Colossus The Boxset by D.F. Jones

Author:D.F. Jones [Jones, D.F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Venture Press
Published: 2016-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

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For eighteen hours after the ever-faithful Angela had taken him home, Forbin remained there. What he did, or thought, was the subject of much conjecture, mostly unspoken. Certainly, there was an air of tension around the complex, for most knew of Cleo’s arrest, but how the individual felt about that particular item of news, most kept to themselves. Colossus was everywhere, and although it was widely accepted that Colossus could not — yet — interpret the finer, more subtle shades of human expression, vocal and facial, the Sect could. They, too, were everywhere.

And then, looking rather scruffy and somewhat older, Forbin stalked across the entrance concourse, oblivious to everyone and everything. The duty Guides bowed, but as far as Forbin was concerned, they might as well have been wall paintings. He walked past Angela, who was careful not to look at him, to his outer office, and there, door closed, he remained.

Angela, who had a stack of papers requiring his attention, spent two hours debating whether she should go in to him or not. On the one hand, he might be praying for her to go to him, but on the other …

Her problem was solved by the arrival of Blake. He, too, looked rather different. There was a fine-drawn quality in his face, and although he tried to sound his genial self, inquiring after her love life and other personal matters, she knew him far too well to be fooled. He wanted to know if Professor Forbin was in, and she said yes, but …

Blake nodded, said he also was in a “but” mood, and passed on to Forbin’s office. Angela waited apprehensively, for she had heard a rumor or two, but Blake firmly closed the door behind him, and as far as Angela was concerned, that was that.

Forbin, who was sitting at his desk doing nothing, looked up slowly when Blake entered.

“What d’you want?” He sounded very tired, detached, far beyond antagonism. His suit looked very dirty, and Blake saw the tear on the chest where he had ripped the badge off. It was pinned on again, but crookedly. He looked a mess; suits meant to last twenty-four hours look very bad after thirty-six.

Blake grinned, showing none of his inner tension. This scene had to be played right, Forbin not even knowing it was a scene.

He attacked, hoping without conviction that Forbin would see the different expression he tried to put in his eyes.

“Do me a favor, willya, Charles?” He jerked an irreverent thumb at the holy of holies. “Try to calm down these brainstorms — huh?”

Forbin’s face was blank, drained of expression. “Brainstorms.” He thought about that. “What brainstorms?”

“Aw, c’mon, Charles! These power-sucks, dimouts — call ’em whatever you like. These sudden overloads are wicked; they create unholy hell in my work.” He kept his tough and slangy image rolling. “And what’s it all for — or shouldn’t I ask?”

Forbin ignored the question, but he got the idea. “Overloading … You have input trouble?”

“You may say that. You know as well as I do that the constancy of the carrier signal is critical.

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