. .
She shivered.
Chapter Four
She endured a restless night; snatches of shallow, unrestful sleep shot through with half-remembered nightmares in which the dry, rustling voice and Galin’s sinister face figured prominently. She got up tired, and her husband’s solicitous inquiries did nothing for her frayed nerves.
“I’m all right, Charles!” Her anger blazed: “I’ve just had a bad night—that’s all!” His hurt expression made her immediately relent. “I’m sorry, darling. Don’t worry—we women get like this at times.”
Forbin, whose experience of women apart from Cleo was virtually zero, was moderately satisfied. He nodded and blinked a few times and left for his office.
Cleo tried to stay within her normal routine, well aware that Blake’s grim little joke about “keep your head” was terrifyingly good advice. She lingered over a third cup of coffee on the terrace, her thoughts going like a ball on a pinball machine, always ending up in the same place with the same question: Was it really the Martians? And if so, what could they do? She hardly dared think that they might offer effective help, that Colossus might be beaten, that her son might have a real future as a free man… .
Suppose it was a deadly game dreamed up by Galin? Suppose he’d had her under surveillance yesterday? Suppose he saw her and Blake today?
She walked up and down the terrace restlessly, the bright sun mocking her mood. If it was a trap, she was already deep in it. If Galin could produce evidence she’d heard the message, he’d have her cold. Colossus would only have to ask one question: Why had she not reported it? To say she’d thought it a joke would be very thin. Mighty thin.
And at some sleepless moment during the night she’d thought of another angle which did her fearful mind no good at all.
If it was a Galin trap, he’d only have to wait for her and Blake today, and catch them on the beach. Given the evidence of the transmissions plus her failure to report the first one, and he’d really have them both sewn up. Cleo stopped, poured more coffee, and drank it in two or three gulps, watching the sky anxiously. Suppose it rained? If it did, she couldn’t possibly take Billy to the beach. She half-hoped it would, but the other, stronger mother-half with a stake in the next generation, held on. The weather just had to stay good. “God,” she prayed in her mind, “let it stay fine. Please… .”
It did. The cloudless afternoon sky, blue sea, and golden sands against a backdrop of dazzling white cliffs set a scene for a TV travel ad. Not that Cleo noticed. She had her work cut out, trying to appear normal in front of the nurse, McGrigor. In this she was not entirely successful, for the nurse, in her downright Scots way, observed, “Mebbe ye’s seekening fa somethin’, Meeses Forbin.”
Cleo did her best to laugh it off, but the sudden suspicion that the nurse might well be a spy of Galin’s added to her tension. But watching that angular, unlovely figure retreat slowly up the path, Cleo decided that that was a real crazy idea. McGrigor was devoted to Billy, and on the side she was a fanatical Baptist. If her sort joined the Sect there was no hope, and there had to be hope. Hope… .
She sat in the same spot and tried to play with Billy, but it was no good; her mind was elsewhere. Billy sensed it and wandered off to his rock pool. Cleo waited, trying not to look around too much, but physically incapable of lying back, sunbathing. Ten minutes to go. Where was Blake? The next five minutes were interminable. The sudden screech of a gull made her jump, and she trembled. Blake! Inside, she was screaming for him. Blake!
Three minutes before the appointed time she saw his chunky figure, clad in bathing trunks, towel under one arm, running with surprising lightness down the path. Her relief was enormous. Not to be alone; not to have to face whatever lay ahead without human companionship… .
“Hi!” Blake was easy, relaxed to the point where his manner angered her. He looked at Billy, who was too absorbed with a crab to notice, then sat down beside Cleo.
“Relax, honey!” But for all his calmness, she saw the searching glances he gave the cliffs, the only possible vantage point. Underneath he was not so damned relaxed; her anger receded. “No fuss,” he said. “Switch on.”
The radio was playing a rather stiff, colorless tune. Both of them recognized it. It was an early composition of Colossus’, in the style of the eighteenth century.
Blake grinned. “Gee, they’re playing our tune!” Cleo was too tense to speak.
“Well,” Blake went on, “let’s hope that’s an omen for us. For sure, Colossus will never catch up with Bach! The Sect may drool over it… .
Unnecessarily, she gripped his arm. The music had faded, replaced by the faint hiss of static. They waited, staring into each other’s eyes. Then, the voice.
“Cleo Forbin.”
Blake’s face set hard. He grabbed the set, sprang to his feet. Startled, Cleo started to follow. “No,” he snapped, “stay there!” He jumped quickly away from her, the radio close to one ear. Cleo could not hear, dared not call out. Blake weaved around her, his face tense with concentration as he ran. In less than a minute he was back, panting, eyes bright with excitement. He put the set down, squeezed her hand reassuringly, whispering urgently in her ear.
“It has to be for real! Thirty feet out from you there is no signal!”
The dry, slightly labored speech was the same as the day before. It paused after the second block of repetitions of her name. She struggled to control her relief and the excitement that welled up in her, sparked by Blake’s enthusiasm.
“Cleo Forbin. We see you are not alone.”
“God Almighty!” muttered Blake.
“Tell your companion to walk around in a circle.”
An observer on the cliff top might have thought it a game, a ritual, or plain madness, but neither Blake nor Cleo saw anything to laugh at. Blake nearly ran around the circle. He sank down beside her, breathing deeply through his nose. He glanced at his watch, waiting.
“Cleo Forbin.”
Blake glanced again at his watch and nodded to himself. As near as he could judge, just over three minutes each way, which he reckoned was about right for a radio wave from Mars.
“We assume your companion is a technician. Both of you listen most carefully. For our help, you must give us two things: the circuit diagram of a main input terminal. The size of the diagram is not of importance, provided it is displayed at the center, zeropoint of our ray, where our resolution is greatest and free of distortion. Zeropoint is always your receiver, which must be within three hundred meters of the given position.” Already the voice was laboring, and Cleo, because Blake was there, was sufficiently relaxed to study it. While it sounded like a very old man, there was something about it, something alien… . At that moment her final doubts were set at rest; whatever it was, it was not of this earth.
Blake, hunched forward, hands clasped around his knees, was fascinated. For once, his eternal cigar was not in evidence. “Second. We require a sample of the material as fed into that terminal. The example should be a mathematical formula, expressed also in human terms. If you understand, Cleo Forbin, lie down as you did yesterday.”
Instinctively, she looked at Blake. He nodded. She lay back uncomfortably, accepting for the first time that someone, something, God knows how far away, was watching… .
Again the dreadful wait. Cleo stared across at Billy, hoping he would stay amused just a little longer.
“That is good. Now, transmission. The point of origin of this beam is fixed and has arc limitations, also the relative motions of our two planets preclude communication at all times or for any particular location. We also appreciate you may have difficulties in reaching locations convenient for us. Therefore, we give you two locations for your display, one four, the other seven days from now. Be prepared to write
Cleo scrambled frantically for a pad and pen in her basket, found them, waited, pressing her hand hard on the pad to stop it from trembling.
“First position for 8th forty-seven degrees thirty-three minutes forty seconds North fifty-two degrees forty-one minutes zero seconds West. Second position for 11th forty degrees forty-six minutes fifteen seconds North, seventy-three degrees fifty-seven minutes fifty-five seconds West. Both times eleven hours, local zone time. We will scan both areas for fifteen minutes each. Due to power limitations we cannot operate for longer. Person displaying must have receiver on, preferably tuned to one five five point five megahertz. If display is satisfactory at the first position, the information you need will be passed at the second position. Shortly I will repeat this message.”
Blake’s brows knitted. “Wonder where the hell those positions are? Only hope they’re not in the middle of some bloody ocean!” “Well,” said Cleo, her practical side overcoming her fear and growing excitement, “I don’t know much about that sort of thing, but they seem remarkably precise. God! The work they must have done on us!”
They exchanged excited glances, happy as kids given an unexpected treat. For a few brief moments tension and fear were banished.
“In two hundred years a bright boy can learn a lot!” Blake grinned. “Wonder what they make of us? Imagine—two hundred solid years of TV!”
The repetition came, and both checked the message very carefully. Then, without further ado the transmission ceased, the carrier wave faded, replaced by music from the local station. The sound jarred their strung-up nerves, and Blake snapped the switch quickly. For a time they were silent, Cleo watching her son. Blake was staring blankly at the sky, playing absentmindedly with a pebble.
“Well,” he said at last, tossing the stone into the sea, “it’s no good going on saying it’s fantastic, because it is.” He threw another pebble. “But technically, the only really way-out part is the resolution and control of that ray—notice that they call it that, not a beam?”
“You think that significant?”
Blake shrugged. “Who can tell? Anyway, apart from that, there’s no great difficulty. We’ve been taking signals from lunar and interplanetary probes for nearly two hundred years ourselves—and from transmitters a mere fraction of the power of that baby! But that directional control and beam resolution—never mind the optical side—is new.” He nodded slowly. “Yep. That was an extraplanetary transmission all right; I’d stake my reputation on its authenticity.”
“The stakes are higher than that, Ted.” She spoke soberly, all exhilaration gone.
“You’re so right!” He got up, looked down at her thoughtfully. “Yeah. You’re so right… .” He hitched up his bathing trunks. “Well, a quick play with young Billy, a swift dip to get me wet, and I’m off! We’ve gotta keep moving, honey. Can we meet this evening?”
With the idea of the transmission being a Galin trap dismissed, Cleo had been thinking ahead.
“Yes, after dinner. Charles will certainly go back to talk.” She stopped abruptly, shying off even mentioning Colossus. “Eight o’clock—on the terrace.”
Blake might talk like an old-time truck driver and act tough, but he was not insensitive. He had a fair insight into Cleo’s state of mind. He gave her an admiring nod.
“You’re a great girl, Cleo! Can’t think of any other woman with your guts—and not many men, either.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be fooled, Ted—I’m so scared I can hardly stand.”
“That’s what I mean!”
“For me, this is a personal feud. Big, impersonal issues mean little to a woman. Sure, I’m concerned for humanity, but chiefly I’m in this battle for two small bits of it.” She was looking at her son.
“And the other bit—Charles?”
Cleo nodded, still watching her child. “Yes. I want him back.” She looked up at Blake. “Without blinkers.”
For once she was glad of her husband’s preoccupation, for she had a lot to think about. Forbin was vague, mechanically polite; only at one moment did he mentally join her. Cleo dropped a knife; the clatter jerked him from his thoughts, and for the first time that evening he really saw her. He smiled faintly, a little guiltily; his expression changed to a frown of concentration. There was something he wanted to ask her… yes… .
“Darling—you know I’m terribly weak on biology.” He sounded very apologetic. “Perhaps you can help me. D’you know anything about dolphins?”
That made her blink. So he had said dolphins… .
“No. Not really. They’re viviparous mammals, and I believe they’re rather nice creatures—if you like that sort of thing.” She looked at him inquiringly. “Pretty intelligent, as I recall.”
“Yes. Yes.” He nodded several times. “Thank you. I really must do… .”
The lights flickered, then sharply dimmed to a faint red glimmer. To Cleo, the darkness seemed to rush eagerly upon them, avid to destroy their security. Frightened, she reached across, clutching his hand.
“Charles!”\
Forbin patted her hand reassuringly. The lights went back to normal brilliance. He tried to sound confident. “It’s nothing, honey. Colossus is working on something and has these sudden requirements for extra power.”
But Cleo was no ordinary housewife. “Oh, come on, Charles! You know as well as I do that’s a fantastic overload! Theoretically, we’ve got more than thirty percent reserve power, assuming all inputs and banks in use, which is unlikely, yet—”
“I know, my dear. But don’t disturb yourself. Colossus knows what he is doing.”
“No doubt,” she replied militantly, “but do you know what he is doing?”
“There’s no cause for alarm.” Forbin spoke firmly, but she saw with increasing disquiet the way his gaze flickered away from hers.
They finished the meal in silence and moved out onto the terrace for coffee. It was a marvelous night; looking up at the immensity of the black, starlit sky, Cleo wondered if she could see Mars… .
At seven thirty sharp Forbin got up. “Darling, d’you mind? There are one or two points I’d like to clear up with Colossus.” The way he spoke it sounded as if this was a novel situation. “I won’t be late, my dear.”
Thinking of Mars and these dimouts and of Blake, she was nearly as preoccupied as he was. “Oh? Oh, no. But Charles, I think you ought to cut down on these sessions—take it easier. Colossus is tireless—you aren’t.”