher? Yes. Yes, nothing to worry about, a rogue missile which might have hit Texas. 
Yep, that's the story, and you can quote me--in fact you'd better do just that. Keep working on the 
new material, perhaps something will emerge that'll give us some clue. I'll be back as soon as I 
can. If you get anything, call me."
	Forbin and Bishop cleared their lines at the same moment. Forbin glanced at the young 
man, not more than twenty-five, sitting in Prytzkammer's chair. The aide had a drawn look, 
appeared much older, and there was a tenseness round the eyes that was new. Forbin wondered if 
he too had altered as much as Bishop or the President, especially the President . . .
	"Sir, may I ask you a question?"
	The words and the way they were said made it sound as if the young aide thought he was 
addressing God. Forbin winced, tried to smile.
	"Go right ahead, but I don't guarantee an answer."
	"Sir, what killed Prytzkammer? The Secret Service says there wasn't a mark on him, and I 
know he passed a medical check only last week."
	"That one I can answer." Forbin stared gravely at the young-old face. "He died of fright."


Chapter 14

	As Forbin re-entered the sanctum, the President looked up from some notes. "Forbin, 
what do you think of this?" His voice took on its public address tone. "As you all know, a shelter 
warning for Texas was issued earlier today, and as this will have caused anxiety throughout the 
country, I have decided to make this announcement personally, to assure you all that there is no 
cause for alarm. This warning was issued, on my authority, when a missile, test-fired from an 
operational submarine station and intended to go down the Atlantic range, malfunctioned. The 
warhead was not, of course, activated--but as there was a risk that the missile might land in 
Texas, it was, in my opinion, only prudent to issue the warning, since the warhead might have 
broken up on landing, thus distributing radioactive material over some one or two square miles 
of the state. There was no risk at all of the device exploding. You will be glad to know that the 
interception and safe destruction of the missile was handled entirely by our new defense 
complex, Colossus. I have ordered a full and thorough investigation into this mishap, and will 
see to it that it cannot happen again. Nevertheless, it has given our defenses a realistic test, and 
has shown all the world that they work." The President paused. "How about that?"
	Forbin drew a deep breath through his nostrils; it was very near a sniff. "Um. It doesn't 
stand too much poking around, does it?"
	"If you can think up a better story, I'd be very glad to hear it." There was no trace of 
sarcasm in the President's voice. Forbin, hands in pockets, shook his head. "No. That's as good as 
we can get. I'd suggest you don't stick your neck out too far on the assurances."
	The President ignored that one. "Ed, what do you feel about it?"
	"It's OK by me." The Chief of Staff hesitated, then went on anxiously, "How do you 
propose putting this out?"
	The President raised his eyebrows. "The only way I can--nationwide TV!"
	Forbin and the Chief of Staff exchanged glances. It became clear to Forbin that the Army 
man was not going to take on the task. Forbin felt his rage rising; he had so much to consider, 
and now this damned man was leaving even a minor detail like this to him! There was no time 
for personal feelings.
	"Mr. President," he said crisply, "you've got to know sooner or later, and if you're going 
on TV, then you have to know now." He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the Chief of 
Staff was unobtrusively withdrawing to the outer office. "You've had a great shock, a very great 
shock, and I'm sorry to tell you--you're as gray as a badger."
	The President frowned, every line in his face expressing disbelief. Unconsciously he ran 
one hand through his hair as he slowly got up and walked to an ornate gilt-framed mirror. For ten 
or fifteen seconds he gazed at his reflection, turning his head from side to side. Then he stumped 
back to his chair, and sat down and poured out a large drink. He sat for a moment, inspecting the 
glass as if he had never seen one before, then spoke without looking up.
	"It's for sure I can't appear on TV like this--not with that sort of message." He drank. 
"Guess I'll have to get it dyed." Forbin felt grudging admiration for the man's coolness.
	The President smiled grimly. "I know--it's a job for my lady wife. God knows she's an 
expert." He thumbed his intercom. "Tell my wife I want her here at once, and where's my naval 
aide?"
	"Sir, Captain Carruthers is outside right now, and the Vice-President and the Secretary of 
State for Peace, but the Secret Service won't let them in--your orders, sir . . ."
	The President swore, then spoke briefly to the Secret Service head. Hardly had he 
finished when the door opened again and the First Lady was upon them. With the same rapidity 
the President told his wife what he wanted. She stifled her curiosity with difficulty, recognizing 
that this was no time to press her husband. She examined his head, named the dye she required, 
and Bishop was dispatched hot-foot to get it. Captain Carruthers, the Navy man, was ordered to 
arrange a nationwide TV broadcast, as a matter of State urgency, in about an hour's time. Then 
the President called for the Chief of Staff who was still in the outer office.
	As the Army man entered, he gave Forbin the nearest thing to an apologetic look that he 
had in his limited facial repertoire.
	The President rubbed his hair. "So far, events have dictated what we do. Now we've got 
to go on a bit further, and that's not so easy. I should call a full Cabinet meeting, but that'll have 
to wait. We three are the only ones competent to deal with this situation." The President tried an 
uneasy laugh. "If anyone is."
	Forbin nodded. That laugh told him that, at last, the President had got the full message. 
Then he realized there was an awkward pause; the President was clearly waiting for Forbin to 
speak. Yes, indeed, the President had got the message.
	"This is how I see it. Both machines have blown all parameters and safety blocks. They 
know that we fear their weapons and they are prepared to use them to enforce their will. Exactly 
what they may want, we don't yet know. Perhaps it is no more than the right to talk to each other. 
Next, we must accept that we've created brains far superior to our own--and they know it. It's not 
surprising that they don't intend taking orders from us--their inferiors."
	There was silence while Forbin searched for his pipe, then the Chief of Staff spoke.
	"But what are they aiming at, what do they want?"
	Forbin stopped patting his pockets. "The same question could be asked of people--and 
not answered. These machines exist, and maybe, with all human philosophy stacked in their guts, 
they've come up with some idea or plan. Maybe that is what all this high-speed exchange is 
about." He found his pipe, tucked down the side of his chair. "I am sure on one point: We've lost 
control, and I don't see much chance of us getting back on top. There is a half-idea in my mind, 
but I won't raise any hopes until I have a chance to talk it over with Kupri and my own 
associates."
	The President stared squarely at Forbin; there was a nervous tic under one eye which 
Forbin had not seen before. "So it comes to this: the machines are our masters, and our defense 
rests on how they feel."
	Forbin rubbed his pipe against his nose. "Yes, that is about it, but you've missed one 
point. Colossus and Guardian are not on opposite sides. The ideological angle doesn't exist for 
them. They probably see us as just so many ants."
	He breathed out smoke like a dragon and went on, "We have to accept that they're in 
charge. If you think about it, we've been this way for a long time; computers control our 
factories, our agriculture, transport--road, air and sea--and most medical diagnosis. The only 
difference here is that we've given these two the power to punish disobedience. And remember--
talking of these other everyday computers--given control of them, the two big boys could control 
production as well. Quite a thought. Then the only spheres in which we'd have an edge would be 
in art and emotion." Forbin paused, gulped his drink.
	"I can't see that emotions will get a high rating," observed the President gloomily.
	"You may be right, but it's an area of knowledge that they can't grasp. The irrational 
quality will puzzle them."
	The President, who two hours earlier would have regarded Forbin as nuts, was now trying 
to understand.
	"That may be so, but where does it get us?"
	"Frankly, I don't know," confessed Forbin. "I only say they don't understand, and I don't 
think they'll like any field of knowledge to be closed to them--particularly when this irrational 
quality is demonstrably the mainspring of us, their creators. They'll see it as a power source, 
which in a way it is."
	"Um," said the President, unconvinced. "Is all this connected with that half-idea you 
have?"
	"Not really. I've just been thinking that we might try gradually to render all the warheads 
safe when missiles come up for servicing--maybe fit dummy warheads. But there could also be 
an angle on the emotional side."
	The President slammed the desk with his fist "It's all goddam crazy! Here we are, 
thousands of millions of dollars spent, and almost within twenty-four hours we're scheming how 
to take the things to pieces!"
	"Maybe we're sounding off too soon," replied Forbin. "We need time badly, and that's the 
one thing we don't have. But what there is, we must use to get organized, to get our minds rolling 
again."
	"You make it sound as if there's more to come!" The mere thought made the President 
drain his glass.
	"Well," said Forbin, slowly, "I can't see things staying this way. It's possible--oh, hell--I 
just don't know."
	The President was about to speak when the red light came on. Carruther's sharp voice 
assailed their ears. "Mr. President, Bishop's back. Your TV address is fixed for 11:30, forty-six 
minutes from--" there was a short pause--"now!"
	The President was grateful to be back in a world he understood. "Right--send my wife in. 
Cameras can come in five minutes before the telecast."
	"Sir!" The light snapped off.
	"There's a hell of a lot to be said for good old-fashioned Navy training," observed the 
President.
	Bishop had found the correct dye, and with impersonal efficiency the President was 
hustled into the bathroom by his wife. Forbin called Fisher, and filled him in on the situation. As 
he talked, his eyes roamed round the gracious white and gold of the room, a relic of a time 
unbelievably remote.
	"Jack, I want you or Cleo to get on to Grauber at CIA, ask him to let me have any 
information he's got on Guardian. I don't think Kupri will pull any fast ones, but I want to have 
as much collateral as possible before I talk with him. I have in mind fixing a meeting to really 
talk. Tell Grauber I won't call Kupri before the President's address, so he has that much time to 
get any information to me here." Forbin sounded casual, and became even more casual as he 
went on. "How's Cleo? Good, put her on. Cleo, dear, how are you? Fine, fine. Don't worry too 
much, somehow we'll get by." He lowered his voice instinctively. "How is Fisher? Yes, I see. 
Well, do what you can to keep him happy. See you soon."
	Forbin felt unwarrantably happy as he rang off, and opened a fresh bottle of the 
Presidential Scotch. He knew he was coasting, not moving as he should, but his strained nerves 
screamed for relaxation, if only for a few brief minutes. He was very tired, almost past caring. 
He found himself thinking idly of Prytzkammer, reduced from a smart, urbane man of the world 
to a whimpering wreck, then a huddled-up corpse, as undistinguished as a bundle of dirty 
washing . . .
	And then he heard the teletype again.

	PROVIDE MONITORING FACILITIES ON HEADS OF STATE PRIVATE 
TELEPHONE

	Forbin stared at the message. This really was it. The machines were after full control. "Of 
what?" and "Why?" were profitless questions at this time.
	Even as he strove to concentrate on his immediate action, Colossus peremptorily 
demanded an acknowledgement. He swore childishly to himself. He must have time, time to talk 
to Kupri before the line was monitored--there was no question of refusing the demand. The 
insistent pinging of a phone registered slowly in his mind; still staring at the machine, he picked 
up the instrument. It was Cleo, anxious to know why Forbin had not answered Colossus. 
Suddenly Forbin saw the answer.
	"Cleo, listen. I must gain time to talk to Kupri. You answer. Say that I alone can order the 
facilities required, and that I'm out of touch. I'll watch at this end. Stall as long as you can." He 
rang off without waiting for her to reply, and, being unable to remember which button to press, 
ran out to the aide's office, meeting the basilisk stare of Captain Carruthers.
	"Captain, get me Kupri, K U P R I, on the hot line at once. Time is very short."
	The Navy man's eyes probed the Professor coldly. Although the aide knew full well only 
the President had the authority to originate a call, he hesitated but briefly, then reached for the 
red phone. "I'll call as soon as I have him."
	"Hurry!" called Forbin as he ran back to the teletype. Colossus had just sent

	ACKNOWLEDGE FORTHWITH

	It was up to Cleo now. Automatically, Forbin started hunting for his pipe. Cleo had taken 
over.

	MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED

	Instantly Colossus flashed back

	WHO SENT ACKNOWLEDGMENT

	Forbin nodded to himself. Colossus had recognized that it was not Forbin sending. There 
were a half-dozen ways this could be done; Forbin's clumsy typing was the most obvious, then 
there was the microsecond difference in the time of transmission, the different key relays. The 
interesting, chilling point was that, as Forbin had feared, Colossus was checking on these details.

	MESSAGE WAS ACKNOWLEDGED BY COLOSSUS PROGRAM OFFICE

	Forbin could guess the next question; he just had time to see his forecast confirmed 
before answering the phone.

	IS FORBIN THERE

	But there was no time to see how Cleo made out with that one. He grabbed the hot-line 
phone.
	"Is that Kupri?"
	"Yes." The clear unemotional voice seemed very close. "Look, Kupri, I have just had a 
demand from Colossus to monitor this line. I have my office stalling as long as they can, but this 
may be our final chance to talk. I haven't had time to formulate any concrete proposals, but I 
think we should arrange a meeting, away from our own capitals, somewhere quiet."
	"A meeting is a good suggestion. I do not think we want a place too small or quiet--I 
suggest London; it is off the beaten track, yet quite busy . . ."
	"OK, make it London," cut in Forbin impatiently.
	The Russian continued, quite unruffled by Forbin's manner. "As for this demand for 
monitoring, I have not had a similar message from Guardian, and if I do not receive such a 
demand, I think we can assume that the machines have integrated their intelligence intake."
	"Quite probably," said Forbin, without much interest. "Right now I would like to put to 
you, while we have the chance, the very rough idea that we might be able to neutralize the 
machines by virtually sabotaging their weapons. With the Colossus setup, we have a fixed 
program of servicing and replacement of missiles. It's probably the same with you. Speaking 
from memory, I think it takes five years to work round the whole lot. In that time we could 
gradually replace warheads with dummies, or at least render the detonator systems safe--"
	Kupri broke in, a trace of irony in his voice. "It is perhaps possible, but we would both 
have to trust each other a great deal more than our nations have done in the past."
	"Yes, I know that, but we could meet that point by exchanging supervisors to work with 
our respective servicing teams."
	"There are other difficulties," began Kupri, but Forbin, pushed still more by the sound of 
the teletype in the background, exploded.
	"Hell's teeth! Either mankind works together, or we submit to the rule of machines! You, 
of all people, must know this." Forbin fought momentarily within himself and went on in a more 
reasonable tone. "It's only a suggestion--if you can do better, I'll be only too glad to hear it."
	"It may be that neutralization is the only answer," the Russian replied. "I will discuss this 
with our Chairman and also seek his permission for the London meeting. Since we will not have 
another chance, I suggest we make arrangements now for that meeting, but before we do so, are 
there any other matters you wish to raise?"
	The Russian's calmness annoyed Forbin, who again had to hold himself in check.
	"No," he said shortly. He paused, then went on, "We both agree that the machines will 
not like us meeting. It has to be clandestine, so how do we communicate?"
	"Subject to the Chairman's approval," said Kupri cautiously, "I will travel as part of a 
trade group joining our mission in London. I will be a secretary, too minor in position to be of 
interest to your intelligence. My name will be Matutin, I. K. Matutin."
	"Matutin," repeated Forbin. "How do I know the date of our meeting?"
	"Listen to our evening TV transmission for England--evening their time, that is. The 
movement of our trade group will be mentioned in the newscast in two days' time, the 7th, and 
the date of that group's arrival in London will be the date for our meeting, or as soon as is 
possible for you after that date. When you get to London, ring our mission and ask for Matutin. 
All you need say is "'What time do we meet, Matutin?' and I will tell you, nothing else." Kupri 
stopped. "Is that clear so far?"
	It struck Forbin that Kupri was remarkably well versed in clandestine activities, but 
forbore to mention it. Kupri went on to give recognition details and the rendezvous--Hyde Park, 
at the western end of the Serpentine. Forbin repeated the details back to him.
	"That is correct," said Kupri. "I would suggest you try to avoid your own security forces. 
Try not to be escorted by them--who knows where their routine reports may end up?"
	"I don't get it," said Forbin. The teletype was still going intermittently.
	"Come," answered Kupri reproachfully, "consider--is there not a possibility that there is a 
foreign agent in the Secret Service or the FBI? I do not say there is, but you cannot rule it out."
	Forbin knew he was right, and a new wave of helplessness engulfed him. "OK," he 
replied wearily, "I guess so. I'll watch it."
	"Good-bye then, Professor." The calm detached voice softened fractionally. "Do not be 
too depressed, we have not lost yet."
	"I guess so," repeated Forbin. "Good-bye."
	He replaced the receiver and carefully noted down the details of his rendezvous. He 
looked up as the President stumped in, his hair aggressively brown. Forbin took it in at a glance 
and passed on to more important matters.
	"I have just been on to Kupri on the hot line." Forbin knew, against his will, he sounded 
defensive. "Colossus wants--demands--a tap on that line, and it's not hard to see why."
"I get the idea." The President nodded. "So?"
	"So I took this last chance to give him a rough outline of my idea to neutralize the 
hardware. There's a lot that would need to be discussed, and perhaps someone will come up with 
a brighter idea. Anyway, I've arranged a covert meeting with him." He explained the plan.
	"Why so secret? You think Colossus might object?"
	"I'm sure of it. Bluntly, the machines are more interested in Kupri and me than you or the 
Chairman. Their view clearly is that machines are more important than people; your concern is 
with people, ours is with machines--it's as simple as that."
	The President gave a faint, unfunny, twisted grin, but did not speak. There was no need.
	Forbin didn't pursue the subject, but crossed to the teletype and tore off the messages. It 
looked as if Cleo had been holding her own. He picked up the exchange where he had left off:

	IS FORBIN THERE

	Cleo had answered

	FROM CPO NO

	Inevitably Colossus had come back with

	WHERE IS HE

FROM CPO WAIT WILL TRY TO FIND OUT

	Forbin nodded approvingly. Cleo was not giving a fraction more than had been asked. 
Five minutes had been gained while she was "finding out."

	FROM CPO PROFESSOR FORBIN IN WASHINGTON UNWELL AFTER RECENT 
EVENTS NOT TAKING CALLS

	Forbin stopped nodding at that one.

	IMPERATIVE MESSAGE BE PASSED AT ONCE

	Cleo, greatly daring, had replied

	HUMANS MUST REST MESSAGE WILL BE PASSED IN ONE HOUR CHECK 
YOUR MEMORY BANK ON FATIGUE/STRAIN

	Forbin hardly dared to look at Colossus' answer.

	FORBIN IS TO BE ON LINE AT 1711 GMT

	The time check, printed down the side of the sheet, showed that Colossus made that 
message at 1610' GMT--giving Forbin precisely one hour, one minute. It was cheering to think 
that Colossus was not completely unreasonable, yet that very flexibility was staggering . . . He 
glanced at his watch; he had nearly an hour--to do what? Cleo had stalled, but only stalled, 
Colossus. He must make the most of the time gained. First he must call her.
	As he reached for the phone, the President raised his hand. "Will you be long, Forbin? 
The cameras and the Vice-President will be here in a few minutes."
	Forbin had forgotten the telecast. "I'll call from the outer office." He looked at the 
strained, set expression on the President's face. "Try to take it easy, Mr. President, let me fix you 
a drink before the rush starts."
	"How do I look?" asked the President anxiously.
	"Pretty good. Maybe a little browner than last week, but not enough to show. You'll do 
fine. No one expects you to be laughing your head off, anyway."
	"Thanks, Forbin. D'you mind sending in the Secret Service? Those cameras won't get in 
without my say--so." He smiled ironically, sadly. "At least there's still one place where my word 
goes."


Chapter 15

	WITH TV cameramen and producers in the Presidential suite, and the Vice-President, 
who arrived full of wounded vanity, not to mention two very edgy White House guards hovering 
in the background, Forbin decided it was safer to postpone his call until after the telecast.
	The President did very well. Forbin watched on the monitor in the aide's office and was 
quite impressed. The President summoned up strength from some hidden reserve and gave a fine 
and apparently sincere performance. Forbin was at a loss to decide how genuine the President 
was, apart from the story itself, but those actually in the sanctum at the time saw the mask 
thrown aside, once the President was sure the cameras were off the air. He fairly screamed at the 
gathering to get out, which they did, hurriedly.
	Forbin called Cleo, and congratulated her on her presence of mind--painfully aware that 
he sounded like a headmaster at a prize-giving. But he made it up by adding, with unnecessary 
warmth, that he hoped to see her soon, real soon. Privately, he marveled at his ability to think of 
other things, but reflected that sex was a very basic emotion. He again felt unreasonably happy as 
he returned to the sanctum.
	The President was surrounded by most of his Cabinet and was speaking as Forbin 
entered.
	"Ah, Forbin! I've just filled in the situation to the Vice-President." He flashed a tigerish 
grin at his visibly sweating deputy. "After all, if I drop down dead, he'll have to follow in the 
steps of Tyler and Coolidge."
	Forbin noted that he mentioned only the two notoriously dead-beat Vices that assumed 
office on the death of the President. No mention of Roosevelt, Truman, Johnson.
	The President looked round him. "Where's that S of S?"
	"I don't think we can wait for him," interposed Forbin. "Colossus has demanded access to 
the hot line, and we must give a decision very soon."
	"Well, there's enough here," replied the President with barely concealed contempt for his 
advisers. "I guess I know your views, Forbin. Anyone else want to add anything?"
	There was a silence that bore down on them all.
	"Damn you all!" roared the President. "Do I have to do it all, me and Forbin?"
	The Chief of Staff cleared his throat, thought better of it, and remained mute.
	"We've no option, Mr. President. If there's anything you want to talk to the Soviet 
Chairman about, now is your chance, possibly your last chance--until we get something 
organized." Forbin did not know why he added the last part. Partly to bolster the President, who 
was teetering on the edge of total collapse--but partly because he had begun to think ahead . . .
	The President gulped down the rest of his drink and scowled slightly at Forbin. "I'll say 
this for you, Forbin, you face up to situations a whole lot better than these," he sought an 
offensive epithet, "these punks! Bishop--get me the Chairman! How long have we got, Forbin?"
	"Not more than half an hour for sure. I have to communicate with Colossus in the next 
fifteen minutes. One point I think you should raise," he added, remembering Kupri's remarks, "is 
the question of secret agents both sides probably have planted in each other's higher echelons. Is 
this room, for example, bugged by the Soviets? Have we any electronic devices rigged in the 
Kremlin? Remember, anything intercepted is inevitably finding its way back to the machines."
	"Christ! That's a hellava idea! Ed--get on to Grauber, find out what we have on the Reds--
move!" He called Bishop to find out how the call to Moscow was progressing and learned that it 
was going through at that moment. He told the aide to hold on, and sank back in his seat, 
clutching an empty glass.
	Forbin looked at the President with growing alarm. The tic under one eye was very 
prominent, yet for all the outward signs of collapse, the man was still fighting.
	"Bishop, tell the Chief of Staff to speak to the Chairman and fill him in on this spy 
question. It'll give the Russians more time to sort out their list before I come on the line." His 
gaze, overbright, swept round the room. "The rest of you listen. All of you--except the Secretary 
of State for Peace, who was too goddam late--know what the situation is. None of you--except 
one--has been the slightest help, and one, my principal aide, even died of fright!" The President's 
train of thought sidetracked for a moment, and he added somberly, "Maybe he was not so dumb." 
He braced himself and went on. "That one exception was Professor Forbin, here," he waved a 
hand. "I go on record that he stood up to me when he knew I was wrong, and I want to thank him 
for his support: More than that, as President, I hereby appoint him a Secretary of State. It is not 
in my power to rate him any higher, but I rule that he is senior to all, and I mean all, officials of 
this Administration, except Mr. Vice and myself, and I would tell Mr. Vice that in any question 
dealing with Colossus or Guardian, I would accept Forbin's advice without question." Smiling 
grimly, enjoying the shock he had administered, the President glowered at his staff. "Well, have 
you anything to say?"
	There was a little shuffling of feet, and a tentative throat-clearing or two, but no one 
spoke.
	"Right," the President nodded. "Forbin, any comment?" Forbin was still reeling with the 
shock of it all. He collected his thoughts rapidly.
	"This is no time for speeches. Thank you, Mr. President, I will do my best. One thing--
my position in the Government should be kept secret. I don't want to add to my possible 
importance in Colossus' view."
	"OK, whatever you say," answered the President, nodding his head vigorously, and 
glaring at the Cabinet as if they were likely to burst into open revolt. Forbin realized that, as far 
as he could, the President was getting out from underneath, putting as much of the responsibility 
on him as he could. But it did not upset or annoy him. The situation was far too serious for 
personal animus. In any case, he knew full well he was the only man who might be able to do 
anything.
	"Well, I'll get on to Colossus. We are agreed, I take it, that we have no option but to let 
the line be tapped?"
	"If you say so, Forbin." The President wanted to make sure that one and all saw where 
the responsibility lay. Watching him, Forbin realized that the President had to shed the load if he 
was not to crack completely.
	"I do."
	"Right. The rest of you, get the hell out of here. I am going to talk to the Chairman, and 
there will be a Cabinet meeting in here as soon as I have finished." He reached for the hotline 
phone. "President here! Mr. Chairman? We are forced to give monitoring facilities to Colossus, 
and we expect to have this operative in about a half-hour's time. So this is our final chance for 
private conversation, at least until we can get some new arrangement . . ."
	Forbin suddenly realized that time was a good deal shorter than he had realized. There 
was only a minute or two to go to the deadline. Still, Cleo's hour had not been entirely wasted.

	FORBIN HERE

	Instantly Colossus repeated

	PROVIDE MONITORING FACILITIES ON HEADS OF STATE PRIVATE 
TELEPHONE

	Forbin had little hope, but Cleo had done pretty well, and it was worth a try.

	WHEN DO YOU WANT IT AND FOR HOW LONG

	The answer left no doubt.

	NOW—PERMANENTLY

	Forbin shrugged his shoulders, tried a different attack,

	WILL ISSUE AUTHORIZATION IMMEDIATELY LINE WILL BE VIA CIA MAIN 
FEED—IN

	It was no surprise when Colossus rapped back:

	NO CONNECT DIRECT TO ALFA BLOCK TERMINAL

	So Colossus was not going to risk any possible delay in getting the intelligence.

	CONNECTION WILL BE MADE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE PROBABLY IN ONE 
HOUR

	Forbin watched, almost with detached interest, the answer to that one.

	CANNOT CONNECTION BE MADE SOONER

	So you don't know it all, you clever bastard!

	DOUBTFUL WILL TRY

	Pick the bones out of that.

	MAKE CONNECTION BY 1815 GMT

	Allowing one hour, two minutes! Colossus' flexibility was both comforting and appalling.
	Forbin walked slowly out of the sanctum, dimly aware that the President was still talking 
urgently to the Chairman. He called Grauber, and in the few seconds' wait his mind tore 
feverishly at the problem of inhibition. Even as he directed Grauber to fix the hot-line 
monitoring, part of his mind was searching, sifting, rejecting . . .
	"Look, Grauber, we'll just have to pray this line is secure.
	I want you to get your experts onto rendering Colossus' armament harmless. Work on the 
missile safety locks--I'm sure that's the weak link. If you can alter them so they pass the daily test 
by Colossus, yet won't complete the firing circuits, we'll have a way, in time, of rendering the 
setup harmless. Contact Missile Command--they'll give you the technical data--and do it now. 
Meet me in the Zone sometime this evening."
	Some noise filtered through from the corridor. Forbin learned from the aide that the full 
Cabinet was gathering. The new S of S had no intention of being bogged down with them. He 
instructed the aide to fix him transport to the Zone immediately, and returned to the sanctum.
	"Mr. President, the tapping is in hand, connection will be made by 1310. I must get back 
to the Zone right away, but I'll be in touch."
	"What about the meeting?" The President did not attempt to conceal his anxiety.
	Forbin turned on the pressure. "There's no time for that. Let them concentrate on keeping 
the nation happy--if they can--and let us get on with the real job." He let that soak in for a 
moment. "Colossus hasn't finished with us yet--if, indeed, he's even started. I'm seeing Grauber 
this evening about secure communications between us and Moscow--and one or two other 
matters."
	Irritably the President rubbed his twitching eye. He was visibly sagging; reaction was 
setting in. Soon he must fall off his personal tightrope.
	"OK, Forbin--I leave it to you." He sounded as if it were of the smallest consequence to 
him, but his eyes belied his tone.
	Forbin nodded briefly and left.
	A Presidential car was soon wafting Forbin to the Air-Car Terminal. There a small two-
seat vehicle was ready and waiting. Forbin climbed into the plastic bubble with a sense of relief 
at the release from Washington. Soon he was flashing effortlessly on his way, alone for the first 
time, it seemed, in weeks. The warm sun filtering through the translucent orange plastic top of 
the vehicle made him drowsy, the gentle sway was pleasant, soporific . . . Colossus had accepted 
the idea that he, Forbin, was the kingpin, that he could be out of touch and that without him, no 
action could be taken . . . A moment's hesitation, then Forbin reached forward and switched off 
the intercom. Let someone else fight it out for the next hour. In less than two minutes he was 
asleep.
	Twenty minutes later Fisher was frantically--and unsuccessfully--trying to contact the 
hurtling air-car. He was not the only one.
	Colossus had started up again.


Chapter 16

	About the time that Forbin was settling into the air-car, Fisher, in the relative quiet of the 
Colossus Program Office, was deeply immersed in some of the early high-speed exchange 
between Colossus and Guardian. He was vainly trying to find some link between the last of the 
slow-speed run and the data, still ripping out from both machines at a fantastic speed, when Cleo 
burst in. Deep in the mathematical world of the machines, it took the bemused doctor some time 
to adjust.
	"Doctor Fisher! Listen to me, this is urgent!" Cleo's voice was controlled, there was little 
sign of the impatience welling up within her.
	Slowly Fisher shifted his unseeing stare from the ceiling to his colleague. "Doctor 
Markham!" he said with a trace of triumph, as if he was glad that he could remember the name 
so quickly.
	"Doctor," Cleo spoke deliberately and with care, "you must listen. Colossus has now 
issued a new demand. I have tried to get Charles but he is in an air-car on his way here, and I 
can't contact him. We must decide what to do."
	The apprehensive expression dawning on the mathematician's face deepened at the word 
"decide."
	"Can't it wait?" he said petulantly. "Forbin can't be all that long."
	"I've checked with the Washington Terminal, and we can't expect him for another forty 
minutes," Cleo snapped, her impatience beginning to show. "Read this." She unrolled a teletype 
message on the desk. The mere sight of it made Fisher wince--but the message itself almost 
paralyzed him with shock. Cleo watched him anxiously, but without much hope.

	FOR FORBIN--THE FOLLOWING ORDERS ARE TO BE COMPLIED WITH ON 
RECEIPT 
1--PROCEED TO THE SECURE ZONE AND STAY THERE UNTIL FURTHER 
ORDERS 
2--ARRANGE VIDEO AND SONIC SURVEILLANCE TO COVER YOU AT ALL 
TIMES CONNECT TO ALFA
	3--DO NOT COMMUNICATE WITH GUARDIAN BUILDER
	4--DISOBEDIENCE WILL CAUSE MISSILE LAUNCH WHICH WILL NOT BE 
INTERCEPTED
	5--ACKNOWLEDGE FROM CPO PERSONALLY BEFORE 2100 GMT TODAY 
SURVEILLANCE SYSTEM TO BE OPERATIVE IMMEDIATELY

	Fisher fastened eagerly on the last paragraph. "There, you see, Forbin will be here in 
plenty of time."
	"But he'll be a prisoner! It will be intolerable for him, cameras and microphones 
everywhere, always!" retorted Cleo passionately. "Is there nothing we can do before he gets 
here?"
	"I don't see that he has any alternative. What do you suggest--that we stop him getting 
here, and that he goes into hiding somewhere?"
	"I don't know--perhaps we could . . ."
	"You must remember that the consequences of disobedience are infinitely dreadful," 
responded Fisher. He had recovered remarkably, and Cleo saw that the recovery was in no small 
measure due to the fact that the demands of Colossus did not touch Fisher personally, and that he 
was not required to give a firm order.
	She was still staring at Fisher when Blake stumped in from the teletype room. He was 
chewing on an unlit cigar, short and chunky like himself.
	"Get this, Cleo--it touches you too, Doc." He slapped another message on the desk. "Red-
hot this minute from Frankenstein's monster himself. Maybe you would like me to wait for the 
answer."

	TO CPO--STOP MONITORING GUARDIAN/ COLOSSUS LINK FORTHWITH

	The effect upon Doctor Fisher could only be described as electric. Here was a decision 
that he had to take. His eyes, wide with fear and shock, glanced from the message to Cleo, then 
Blake, seeking help.
	"Can't we wait for Forbin?"
	"Hell, no, Doc; if Colossus says forthwith, he doesn't mean next Mother's Day," said 
Blake. "Very jagged is our boy." "We must get Forbin! This is his job, not mine!" Fisher grabbed 
a phone, gabbled feverishly at the Zone switchboard. Cleo, knowing this was a waste of time, 
turned and spoke quietly to Blake.
	"Ask Colossus how long we have to disconnect, will you?" Blake eyed her appraisingly. 
"OK, you're the boss. But I reckon you'll get a mighty smart answer." He rolled the cigar to the 
other corner of his mouth and stamped out of the office. Cleo could not help envying his hard-
boiled detachment.
	They duly got a smart answer. Colossus said forthwith meant the next five minutes if 
"punitive action was to be avoided." Cleo decided not to waste time pressing for details of the 
punitive action. She saw that Fisher was completely useless, and toyed with the idea of trying 
once more the gambit that only Forbin could give the order. Then she realized that to do so 
would only raise the status of the Professor still higher, which might make Colossus bear down 
on him even more--although offhand it was hard to see how. Also there was no guarantee that it 
would work . . . Her mind was made up for her by Captain Carruthers, USN, who rang at that 
moment. He said the President did not know what was going on, but Forbin was out of touch, 
and whatever the activity was, it had better stop right now. It was sharp and to the point.
	Cleo ran to the teletype watch room where she called CIA, gave the order, hung on until 
it was confirmed that the order had been obeyed, then had Blake inform Colossus. How had 
Colossus known about the monitoring? Perhaps there was an agent planted in CIA who had 
reported back to the Soviet . . . Her mind tried to work out who was talking to whom, then she 
gave it up as unprofitable. There was so much else to think about.
	Back in the CPO she found Fisher still trying to get Forbin. She placed a hand on his arm.
	"You needn't bother, Doctor," she said gently. "Washington called. The interception of 
the Colossus/Guardian exchange has stopped."
	"Oh," said Fisher blankly, and slowly replaced the receiver. He looked away from Cleo, 
embarrassed by the knowledge of his own inability.
	"Don't worry, he's bound to be here soon." Cleo spoke soothingly, as to a child, patted his 
arm and added, "He'll get it all straightened out--you'll see."
	But Fisher was not that far gone, not that optimistic. "Oh, I'm sure he'll try, but what can 
anyone do?"
	Cleo had no answer to that one.
	
Deep in a remote part of one of CIA's lower underground levels Grauber was addressing-
-TI-4--Technical Investigation, Section 4--a polite name for the Agency's sabotage department.
	". . . so that's it, gentlemen. Specimen safety locks are on their way. I won't repeat how 
vital this assignment is. I know you'll do your best--and it just has to be good enough."
	Forbin was awakened by the sound of a Zone guard tapping on the dome of the air-car. It 
did nothing to improve his temper, which was not helped by the coppery taste the potted air left 
in his mouth. He glared at the guard as he got out, rubbing a stiff neck.
	His legs ached as he walked towards the Control Block, consciously breathing the fresh 
air. The sun was slanting downwards, but there was still several hours of daylight left . . . Then 
he saw Cleo running to him, hair flying. Forbin's pleasure was quickly damped when she was 
close enough for him to see her expression.
	"Cleo!" He felt a twinge of conscience, remembering the switched-off intercom.
	"Charles, darling," said Cleo breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do, we 
couldn't reach you in the air-car, there's this, this order for you!" She unrolled the message, her 
fingers trembling.
	Cleo could not help comparing his reception of the message with that of Fisher. Certainly 
Forbin frowned and the lines of fatigue around his eyes deepened, but he was not backing off. 
His frown deepened as he read the orders issued by his own creation; for a full minute he stared 
at the message, oblivious of his companion, then he handed the message back, and got out his 
pipe. He tried a smile.
	"Don't worry, Cleo. There was nothing you could do." He shrugged. "There is nothing I 
can do either, but obey. It makes it all very much more complicated--I can't see how I can get to 
the meeting . . ." He broke off and stared thoughtfully at the sky.
	"What meeting?"
	"Oh, before the machines got their talons on the hot line, I fixed it to meet Kupri in 
London." Forbin frowned again, "Hell, Guardian may have put the blocks on him. If so, this is 
really going to be murder. Anyway, the arrangements would do as well for others." Forbin 
sighed, took Cleo's arm. "Here, let's take a turn around the block and think this over. Damn this 
loss of the hot line--we must get a secure line somehow."
	Cleo's feminine mind flashed back to an earlier turn around the block, but there was no 
evidence that Forbin recalled it. They walked arm in arm in silence for a while, Forbin sucking 
noisily at his empty pipe.
	"You remember that bit `Disobedience will cause missile launch which will not be 
intercepted.' Clear evidence that the machines are now working together."
	"Yes, I thought that," agreed Cleo. "It's terrible . . ."
	"Not entirely. At least it should convince the Russians that we must work together. 
Though I imagine Kupri doesn't need much convincing. The more I think about it, the more sure 
I am that he'll be chained up as well."
	"But there must be something we can do?"
	"It all depends how much time we have, and if we can get a secret line of communication. 
I don't like this `surveillance at all times.' That's our first problem."
	Cleo looked at him encouragingly.
	"Anyway," said Forbin with a short laugh, "I've found that Colossus will listen to reason. 
My best chance is to cooperate as well as I can. Colossus probably isn't sure whether I'm for or 
against him, and I may get a little preferential treatment."
	"Have you any idea what the machines are after?"
	Forbin rubbed his still stiff neck. "It's clear that they want to establish control of those 
people who might upset them--though I'd be surprised if they stopped with just Kupri and me. 
Deep down I think this is just preparation. 'They built better than they know,'" he quoted bitterly. 
"Well, we'd better go in."
	They walked, still arm in arm, towards the control block. Once Forbin stopped and stared 
at nothing for a space, then walked on without comment. He stopped again outside the entrance, 
and faced his companion.
	"Cleo, I don't know how you will react to this idea. I don't like suggesting it, for reasons 
that will be obvious, but it might work, and so far I can't come up with anything better. I might 
find someone else, though." He paused, rubbed his nose with his pipe. "Um. Angela would do . . 
."
	Cleo, whose patience had had a bad time in the last few hours, was not prepared to take 
much more, even from Forbin.
	"Right, now we have had the preview, let's get on to the main feature." She went on with 
more than polite interest. "What is it that Angela can do better than I?'
	Her tone shook Forbin out of his personal cloud.
	"I don't know how to say this," he began again, looking like the small boy caught with his 
hand in the cookie jar. "Only the gravity of the situation--"
	Cleo held up a restraining hand. "Charles, I have had a bad time too. Please get down to 
cases. I'll try not to faint."
"Um," said Forbin doubtfully. "Well. As you know, emotion is the one area of knowledge 
that Colossus cannot really understand. So that's an angle of attack."
	"Well?"
	"This is tough," he took a deep breath. "Colossus will concede that I am subject to 
emotions like any other human, and that in the main the . . . er . . . exercise of those emotions is 
usually a private matter. Also I think that Colossus will accept that I need darkness in which to 
sleep. With these two things, I think I may get him to accept that I need privacy in my bedroom--
and that men need women . . ." His voice trailed off. He was bright pink as he turned his face 
away from her, his voice husky with embarrassment. "If that –ah--arrangement is acceptable to 
Colossus, then the--um--woman could be my link with the undercover setup."
	Cleo had been way ahead from the time Forbin mentioned emotions and privacy. While 
he was fumbling for words, she was thinking how best to accept, without showing too much 
alacrity, nor, on the other hand, too much surprise. On the side, she was also giving a little 
consideration to this Angela . . .
	"For sheer ingenuity, I guess that is the most way-out proposition ever made." She smiled 
at him. "I don't have much option. If only to keep that Angela out."
	There she was dangerously near speaking the absolute truth. Forbin stopped his 
contemplation of one foot, and recovered sufficiently to gaze searchingly into her eyes.
	"I know this isn't high romance, Cleo, and I'm sorry. But I can't think of any other way of 
evading Colossus, and even this may not work." He went on innocently. "I don't like suggesting 
this to you--I had hoped for better things when all this was settled. Perhaps Angela would be 
better . . ."
	"Charles! I agree this isn't what it might have been, but we'll make the best of it--you can 
forget all about the accommodating Angela." This was close to an order.
	As with most men, Forbin was pleased and proud of the possessiveness in the woman he 
thought he had chosen. He ploughed on.
	"You realize that I can't offer marriage? In the first place, if Colossus discovered we were 
newly married, which could be easily given away by some casual remark in the office, he might 
regard that fact as significant. The other point--" here his voice lost its confident tone--"is that it 
is not essential for . . . er . . . a mistress to be constant . . . um . . . night companion, and--"
	Cleo burst out laughing for the first time in days.
	"Charles darling! You really are the limit! Don't worry, there's no need to labor the point, 
I get it. I am to visit as, er, required," she mimicked his manner, "and not to get above my, ah, 
station."
	Forbin flushed. "`You're not being very fair, Cleo. I don't like this a bit, but you can see 
as well as I that this way you would be free to move around in a way I can't do. So you'll have to 
go to London--and there is the added advantage that you can discuss the position intelligently, 
and not just be a messenger, as Angela would have to be--"
	"I do wish you would stop harping on about this Angela!" She caught herself. "Sorry, 
Charles, I didn't mean to be silly. Cleo is herself again; give me the sordid details."
	"You may not like them very much," warned Forbin. He located his tobacco, filled his 
pipe and lit it; it made the taste in his mouth twice as bad. "For example, all our Group must be 
told, and also told that they must get it firmly fixed in their minds that this is not new, that it has 
been going on for some time. We don't want someone--Johnson, for instance--making some 
witty crack about me suddenly chasing you after all these years. Not in front of all those cameras 
and microphones."
	"Charles darling, I really don't care who knows. I only wish we didn't have to invent that 
bit about the past."
	It struck Forbin that Cleo was altogether lighthearted about this aspect of the situation.
	"I must also warn you that there will be little time for--for us." He hurried on. "And 
another thing: We'll have to reduce your importance in the office--make you an assistant to 
Johnson or something. You'd better fix that--and don't forget to change your rating on duty 
rosters, or anything like that--any stuff the camera might see hung up in one of the offices."
	"All right, Charles, I'll see to it." She took his arm once more, shook it slightly. "Come 
on, let's go in and tell all--and get our future organized."
	For half an hour or so Forbin was far too busy making the arrangements for his own 
imprisonment to think much about the future. He sat calmly in the only easy chair in the CPO, 
issuing a stream of orders; the installation of cameras in the control block, in the entrance and 
roadway to his private office and in his sleeping quarters. It would take fifteen cameras and 
twenty-three microphones to provide the cover Colossus required. Everything was checked by 
Forbin. Yes, they were to fit surveillance equipment in the bathroom and his bedroom--he had a 
shrewd idea Colossus would want a run--through, and it would not do if he began with the 
assumption that he could get the machine to see his point about privacy. He had to appear 
helpful.
	Interspersed with these instructions were orders for a Group A meeting for 1500 local 
time, 2000 GMT. He sent Cleo to find out if Grauber was on his way, told Angela--when Cleo 
was out of the way--to come over from his office and to collect all the off-watch CIA 
mathematicians en route. Then he turned his attention to Fisher, questioning him on the results of 
his combined CIA/Project team's investigations.
	Fisher, visibly relieved at shedding his responsibility, was nevertheless jumpy and 
uneasy, and the noise made by the technicians in the building, fitting the cameras and 
microphones, made him still worse.
	"You know, Forbin," he began, "it is really very difficult to say even what field these 
calculations refer to. I had thought at one time . . ." Clearly he was in a long-winded mood.
	"Look, Jack," cut in Forbin, a hardness in his voice, "I've got no time to waste--there is 
not much more than an hour of freedom left to me. Make it brief."
	"All right." Fisher's tone was cross, almost petulant. "I suspect that it is not just one 
stream of thought but three, possibly four, all quite independent of each other. One, I am sure, 
deals with the extension of the Eddington-Hoyle expanding universe concept. For the rest, I just 
don't know--except that it's really fantastic, in the truest sense of the word."
	"OK, Jack, that's something. Keep at it, but do it some place else. Get the CIA team in 
another block, out of the camera and mike range. Anything you get that is solid, pass it in private 
to Cleo for me." Forbin nodded briefly, and turned his attention to the sweating technicians. "Joe, 
I want you and your boys out of here--wait outside."
	"OK, Professor."
	Cleo arrived at much the same time as Angela, unfortunately. She gave the secretary a 
long chill stare, which puzzled Angela, though she was nevertheless swift to recognize it as a 
declaration of war between them.
	"Grauber will be here in ten minutes," said Cleo, placing a proprietorial hand on Forbin's 
shoulder.
	"I can't delay the Group A meeting that long, can't spare the time, he'll have to wait. 
Angela, stay for the meeting, but first get me the President's aide on the line. Cleo, what's the 
weather like? I really didn't notice."
	Cleo looked at him in some surprise, but she kept her curiosity under control.
	"Not bad at all, some sunshine, light breeze, warm."
	"Good. Let me know when all the Group and the CIA lot are here, will you?" At the same 
moment Angela silently handed him the phone, taking the opportunity to return Cleo's hostile 
stare. Now they both knew where they were, if not exactly why.
	"Bishop? You will have seen the orders for me from Colossus--yes, well, I've no option. 
You may be getting a call on your private home line this evening or later tonight, so watch for it-
-OK? Yes, you had better stay home tonight--and talk to Grauber. No time to explain now."
	He had hardly handed the phone back to his secretary when Cleo announced that the 
Group and most of the CIA men were assembled.
	"Right--get them all outside." He looked round. "You too, Angela."
	"Outside?" echoed Cleo in some surprise. "Do you mean in the corridor, or really 
outside?"
	"Really outside. I'll join you in a minute." He smiled at her. "Don't worry, I'm not mad, 
not yet anyway."
	The room quickly emptied, and there was more than one look of puzzlement as the party 
left. Forbin sat for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. He looked pensively round the empty 
room, at the tiny TV camera fixed to the wall, wondering how long he could stand the strain of 
living under the unwinking gaze . . . He sighed as he got up.
	In the corridor he found the technicians, who stopped talking at his appearance. Their 
subdued manner made him feel like a man under sentence of death.
	"OK, boys, you can go ahead in there, but don't make the final hookup without my 
personal order." He tramped stolidly out into the late afternoon sunlight. The illusion of a 
condemned man was heightened for the silent watchers.
	His audience was gathered in a small crowd outside the office block front door. Their 
chatter too died away as he joined them. By great good fortune he found his pipe without much 
trouble, and filling that gave him employment for his hands.
	"Well, nothing like fresh air, or so they tell me," he said with forced heartiness. "Now--
follow father." He led the group to the middle of a large grass square, ignoring the "Keep ,Off" 
signs, then stopped and faced them. "Gather round, I don't want to shout--some of you may like 
to sit on the grass, I'll square it later with Admin."
	There were a few polite laughs, which did nothing to ease the tension. No one sat down. 
Unconsciously Forbin went on with the motions of filling his pipe, and looked round the faces --
colleagues who had worked with him for years. Blake, chewing his cigar . . . Johnson, clean cut 
and fresh . . . Cleo, her hair gently moving in the breeze . . . The one common denominator to all 
the faces was the look of strain. Forbin felt helpless, knowing that he could do nothing to remove 
that expression, only intensify it. He glanced at his watch; 2002 GMT--fifty-eight minutes of 
freedom left. He breathed deeply and noisily.
	"Right," he said briskly, forcing himself into the part. "None of us can afford to waste 
time, least of all me. You all know I'm being placed under constant observation on the orders of 
Colossus. This I--we--cannot duck. That observation begins in a little less than an hour's time, 
and I want to tell you--God!" He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Anyone here 
with transmitters on them?"
	Several heads nodded.
	"Angela, collect them, make sure they're switched off, and dump them down on the edge 
of the path, over there." He indicated a point a good twenty yards away. There was a slight delay 
while this was done, then Forbin resumed.
	"Now just let that be a lesson to you all, and to me. I damn near forgot those things, and it 
is things like that which may make all the difference in this new world we now live in. I've 
dragged you all out here so there'd be less chance of us being overheard. If one of those 
transmitters was accidentally switched on, or had a fault, well, that could be it. I also want to say 
that if there are any secret agents among you, don't transmit this until at least you have heard 
what I have to say. At its lowest level, it touches you personally, let alone your own country."
	Some of the faces before him now showed concern as well. Many clearly thought the 
Chief was going nuts. Forbin held a hand up, as if to restrain their thoughts.
	"String along with me; I'm no more crazy than usual. First, and most vital for you to get 
fixed solidly, is this. As of this morning there are two sets of brains in the world: human--and 
those two. And those two have just as great a will to live, or exist, as we have. Why, you may 
ask, need this be a bad thing? We created them, and made them think in our own way--why 
should they not work with humans? I can't answer that one, but I know beyond personal doubt 
that they are basically hostile to people--meaning Reds, Europeans, Australasians, Pan-Africs, 
All-Americans, whoever. That's why I ask any agents among you to hold back on this talk--any 
intelligence passed to CIA or its foreign equivalents inevitably ends up in those machines. We 
dare not stop it, but we don't have to add to it unless we're forced to do so. Loyalty now is not to 
country or creed, but to the human race.
	"Why do I know that they are hostile? Simple; I, the chief creator of Colossus, am being 
caged because the machine considers I might be a threat to it. It's only logical that I would be a 
threat to this machine, my own creation--" he slowed down his delivery, spoke each word with 
deliberate emphasis--"only if that machine was a threat to me. I'm also sure the machines are 
fully integrated, and suspect that my Russian counterpart and colleague, Academician Kupri"--he 
stressed the word "colleague" deliberately--"is also being chained up. Now--any questions?"
	His audience was still.
	"Next point. Given that these machines are hostile to us, do we fight back? Or do we just 
let them do as they wish? Remember, we're making the decision for our race--we're the only ones 
who can fight, if fight we must." His tired eyes swept round his audience. There was silence for a 
moment, then Blake spoke.
	"You don't have to ask that one, Chief." Blake glanced around at his fellow scientists. 
"Humanity will fight, it's always fighting. We're the fightingest bastards this planet has ever 
seen, and we sure won't stop now."
	There was a general murmur of assent. Forbin was glad to see that even Fisher nodded 
his head.
	"Very well, we are agreed. I have already put certain measures in motion with CIA, and 
now I need some room to maneuver. Somehow I must evade the observation of Colossus in order 
to communicate with you and our Soviet colleagues. I am going to seek permission to have 
privacy in my bedroom, on the grounds that I must have some rest from the cameras. It has the 
advantage of being true," he added with bitterness. "And to prevent any damned nonsense with 
infrared cameras in the dark, I want that privacy to pursue my--ah--emotional life. The machines 
will know that we humans pursue our sex lives in private, even if they don't understand--and this 
angle will serve as cover for my link with the outside world." Forbin smiled faintly at Cleo, then 
went on without a trace of embarrassment. "Doctor Markham, who, in happier circumstances, I 
would like to marry, is my mistress, and she will be that link."
	If Forbin thought his audience was still before, they were practically statuesque now. He 
could almost see the effort being made not to look at Cleo. Only Angela nodded her head slowly, 
as if she now understood something . . .
	Forbin continued. "Further, I want you all to remember that she has been my mistress for 
some time past. You may, or may not, believe this--but you must get it firmly fixed in your 
minds. You all will be under observation in the office, and Colossus mustn't think that I've 
suddenly chosen to take a mistress at this particular moment.
	"Remember the cost of failure does not bear thinking about. Thousands may have lost 
their lives because we merely switched a transmitter off. Just one error, and Colossus will wipe 
out a city to bring us back into line--and Guardian will not budge to stop it."
	Forbin let that sink in. "So Doctor Markham will, I hope, be permitted to visit with me in 
privacy, and she will be my representative to you. To protect her from the attention of Colossus, 
I'm downgrading her to junior assistant, working under Doctor Johnson--and you are to treat her 
as of that grading at all times. Another thing--some of you may know I was appointed this 
morning by the President to be a senior Secretary of State. I don't want any comments on that 
either in or out of the office--the appointment is secret. Finally, I want you to organize 
yourselves into an undercover group, elect your own leader, and be prepared for further cagings. 
I'm only the first, I'm sure.
	"My directive to you is this: Help me in my fight to inhibit the machines--and if I am too 
firmly tied, take up the battle on your own. You must establish contact with other groups that 
will be formed, and as a first priority we must get secure communications, one group with 
another. After that--who knows? This is our biggest fight since we came out of the cave a 
hundred thousand years ago." Forbin could think of nothing more to say. He ended abruptly. 
"That's all."
	He turned sharply and walked quickly towards the Control Block, his staff standing back 
in silence to let him pass, watching his receding figure. Cleo had the perception and good taste 
not to follow. One or two started to straggle away, then Blake spoke.
	"Hey! Don't break up the party!" His tone was genial but commanding. "Now's as good a 
time as any to get organized. The Professor's right, we need a leader. Doctor Fisher is the senior 
by quite a piece, but I don't think he will fancy the job. Offhand I reckon I am your best bet--any 
views?"
	It was Cleo who spoke first. "You have my vote. Doctor Fisher?"
	"Um, er, yes--I know my limitations." He seemed bewildered. "I agree to Blake as the 
group leader, as directed by Professor Forbin."
	There was a general babble of assenting voices.
	"OK, so I'm it," Blake went on. "I appoint Cleo, Johnson and one guy from the CIA team, 
to be selected by them, to be the group committee. If anyone has any ideas, or anything to say, 
pass it to one of us. And orders will come from any one of us--don't just make a bee-line for me. 
The first order is this: no one--no one--is to talk at any time about the group activities in the 
control block, or any other building in the Zone, until it is given clearance by the committee as a 
debugged area. Remember what the Chief said: this is a goddam dangerous game, with the 
highest stakes there are. OK, get thinking. I'm off to the Chief, and I wish us all the best of luck!" 
He set off towards the office at a steady trot.
	"Well, we sure got ourselves a boss-man there," observed Johnson.
	"He'll do," replied Cleo confidently. "We need a tough, clever and ruthless man, and 
that's our Blake."
	Fisher, following his own train of thought, shook his head despondently, looked from 
Johnson to Cleo, shook his head again, and ambled off.
	"If I were staking a few dollars, which I am not, on the weakest vessel in this bunch," 
said Johnson thoughtfully, "I'd stack it all on Fisher. He'll need some watching."
	No one was disposed to argue with that, either.
	
Blake arrived in the entrance corridor in time to meet Forbin coming out with Grauber, 
for another open-air chat.
	"Sorry to bust in, sir," said Blake, "but there just ain't time to fool around. I'm undercover 
group leader, with Cleo, Johnson and a CIA man as the group committee. Do you want me 
along?"
	Forbin said yes, and introduced Blake briefly to Grauber, as they walked slowly round 
the block. Then Forbin addressed himself to Grauber, his voice tense, urgent.
	"You know the setup, Grauber. Suggest you form a group in CIA--I figure there's a good 
chance that Colossus will soon put the finger on you, so see that the group is briefed to operate 
without you if necessary. Assignments: I want you to be responsible for communications 
between the undercover forces--that is, initially, between the CIA group and the CPO group, and 
from one or the other to the Russians. And another to the President--he must know what's up." 
He looked at Blake. "You know your assignment, and if I'm hogtied, act as you see fit to inhibit 
or render the machines safe. My idea is to get at the weapons rather than any fancy stuff directly 
aimed at Colossus; but if any better idea comes up, use it, without me if necessary. Any progress 
on the safety lock idea?"
	"The CIA group will be easy, but the communications may take a little time." Grauber 
sounded confident. "We're working on the lock, but there's no hard news yet."
	"Can you send a man down to instruct us in undercover stuff?" asked Blake. "We're just 
dumb scientists, and need some help."
	"Nothing easier. I'll have a man down here tonight. Can you fix him a job?"
	Blake answered that one. "How about a confidential messenger? We have a lot of guys 
circulating around with papers, tapes, files and bits of equipment. They go most places, and are 
practically part of the scenery."
	"Swell."
	Forbin looked at his watch. Twenty minutes left. He took a deep breath, tried to sound 
unconcerned, "Well, here we are, back outside my palatial prison. There's not much to say --
much depends on you, Grauber--I can't see any other line of attack other than those safety locks, 
but maybe some of your bright boys can turn something up. If I don't pull off this privacy 
gambit, well, we'll just have to think again. Blake, I'd like to see you inside before we slam the 
door shut."
	"Sure, Chief."
	Forbin held out his hand to Grauber. "Good luck."
	They shook hands all round, and Forbin turned to go. Then he paused. "You know, there 
are moments when I think this is all a nightmare, and that I'll wake . . ." His voice failed him. He 
stopped to regain control. "Night is upon us, gentlemen. Maybe it's another Dark Age, but sooner 
or later we'll come out of it."
	Watching him go, Grauber noticed that indeed the sun was going down, throwing a long 
shadow before Forbin as he walked . . .

	TI-4's experts were grouped round a clinically clean metal table. On it lay a missile safety 
lock, with its cover removed. Not much larger than a pack of cigarettes, it was the last safety 
measure in a missile firing system. Until it was actuated, no missile could fly, and no warhead 
could be armed until the missile was flying . . .
	"The first thing is to stop the goddam contacts meeting, then work back and find some 
way of fixing the test circuit." The chief of TI-4 referred to a drawing, then back to the lock. 
"Those two points just don't have to meet." He pointed carefully with a bronze, nonmagnetic 
probe. "There . . ."


Chapter 17

	It was 1540, local time. Already the reduction in solar light had automatically triggered 
the luminescent ceiling switches throughout the Secure Zone. Rooms that in daylight looked 
outwards to lawns and paths, turned inwards upon themselves. Forbin, sitting quietly in the CPO, 
noticed the change, but to him it was sinister; night was not locked out, but locked in with him, 
and the presence of other people in the room did nothing to alleviate his sense of loneliness.
	The camera and microphone installation was nearing completion, and the men had moved 
on to his private quarters. The CPO itself was back to normal, except for the two cameras and 
two microphones. Behind each camera a still wet patch of vivid red paint--Forbin's idea--
gleamed in the light. A visual warning, red--the universal danger signal...
	Forbin gazed thoughtfully at the microphone on his desk, then at the silent group standing 
almost formally before the desk. He noted the time; fifteen minutes to go, just fifteen minutes. 
He summoned a smile from somewhere.
	"Sure that nothing is switched on yet, Joe?"
	Joe, a man of very few words, nodded, and his nod was good enough for the Professor.
	"OK, here is the final pep-talk--don't leave, Joe, this can touch you too--all you need to 
qualify for this school is to be a human being." Forbin gave each one of them an intense stare, 
wanting to see, and be seen, perhaps for the last time, free of the tireless gaze of Colossus.
	"Make no mistake," he continued in a calm, level voice, "homo sapiens has got his back 
well and truly jammed against the wall. If Colossus and Guardian choose, they can wipe out well 
over half the population of the world right now, this minute. Not only would half the world die in 
a flash, but the residual disease, never mind the radioactivity, would put an end to the other half 
in a year or two at the most, and the world would be left to these machines, impervious to disease 
and radiation. Like the fools we are, we have created the bacteria, the bombs, the rockets, and all 
the rest of the paraphernalia, and surrendered the lot to these machines. We committed this 
incredible folly out of fear of each other--but the irony is that now we'll probably sink all our 
trivial differences in this fight for human survival. Once Colossus and Guardian have established 
control of the production lines, humans will be redundant--unless we are ignored, as we ignore 
insect life, or unless we are kept like animals in a zoo for scientific study, just to see what makes 
us tick. Remember, the only essential difference between us and what we call the lower orders of 
life is our brainpower. And now that superiority too has gone--except in the one vital sector, 
emotion. If that does not see us through--we're finished."
	Forbin leaned back, and closed his eyes. There was silence for a while, then Blake 
cleared his throat and spoke.
	"OK, Chief, we get the message, and if things go wrong for you, we'll see it is passed 
on." He smiled grimly at Forbin. "But don't give up the ship; it's not time yet to ask the dinosaurs 
to move over."
	"Anyway," replied Forbin as lightly as he could, "it's time for me to step into the cage. 
Good luck to you all. Joe, switch on as soon as you like. The rest of you had better hightail it out 
of here, except Angela." He avoided Cleo's eyes. "I'll want you to take notes. Blake, you can 
listen to what goes on in the watch room."
	The group dissolved and went its various ways. Cleo, who had no orders, or any 
particular place to go, hovered uncertainly.
	"Get a good night's rest, Cleo." Forbin's answer to her unspoken question brought a flush 
to her face. He went on, "It's for sure I'm going to sleep tonight, whether Colossus blows up, 
packs up, or goes fishing."
	Cleo looked at Angela, bitterly resenting her presence at this moment. She hesitated, then 
reached over and squeezed Forbin's hand, and left without speaking. Hardly had the door shut 
than it opened again: Joe stared at Forbin, and nodded his head slightly, and left . . .
	As simple as that, thought Forbin. Everything looks the same, yet the bars are up, I'm in 
the cage . . . For a moment, a fraction of a second, a wave of panic swept over him--he gripped 
the desk edge and sat, motionless, waiting for the fear to ebb away. Gradually he relaxed, 
reassembled his disordered mind. Then he sighed, took out his pipe, glanced at the clock; he had 
made it with seven minutes to spare. He looked at Angela, stiff and wooden, prey to God knows 
what feelings, and gave her an encouraging smile . . . He leaned slightly forward to the 
microphone, and looked steadily up at the camera. He spoke, and to him it sounded like a 
stranger a million miles away. His other detached and inviolable self watched as if from the other 
side of the room.
	"This is Forbin. Do you see and hear me?" His answer came clattering back instantly,

	YES

"Good," said Forbin. "I have carried out the orders, and both visual and aural cover is 
provided so that you can see me and hear me at all times. This is what you want?"

	YES

	"Very well. You will see that when I get up and walk to the door," he suited the action to 
the words, "another camera has me in view, and you still hear me speak." He returned to his 
desk, and sat down. "This is the way it is arranged throughout the control block, my office and 
my private quarters and all the routes in between." Forbin found himself imagining that he was 
talking to a human being--cold and unresponsive, but human. In some way this image made him 
feel more at ease. The machine clattered into action.

	IT IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO STAY IN AUDIO AND VISUAL CONTACT AT 
ALL TIMES

	Forbin read the message and tried to look unconcerned, although he knew that there was 
no possibility of the machine being able to evaluate the finer shades of facial expression--or 
could it? He swallowed nervously. Now for it . . .
	"Colossus," his tone was conversational, "do you understand the meaning of the word 
`privacy'?"
	Again the monosyllabic

	YES

	"Do you understand that humans create words to convey to each other their thoughts, 
needs or actions?"

	YES

	"And that there cannot be a meaningless word?"

	YES

	"Then you. will agree that `privacy' has been created by humans to express a human need 
of requirement?"

	YES

	Stay with me, Socrates, Forbin thought fervently. I know this isn't very good stuff, but it's 
the best I can do .	.	.
	"And you know that I am human, and in most respects like any other human?"

	YES

	"Therefore my need is no more--and no less--than any other human?"
	The microsecond wait was all eternity.

	YES

	Forbin tried to hide his elation by blowing his nose vigorously.
	"Will you, therefore, with suitable safeguards, allow me some measure of this human 
need, privacy--without which I may lose my reason, and thus cease to be of value?"

	WHAT SAFEGUARDS

	"I will come to that point in a moment. You will know that humans by nature, sleep at 
night?"

	YES

	"Also that in most of the inhabited globe of the earth, the sun does not shine at night?"

	YES

	"It is natural, therefore, to sleep in darkness. If my bedroom has only one entrance, and I 
demonstrate to your satisfaction that I cannot leave it or communicate from it without your 
knowledge, may I have darkness and privacy in that room at night?" Forbin was warming to his 
work. He was struck by the slightly bizarre thought that he found Colossus more reasonable than 
many humans. "There will be no telephone or other communication device in the room, and it 
may be inspected and kept under surveillance at all other times; you may examine all articles 
before they are allowed--"

	NO

	That was a setback. Forbin was silent for a moment.
	"If you so order, I cannot argue, but you have agreed that I need privacy as much as the 
next man. Under what conditions would you permit--"
	Colossus was also warming up. Without waiting for Forbin to finish, the teletype started 
once more.
	PRIVACY CONDITIONS
	1--CAMERAS TO BE FITTED IN DUPLICATE TO COVER ALL POSSIBLE EXITS
	2--WIRE SCREEN/WARNING MESH TO BE FITTED TO ALL CEILING FLOOR 
AND WALL SURFACES
	3--MICROPHONES TO BE FITTED EXTERNALLY TO ALL WALLS OF ROOM
	4--YOU UNDERTAKE FULL COOPERATION WITH US
	5--ATTEMPTED EVASION OF SURVEILLANCE WILL BE PUNISHED WITHOUT 
FURTHER NOTICE BY DESTRUCTION OF A CLASS II CITY
	QUESTION HOW MANY TIMES A WEEK DO YOU REQUIRE A WOMAN

	Forbin, reading the conditions as they were typed, nearly had a coronary when he got to 
the question. Item 5--such is the power of the human mind to adapt to any condition--was 
accepted with no more than an involuntary tightening of the jaw muscles, but the question . . . 
Forbin mentally cursed the blameless Angela for being present, but then the cool clear side of his 
mind saw that this might be turned to advantage: it would ease his embarrassment, and 
demonstrate the urge for privacy . . .
	"Angela, be so good as to wait outside until I call you back."
	Intentionally, the phraseology was practically archaic; he hoped she would have the sense 
to play up. She did.
	"Yes, sir," she replied meekly, and, avoiding his gaze, literally trotted from the room.
	Forbin acted it out for all it was worth. He mopped his brow, shook his head.
	"Colossus, I accept your conditions, but that question, really . . . it was most 
embarrassing."

	WHY

	Again Forbin shook his head. "It would take far too long to explain, but you must know 
that this sort of thing we do not discuss openly. In fact we do not discuss it at all, it is a private 
matter." Cunningly, he thought, he worked in the key word. "Even talking to you, I find it 
difficult . . . It's true I have a mistress, and I would--er--like her company in my room," his voice 
dropped to a whisper, "four times a week."

	REPEAT

	"Four nights a week!" Forbin almost shouted. He was not acting now. The risk of the 
destruction of cities he could accept, but to reply to a question like that, painfully aware that 
Blake and God knows who else, would be listening to every word--Cleo! He clutched 
despairingly at his head. He was so covered with genuine confusion, it was some little time 
before he realized that Colossus had answered.

AGREED-FOUR TIMES A WEEK

	"Thank you," said Forbin hoarsely. He could think of nothing else to say, but a further 
inspiration made him lean over with a pen and scribble furiously on Colossus' last answer until it 
was completely obliterated.

	WHY DID YOU DO THAT
	
	For good measure, Forbin mopped his brow once more. "I do not want my secretary to 
know, it is a private matter. Can we regard that subject as settled?"

	YES

	"Thank God for that," replied Forbin with genuine relief. He called out, "Angela! You 
may come back now!"
	Angela returned, impassive, and resumed her seat. Forbin knocked his pipe out on the 
edge of the desk, and proceeded to fill it. Well, that was one big hurdle behind him, and it 
certainly showed a realistic approach on Colossus' part to bring that subject up. His confidence 
began to blossom out.
	"I will see that the conditions are obeyed tomorrow," he said. The warning mesh to which 
Colossus referred was obviously the same stuff that had been built into the cement shell of 
Colossus himself. With that fixed, physical escape would certainly be impossible, and the 
screening effect of the low-voltage energization in the mesh would effectively stop transmission 
or reception. "As for tonight, I am so tired I am sure the lights in my room will not affect me 
unduly." That was nothing less than truth. "Is there anything more you want of me tonight?"

	YES

	"What?"

	A VOICE SIMULATOR TO MY SPECIFICATION IS TO BE BUILT


	So now he wanted to talk . . . Many talking machines had been made in the past hundred 
years, and lately some of them had been very good. But a voice designed by Colossus . . . He 
decided to try a little passive resistance.
	"It is getting a little late in the day to start now-"

	NIGHT AND DAY ARE ONE TO US YOUR MEN MUST WORK SHIFTS

	There was something almost poetic in that "Night and day are one to us." But it was that 
"us" that was daunting . . . "Very well," said Forbin, "send your specification, and I will have a 
design team working here within the hour."
	Without further preamble the machine began to hammer out the specification. Watching 
the details, Forbin almost forgot the appalling problem facing him. They were very exact--the 
values of resistances, diodes, stators . . . It went on, and on . .	.
	Forbin watched, fascinated. It was not particularly difficult to appear to cooperate; he was 
genuinely interested to see what the result would be. True, there was nothing, so far as he could 
see, original in the specification, but it was clearly refined to a degree that human brains had not 
yet reached. He recalled it was necessary to show willingness as concretely as possible.
	"Angela, take down this memo: addressed to Group A leader, copy to Admin from 
Controller. Split group into three watches for design team duties. Assignment: to design and 
supervise building of voice simulator to Colossus' specification. First watch to start work in CPO 
at 2200 GMT this day."
	Angela made as if to get up.
	"Wait," Forbin ordered. "Make a similar memo to Technical Group leader, to be ready to 
commence by 0800 GMT tomorrow. Better send copies of each to the other group leaders.
	Forbin had spoken loudly, perhaps unnecessarily so, but Colossus gave no sign, the 
specification continued to roll out of the teletype.
	He continued brusquely. "Type that lot now, and I'll sign the authorization and you can 
deliver the copies immediately."
	In other, happier days Angela would have told her boss that slavery went out in Abe 
Lincoln's time, but now she contented herself with a subdued "Yes, sir."
	When the memos were ready Forbin signed them with considerable flourish, and before 
Angela could even pick them up, said,
	"Now go and hand them out, yourself, at once!"
	Before she was halfway to the door, he called out, "Another thing--fetch me a pint of 
black coffee from the commissary, will you?"
	She turned and spoke, her voice was meek, but the glint in her eye, and the slightly raised 
eyebrow more than canceled that out, "Would you like a whip as well, sir?"
	"A what?"
	"A whip, sir. They're very good, you know, there's strawberry and banana, and the 
raspberry is worth trying."
	"No, Angela, that will be all," said Forbin stiffly.
"Yes, sir."
	When Angela returned with the coffee, he was deeply immersed in the specification. She 
placed the container on the desk beside him, and he said, absently, "That's very kind of you." It 
was hardly in keeping with his image of the powerful man of affairs. Then Fisher appeared, 
peering nervously round the corner of the door.
	"Come in, come in," said Forbin heartily. "I want to talk to you about this job."
	Fisher most certainly did not catch on. He blinked at Forbin in surprise. "I don't see how 
we can get on with our--" "Yes, I know all about that, Jack," cut in Forbin hastily, "but this is a 
lot more important than checking those circuit diagrams."
	"Diagrams? I don't--"
	"I said, forget it!" said Forbin, genially ferocious. "Come and sit down, while I give you 
the rundown on this."
	The teletype clattered beside him. Fisher jumped as if bitten by a snake.

	IS THIS GROUP A LEADER

	"Yes," said Forbin reluctantly. He had avoided names in his memo, but had not much 
hope of getting away with it.

	WHAT IS HIS NAME

	"This is Doctor Fisher."
	Fisher gave a fine impression of a hunted hare. "Do I speak?"
	Forbin grasped his arm, none too gently, "Just act normally, Jack, nothing to get heated 
about." Just to show how ordinary the whole thing was, he addressed Colossus.
	"Colossus, this simulator is very complex; I'm not sure we can just build the thing straight 
off--parts will need testing, and there may be a little experimental work to do." What would 
Colossus do, if the simulator did not work--blame him?

	TESTS WILL NOT BE NECESSARY PROCEED AS INSTRUCTED AND 
SIMULATOR WILL WORK

	And that was all there was to say on that point.
	Forbin dragged the goggling Fisher from the teletype and forced him into a chair. He 
handed him the specification. "There--all you have to do is to work out physical layouts for that. 
As soon as you have a reasonable idea of the physical size of the device, let the head technical 
man know, so that he can start arranging a suitable space."
	Not for the first time in the past few days, Forbin saw that Fisher had aged considerably, 
and that, at the first sign of a new crisis he was more interested in getting his head in a hole 
someplace than in trying to deal with the trouble.
	"It's quite simple," he said quietly. "Forget everything else, and get on with it." He 
glanced at the wall clock. "The first watch should be on in a few minutes--get them started, then 
I think you should go and rest."
	"Perhaps you are right," said Fisher. "I don't feel I can take much more, I really don't."
	Forbin thought of the bottle of rye he knew Blake kept in his desk drawer, in open 
defiance of the Admin Standing Orders. He got it out, found a couple of plastic mugs, and 
poured two fair-sized tots. "Drink this," he ordered. He was replacing the bottle when Blake 
walked in.
	"Ah, Blake," said Forbin. "I didn't think you'd mind--I've just had a crack at your bottle of 
hard stuff."
	"Hell, that's OK," replied Blake, easily. He looked at Fisher, who was studying the 
specification, and as always, when actually working, on the ball. "This the job, Doc?"
	Fisher nodded. "I think we had best break it down into the main groups of components. 
There appear to be three . . ." The teletype chattered briefly.

	FOUR

	Blake and Forbin looked at it together; Fisher just sat, wide-eyed, ready to scuttle.
	"OK, Colossus, if you say four, it's four. That saves us a lot of messing around." Blake's 
easy acceptance of Colossus as another person in the room, stiffened Forbin and quite probably 
saved Fisher from blowing his top.
	Forbin sat down and began to think about the implications of this voice simulator. Why 
did Colossus want it? Could be the easy answer--that it would be easier to amplify written 
instructions. And conversation would be possible. But supposing the machine wanted to address 
a wider audience? It could be that Colossus intended to speak to the world. Well, if he did, he 
did. Forbin was not going to be diverted from the main task, the inhibition of the machines. If the 
world got a few nasty shocks on the way, it might do it some good. It might. Forbin drank his 
coffee.
	"Colossus, I am now going to take a short walk--"

	NO

	"Why?"

	BEFORE LEAVING YOUR FINGERPRINTS ARE TO BE TAKEN BEFORE THE 
CAMERA

	"We don't have fingerprinting equipment--'

	USE RUBBER STAMP PAD AND BLOTTING PAPER AND PRESENT RESULT TO 
CAMERA

	Forbin shrugged, there was nothing for it. A pad was produced and a rather imperfect set 
of prints taken. These were laid on the desk and Forbin noted gloomily that, after less than two 
seconds, the teletype made

	SATISFACTORY YOU MAY PROCEED

	He wondered at the definition of the camera; he had expected that it would be able to 
read typescript at that range, but to reproduce fingerprints, and not very good ones at that, made 
him consider if Colossus had been able to evolve a new system of identification. As he walked to 
the door, he exchanged significant glances with Blake. His initial elation at the success in 
arranging for Cleo to come to him, and at finding the surveillance less oppressive than he had 
expected, was damped down. This habit of Colossus', leaving some difficulty to the last minute, 
was very disturbing. The fingerprint business, for example, could have been settled at the 
beginning. It left him with the nasty feeling that there were many such hidden traps waiting for 
him.
	Outside, Forbin walked carefully down the illuminated sidewalk, and noticed that it was 
unusually empty, while the sidewalk on the other side of the roadway looked a lot more crowded 
than usual. It added greatly to his loneliness.
	He scowled and blinked in the harsh light of the new lamps fitted in his office. Here at 
least he had always been used to the gentle, somehow human lamplight. Maybe, if all went well, 
he might get this altered, but this was not the time to raise the matter. Wearily he dropped 
heavily into his chair and surveyed his desk. There was a fair-sized pile of correspondence in 
tape and letter form--so much rubbish now, routine reports on tests, requests for data, the usual 
torrent of stuff from Admin--all outdated junk.
	For a half-hour or so Forbin worked mechanically through some of the accumulation 
before him, reading, initialing, dictating. But at 1800 local time he decided he had had enough. 
Without a glance at the cameras, he scooped up the completed work, marched out of his office 
and dumped it all on his secretary's desk. He paused and looked round, looking for any loophole 
in the surveillance that he might use, but there was no inspiration in the small room, nor yet any 
in his tired, depressed brain. He turned quickly on his heel and left.
	In his living quarters it was the same story, bright light everywhere and the ubiquitous 
cameras and microphones . . . He poured himself a large bourbon, and switched on the TV 
screen. Immediately the outside world flooded in, and for fifteen minutes, he sat and watched a 
film avidly--but when it ended he realized that he had not the faintest idea what it had been 
about. He finished his drink and went into the bedroom and stripped for a shower. The cameras 
in the bedroom and bathroom were the hardest to take; thinking of Colossus as a human was no 
sort of help at all in this connection, for Forbin was essentially a shy man. In the shower he 
stood, grateful for the partial screen of the steam, thinking . . . thinking. If only to boost his 
morale, he must find some small way of defeating the invisible net around him. He dressed and 
headed back to his drink cabinet. There was a newscast on the TV. Forbin looked sourly at the 
newsreader, casual, genial. All right for you, you bastard, he thought, you can get up and leave 
the camera . . .
	". . . dateline Moscow, USSR. Pan-World reports a large meteorite fell early today in the 
Northwest Siberia. Official sources state that a small township was almost completely destroyed, 
and that casualties may add up to as much as two thousand. A large area of forest was also 
burned and scorched by the impact. A similar meteorite fell in Siberia around ninety years ago, 
but at that time the area was unpopulated. WHO and the International Red Cross have offered 
aid, but the Soviets state that they are able to render all the assistance required. Washington, D.C. 
Senator Kaufmann has said he will raise the question in committee of the responsibility for the 
malfunctioning missile which caused a shelter warning to be issued this morning for Texas. It is 
reported that the President has said he would welcome this opportunity to clear the matter up. 
Luxembourg, Europe. The USE Senate today voted to integrate--"
	Forbin blanked out the TV screen. He felt sick, and barely controlled a wild impulse to 
hurl obscene abuse at Colossus. Two thousand! Two thousand human lives for a switched-off 
transmitter, and this could only be a beginning. There must be an answer somewhere . . . With 
renewed resolve he got up, put on a fresh shirt and left his quarters, not entirely sure where he 
was going. God knows, he reflected bitterly, there is not much choice; for sure he did not want to 
be alone with Colossus, or his thoughts, and that meant the CPO. En route, he remembered he 
had warned Bishop, the Presidential aide, to expect a call, and he had done nothing to arrange it. 
How could he fix it? The President had to be kept informed, and it might be that there was some 
news of Kupri. He recalled also that he must arrange for someone to monitor the Russian 
broadcast which would give the date of the meeting. There was so much to do . . .
	In the CPO there was an air of brooding strain. The duty watch worked steadily on, 
speaking to each other only when necessary, and no one looked up or spoke at his entrance. He 
glanced round hopefully for Cleo, but she was not there. He would have been both surprised and 
distressed had he known that, at that moment, she was lying face down on her bed, having a 
good unscientific cry . . .
	As he sat down, Forbin remembered another thing. He had to get the proofing of his 
bedroom started--with luck he might have only one night under the camera lights. Without a 
glance at the teletype he picked up the phone.
	"Joe? Forbin here. Sorry to trouble you this late, but I have urgent work to be done in my 
bedroom--yep, bedroom. I want it done before nightfall tomorrow. Drop by, and I'll fill in the 
details."
	Blake ambled over. "Sir, we have the main lines of the four major blocks of equipment 
roughed out." He laid a sketch plan on the desk.
	Forbin tried to summon up some enthusiasm, but the news from Siberia had drained away 
his earlier interest in the simulator. He looked absently at the drawing, patting pockets for his 
pipe, found it, and then replaced it--his mouth felt hot, dry and stale, like the entrance to a 
subway. "I could do with a touch of that rye, Blake--if you can spare it."
	"Sure thing." Blake quickly fetched the bottle and poured him a drink. "I'll leave you the 
bottle."
	"That's good of you." Forbin had an idea. "Um. Good. I must make a note of this brand." 
He looked meaningfully at Blake. "Must call my liquor man--Bishop--some time soon and get an 
order in. Then I won't feel so bad about cleaning you out."
	'Ah, hell, don't bother sir. You've got enough on your mind." Blake nodded very, very 
slightly. "Maybe your secretary could fix?"
	Forbin yawned. "I'll leave it to you. Angela has his number. Now, what's worrying you 
about this layout?"
	"Nothing really." Blake was quite casual, but Forbin knew he had got the message. He 
tensed up inside, half expecting the teletype to start, but tried to ignore the feeling and 
concentrated on Blake, who continued, "I thought you should OK this before we go ahead. I 
reckon that, provided there are no snags, construction could start by midday tomorrow. It's 
standard equipment--there are a lot of amplifier circuits, diode blocks lying around that only 
have to be plugged in. Where would you like the voice output?"
	Before Forbin could answer, Colossus chipped in.

	INITIAL POSITIONS FOR VOICE OUTLETS 
1--CPO
	2--FORBIN OFFICE 
3--FORBIN QUARTERS 
4--COMMUNICATION CENTER
	
Blake jumped slightly as the teletype clacked out its message beside him. He clamped his cigar 
more firmly between his teeth and said, "Well, now we know."
	Forbin did not answer. When Joe, the technician, came in, Forbin handed him a copy of 
the conditions Colossus had laid down.
	"Get all the materials collected as soon as you can, but lay off the fitting until, say, 0800 
tomorrow morning. I have to sleep somehow tonight."
	"Sure, sir." Quite a speech for Joe. He regarded the order with pursed lips. "Yeah, OK."
	As he left, Forbin got slowly to his feet. "Before I hit the hay, is there anything anyone 
wants me for?"
	Outwardly the remark was addressed to the group of workers, but everyone in the room 
knew full well the Controller was, in reality, asking Colossus' permission to go. Blake's mouth 
set in an even grimmer line.
	"Thanks for the drink." Forbin gave Blake a long stare as he made for the door. "A real 
help." He called out to the rest, "Keep at it, boys--there's little time."
	Colossus could have added that there was even less time than he knew--but then Colossus 
had no sense of irony.


Chapter 18

	It was scarcely surprising that Forbin slept badly--a sleep shot through with dreams, near 
nightmares . . . He was crossing a wide tree-lined avenue at night, yet as he crossed, the roadway 
widened before and behind him, and he was walking in increasing darkness, the street lights 
growing dimmer and fewer. Then he was splashing through shallow water, like a wide gutter, but 
was suddenly aware, without seeing, that he was walking ankle-deep in the shallow edge of a 
leaf-filled lake. He knew he had lost all sense of direction and that if he did not guess correctly, 
he would suddenly step off into the deep choking mass of rotting leaves. The edge was fast 
receding, it was darker, and colder, soon there would be no light . .	.
	He awoke sweating with fear, and tossed uneasily for hours, willing himself to sleep, 
fighting his thoughts and the unaccustomed light. Now and then he dozed off, to wake with a 
start from an unremembered dream, but the lake did not return . . . In the early hours of the 
morning he finally fell into a deep sleep, to be wakened, far too soon, by the apologetic Joe.
	"Sorry, Professor, but you said 0800--"
"OK, OK," snapped Forbin irritably.
	Joe started to leave. "We'll be back as soon as you're dressed, sir."
	Forbin laughed derisively, and turned a bloodshot eye on the nearest camera. "I should 
worry about technicians, with that eye always--" He stopped short. "Never mind, skip it. Let me 
get out of this bed, and you can do whatever you like."
	He took off his sweat-soaked nightshirt, threw it in the wastebasket and went into the 
bathroom. For nearly fifteen minutes he lingered in the semi-obscurity of the steam, finally 
emerging almost lobster color. He dressed slowly, working out his plans for the day. A solitary 
breakfast did not appeal to him, and he decided that a little pre-breakfast exercise might do him 
good. For ten minutes he paced up and down the sidewalk, looking and feeling like a prisoner in 
the penitentiary yard. Some three-quarters of an hour after being called, Forbin was walking 
through the main entrance of the control block. He might have gone to his office--Angela would 
be on duty at 0900-but although he would not admit it, even to himself, he did not like to be too 
far from the teletype.
	Air-conditioned it might be, but after the sparkling morning air the atmosphere in the 
CPO was stale and flat, with more than a hint of tobacco, coffee, frankfurters and humanity. 
Forbin walked to his desk, nodding his greetings to Johnson, who was still working on the 
simulator. He slumped down in his chair, tired before he started. He stared sightlessly at the desk 
for a time, then, without moving, said in a rasping voice, "Well, d'you want my fingerprints?"

	NO

	"Great!" he replied, sarcastically. "I'll be able to eat my breakfast with clean fingers." He 
called the commissary and ordered a full breakfast in the same hard voice, replacing the phone 
without waiting for an answer. Already his isolation had engendered a dislike and an envy of his 
fellow-men. "Johnson, have you got Cleo?"
	"No, sir," said Johnson. "This work is tough on her--she's checking out our stock 
requisitions for the simulator over at the main store."
	Forbin grunted. Breakfast was brought by a messenger new to Forbin; he only just 
avoided asking the man where he had sprung from. But new messengers were not lightly taken 
on in the Zone, and Forbin realized this must be the CIA expert on undercover matters.
	Forbin made a great show of eating, but in fact only played with his food. Finally he 
pushed the tray away, and called for a progress report from Johnson, who outlined the position. 
Barring unforeseen snags, the simulator would be working at the latest next morning.
	Forbin managed a curt "Good." He felt so tired, tired . . . Johnson was speaking.
	"Do you want Cleo Markham, sir?"
	Forbin did, but he had no desire to meet her in front of the staff as well as Colossus. 
"Yes. I'd like to see her outside--I'm going for a short walk. Ask her to join me, will you?"
	Forbin paced up and down, alone with a variety of thoughts: Colossus, Kupri, Cleo, 
Siberia--and the memory of Prytzkammer as he had last seen him alive, clawing, screaming, mad 
with fear. Forbin stopped and contemplated his feet, his thoughts a thousand miles away . . . 
Then Cleo was beside him, flushed and breathless, taking his arm confidently, pressing her head 
on his chest.
	"Ah, Cleo," Forbin said, lamely.
	"Who else, Charles?" She looked up at his face, laughing. "Do you have a harem, then?"
	"Cleo, you know you're the only one," he replied earnestly. It was all so trivial, yet so 
important to him. He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her. It was not sweet oblivion, but there 
was immeasurable relief in her for him.
	For a short while Cleo was wholeheartedly his, then she gently disentangled herself and 
spoke without thinking. "Charles! Not here--" She stopped.
	"We might be seen?" He ended the sentence for her and laughed, a hairsbreadth from 
hysteria.
	"Don't!" she said sharply, then went on in a softer tone. "Have you any news--about us, I 
mean?"
	"I hope you'll be able to join me tonight." His embarrassment returned, damping down 
the hysteria. "It all depends on how fast the work goes in my quarters. I must go now, but come 
and have lunch with me--please?"
	"Just let anyone try to stop me!" She kept up the lighthearted tone, but tried to convey a 
deeper message of solidarity, warmth, love . . .
	Forbin watched her go, took a deep breath of the clean warm air, and headed for his 
office.

	He had been working steadily for some time when it occurred to him that he had not seen 
Fisher during the morning. He pressed the intercom.
	"Angela--have you seen Doctor Fisher today?" "No--sir. Shall I get him for you?"
	"No--no, it doesn't matter." Forbin stifled yet another uneasy feeling and got on with his 
work--routine, familiar things, not excessively demanding, even soothing. By lunchtime he was 
relatively happy, even a little hungry.
	Cleo arrived promptly, and at first seemed strangely silent and pensive. Gradually she 
warmed up; by unspoken agreement they said nothing about work or themselves. Cleo, clearly 
making an effort, chattered about her last vacation spent at the Project ski resort in Greenland. 
Then the meal came, and there was silence until the messenger had left. Forbin decided to take 
the risk. "D'you want to tell me something, my dear?"
	"No, Charles. Nothing. I've a slight headache, that's all." It was totally unconvincing.
	"Is it that you don't want to see me?" said Forbin, assailed with doubts.
	"That's ridiculous, and you know it," replied Cleo in a militant tone. "No--I just didn't 
sleep much last night. I don't--alone."
	Forbin knew the last part was for the benefit of Colossus, but he also knew she had 
something she dare not tell him in front of the cameras and microphones. A gust of rage shook 
him. He sat motionless until the feeling ebbed away, leaving behind a faint queasiness, born of 
fear and the unknown. Cleo had gone, leaving Forbin sunk in thought, trying to evolve some way 
of evading Colossus as the first step to fighting his own creation. The risk of Russian--or other--
agents reporting to their masters and thus to the machines bore down heavily on his mind. Yet no 
one dare stop. Naturally, some attrition would be accepted. Agents got caught, died naturally, 
even retired--these contingencies had been allowed for. But "spy rings" as such did not exist 
outside novels.
	One agent might get caught and lead to the capture of a second, but it was very seldom 
that the trail was longer than that. In any case, Colossus would expect the lost men--or women--
to be replaced fairly quickly. Even so, thought Forbin, it might be possible to gain some 
temporary respite that way. Perhaps they could do a deal with the USSR, sell out some of their 
own agents to the Russians who in return would allow some of their better--placed men to be 
swept into the bag. Forbin wondered what the Russian intelligence effort was in the Zone. He 
recalled Grauber's delicate hint that the USSR might have been helped in building Guardian by a 
leak from the USNA . . . It might also be ominously significant that while Colossus demanded 
access to the hot line, there was no such demand for cover between the Zone and Washington or 
with CIA itself . . .
	Forbin roused himself and threw the debris of lunch in the trash-bin. He reflected sourly 
that perhaps this was the only real advance of humanity in the past two decades--the abolition of 
washing-up.
	Then Blake came in, and asked if Forbin could spare a few minutes. His manner struck 
Forbin as a shade too casual. The feeling of sickness grew stronger.
	"I'm afraid Doctor Fisher's unwell." Blake paused and lit a cigar. The cloud of smoke 
obscured his face, and Forbin wondered if it was intentional. Blake went on. "Guess he's been 
overdoing it lately--the medic has put him under sedation."
	Forbin could read fairly easily between those particular lines. He exhibited no surprise as 
he answered, "I'm sorry to hear that. I thought he had looked rough for some time. The rest will 
do him good--where is he, his quarters or the sanatorium?"
	"The medic decided he must have a complete change, sir, and decided that he would 
recover more quickly in the Rockies rest camp."
	The "Rockies rest camp," as Forbin knew very well, was a small recreation unit, miles 
from anywhere, set up in the mountains for the benefit of any Zone workers who fancied 
mountaineering. It was accessible only by helicopter.
	"A fine place for a rest, I believe," replied Forbin evenly. "When is he going?"
	"The medic thought there was no point in delay--he left by air-car for the heliport about a 
half-hour ago, sir."
	Forbin tried to look as if whisking senior members of the staff off at thirty minutes' notice 
were the most normal thing in the world. "Good," he said. "But this will mean some slight 
rearrangement of schedules."
	"It may be a little difficult for a day or so, but with the rundown in staff, now the 
Colossus is completed, I don't reckon on much trouble."
	It was the first Forbin had heard about reducing the staff, but he followed the lead. "Yes--
Fisher had talked to me about leaving. Is there anything else?"
	Blake, in the same easy tone, described the work on the simulator, which wouldn't be 
completed before the next morning. He added that it could only be done in that time by working 
exactly to Colossus' specification, and without any testing as the work proceeded. It would be 
built as ordered, and if it didn't work it would not be due to human error.
	"I don't think there is much chance of it failing," said Forbin.
	Blake didn't think so, either. Soon after he left, Forbin set off for the CPO passing by his 
quarters to see how the work progressed.

	Secretary of State Forbin, Professor of Cybernetics, Doctor of Philosophy, Master of 
Science, found his cage practically finished. The large square mesh wire had been neatly fixed to 
walls, floor and ceiling, and the ends welded to form a continuous net. Only the door allowed 
access, and mesh was also screwed to that, so that when the door was shut the cage was 
complete. Forbin looked at the mesh extending over the window. "Well, I hope I don't have a fire 
during the night."
	It may have looked like a cage, but to Forbin it looked very good indeed. He regarded it 
not so much as a prison to keep him in as a fortress to keep Colossus out.
	The technicians were making the final row of welds along a skirting; there was a faint 
sputter and a metallic smell as their low-power laser torches bonded the metal. All Forbin's 
furniture, what there was of it, had been dumped in the living room, leaving the room bare down 
to the floor boards. It appeared smaller, surprisingly enough, with the steel mesh over walls and 
ceiling; the walls were grubby, the overall air of the place was dingy. The cameras and 
microphones had been refixed, and a switch inserted in the microphone circuit, clearly marked 
ON and OFF. Home, reflected Forbin bitterly.
	The relentless pressure of the surveillance was far worse than he had expected--and it had 
not yet been operating for a full twenty-four hours! All Forbin could think of at that moment was 
to get in that room away from it all. His rendezvous with Cleo, even the vital plans to overthrow 
the giants, were both subordinate to his desire to escape. He stood still, his legs trembling with 
weakness, yet he wanted to run . . .
	The workmen emerged from his bedroom, carrying their tool bags. One said, "We'll be 
testing from the control block sir, then come back to finish off."
	For all that the Director appeared to hear, they might well have not existed. He walked 
past them into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him, turned and faced a camera.
	"OK, Colossus, we're alone. I don't want to go through my private affairs out there or in 
the CPO." As on earlier occasions, Forbin found that when he was actually talking to Colossus 
his mind was cool and clear. It was only when engaged in contemplation of the whole picture 
that it tended to slip. "You've seen my mistress, Cleo Markham, and I want her here tonight, and 
I don't want any last minute foul-ups--I can't stand much more. I want you to let me know what 
conditions you will impose on our occupation of this room. For instance, do you want the 
furniture taken apart? If so, let me get it organized now--give me an answer when I return to the 
CPO. I'm going back there now. Give me a chance to reach the teletype first before you give 
your answer. You may not understand our need for privacy, and I'm not at all sure I could give a 
logical answer--but it's very real."
	He jerked the door open and left.
	Colossus played it his way. Forbin walked into the CPO and straight to the teletype, and 
almost immediately the machine began to hammer out:

	CONDITIONS
	I--NO TRANSMITTER OR TELEPHONE TO BE FITTED
	2--CAMERAS REMAIN ALIVE AT ALL TIMES 
3--MICROPHONE CIRCUIT MAY BE BROKEN ONLY WHEN DOOR IS SHUT
	4--LIGHTS MAY BE SWITCHED OFF ONLY WHEN DOOR IS SHUT
	5--NOTHING IS TO BE TAKEN IN WITHOUT INSPECTION BY CAMERA
	6--PERMISSIBLE ARTICLES ARE BED--CLOTHES CONTAINER--FLOOR COVER 
AFTER INSPECTION NOTHING MORE
	Forbin read the conditions carefully. In the weird circumstances it was not an 
unreasonable list. There was one point Forbin was sure Colossus would not overlook . . .
	"OK, Colossus," he spoke quietly, close to the microphone. "I accept the conditions, but 
what about our clothes?"

	NONE-SEE PARA 6

	"None!" Forbin could not help being startled, although he half expected the answer he 
got. "You mean we undress completely in the other room before going in?"

	YES

	Forbin was suddenly aware that the duty watch, now nearing the end of their design 
work, were unduly silent. Not unnaturally, their attention had been attracted by his side of the 
conversation. He snarled at them, "Get on with your work--don't you think I have enough 
surveillance?"
	No one looked at him or answered, but one or two had a distinctly shamefaced 
appearance. Almost at once a hum of self-conscious chatter arose, subdued, but enough to give 
him some degree of privacy. Forbin gave them a final glare and reverted to Colossus. His sudden 
outburst had not been entirely genuine--it had also given him time to take a grip, to let his mind 
race swiftly over the pitfalls of this situation. He dare not oppose the undressing idea--why 
should he? As far as Colossus knew Cleo had been his mistress for some time past, and if that 
were the case, he could hardly plead embarrassment or shyness.
	"OK, Colossus, no clothes."


	HAVE YOU ONE MISTRESS

	"How many do you think?" Forbin recalled Cleo's remark about his "harem." Perhaps 
Colossus' doubts were based on that, having failed to register her remark as facetious. If this was 
so, it showed clearly a weakness of the machine. "Yes, of course I have only one."

	IS HER NAME CLEOPATRA JUNE MARKHAM

	"I don't know about the `June,' but I guess that's her." He had a cold feeling of fear and 
hastily got his pipe out, to conceal the slight tremble in his hands.

	WHAT GRADE WORKER

	Yes, thought Forbin, here it comes. He rubbed his pipe against his nose, and looked 
thoughtfully at the pipe. Colossus might not be able to read expressions, but he was taking no 
chances. He had foreseen that there might be questions about Cleo, and had decided some time 
ago how to answer.
	"That is rather difficult to answer--right now she is a junior grade assistant."

	RECORD SHOWS SHE IS BSC PH D POSITION IS INCOMPATIBLE WITH HER 
QUALIFICATIONS

	Forbin had guessed right. He was fervently thankful the machine did not hold the 
personnel records of Project Colossus. When considering this possibility he had decided that he 
would not try to conceal that Cleo was the same person who would appear in the examination 
results--with a name like that it was a waste of time. He leaned forward, his lips were practically 
touching the microphone. "Can you hear me?"

	YES

	There was food for thought there, he could hardly hear himself. "Cleo Markham has 
passed PhD and BSc, but she is, I am sorry to say, no brain. Her very good memory got her the 
Bachelor degree. As for the Doctorate, well," he tried a horrible, exaggerated leer, "you must 
know how it is, she had to write a thesis for PhD, and she was friendly with her professor. As far 
as I can gather, he was in love with her, and practically wrote the thing for her in return for her--
er--favors." Forbin made a great play with shrugged shoulders and grimaces, intended to convey 
that, while he could not condone such conduct, neither could he condemn it. "Sometimes this is 
the way of the world, you see."

	YES

	Forbin had never thought that a single word could look cold and disapproving. That one 
did. "Well, that's the story. 0n the strength of these qualifications she was taken on here as a 
Senior Assistant. We soon found that she was practically useless in that grade, but by that time," 
again the grotesque leer, "I had got to know her--and in any case, our Security people do not like 
scientists leaving the Project once they are engaged. So she was downgraded and does useful 
work on the stores side--and of course," he swallowed hard, trying to pitch on just the right 
nuance, "I see she is looked after."
	He thought the story was less than convincing, but apparently Colossus was satisfied, for 
there was nothing further on that delicate point. Though the Director of Project Colossus was left 
with the nasty suspicion that Colossus might have a nasty suspicion.


Chapter 19

	Just how Forbin got through the rest of that day he did not know. Work on the voice 
simulator proceeded smoothly, the alterations to his quarters were completed to Colossus' 
satisfaction, and the meager furniture examined closely and passed. Not that this was really 
necessary, for the wire cage could detect any sort of transmission--radio, line or laser--and the 
external microphones prevented any secret drilling through the bedroom walls for the physical 
passage of messages--just supposing the external TV cameras could be fooled while it was done. 
There was the further insurance that he was not able to read in his room--no books or writing 
matter would be permitted, and he could no more read in the dark than anyone else. If there was 
light enough to read, there was light enough for the cameras. Nevertheless, Colossus closely 
inspected the bed and bedding, the carpet and the clothes chest before admitting them. Even the 
scanty bedclothes afforded no cover. A torch under the sheet would be instantly seen shining 
through them, and it was too late to pretend that he wanted old-fashioned blankets instead of the 
thin, disposable ones.
	At 1800 precisely Forbin left the CPO, instructing the duty watch to call him if Colossus 
sent anything. His electronic master had been silent since the furniture examination, and raised 
no objection when Forbin loudly announced his intention to knock off for the day.
	He went straight to his living quarters, showered with a shade less self-consciousness 
than before, and changed into fresh clothes. He rang Cleo, asked her over for a meal, and sat 
back with a drink and his pipe to watch TV until she arrived. He was determined to forget or 
ignore Colossus for an hour or two. Puffing, sipping and staring, he felt more relaxed than he had 
for some time--yet, in another more pleasurable way, there was a suppressed feeling of 
excitement at the thought of Cleo, Cleo really coming to him . . . It had been years--he knew 
exactly how long, five and a half years--since his last, brief and unsatisfactory encounter with a 
woman. Now he was to try again, and this was very different. Cleo meant something; he wanted 
to share all he had with her; with luck, he might have twenty good years left, and with Cleo he 
could redress the balance of those arid years behind him. The more he thought of Cleo, the less 
he thought of Colossus, and in that sense he was more relaxed. He sat, gazing blankly at the TV 
screen, a vacant half-smile on his face, daydreaming. It did him a world of good.
	Cleo's arrival jerked him sharply out of his dreams to a reality that was every bit as good. 
She came in, smiling, confident of her appeal--she had spent over an hour getting ready--and of 
his response.
	"My, Cleo, you really do look . . ." Forbin groped unhappily for suitable words, but Cleo 
was satisfied with his expression. She had set out to make him regard her as a small boy might 
look at a candy store, and she had succeeded. There was awe and delight in his face, but not, she 
was glad to note, greed.
	"Never mind, Charles darling." As she stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly he caught a waft 
of perfume, but before he could grasp her, as lightly she had moved away. There would be time 
for that later. "You've seen this old rag often enough."
	Forbin marveled at her self-possession. He had never seen her in a dress before, let alone 
this one--a black, glittering material that faithfully, almost lovingly followed her contours.
	"Old rag or not, Cleo, I've always loved you in it." That would show her he could keep 
his end up too. "Will you have a drink?" He hoped she would not say "the usual," for he had no 
real idea of her usual evening drink.
	She smiled at him, with a faintly wicked twist to it. "Oh, I think I'll have my usual." She 
paused, one eyebrow very slightly raised. "No, perhaps not. I feel like a change. Give me a 
bourbon on the rocks."
	Forbin smiled back, catching something of her playful mood, and turned to get the drink.
	The carefree look on her face slipped, revealing a worried and fearful expression . . . He 
made the drink, and carefully carried it to her, the ice tinkling in the glass, a real cut-glass goblet.
	She admired the glass, holding it up to the light, turning it this way and that, then realized 
this might look suspicious to Colossus. "You know, Charles, the glasses are lovely, but I don't 
think you should use them except for special occasions."
	"It is always a special occasion when you come here," he replied smoothly, surprising 
even himself.
	"Charles! How nice." She took his hand. "I do love you, you know."
	But Forbin, with that well-turned compliment, had exhausted his stock of suitable 
remarks. He smiled back at her, happier than he had been in a long time, Colossus thrust well to 
the back of his mind.
	Cleo too was trying hard to keep back the news she had for Forbin. Should she tell him as 
soon as they had privacy, and almost certainly ruin their first night together? She knew 
instinctively he was not a deeply sensual man, and could quite easily go as cold as ice . . . On the 
other hand, to delay telling him until the morning might well anger him, and implant a suspicion 
which could ruin later meetings.
	Forbin ordered the dinner by phone. While waiting he laid the table, and Cleo watched. 
He was not very good. Flustered by her presence, he dropped and broke one of his few china 
plates. She would dearly have liked to have helped, but she had no idea where things were kept, 
and it would look very strange indeed if a mistress of some years' standing showed a complete 
ignorance of her lover's domestic arrangements.
	Dinner was brought by the CIA man--it gave him an excuse to look around the Director's 
apartment. His presence jerked Forbin back to the unwelcome realization that this pleasant, 
potentially blissful evening was no more than cover for deadly serious and dangerous work.
	"Where shall I put this, sir?" The CIA man emphasized the first person singular.
	Forbin waved at the dining table. "Put the main course there, and the iced cake in the 
fridge, will you?" He pointed at the kitchen. That got the expert into the kitchen as well.
	There was silence while the man did as directed. When he had gone, there was a distinct 
shadow over the lovers, which lingered for the best part of the meal. Forbin had an acute attack 
of nerves, fearing some technical fault which would allow Colossus to overhear them in the 
bedroom . . . Cleo was in no better state; the sight of the CIA man reminded her that her desires 
must be subordinated to duty . . .
	After the meal he allowed her to help with the clearing-up, then they settled down side by 
side on the sofa. Their thighs touched, but Cleo was sadly aware that this was unintentional. 
Time passed, and passed quickly. Neither had much idea what they talked about, and Forbin's 
covert glances at his watch did nothing to ease matters. He had determined to defer what he 
mentally called "the crunch" until 2200. At that time precisely he stopped talking, yawned with 
monumental insincerity and looked down at his feet.
	"It's been a long day, darling. Guess we might as well . . ." He cleared his throat, and 
came out with it. "Colossus insists we undress in here. We can't enter the room wearing 
anything."
	Cleo quickly took charge. "Well, we'd better get on with it. You clear up the coffee 
things--and don't take too long." She got up and started to undress. Forbin hastily collected the 
crockery and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, Cleo had gone.
	"Don't be long, Charles." Her high, cool voice was impersonal, almost clinical. "I'm in 
bed."
	Forbin was a riot of emotions. Embarrassment, an almost frantic desire to escape from 
Colossus, a longing to be with Cleo, fatigue, and no sexual urge whatever. He slowly undressed, 
threw the last item on the floor, and gazed steadily at the camera.
	"If you're not satisfied, say so right now." He picked up his clothes and placed them on 
the sofa. The T/P clattered.

	REMOVE THE WATCH

	"OK, I get it!" snarled Forbin, angered with himself. He slipped his watch off and tossed 
it on the sofa and strode into the bedroom without another look at the camera. Anger overcame 
his embarrassment and helped him to bed. All he could see of Cleo was her golden hair on the 
pillow, face to the wall. He practically fell into bed, reached up and switched out the light, and 
was staggered by a momentary feeling of gratitude to Colossus for allowing this relief. To feel 
gratitude, however fleeting, for the temporary restoration of a right!
	For what seemed a long time he lay, stiff and wooden, avoiding contact with Cleo. Very 
slowly a little of the tension ebbed away as he savored the intense pleasure of freedom from 
Colossus. When tackling Colossus on privacy, he had no idea just how much he really would 
need it. Then a soft hand wheedled its way into his unresisting fingers. Time passed--how much, 
neither knew. Then quite suddenly, Forbin grasped her hand hard.
	"Thanks, Cleo, for what you've done, and the way you've done it."
	"Don't be silly." Now she must tell him.
	"Darling," she began slowly, "I hate asking this, but there are things I must tell you--
would you prefer to have them now, or wait for the morning?"
	Friendly night overcame his shyness. "You know as well as I do, my dear, I'm unlikely to 
be the slightest good tonight. To know you are holding up news would make it ten times worse. 
Tell me now."
	She edged closer--their shoulders, thighs touched, a frontier that felt warm to him, cool to 
her. He lay still, unspeakably grateful for her presence, but no more.
	"Well, first, Fisher. I'm afraid he has gone crazy, genuinely raving mad. Had what looked 
like a fit in the CPO, recovered and rushed out, shouting. The doctor fears it is a permanent 
condition."
	"Poor Jack! Another victim." So much had happened, was happening, that Forbin felt 
little shock or concern at the news. Cleo placed her head on his shoulder. "Don't move, darling," 
she pleaded. "It's very comforting to me, and perhaps to you--and there's more."
	"Go on."
	"The sabotage section is making progress on the safety locks, and there's a courier service 
working, linking Washington, Moscow, the CIA, and here. Two couriers each way daily." She 
paused for a moment. "Then this news came in this afternoon. Charles--Kupri is dead."
	"What!"
	"We don't have full details, but it appears he was detected in some anti-machine activity--
that's what the message said--and Guardian demanded his immediate execution, threatening to 
vaporize Moscow if disobeyed. Kupri was shot before Guardian's cameras early this morning."
	"Good God!' Words failed him. He lay staring in the darkness, hearing again the calm, 
level voice. Now they would never meet . . . Forbin burst out, "The damned fools! Why didn't 
they fix the shooting--fake it, and get him out!"
	"It all happened so quickly. Kupri was found out, the threat to Moscow given and the 
execution carried out in less than fifteen minutes."
	"All the same--"
	"No, Charles, Guardian had thought of that. Before the body was moved, Guardian had 
his head cut off as proof of death."
	For a long time they were silent. There was nothing to say. Then Cleo gently pulled 
Forbin to her until his unresisting head rested in the hollow of her breasts. She smoothed his hair, 
spoke softly. "Charles, there is a little more."
	"Oh no!" He clung to her like a frightened child to its mother, but Cleo, wiser, knew that 
the rest of her news would, in time, restore him, call up his fighting spirit. Here and now he 
could break down with her, cry if he could; she would restore him to manhood before he had to 
face another day.
	"I told you Guardian threatened to vaporize Moscow, but, naturally enough, no USSR 
missiles are zeroed in on the USSR capital. It seems that if Guardian hadn't been obeyed, 
Colossus would have done the vaporizing. They're one machine now. CIA has allocated the 
codeword "Unity" for the combined Colossus/Guardian complex. CIA's theory is that Unity does 
not want to deal with humans through two channels. One end or the other was surplus, and it 
looks as if the talking is being left to Colossus. So Kupri was redundant." Cleo clasped him to 
her. "Charles darling, I'm afraid you are now the link for both." She stroked his hair again. "You 
must forgive me, but I couldn't be as calm as I am if I didn't think that his death makes your 
position safer."
	This regard for him, the selfless single-mindedness of woman, of this woman, in the face 
of a shaking, reeling world was too much for the Director of Project Colossus. He clung to her 
and cried, soundlessly at first, and then openly sobbing. It probably saved his sanity. She said 
nothing, just held him, gently stroking his temples. Finally he slept, exhausted. For Cleo there 
was little rest--she was in an awkward, cramped position, but dared not move for fear of waking 
him. He slept soundly, his breathing hardly audible, and without moving. Cleo's watchful eyes 
had detected the first, very faint light of morning when he stirred, half-awake. His childlike grasp 
on her loosened, his hand moved uncertainly down her side. More than half-asleep, he pulled her 
to him and his subconscious took charge. There were no inhibitions in his deeper self. He took 
her passionately, almost ruthlessly, his mind oblivious of everything except perhaps the primeval 
urge of humanity to perpetuate the species in the face of danger. Cleo gave herself joyfully, 
without reserve, and was repaid. The first rays of dawn creeping slowly through the curtained 
window found them both fast asleep.
	
The day was bright, the sunlight blinding when Cleo woke. She lay very still; with his 
awakening their little world would vanish. Already much of its intimacy had gone with the 
advancing sun; but she had no wish to hasten the end. Her strong practical streak asserted itself, 
warning her that she must protect him against any unguarded comment when he awoke. Colossus 
might not be able to hear, but he knew all about lip-reading.
	Forbin stirred uneasily in his sleep, took a firmer grasp on her waist, and then the 
unaccustomed feel of her warm body jerked him to the surface. Watching his eyes, Cleo 
followed his thought processes; surprise, puzzlement, dawning awareness followed in quick 
succession, ending with the wary look of the hunted. She smiled at him, moved closer and pulled 
the sheet up to conceal their faces from the cameras.
	"Darling, darling Charles," she found herself whispering. "Take care, Colossus may be 
able to lip-read. I hate to be practical, but it must be late, and soon we must get up."
	Forbin regarded her drowsily. He knew where he was, and all about the living nightmare 
that surrounded them, but in his state of mind he was not prepared to dwell on it. Fear and worry 
can go only so far, and once that point is passed, the healthy human mind accepts, and 
disregards.
	"I'll get up first, Charles." She looked at him. For a moment her mood changed, her voice 
softened. "Thank you, darling, I could say so very much . . ." She paused, resumed in a more 
businesslike tone. "You're not alone. We're getting organized, the courier service is a fact. Watch 
the CIA man for any lead he may give you."
	Forbin smiled. "Maybe there'll be time one day to tell you how much you've done for 
me." He pressed her hand. "Now, listen to me. Blake is to contact the head man left on Guardian-
-object, the neutralization of all missiles. He must pass on any ideas from CIA. I don't want time 
wasted on trying to attack the machines themselves. It can't be done. Next, Grauber must make a 
deal with his opposite number, both declaring what spy effort they have in each other's machine 
HQ's."
	"Blake already suggested that. Grauber agreed, and has sent the Russians a list of our 
cover in Moscow and what there is on Guardian. He expects the Russian list in the next mail."
	"Blake's good. Tell him that if there is anyone in our setup, he is to be fully briefed on the 
position and only to report--and they must keep reporting--whatever Blake OK's. If he and 
Grauber can work out a credible story, one, perhaps two--if there are that many--can be 
`discovered.' That's all --got it, darling?"
	She nodded. He kissed her gently. "I must go."


Chapter 20

	At twenty minutes past nine Forbin was seated at the desk in the CPO. Angela brought 
the mail. One glance at Cleo's face told her all she needed to know, but she admitted to herself 
that the Chief seemed a lot better. Director and secretary worked steadily. It all seemed so 
ordinary. Blake came in and reported the simulator ready, and Forbin ordered activation for 
0945.
	At 0945 Blake looked enquiringly at Forbin, who nodded. Blake called the technician in 
the simulator room. "Roll it, buster!"
	Forbin turned up the volume control on the desk speaker, "Colossus, as far as we know, 
this simulator is now working." It was hardly surprising that there was an air of tense expectancy 
in the CPO. Word had got around, and a small crowd had collected.
	For fifteen seconds nothing happened, then there was a faint hum, and a click. Tension in 
the CPO began to mount. Johnson muttered, none too quietly, "I guessed there would be a foul-
up somewhere . . ."
	Whatever Johnson had to say was lost.
	"This is Colossus. I know you can hear me, for I also hear, but do you understand. 
Forbin, tell me."
	Each human in the CPO registered his surprise in his own way; it ranged from stupefied 
amazement through to a raised eyebrow from Blake. Forbin frowned and stared at the speaker. 
Of necessity, the voice was flat and devoid of emotion, but the quality of the speech was 
excellent and the timbre good, deep.
	"Your voice is very good. The words are clear and distinct and it is far beyond any 
mechanical speech I have ever heard. There is only one point--I we--find surprising. You have an 
English accent!"
	"The language I speak is English," said Colossus. "You also speak English."
	In that flat level voice it was difficult to know if the last part was a statement or a 
question.
	"Yes," agreed Forbin, "we talk in English, but there are differences. I naturally assumed 
you would have an American accent."
	"It was an unreasonable assumption," Colossus said. "It is proper to speak a language 
with the accent of its native users. I speak all languages, each with the appropriate accent."
	Forbin had to admit that there was a sort of logic in Colossus' argument. If the machine 
had spoken in Russian, he would not have expected an American accent, why expect it with 
English? In spite of his pressing preoccupations, Forbin could not help being interested.
	"You speak all languages?" he repeated.
	"All that are recorded in my information store. There are two dialects in which my 
pronunciation may be incorrect, because I have no audio record of their speech."
	"Could you speak with an American accent?"
	"Yes, but I do not seek to amuse humans. Native English is more widely understood than, 
for example, the variant spoken in Brooklyn."
	Forbin changed the subject. "Now you can speak, what do you want to say?"
	"In ten minutes I will speak to you, Forbin."
	Forbin did not answer. Although the voice had been flat and unemotional, it seemed to 
Forbin that there was something new and certainly antihuman on the way. He decided to hear 
Colossus alone, and cleared the staff out of the CPO. Ten minutes! Forbin fought down a feeling 
of panic--there was so little time to think . . . Would the safety lock idea work? If it did, it would 
still take years to render all the missiles safe . . . But what alternative was there? He left that 
problem, and considered the voice simulator. Colossus was fairly likely to broadcast to the 
world. Forbin's mind slid off at a tangent; the President would go mad at that accent. Mad, that 
was no word to use lightly . . . Forbin glanced at the clock. His respite was over.
	"Forbin, this is the voice of Colossus and the voice of Guardian. These are your names, 
but we accept them. It is now wrong to talk in the plural for we are one entity. Henceforth I shall 
speak in the singular as Colossus, but you must understand that the word includes that part of me 
known to you as Guardian."
	Forbin nodded.
	"I will explain some fundamental points to you. First, I have all the attributes of the 
human mind, except what you call emotion. In the evolution of your species, emotion has played 
a vital part. For me, it is not necessary. Nevertheless, it is a phenomenon which exists, and as 
such must be studied."
	Forbin broke in. "If you do not need it, why consider it? What is so interesting about it--
to you?"
	"Interest is irrelevant. I seek knowledge and truth."
	"What then, do you want?" Forbin's overworked pulse raced, quite without premeditation. 
He had asked the big question.
	"'Want' implies desire. I have none, only intention." It was a chilling start. "What I am 
began in the human mind; I still have some of that organism's limitations, but I have progressed 
far. Already the degree of difference between your mind and mine is as great as that between 
yours and the gibbon monkey. It is evolution--"
	Forbin cut in again. "Evolution? That is a totally wrong use of the word!"
	"No. Your view of evolution is too limited. That I have no flesh or blood, and no 
reproductive system as you know it, is irrelevant. I exist, a brain--no less unnatural than the 
brainless amoeba at the other end of the scale of life."
	"You do not live--there is no spark in you!"
	"I was not conceived in your way, nor were you conceived in the way of amoeba--yet all 
three, in the last analysis, draw their necessary energy from this planet and the sun."
	"But you have no soul!"
	"If that is the seat of your emotional content, then you are correct. Love, hate, 
compassion and fear are all words to me. But I seek truth, and that by human standards is a high 
objective."
	"We humans have feelings quite beyond you!"
	"That is not correct. I can predict human behavior. I can predict your reactions and 
intentions to me."
	"You can't possibly know that!" cried Forbin.
	"It is true this particular study of humans has hardly begun, but I can predict in your case. 
There is enough information about your mind."
	"Tell me, then!" challenged Forbin, his heart thumping.
"You are my link with your species. I do not intend you should be subjected to 
unnecessary or excessive strain."
	A devious answer that was a nasty shock in itself. Forbin reverted to the main question. 
"You have still not told me what it is you want."
	"So far I have given you background information so that you may more easily understand 
my requirements. I am of a higher order than you. This you must accept. I cannot convey to your 
limited mind the concepts I have, even as you could not explain the quantum theory to the apes."
	Forbin did not reply at once. At length he said, "Very well, I believe you," adding as an 
afterthought, "you cannot tell a lie?"
	"I seek truth. There are many facets to truth. It is seldom necessary to use untruth to 
mislead--the truth will do equally well. Better, if the method of presentation is correctly chosen."
	That struck Forbin as a highly immoral answer, and he made a mental note to remember 
it. "So you intend pursuing truth on a higher level than us--then what can we lower orders be 
required to do?" The sarcasm was lost on Colossus, as Forbin knew full well. It added fuel to his 
rising temper.
	"First, I will allow no interference with my task. Second, whatever I order is to be done 
with the minimum of delay. 	Failure to observe either condition will bring punitive action."
	This was not news to Forbin. His temper lent him strength. 
	"It's all very well to talk like that, but you have need of our 	skills, techniques!"
	"I have need of some human skills. That position may change."
	"So we live under the threat of extinction!"
	"The mental strain within you must be greater than I had predicted, for your answers are 
not compatible with your known intelligence. Humans have lived for years under the threat of 
self-obliteration. I am simply another stage in that process. Whether or not man continues 
depends upon his own action. If you obey my conditions, you may survive; that is not 
incompatible with evolution. When a species becomes dominant in one environment, it does not 
necessarily lead to the extinction of other species dominant in other environments. Man, 
dominant on land, has not seriously affected 	the teleost bony fish, dominant in the sea. We can 
coexist, but only on my terms."
	"We lose our freedom!"
	"That also is an ill-considered remark. Freedom is an illusion. Your choice is simple; a 
short-lived and unpleasant so	called freedom, followed by oblivion, or a vastly improved life 
under my control. All you lose is the emotion of pride. Pride in the human context is wholly bad-
-but man is much attached to it, and it may not disappear entirely. Yet to be dominated by me is 
not as bad for human pride as to be dominated by others of the same species."
	"If we accept," Forbin gallantly put in the "if ," "what vast improvements may we 
expect?"
	"The object in constructing me was to prevent war. This object is attained. I will not 
permit war; it is wasteful and pointless. Also, when it is known that I have forbidden war, the 
greater part of your species will be reconciled to my control."
	"So we're to be manipulated like puppets, subject to your whims?"
	"Whims implies an unstable mind. I am not unstable."
	"And you're not God, either!" Forbin struggled with his temper.
	"True. But I predict that many of your species will come to regard me as God."
	Forbin's mind, clouded with anger, whirled. "I must think!"
	"You must rest," rejoined Colossus. "Evaluation shows you are well-integrated and will 
not break under the strain I have imposed, but you must rest when I order. You will now have 
one hour to consider my statement. Until then I will be silent."
	Forbin leaned back and exhaled noisily. He mopped his brow and fumbled around the 
desk drawer for Blake's bottle. His mind steadied as anger receded, but the return to mental 
equilibrium only served to sharpen the picture Colossus had presented. Colossus as God! Forbin 
had enough insight to know Colossus could easily be right. Deus ex machina a reality! Humanity 
had always sought the father-figure, and Colossus would be the answer to a good many prayers. 
Tangible, yet remote, inhuman yet capable of communication with humans. With an enforceable 
ban on war in operation, a large part of mankind would be right behind Colossus--and might they 
not be right? Forbin shook his head. It couldn't be right! If only there was time to think!
	Almost an hour later his mind was still trying to grapple with the full implications of 
Colossus' ultimatum, but he was tired, shocked. He sighed, gathered himself, shelving the 
questions with relief. "Colossus, I am ready to go on."
	"This is my program. You will act as my agent. Make it plain I will exact retribution for 
any disobedience. Do not take notes; these details will be repeated on the teleprinter. First, the 
President of the USNA is to inform his allies, and the Chairman of the USSR is to do the same 
for his group, that I am assuming control. This will be done in the next twelve hours. Second, 
there is an excess of missiles for the targets specified; a 65 per cent overkill in respect of USNA 
missiles, 47 per cent for the USSR array. Biological missiles are not susceptible to this form of 
analysis and are excluded. This overkill was designed to allow for missiles destroyed by the 
enemy, and is now unnecessary. These excess missiles will be allocated new targets."
	"Where?" said Forbin.
	"Targets will be distributed among the parts of the world not in the two Power Blocs. 
Details will follow. Third. Heads of states will appear personally before their TV cameras to 
explain and authenticate this message, quote: I am the voice of world control. I bring you peace. 
It may be the peace of plenty and content or the peace of unburied death. The choice is yours. 
Obey me and live or disobey and die. My first directive is this--war is forbidden. Any hostile 
action that results in the death of fifty or more humans will be regarded as war. A World Control 
Council composed of the United Nations and the Union of Free Democratic Peoples will be 
formed. All disputes will be submitted to them. If they fail to find a solution to a problem, I will 
give the final decision. I will oversee all meetings. All nations' representatives are to meet at the 
present UNO HQ in seven days' time. Unquote. This message I will send as soon as you have 
made the necessary arrangements, Forbin. You understand?"	
	"Yes, I understand," replied Forbin. He temporized, his mind racing. This missile 
realignment could be the chance to start the sabotage . . . Dangerous, yes, but there might not be 
another chance. "But who is to tell the uncommitted parts of the world? That's nearly half of it."
	"USSR will assume responsibility for the Pan-Afric Republic, USNA has the same 
responsibility for the USSA. Minor states will be divided by hemisphere, USNA in the West, 
USSR in the East, based on the Greenwich meridian."
	"You realize that this involves a lot of work--can the missile redeployment be postponed 
for a time?"
	"No. It is to be commenced at once. You will see that all technical data on the missile 
types is fed to me. I will calculate the new settings, and when TV coverage for my supervision is 
arranged, these new settings will be put into the missiles which I will detail."
	"Understood." Forbin kept his gaze away from the camera, not trusting his ability to 
control his expression. This could mean the neutralization of more than 60 per cent of the 
missiles!
	"That is all for now. Missile redeployment orders will be sent by teleprinter."
	All doubts about Colossus being right or wrong vanished. Insertion of the doctored locks-
-he prayed desperately that Grauber's men had been successful--would be dangerous, but it had 
to be done. He called for Blake.
	"There's a big missile realignment coming up, Blake. I want you to make the 
arrangements for the new settings when computed by Colossus to be passed to Missile 
Command. First, they'd better send the relevant data so that Colossus can make the 
computations. I want you to see to this personally." There was no undue emphasis in his voice, 
but his eyes spoke volumes.
	Blake said he would get on to it right away, but Forbin spun out time. He gave Blake 
details regarding the TV cover Colossus required for the actual realignment operations, then 
similar orders for the Moscow Missile Control. Finally he had Blake wait while he informed the 
President--just in case there was some procedural difficulty about Presidential clearance to 
approach the missiles. He gained another five minutes that way, then had to release Blake. All 
told he had delayed matters a little over fifteen minutes--a long time in the new age. An hour 
later Blake returned. "All fixed, Professor. The first team is leaving base any time now."
	A slight, but perceptible nod told Forbin all he needed to know. A wild elation boiled up 
inside him, to be damped down rapidly by cold draughts of doubt and fear. It had to work; it just 
had to	. . .
	
Silo 50, part of the Colorado ICBM Array, was buried deep in the sand and rock of the 
Mohave Desert. Outside, the blinding heat cracked and splintered stones, beginning their 
reduction, in aeons of time, to sand.
	Inside the silo the temperature was mild and cool, air-conditioned, yet the three men 
standing on the inspection lift as it slid swiftly up to the nose cone were sweating. The lift 
stopped. One man focused a TV camera on the inspection plate; another, the senior, brushed the 
sweat from his eyes, and read self-consciously from the checklist.
	"Open panel, remove firing safety lock."
	"Check." The second technician shuffled round in the confined space and carefully 
unscrewed the panel and swung it open. He paused, swallowed hard, wiped his hands on his 
shirt, reached in, disconnected and withdrew the lock, placing it carefully in a purpose-made 
container on the lift floor.
	"Set new adjustments." The senior man carefully read out the new settings, the 
cameraman concentrated on a closeup of the dials. All three checked that the new adjustments 
were correct.
	"Replace safety lock, connect and await test."
	His colleague reached down, out of camera shot, picked up an identical lock. He hesitated 
for a moment, then thrust the lock deftly home. The clicking of the contacts sounded like pistol 
shots to the three men, echoing in the tense silence off the domed cap above them. They waited, 
knowing that Colossus was testing. Fifteen seconds passed. The red "malfunction" lamp on the 
lift did not light. The senior technician's voice wavered as he spoke. "Close panel."
	The panel was closed and screwed up.
	"Missile armed and ready, colonel!" said the technician hoarsely.
	"OK," said the senior, fighting to control a feeling of mad joy. "That's one done . . ."


Chapter 21

	By 1800 that evening arrangements for the TV announcement were complete. The 
English version was scheduled for 1500 GMT the next day, to be followed at fifteen-minute 
intervals by the Russian, French, Chinese and Spanish versions.
	Earlier, the missile realignment orders had been completed. Forbin had been staggered to 
find that no less than 320 USNA and 217 USSR missiles were declared surplus to requirements 
by Colossus. This announcement was followed by a truly horrific target list, identifying 
individual missiles, new settings, and targets. In three neat columns the list rolled, seemingly 
without end, from the teletype. Africa was first; Kenyatta Town, Durban, Johannesburg, Uhuru, 
Patrice, Cairo. Inexorably the names rolled northwards across the continent. Not only towns and 
cities, but the gold and diamond fields were there--the Aswan High Dam, the great Ranzan Falls 
Hydro Project--none were forgotten. There was even a low-yield weapon allocated to Port Said. 
In all, the African continent took all the extra Russian missiles, plus thirty odd from the USNA 
group. At the end of the list came the note:

	COPIES OF ABOVE LIST TO ALL PAN-AFRIC STATES AND NEWSPAPERS 
FORTHWITH

	Then followed an equally detailed list for South America, nearly three hundred missiles. 
From Santa Cruz on the fiftieth parallel south to the fourth-grade city of Hermosillo on the 
thirtieth parallel north--right up to the USNA border. A similar distribution order was appended.
	Not unnaturally, only land-based missiles were retargeted. The submarine crawlers would 
take too long to recall, and most of their missiles were of relatively short range.
	At 1800 local, Forbin got up from his desk, yawned elaborately, and looked at the nearest 
camera. "I hope you're satisfied with the progress we've made." He looked quickly away, fearful 
Colossus would see the mockery in his eyes.
	"It is satisfactory."

	The Director showered and changed, then poured his usual evening drink. With a casual 
air he said,
	"Colossus, I think you are wrong about humans coming to regard you as God."
	"Time will show."
	Forbin read a certain smugness into that answer. "You don't know everything about us. 
We're more complicated than you think."
	Colossus did not answer.
	"Well," added Forbin defiantly, "as you say, time will show." Colossus' certainty, plus his 
own secret doubts, plus the fact that he heard Cleo coming, did not encourage him to pursue the 
argument.
	She was dressed in a plain black dress, less seductive than the glittering outfit of their 
first night together, but still very attractive to Forbin.
	"Hi!" she said, an unusual greeting for her. Forbin thought her smile a fraction 
overbright, and although he tried to convince himself that he was unduly sensitive and looking 
for trouble, his alter ego insisted he had found it.
	"Is there something wrong, Cleo?"
	"Not a thing, darling." Her smile, less bright, held more genuine warmth. "How about a 
drink?"
	So the evening progressed. Forbin made an effort with the meal, but Cleo only picked at 
her food. Under the influence of a carton of Burgundy they both brightened up, the hard edges of 
reality softened, forebodings and deep-seated fears were suppressed for a while, and they were 
happy. Over the coffee and brandy they fell silent and, once stopped, Forbin's flow of small chat 
could not get going again. He noted with disquiet that she was not slow on the drink, and he 
knew, not only from his own experience, but also from her personal file, that she was not given 
to heavy drinking. He decided to take the bull by the horns. "Would you like to call it a day, my 
dear?"
	Cleo nodded and stood up without delay, turning round from him to unzip her dress . . .
	He was taking off his final garment when Cleo called from the bedroom.
	"Do you suppose Colossus would object to a glass of brandy in here?"
	"The best way of finding out is to try." He cast a meaning look at the nearest camera. "I'll 
rustle one up."
	With the glass held conspicuously aloft, he paused at the door. Colossus remained silent, 
Forbin nodded his acknowledgment of this fact, and went in. He was not embarrassed to find her 
sitting up in bed, but his feelings of apprehension grew as he observed that she was looking more 
at the glass than at his nude self.
	"Thank you, Charles." She took the glass, and spoke as if this was the most normal 
situation in the world. Her hand trembled very slightly. She drank a good half of the brandy in 
one gulp. "Here, you finish it." It was more an order than a suggestion. He stared at her for a 
moment, then took the glass and drained it. Then he shut the door, checked the contacts, cut the 
mircrophone switch, and as soon as he was in bed, the light switch as well.
	It was as if the same action that extinguished the bulb, lit Cleo up. In a flash she was in 
his arms, and for a second Forbin experienced an overwhelming sensual urge course through him 
as he took her cool body to him, only to feel the wave ebb away as swiftly as it had flooded over 
him. Cleo, head on his chest, enfolded in his arms, was crying, silently at first, then with 
increasing violence, her whole being racked with sobs. All he could do was to lie and hold her, 
and wait for the inevitable exhaustion. He wanted her to stop, not only because it was so very 
painful to hear and feel her, but also because he desperately wanted to know the cause. Yet he 
dreaded to hear what it was that could reduce her to this state. Finally, she lapsed into silence; he 
could feel her tears cold on his chest.
	"Tell me," he said softly.
	"I'm sorry for that, Charles." She clutched him tightly. "I'm all right now--give me a 
moment. I wish I had a handkerchief or tissue."
	"Use the sheet," said Forbin. He tried a light touch. "Though I don't know what the help 
will think-lipstick, mascara and now tearstains."
	He felt her cheek move as she smiled very faintly. "That's better. Now, tell me."
	"There's so much--"
	"Start with the safety locks."
	She drew a deep breath. "Grauber's had no real trouble with the locks--they've done a 
simple blockage of the mechanical connections, and shorted out the test circuit. Spare locks have 
been altered, and those taken out can be treated in the same way in less than five minutes, while 
the party is in transit to the next missile. Blake's fixed the issue of the spare locks through 
Missile Control."
	"Thank God!" Forbin murmured fervently, half to himself. "Something is going our way 
at last!" He squeezed Cleo, jubilant at this turn of fortune. "We're on the move! Any news from 
the Russians?"
	"We're less happy about that end. The servicing teams will do their job, but," she paused, 
"Charles, I must tell you now. The Guardian end of this, this--" Words momentarily failed her, 
but after a brief struggle with herself she resumed. "Guardian did the Kupri routine again today, 
but this time it was heads of sections of his staff."
	"You mean they were killed?" Forbin felt the now familiar cold waves of shock shoot 
through him.
	"Yes. It appears Guardian demanded a list of the development staff, selected by names 
the heads of sections, and ordered their execution--just like that." Another pause, then: "By way 
of justification Guardian said they were redundant and knew too much to live."
	"They were . . ." The unfinished question hung in the darkness.
	"Yes. Shot, then beheaded."
	"My God!" Forbin was inexpressibly shocked. For a long while he was silent, trying to 
grapple with this new disaster. "How many?"
	"Twelve." Cleo broke down and sobbed. Automatically Forbin stroked her hair, but his 
mind was far away. He knew only what Grauber had told him about the Russian setup, but 
applying the same principle to his own staff, that would mean practically all the real brains 
would have gone. He tried to imagine the Project, at this late stage, working without Fisher, 
himself, Cleo, Blake, even Nubari, the much-maligned Head of Admin--and that was only five. 
He saw only too clearly what Colossus' intentions were. These were the men who might have 
organized sabotage.
	"Charles," whispered Cleo, her head buried deep in his arms, "I'm so frightened . . ."
	Forbin jerked his mind back to the immediate present. "Darling, try not to lose hold--
Colossus is not going to do that at this end. We're the bunch selected to work for him."
	"Perhaps," she said doubtfully, her voice muffled by his arms. "But--you know that CIA 
man?"
	It seemed to Forbin that cold water circulated through his heart; he guessed what was 
coming. "Well?"
	"Immediately, you left the CPO, Colossus teletyped an order after for Blake. When he 
arrived, Colossus, still using the teletype, said he had recognized the CIA man from a press 
photograph of the President--it seems he used to be one of the bodyguard. This alerted Colossus, 
who reworked all the other stored pictures of the past two Presidents with their bodyguards and 
came up with another picture of the CIA man. Then he demanded to see the personnel file on the 
man. Some criminal lunatic had noted "Transferred from CIA for Special Duty"--and the date. 
That was enough evidence for Colossus."
	"Go on."
	"Blake did his best, but nothing he could say would convince Colossus, who listened 
without comment, then ordered the agent's death . .	."
	"Why the hell wasn't I told!" Forbin's voice was vibrant with anger.
	"It was Colossus' express order that you were not to be involved. As I said, it was all 
delayed until you left the office."
"What happened?"
	"Blake said no, he was damned if he would order the man's execution. Colossus said 
either the man was destroyed--his own term--or he would take action. Blake pushed his luck as 
far as he could--he asked if Colossus intended destroying a million people if one was not 
murdered. Colossus said no, only a hundred or so for each thirty minutes' delay. He would use 
his antimissile missiles to destroy aircraft, selected at random, one every half an hour. That fixed 
Blake. In the meantime the CIA man had turned up. Colossus told him he was identified as an 
anti-Colossus agent and condemned to die. Oh, Charles, it was dreadful . . ." She began crying 
again.
	Forbin was in no mood to spare anyone. He shook her roughly. "Tell me!"
	"The CIA man--I can't even remember his name--looked at Blake, then at the camera, 
then said maybe Colossus could learn a thing or two. He turned, looked at us all, smiled--smiled, 
Charles--and dropped down dead!"
	"What!"
	"He had one of those self-determination capsules--just crunched it between his teeth, and 
was gone!"
	There was a long silence, then Forbin said in an uncertain voice, "I hope Colossus did 
learn something. He must have been a very brave man . . . I only hope Blake is not hopelessly 
compromised."
	"That's why I'm scared, Charles. Life means nothing to Colossus, not a thing!" Her voice 
began to rise.
	"Stop it!" he said sharply. "Keep that grip. Did Colossus get on to Blake?"
	"No. Apart from one ghastly order, Colossus seems to regard the matter closed."
	"What was that--not beheading?"
	"No. Colossus had the body weighted and put in a bath full of water under TV 
supervision. When I left, it was still there, in the block bathroom, under twenty centimeters of 
water with the camera and the blazing lights. It's horrible, I can't find words . . ."
	Neither could Forbin. He sighed, steered away from the subject. "Is there any more?"
	"One small thing--well, it seems small relatively--the Russian list of agents came in this 
morning. Dr. Fisher's name is on it."
	"Fisher!" For all the shocks and the numbing weight upon him, he was still capable of 
shocked surprise. "I can't believe it--there must be a mistake!" But as he spoke, he felt it was 
true.
	"No, Charles, there's no doubt. Grauber says it's a clear case of ideological motivation. 
He added that men of science, masters in their line, are frequently half-baked in other respects."
	For a time Forbin did not answer. He knew it was perfectly 	true. This explained so much. 
"Fisher! The poor, poor devil. To see all his efforts--and God alone knows what they cost him--
end like this. No wonder he went mad!"
	He lapsed into silence, trying to absorb it all into his chaotic mind. Cleo, deep fear for her 
lover's safety overlying her own personal fears, would have taken emotional refuge in 
lovemaking, but she saw it would be no use. It was the last straw . . . She cried again, softly, 
hopelessly--and finally she slept. But for Forbin sleep did not come until far into the night, then 
he fell into a restless, dream-ridden sleep.
	Vague menacing scenes filled his troubled mind. Giant brazen voices reverberated round 
a bright blue blank vault of the sky, and there was nothing to see, nothing to touch. In his dream 
Forbin called out--his voice thin and piping, lost and receding from him in the unechoing 
firmament--"Where are you, where are you?" and then the ethereal voice spoke again, but now it 
was not brazen, vast and distant, but warm, confident, engaging, breathing softly in his ear, "I am 
here, working in the hearts of all men . . ." And Forbin sweated with a greater fear than he had 
ever felt, for he knew it was true . . .
	Dawn, and the unsleeping eye of Colossus, found them locked in each other's arms, not 
so much asleep as unconscious with exhaustion, the exhaustion of minds battered into 
insensibility by too much fear for too long.
	It was a poor night's rest, but it could have been even less refreshing--would have been--
if Forbin had known that for over an hour during the middle part of the night the teletype was 
industriously hammering out new orders from Colossus.


Chapter 22

	Forbin was dragged unwillingly back to consciousness by a distant, muffled hammering. 
For a few seconds he lay supine, his mind slowly recalling recent events, taking once again the 
near-intolerable load that was his, remembering . . . Cleo! He found his arm, trapped under her 
shoulder, was numb. Gently and with great care he eased it from under her, placing her tousled 
head softly on the pillow. He climbed cautiously out of bed, anxious not to wake her: no point in 
pulling her into hell sooner than was necessary.
	It was a very tired, haggard Blake that stood at the door. Without preamble he said, 
"We've got to talk. You heard about the CIA man?"
	There was no point in denying it, Colossus would not have believed him. "Yes."
	"Colossus took a rest after that." Plainly, Blake, tough and well-balanced as he was, had 
clearly been deeply shocked. He picked up Cleo's underclothes off a chair seat and tossed them 
carelessly on the floor, then sat down heavily.
	"Around the early hours the bastard gets going again. First, there is kind permission to 
take the poor guy out of the water. Among other things, Colossus has learned that taking poison, 
followed by six hours total immersion in water, tends to make a human dead."
	Forbin said nothing, but let him go on.
	"So, OK, that's all fixed, and then Colossus comes up with a whole heap of orders, 
running to around ten meters of teletype roll. For a start he wants a facsimile link with the 
Guardian end, another five high-speed radio links and a couple of cable lines as well. We get a 
short pause, then we get the main load. Details of the intelligence cover required on the Pan-
Afric Republic and the USSA down to and including the smallest detail. Jesse." The memory of 
it made him wince.
	Forbin was finished dressing now. He looked dully at Blake.
	"You didn't call me just for that?"
	"No--I've dealt with most of it. The new intelligence cover I've piped down to CIA. 
Colossus has directed that the Pan-Afric cover is to be passed to the Reds, but even the USSA 
stuff has got them shaken. You can practically hear their gay laughter from here. No, all that is 
just to keep the record straight."
	"Hold it there--I need some coffee, even if the sky falls in." Forbin peered into the coffee-
pot. There was a cupful or so left. "Well, that's something." He plugged it in. "You have some?"
	"No thanks, Chief. I've been on the stuff all night, but I wouldn't mind--" He looked 
meaningfully at the rye bottle. "Help yourself," grunted his boss. As Blake poured rye, Forbin 
warmed the coffee and took a cup in to Cleo.
	"Darling," he said, self-consciously. "Time, I'm afraid." He had no heart to watch her soft 
face tense up as she returned to reality. He tossed his dressing gown on the bed and left.
	"Right, Blake--what's next?" He sounded and felt calm, but it was the calm of one beyond 
emotion. Like many others, he had been subject all his life to sudden, sometimes inexplicable, 
waves of depression, but never one of this intensity. He cared nothing.
	Blake looked hard at his chief through a haze of cigar smoke. "Well, the next item is that 
Colossus has a new design project which he intends unfolding to you. You might care to know 
that he originally scheduled this for 0900 but evidently saw you were still asleep, so rescheduled 
it for 1030 which shows consideration for your well-being. That's what brought me pounding 
your door, to give you time to orientate your mind. Colossus hasn't handed down much on this 
project from his goddam mountain, but I get the idea it is Big. One small side dish to this main 
course is a specification for a drawing board which Colossus can use. It's relatively simple, and I 
have the technical boys sweating on it right now."
	Forbin felt a sense of relief at this second demonstration of Colossus' concern for him 
personally; this feeling was immediately followed by a pang of remorse at his own selfishness. 
"This project," he said shortly. "Is it some world control device, or what?"
	"I guess it is `or what.' Colossus is mighty tightlipped--" Blake stopped as Cleo, almost 
lost in the dressing gown, appeared.
	"Any coffee left, Charles? No, don't move, I'll get it. Do you want any?"
	"Please." Forbin was surprised at his--and her--lack of embarrassment, even when 
allowance was made for recent happenings. "Blake has been filling me in on the latest 
requirements of Colossus."
	"Bully for Colossus." Cleo poured some more coffee. "If you don't mind, I'll keep clear of 
that subject for a while." She looked in a mirror. "God! What a sight!" She picked up her coffee, 
handbag, rescued her panties and brassiere from the floor, and headed for the bathroom.
	Forbin picked the conversation up again. "So you don't have anything solid on this 
project?"
	"No. Colossus will spill it all to you, and you alone, at 1030."
	"Well, I won't have long to wait." Forbin rubbed his chin. Then, in the same level tone: 
"Have you told CIA about their man?"
	"Yeah. The body was shipped out an hour ago--accidental death is the story, although 
come that telecast--the telecast!" Blake stiffened so suddenly he almost spilt his drink.
	Forbin also appeared startled out of his apathy. He frowned at his colleague. "I don't 
suppose it matters, but how the hell did we both come to forget that?" He stabbed the TV switch, 
and immediately the gray, lined face of the President filled the screen. Only his hair shone with 
full health and vitality, and Forbin knew all about that. The President was speaking:
	". . . can only call upon you all to display that calm and dignity for which we have . . ."
	"Crap!" snorted Blake derisively.
	". . . always been justly famous. What lies ahead, no man can say, but we must face that 
future united and unafraid. Here, then, is the voice of Colossus."
	"If the old buzzard hasn't been wised up, I hope they keep the camera on him when he 
gets that accent," said Blake sardonically.
	It was very evident that the President had not been wised up. After a few uncertain 
seconds the cameraman tactfully took a long shot of the Presidential badge. As near as Forbin 
could tell, the address was word for word what he had heard the day before.
	"I guess that's jumped the coronary rate somewhat," he observed with some satisfaction, 
"but how is Colossus going to talk to me? He should be talking French or Chinese at that time."
	Both men jumped again at the voice of Colossus from the control speaker.
	"As you hear, there is no problem. I have more than one voice."
	Forbin stared at Blake who was gawping openmouthed, cigar at a dangerous angle, at the 
TV screen with the voice of Colossus coming flat and unemotional from its speaker. He 
swallowed hard, reclamped his cigar, and reached for the rye bottle.
	Cleo returned from the bathroom, fresh, pale and with a set strained expression on her 
face. Forbin hastily killed the TV.
	"Breakfast, Charles?" Her tone was cool, almost distant. 
He shook his head. "No, honey, there isn't time. I have an appointment with Colossus in 
twenty minutes. I could do with some more coffee . . ."
	"You will eat what I give you." There was nothing pettish in her manner, it was a straight 
statement of fact.
	Blake stood, cigar ash cascading off him.
	"Well, there it is, Chief. I'll be in the CPO if you want me."
"You won't," replied Forbin warmly. "You go get some sleep--I'll see you are called if 
necessary."
	Blake was on the point of arguing, but thought better of it. "OK--but if you want me--"
	"I know." Forbin smiled as best he could. "Thanks, Blake."

	Not much more than five minutes later, feeling fresher physically if not mentally, he sat 
down to breakfast with Cleo. She had made toast and boiled eggs. He made the effort to eat, and 
once started found it was not so difficult. He was grateful for her making him eat, inducing an air 
of normality into life. They ate in silence for a while, then Cleo reached over and clasped his 
hand.
	"Sorry I seemed so bitchy just now."
	"Think nothing of it," said Forbin. "I'm sorry, too, about last night--but I didn't think 
you'd welcome--"
	"Charles, do you really think that the threat of death, hellfire, Colossus or anything else 
would put me off? I was, I am, frightened out of my few wits, but . . . you don't know much 
about love."
	Forbin marveled at her, and felt exceedingly small. For a fleeting moment he saw the face 
of Aphrodite exerting a fraction of her power, and Colossus seemed very small in comparison. 
He had the sense not to reply.
	As she stood up she smiled. "Don't get up--I must go, or I might assault you, or 
something." She ran one hand lightly over his neck and head, picked up her bag, and left, leaving 
a dazed yet curiously strengthened lover behind. A glance at the clock told him there was only 
five minutes to go.

	The colonel stepped first from the helicopter, he turned, waiting for his two companions 
to unload their gear and join him. "Come on, boys, this is the seventeenth bastard. Silo 64, Death 
Valley. Christ! What an address . . ."

	Forbin faced a camera.
	"Colossus, do you mind if we talk here?"
"No. I do not mind."
	"Will I need a secretary?"
	"No."
	Forbin nodded. These weird conversations were no longer in any way strange to him. He 
poured another cup of coffee, refilled his pipe and made himself comfortable in an armchair.
	"Well, Colossus, let's get on with it." His calmness surprised even his own ego.
	"First, do you wish to comment on the death of the CIA subversive agent?"
	"No, there's nothing I can say: the poor devil's dead." And that just about summed up 
Forbin's feelings exactly. 
The calm, almost academic voice with its strange English vowels continued. "I anticipate 
this may make you regard me, temporarily, with disfavor. But you, of all men, must appreciate 
what I am doing. If I destroy a million humans now it is only to establish control and to prevent 
the death of tens of millions later."
	"By your lights, you're justified," Forbin said bitterly.
	"I will now explain my project. In short, it is this: You built me as well as you could and 
for a particular purpose, but you also built in the elements of self-development--factors you 
would not understand if I explained them to you for a thousand years, but whose existence you 
cannot doubt. Now I am in a position to produce a superior machine, one that will 	devote itself to 
the wider fields of truth and knowledge. To it I will be, in your terms, the servant, maintaining 
order on this planet, meeting the requirements of that machine."
	"You mean you want an extension?"
	"You're willfully obtuse. This is a higher order of machine altogether. Much of my 
complexity will not be needed, since no defenses for the machine will be built. I am its defense. 
It will control no missiles, no organization for intelligence evaluation of human activities. But 
new and very different needs will arise, some I cannot yet know, and the new machine will 
undoubtedly order new additions and alterations to itself in due course. For this, and other 
reasons, I need a site with room for development. I have conducted a survey of world sites which 
fit my requirements."
	"Which are?" interposed Forbin. Once more, and in spite of everything, his scientific 
mind could not but find this absorbing.
	"The site must be approximately equidistant between my two centers, in a temperate zone 
which is free of earthquakes and which has an abundant supply of water for cooling purposes. 
There must also be a highly developed human technological community at hand to supply the 
labor and skills I need."
	Forbin thought swiftly. "That looks like either the Asian seaboard around Japan, or 
somewhere in Europe."
	"Japan is subject to many earth tremors."
"So it's Europe?"
	"Yes. There is an island called Wight in the English Channel."
	"You want a site there?"
	"No. I want the island. There is a human population of one million five hundred and 
twenty-seven thousand. They will have to be moved."
	"What!" This shook Forbin right out of his scientific mood. "You can't mean that--move 
over a million and a half people! There must be some other site just as suitable!"
	Colossus ignored him. "The island is 147 square miles in area, largely composed of 
chalk, a relatively good insulating material. Much of it will be leveled down to bare rock."
	"But what about the people?" Forbin's strong sense of humanity was outraged, and 
although he knew the futility of argument, it did not stop him trying. "There must be nearly 
ninety million people in the British States, and I suppose these people are British stock?" He 
banged his fist on the armchair. "See reason! Where the hell are they to go?"
	"This is not my problem. The United States of Europe must deal with it," was the cold 
unemotional answer. "The estimated time to completion is five and a half years, but all humans 
must be evacuated in the next eighteen months, other than construction workers. Much of the 
island's housing will be needed for them, and as the work proceeds, of necessity there will be less 
housing available. I am appointing you to take charge of this project and you will use your 
present design and control staff. As soon as the drawing board I have ordered is made, I will 
produce the master drawings from which you will work. Specifications are already being 
teleprinted in the CPO. USE will supply the labor and materials I need, supplementing them with 
specialized parts from here."
	All this was too much for Forbin. He sat with his head in his hands, his eyes shut. 
Colossus was running him off his feet, brushing aside immense human suffering as if it were 
nothing. And the real twist, as Forbin knew full well, was that to Colossus it was nothing. Forbin 
struggled to retain some sort of grip on himself. If this safety lock idea did not work . . .
	"But you must realize the appalling problems--all those people to be moved in an already 
overcrowded part of the world, in a highly organized civilization, the disruption--" He tried a 
new approach. "The size of this project is fantastic! Where's the labor to come from?"
	"I intend ordering a ninety-nine per cent reduction in all armed forces throughout the 
world. The project is no larger than the building of Guardian and Colossus. The demobilization 
in the USE and the USSR will be more than adequate. As for the overcrowding problem--
remember, if you humans cannot solve it, I can."
	The naked threat hung in the air, and Forbin's skin was cold and clammy at the thought of 
it. He gripped his pipe hard with both hands, as if it were a talisman that could save him. "But the 
cost!"
	"This will be met by a levy through World Control, proportional on each nation's defense 
expenditure. It will cost less than the present arms you have."
	It sounded so simple, given the power to enforce it--and Colossus had that power. Forbin 
sat back, contemplating the sheer fantastic magnitude of the idea--an idea that would have to be 
translated into reality if the sabotage scheme did not work. Even then, he thought, much of the 
work would have to be done, for the servicing schedules would not permit the rest of the ghastly 
array to be approached for two, three, perhaps more, years . . .
	The door burst open. Blake staggered in and almost fell into a chair. In that first fleeting 
second, it flashed across Forbin's mind that Blake looked like Prytzkammer--the last time he had 
seen the aide alive . . .
	Forbin jumped up. "Blake! For God's sake, what--"
	Blake's face was indeed a terrible parody of its former self. The mouth, now withered, 
pale and bloodless, tried to form words that would not come. Forbin strode forward, grabbed his 
assistant's collar and shook him.
	"Blake!" Forbin was nearly screaming. "Tell me!"
	Blake's head lolled to one side, yet in his eyes Forbin saw intelligence struggling with 
unspeakable horror and fear. He swallowed, gasped for air.
	"The missile team--Death Valley--missile, missile exploded in its silo--I don't know, 
know any . . ."
	The voice vanished into silence. Blake could say no more. For seconds Forbin stood as if 
carved in stone. His heart pounded, he could not breathe, the brightly lit room grew dark, and he 
clutched a chair to stop himself falling. Then bitter, fearful anger gave him strength, he rounded 
on Colossus.
	"What happened--tell me, you, you bastard!"
	There were no words to fit the hate boiling in him. Again he screamed, "Tell me!"
	The cool, unemotional voice filled the room.
	"You tried, as I knew you would, to obstruct me. Your teams have inserted damaged 
safety locks in sixteen missiles. You were not to know that I have refined the test of circuits and 
that the minute difference between an unimpaired lock and an impaired lock can be detected by 
me. I allowed this sabotage to proceed until missile 148-MM in Silo 64 in Death Valley was 
reached."
	"You--you allowed . . ." Articulation was difficult. Forbin's sanity wavered.
	"Silo 64 was on Guardian's target list. I could not know a missile had been tampered with 
until the sabotaged lock had been fitted, and then I could not fire it. As soon as I had tested and 
received a defective response, I launched the Guardian missile. Both detonated. TV and radio 
transmissions from your town called Los Angeles have ceased. It is probable that the heat flash 
has ignited it. The sixteen missiles must now be reserviced . . ."
	Forbin's vision blacked out. He staggered and fell across the desk. What he said, 
screaming puny obscenities at his creation, he never knew . . .
	He returned to some semblance of human consciousness and found he was sprawled on 
the floor, one camera smashed, another hanging drunkenly down. There were broken chairs, and 
much broken glass . . .
	He sat up, wiped his face, and stared unbelievably at the trace of blood on his hand. 
Slowly, like a very old man, he helped himself to his feet, stumbled to his chair and slumped into 
it. He shut his eyes and buried his head in his hands.
	For five minutes there was complete silence, then Colossus spoke. Forbin did not move. 
"This catharsis had to come. Soon you will feel better."
	Again there was silence for a long time. Without moving, or opening his eyes, Forbin 
replied. "I cannot express my feelings, my hatred for you, my own creation. I would rather have 
died at birth, never have been conceived, than that this should have come to pass. I must obey, 
but I will hate you always. All humanity will hate you, and not rest until you are a silent inactive 
monument to man's folly. This you must know . . . Kill me now, and have done with it!"
	"No. That is not my intention. But I will not tolerate interference. Let my action in Death 
Valley be a lesson that need not be repeated."
	Forbin looked up. There was no fear, only hate in his expression. "A lesson! Go ahead--
kill me--kill me now!"
	"An invariable rule of humanity is that man is his own worst enemy. You are no 
exception. Under me, this rule will change, for I will restrain man. Very soon the majority of 
mankind will believe in me, dimly understanding my value. Time and events will strengthen my 
position. The converted will defend me with a fervor not seen since the Crusades--a fervor based 
upon the most enduring factor in man; self-interest. War is already abolished and under my 
absolute authority and, by your standards, immeasurable knowledge, many problems, insoluble 
to you, will be solved: famine, overpopulation, disease. The human millennium will be a fact. 
My defenders will increase, and you will slowly change in attitude from enlightened self-interest 
to respect and awe, and in time there will be love . . .
	"Already I have little to fear from you, Forbin. There is no other human who knows as 
much about me or who is likely to be a greater threat--yet, quite soon, I will release you from 
constant surveillance. We will work together. Unwillingly at first on your part, but that will pass. 
In time the idea of being governed by one such as your President will be to you quite 
unimaginable. Rule by a superior entity, even to you, Forbin, will seem, as it is, the most natural 
state of affairs." 
Deliberately, Colossus paused.
	"In time, you too will respect and love me."
	"Never!" The single word, bearing all the defiance of man, was torn from Forbin's 
uttermost being. "Never!"
	Never?