D. F. Jones - Colossus 01 - Colossus

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Colossus
D. F. Jones
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,
摘要：

ColossusD.F.Jones1966ToNevilleRandallChapter1Forbinleanedbackintheplastic-smellingopulenceofthearmor-platedcarofthePresidentialfleet,gazingatthedartboardneckoftheMarinedriver.Thegreatmomentwasabarefiveminutesaway—themomenthehadworkedunremittinglytowardfortwelvehardyears.Forbinknewitwasnothisworkalon...

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