Colossus and Crab (18 page)

Forbin glanced at the digital time-presentation in one comer of the screen: ten seconds into the test. The sound was rising more quickly now, climbing exponentially.

Rain pouring from the lower lip of the intake bent sharply up, curved inwards, then vanished into the horn.

At fifteen seconds a full-throated roar, birth cry of the monster. The sound went on rising in scale and intensity. The upper surfaces of the horns were obscured by a cloud of white mist as rain flashed into steam on the friction-heated metal.

Now the monster was screaming, a fearful, tormenting sound. Someone turned down the gain of the microphone array, but even so the intensity of the sound got through, hammering the ears. Another explosive flash and the steam-cloud vanished from the Collector’s surfaces, reforming five, ten meters above it. The scream, ever rising, went on and on. The microphones were cut again until Forbin no longer knew if he heard or imagined he heard, aware only of the pain in his head.

To the scientist in Forbin, what followed was not unexpected, and along with fear he felt wonder. The central core sound had gone beyond audio range, though a roaring, tearing background remained. But the sound was swiftly forgotten: he saw air as first the intake, then the exhaust went transonic.

A supersonic aircraft builds a pressure wave which sweeps the earth beneath, heard as a passing clap of mechanical thunder. The stationary Collector reversed the process, the air moving supersonically. A standing wave was created, at first just beyond the intake rim, a wave visible as sharp, curving lines, extensions of the horns, a natural Schlieren picture.

Microseconds later he heard it without microphones - a continuous thunder, blotting out all other noise. The floor shook and trembled beneath Forbin’s feet; a paperweight on the desk thrummed, then slid as the immensely powerful shock wave hit; the TV picture was blurred, clearing slowly as the camera’s shock absorbers damped its movement.

The hurtling shaft of air, woolly at first, sharpened as it reached the intake. Clutching his chair, Forbin saw that the outer end of the solid bar of air was bending upwards, slowly, majestically. Clouds boiled and vanished as the giant vacuum cleaner sucked in the tattered streamers. Soon it became a twisting funnel of air curved like a cornucopia in reverse, sucking in the goodness of the earth, reaching ever upwards.

But in that mind-blasting minute someone in Condiv HQ kept his head, switching in the satellite picture. Although some definition was lost in cloud-piercing, the picture, taken from forty or fifty kilometers above and to one side, was all too horrifyingly clear. The upward arching intake of air sucked in support on all sides, its whirling vortex stripping the surface off the sea, creating with frightening speed short, steep waves, racing inwards, clashing, smashing.

Parts of the Collector glowed red, and glimpses of the final reduction sphere, shrouded in a local steam-storm, suggested it was white hot.

The exhaust, a vast cone of superheated steam, shot out bar-straight for a hundred yards. Then it, too, curved upwards, more steeply than the intake, and was lost in the chaotic heaving mass of clouds.

Aghast at what he saw, Forbin watched, gripped by the unearthly sight. The satellite picture gave him the first hint: the skyward curving torrents of mangled air would meet like the forcefield of a magnet, a magnet on a vast scale, the field perhaps fifty kilometers in diameter.

The fantastic meteorological conditions, super-hot air and hot steam, smashing into cold cloud three kilometers up created instant, violent thunderstorms. Watching the picture, the silent stabbing of vivid lightning cutting through rising fog of spray, cloud, and steam, Forbin’s self-control snapped. He yelled to the lightning, imploring, “Kill it! Kill it!”

The whole complex shook with the violence of the Collector. Neither armor nor cement walls could keep out the thunderous roar of the standing shock wave.

With difficulty he read the blurred image of the time presentation: three minutes forty-five seconds.

His pipe had gone along with much else on his desk, vibrated onto the floor. Everything, literally, was jumping. He turned a contorted face towards the Martians, only fear keeping him in check. They alone were rock steady, suspended over their table.

“You see,” he screamed at them, pointing, “it can’t work!” The TV picture tilted to a crazy angle, an unfocused shot of a writhing sky, and the screen went black. Only the satellite camera still worked, the rest wrenched from their anchorages. “Stop!” screamed Forbin. “Stop it!”

Strong above the storm came the Martian voice. “No. One minute left. Wait.”

Helplessly Forbin watched the satellite picture. A zoom-shot showed the Isle, assailed on all sides by a sea gone mad. Giant waves smashed against cliffs, hurling great clouds of spray skywards. Downwind of the exhaust, incredibly, the sea had been blown back, exposing the bottom, itself eroding in steam and flying sheets of mud under the terrific thrust. A longer shot revealed the same field force pattern, but it was the sea that held Forbin’s appalled gaze: never in the history of the earth had there been such fantastic waves. He could not guess their height or direction. For certain no man-built vessel could live within kilometers of that lunatic maelstrom.

“Go and look yourselves,” cried Forbin. “Go and see!”

“Conditions are not suitable.”

Forbin was half laughing, half crying.’ ‘Not suitable for you - how about us? Look at it!”

Gigantic swords of lightning stabbed tirelessly down, the ice blue brilliance dimmed by the tropical deluge; but that, however awe-inspiring, was at least familiar to humans. As he stared and prayed, a wild thought crossed his mind: they might belong to Mars, the God of War, but lightning was the weapon of the King of the Gods, Zeus, to whom all gods must bend in .submission. He prayed with all his being that the lightning would strike.

He was too dazed to notice the time click up to minute five. Realization came five seconds later. The continuous explosion stopped sharply; by comparison the crackling, rumbling bangs of the earth-storm were nothing.

Almost as quickly the awful shaking ceased, the room was still. The satellite picture showed small difference, but the immediate crisis had passed. He sagged over his desk, head on arms, too exhausted to see if the Collector was still intact, thankful for the respite, but responsibility soon drove him on. Somehow he found the right button.

“This is the Director.” His gaze, full of hate, rested on the Martians. ‘ “That is the end of the test.” More he could not say.

The two shafts of air had collapsed, but overhead the turbulence they had created went on: black clouds towered fifteen thousand meters above the site, eerily lit from inside by the storm center; the lightning was incessant, the rain endless.

By someone’s technical brilliance the TV camera three kilometers from the site was brought back into operation, and Forbin’s heart sank. As far as he could see the Collector, part shrouded in rain and steam, was untouched by the devastation it had caused. It still stood, unmoved, triumphant.

Forbin finally broke the silence. ” Well,” he said heavily, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

As before, sarcasm meant nothing to the aliens.

“Earth environment is more violent than we had supposed, but subject to evaluation of the test results and our examination, the test is acceptable.”

Forbin stared in complete disbelief, hard put to find words. “You can’t - you just can’t mean it,” he said at last. “I can’t imagine the damage you have caused, and certainly you can’t. That was a disaster!”

“Not so. The Collector appears to be undamaged. Therefore, the disaster you refer to must be in human terms, and even that cannot extend more than a hundred and fifty kilometers from the site.”

“A hundred -! You’ve -” He broke off, shaking his head, completely frustrated. To explain to a hungry anopheline mosquito that her microscopic meal of human blood gave the donor malaria would have been easier.

“You have finished?” Martian manners were not grounded on human concepts: they wanted to know.

He shook his head angrily. “There’s nothing I can say.”

“Understood. The final test will be made as soon as the evaluation is complete. Duration, thirty minutes.”

He hardly heard the end of the sentence; they had said “final test.”

140

Chapter XVIII

Two HOURS LATER, apart from occasional stabs of lightning, the scene had reverted to relative normality. True, more of the cliffs before the intake had been eroded in five minutes than in a thousand years, and the lethal exhaust had gouged a furrow twenty meters deep into the clay, but otherwise the site appeared to be much as it had been before the test began, except that there were no birds.

Forbin had spent the time in something very close to a trance, his gaze fixed on the TV image. An hour earlier the gesticulating figure of Fultone, accompanied by an assistant, had emerged from the shuttle terminal. Forbin watched impassively as the little man, frequently falling, cautiously approached the monster. He noticed that both figures kept well clear of the exhaust furrow. The way the continuing rain turned to steam as it hit the hard-baked earth told him why. He drew what comfort he could from that. The Collector would be far too hot for even the robot checkers, let alone humans. A shaft of sunlight sweeping over the machine aroused him from his reverie.

“Observing your need for speed,” he said coldly, “I am surprised you have not conducted your examination.” Heat would be no problem to them.

“Conditions are not suitable.”

He stabbed one finger at the picture. “It’s suitable enough for us humans - why not you?” He paused. “Or do you want the site cleared before you appear?” Beneath his chill manner, he was thinking fast. Technically the Martians were children; perhaps he could get Fultone to rig lights, have relays of men out there day and night, delaying the aliens, giving Blake more time …

“As you have suggested, we do not wish to be seen. That is one reason.”

“There are others?” he said swiftly.

“There is rain.”

“Rain?” Forbin was puzzled.

“Yes. We have no experience of water in any form. It is alien to us. Our projections suggest it may be harmful.”

“Indeed?” He spoke as casually as he could. “I understood you to say there was once water on Mars.”

“Correct, but that was many millennia ago, and even then we had no contact with it.”

“Really?” He spoke as if it was a matter of no importance. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it here.”

The Martians were not deceived. “Do not delude yourself, Forbin. We could easily evade any attempt you might make against us, and would instantly punish you. You should not forget that with the Collector completed, we do not need human help, but we will keep our part of the agreement if you do. We are not -“

“I know, you have told me.” Forbin struggled to keep his temper in check.

“Do not forget it.”

He stayed silent, but his mind was busy with this new item. He looked at the rain with a very different attitude; simple, natural water might be a friend.

He resumed his watch. Fultone had slipped and fallen into a water-filled crater; the assistant was hauling him out, a bedraggled figure, white with slimy chalk. The Martian reference to rain had sent Forbin hunting for some memory; there had been a moment when something slightly surprising had happened - he recalled the sensation of surprise quite clearly - but whatever it was had been quickly buried under an avalanche of events.

Fultone was not giving in. His rainhat had gone, and his wispy hair was stuck on his head. Forbin could see his bald patch very clearly as the little man struggled on.

What had surprised him? The Martian aversion to water had started this train of thought; therefore the surprise and water were connected. From that it followed that the event had to be out of doors.

Out of doors … Start from the first sighting, the horrific moment when they filled the sky with blackness … .

Forbin stopped himself sharply. While he was convinced that the Martians would “play the game” and not try to read his thoughts - certain of their power, why should they? - accidents could happen. His power of total recall was best exercised elsewhere.

Fultone was under one pair of splayed legs, an insignificant figure beneath the still steaming giant. He was touching one of the legs and, if possible, gesticulating even more than ever. Had he found a fault? Forbin resisted the hope which leapt like a flame inside him. Better to wait; he would know soon enough. Meanwhile, no point in adding to so many disappointments.

“What is that human doing?”

God, they don’t miss much, he thought. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said briskly, standing up. “If there is any damage we’ll be told soon enough. I must do what I can with the damage done to us humans.”

Joan was pale, and although she curtsied, the salute lacked its old grace. He got in first, asking brusquely and unfairly if the letters were ready. Morale started at the top.

“Not yet, Father. Some equipment has been damaged -“

“Get it fixed, then!”

“Some of the staff have been badly shocked -“

“Including you?”

“No, Father. You told me not to worry.”

“And you have faith. …” His gaze searched her face: she was so young for her job, but she had her inner strength. “There may be, almost certainly will be, worse to come, but I assure you there will be an end. Tell your staff.”

“I will, Father. Your words will strengthen the Faithful.”

“Um, yes.” He moved quickly on. “Are there any reports?” It was unnecessary to mention the subject.

“Several, Father, and more are coming in. The red file on your desk contains them.”

He marveled at her calmness, and felt guilty he had taken advantage of her belief in him. “There will be an end,” he’d said; only Blake and himself knew the awful truth of his promise. Still, there was a lot to be said for faith, even if misplaced - and for the Faithful.

The damage reports drove all else from his mind. Areas of Southampton had been devastated by unimaginable winds; hundreds of houses had been blown flat, even some reinforced concrete buildings were wrecked. The hovercraft terminal, under the twin assault of the super-hurricane and a minor tidal wave sweeping up Southampton Water, no longer existed. Not even guesses could be made about the loss of life. To a lesser degree, it was the same story for fifty kilometers each way along the South England coast. France, too, had suffered damage, and as far away as the Straits of Dover shipping had been in trouble, the losses unknown.