Computer War Read online

  The Temple Monk closed the age-flimsy book he had been reading, but held the place with his right forefinger.

  He said mildly, “The first is an admitted possibility. But who would know, upon finding it, that the ultra-remote Number One…”

  “Don’t call me that, Rig.”

  “… excuse me, utilized a device as anachronistic as a lock and key to protect himself? In the second case, I am not a believer in the theory that displacing a dictator ends dictatorship. It merely opens the way to a different dictator, who may well be worse than the one just, eh, liquidated.”

  Number One brought his glass back to the fire and slumped into the chair across from his friend. He swallowed a larger amount than was his wont, in a gulp.

  “So,” he said, “you think you’d might as well support me.”

  The Temple Monk shook his head and sighed, patting his rounded tummy. “Only insofar as I have always supported you, Jim.”

  Number One twisted his mouth. “Mark Fielder sent me a report last week which revealed that out in the boonies the common man thinks of you as my alter ego. Sort of a Svengali. When something goes more than ordinarily wrong in Alphaland, that curd of a Temple Monk is behind it.”

  Softly, Pater Riggin said, “And what was our good Deputy of Surety’s suggestion?”

  “That we shoot you, of course, and satisfy the yokes. They evidently could use a bit of satisfying these days.”

  Number One finished his Greek brandy and set the glass on a low table. Instead of immediately sinking back into his chair, he took up a stogie from a humidor. He selected an ancient style match, struck it under the table top, and drew smoke into his mouth and nasal passages.

  Pater Riggin had never quite become used to the other’s vice. Somehow, it didn’t seem the thing that one would do, even before one’s closest friend. He looked half away, not noting his companion’s cynical expression.

  Even Pater Riggin, Number One suspected, in his secret heart desired the Presidor of the Free Democratic Commonwealth to be a literal, rather than a propaganda, perfect man. He wondered, on occasion, what would happen if at this point in life he took a younger woman in marriage. Would the ultimate reaction lead to his overthrow, in this hypocritical society? He doubted if more than one person in ten among the citizenry realized that he had been married in his early years and that his wife had died on the barricades that accompanied his coming to power. It had been a long time ago, a very long time ago. And now the people thought him a lifelong abstainer from sex, as from every mundane pleasure. Inwardly, he snorted.

  “What was decided at the session today, Jim?” the Temple Monk asked.

  The other’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “How did you know there was a session of the inmost staff, Rig? That’s strictly surety information.”

  The slightly older man laughed gently. “I have known you for, let me see, is it fifty years, or fifty-five, Jim? I would warrant that ten minutes ago you were with your closest advisers and that you didn’t like what developed.”

  Number One exhaled smoke through his nostrils. Abruptly he said, “Graves gave his final report. The computers say the war would be over in less than three months. We would take about 330,000 casualties, of which some 18,000 would be deaths.”

  “I see. And how many would the defenders of Betastan lose?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “You should have,” the Temple Monk said softly.

  “Not before such Coaids as Marshal Croft-Gordon and our Surety bloodhound, Mark Fielder. It would be interpreted as an unbelievable weakness in a Presidor.”

  Pater Riggin looked at him thoughtfully. “I can anticipate what most of them reported and recommended, Jim. Were any at all in opposition?”

  “Ross, perhaps.”

  “Franklin’s boy, eh? And what was our Deputy of Propaganda’s position?”

  “He thought we were going to have our work cut out selling an aggressive war not only to the neutrals but to our own people. He thinks it all comes too soon after the civil war Max precipitated.”

  The Temple Monk shook his head, weariness there. “Would that he were right.”

  Number One looked at him, saying nothing.

  The Temple Monk opened the book at the page he had been perusing. “Jim, have you ever heard of a writer named Mark Twain?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Early Earth. Many an unthinking person, seeing only his surface, thought him a humorist. Basically, he wasn’t. He was an idealist and crusader who died a very bitter man. Listen to this.” He read.

  “’The loud little handful—as usual—will shout for the war. The pulpit will—warily and cautiously—object—at first; the great, big, dull bulk of the nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should be a war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, It is unjust and dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it. Then the handful will shout louder. A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them, and presently the antiwar audience will thin out and lose popularity. Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers—as earlier—but do not dare to say so. And now the whole nation—pulpit and all—will take up the war cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest man who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease to open. Next, the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of these conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception.’”

  Pater Riggin looked up, closing the book again.

  “It was true in Twain’s time, and much more so today. Given the well disciplined press, given well channeled Tri-Di shows and news broadcasts, given a people that have been raised since earliest childhood in the chauvinistic belief that their country is always right; and even if it isn’t they should support it—given these, and you can have your war, Jim. Of course, if it lasted too long, then there would be reaction. But so long as the man in the street isn’t too badly put out, you can have your war, Number One.”

  The other pretended to miss the term. He said, “Rig, you know Phil McGivern.”

  The Temple Monk said wryly, “Our authority on socioeconomics.”

  “His computers tell him that without new foreign markets and sources of raw material we face an economic collapse in a few months. The system won’t take it, Rig.”

  His lifelong companion looked at him unblinkingly.

  Number One continued, an undertone of urgency in his voice as though pleading for understanding. “It would mean more civil disorders, Rig. More fighting in the streets. More of the bloodbath we had when Max and his group tried to take over.”

  The Temple Monk looked away. He and his present companion had never discussed, more than in passing, the coup d’etat attempted by their mutual friend, Maximilian Barker.

  He said gently, “Possibly Max had the right idea and we didn’t realize it at the time.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” the Presidor rasped. “You can push our friendship too far, Pater Riggin. Max was a damned rabid Karlist, and you know it!”

  Pater Riggin shook his head, unimpressed by the sudden heat. “No, I don’t. All I know is that your Commissariats of Surety and Information branded him such, and over and over again, and loudly, and to the skies. Until, possibly, even you believed them. It’s a dangerous thing, Jim, to believe your own propaganda, but it comes to all men if they listen to it long enough.”

  Number One came suddenly to his feet. He threw the half smoked stogie down, missing the ash tr
ay. The long slim cigar hit the table and rolled across it to drop unheeded on the floor beyond.

  The ultimate head of Alphaland strode angrily to the bar, took up the bottle from which he had poured earlier, on his first entry into the room, and poured again, this time into a tumbler. He threw the potent brandy back over his palate, grimaced and turned to a bank of dials, levers and buttons set next to a bookcase.

  He snarled at his friend, “The ultimate computer. The foolproof adviser. The computer designed for the layman.”

  He snatched up a hand mike and roared into it. “In the event that war is not provoked with Betastan within two months, what will the result be so far as the Presidor is concerned?”

  The answer came from the speaker so quickly that it would seem that the angry man’s voice had scarcely died away.

  “The likelihood of armed revolt against the present occupant of the office is ninety-one point eight percent, Give or take one point four percent.”

  “Who would lead such a revolt?”

  “The likelihood is that the revolt would be led by one or a combination of two or more of three men: Deputies Matheison and Fielder and Marshal Croft-Gordon.”

  “Would such a revolt be successful?”

  “The likelihood of the revolt’s success would be eighty-two percent, give or take three point three percent.”

  “In the case of the revolt’s success, what would be the likelihood of a war then being undertaken against Betastan?”

  “Ninety-six percent, give or take two point one percent.”

  He slammed down the hand mike into its cradle and began to turn to his companion, but then he said, “No!” and took it up again.

  “Would the United Temple support the government of the current Presidor if he declared war upon Betastan?”

  “The likelihood is ninety-eight point six percent that the United Temple would support the Presidor, give or take one-half of one percent.”

  Number One turned back to his only intimate and now his Prussian starched shoulders had slipped into resignation.

  “So you see, even the Holy Ultimate, through his representatives on this planet, supports the war. Any ideas, Rig?”

  Tilly Trice looked over the newcomer and made a wryly humorous moue.

  “You don’t look like much of a soldier, Centurion,” she said.

  He said ungraciously, “Neither do you. Isn’t that part of the idea?”

  “How old are you, anyway?”

  His youthful face was petulant. “That’s none of your business.”

  Her fine eyebrows went up. “Tu, tu, tu. You’re talking to a superior officer, Centurion.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean…”

  The slightly built girl laughed. “I never felt right about that either. However, the correct term is madam.”

  “Yes, sir.” The other flushed. “I mean madam. Trouble is, you don’t look like a madam.” He jerked his head in alarm. “That is…”

  She laughed again. “All right, let’s cut out this jetsam. Wait’ll I change my clothes, and we’ll get going.” She ran her eyes over him critically. “You look all right.” She thought of something. “Are you carrying a shooter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, ditch it, right here and now. Are you drivel happy? You think you’re going to get into a government building carrying as much metal as that?”

  She indicated a desk. “Stick it in there.” She turned to go into the next room, the living quarters behind her store.

  He put the gun into a drawer, scowling. “There’s no way of locking this. Anybody snooping around would see it.”

  Just before she passed through the door she looked back at him scornfully and said, “Centurion Combs, face reality. If Alphaland Surety ever became suspicious enough to start seriously snooping around this place they’d find so much that the jig’d be up. One shooter, more or less, wouldn’t make an iota.”

  She left and he spent the next ten minutes staring at the shelves of books. He had never seen this many outside of a museum. He took one or two down from the shelves and handled them gingerly. He decided it must have been a tedious way of reading.

  When Tilly returned he looked at her for a moment, frowning, obviously in lack of recognition.

  “Knock it.” She laughed, in a just-short-of giggle. “It’s me.”

  He stared at her, his eyes going up and down her masculine costume. Finally, for lack of something else, he demanded, “Where’d you get those buck teeth?”

  She snorted, “Centurion, I don’t know where you received your ECE training. Cosmetics can whip up a disguise like this before you could get down a glass of guzzle.”

  “I don’t drink,” he said righteously. “Besides, I didn’t study at the Espionage-Counter-Espionage Academy.”

  “Come on, let’s get going,” she said, handing him a piece of fruit. “Where did you study?” She headed for the door.

  He followed her, looking at the thing in his hand. What’s this? I studied at Partisan Tech.”

  There was a sporty looking hover-scooter at the curb.

  She said, “You get on back. Keep your eyes open. You’re going to want to learn this town, inside out. If you ever have any spare time, walk or ride up and down the streets, memorizing them. It might mean your life someday.”

  “Well, all right. Look, what do we want with a banana?”

  “Hang on,” she said, dropping the lift lever. “It’s part of our protective covering. The one little added bit of business that puts us over.”

  He was sitting behind her. He rolled his eyes upward, as though surrendering to idiocy on the part of superior authority.

  They slammed down the boulevard at a speed that must have been in excess of city ordinances.

  “Hey, uh, madam,” he protested finally. “You want to get picked up by some Alpha fuzz-yoke?”

  “No,” she told him. “But this is part of the protective coloring, too. Looks authentic.”

  She zoomed finally into the parking zone of a monstrous stone building and skittered to a halt.

  Tilly vaulted from her seat exuberantly.

  “Come on!” she said.

  He followed her, more sedate. “This says it’s for Senior Personnel only,” he whispered.

  “I know, I know. Let’s go.”

  “Hey, you two kids!” a voice called impatiently. “You can’t leave that scooter there.”

  “Aw, why not?” Tilly whined.

  A uniformed Surety officer came up. He snapped, “Because I said so, damn it.”

  Tilly put her hands on her hips belligerently. “Listen, do you know who my father is?”

  A weary expression came over his face. He was a heavy, bullyboy type, a quick-draw holster built into his leather jacket where a left pocket might have been.

  But obviously this was no occasion for weight being thrown around.

  He said, “No, sonny, my heart is pumping curd, but I don’t know who your daddy is. All I know, if Superintendent Nichols comes in here and finds that souped-up scooter in his parking place, he’ll burn off.”

  “I’m just gonna be here for a minute,” Tilly whined.

  Her companion got into the act. “Aw, come on, Killer,” he said. “Don’t argue with this cloddy. Park it somewhere else.”

  The Surety man eyed him unhappily, opened his mouth as though to growl something, but then shrugged it off.

  “Snap it up, boys,” he said. “You just can’t leave it here.”

  “All right, all right,” Tilly said. “Give me a hand, Bimbo.” She and Combs took hold of the sports hover and pushed it down the line to a public parking zone.

  They then headed for the entrance, where two additional Surety men, both with scrambler rifles, stood post. They had lazily been watching the hassle with the parking attendant.

  Tilly said, “Peel your banana.” She pulled her own piece of fruit from her pocket and began to eat it.

  Combs asked, “Why all that, back there?”

  �
��Protective coloring,” she said.

  They climbed the half dozen stone steps and began entering the building.

  “Halt!” one of the guards barked.

  “Aw, curd,” Tilly sneered, continuing on her way.

  “I said halt, damn it! Where do you kids think you’re going?”

  Tilly’s face fell into the expression, known since man issued forth from the caves of Cro-Magnon, of the teenager being put upon.

  “Aw,” she whined. “I gotta see my old man. Holy Jumping Zen, I don’t have all morning. I gotta lot of things to do. I’m supposed to see my old man.”

  The other guard said, “You can’t go in here, buster. This is government…”

  The first guard interrupted him. “Who’s your father, and what are you supposed to see him about?”

  “He forgot his pills.”

  The long-suffering Surety man rubbed his mouth.

  Eating his banana, a sneer of superiority on his face, Combs said, “Aw, the hell with it. Killer. Let’s go see if we can scare up a couple mopsies.”

  Tilly said, argumentively, “My old lady said I gotta get these pills to my old man. He’ll drop dead, yet, or something. He’s been taking these pills till they run outa his ears. I never seen them do him any good.”

  The second guard said, “What’s your father’s name, sonny?”

  Combs chucked. “Sonny, yet, he calls you, Killer.”

  Tilly said, “My old man’s Assistant Supervisor Hillary. He swings a lot of weight around this crumby joint, fella.”

  “I never heard of him,” the first guard said hesitantly.

  “I have. I’ll phone up,” the other one said.

  “Aw, curd,” Tilly said. “You’ll take halfa the morning. I know where he is. I know everybody in the department. He wanders around a lot between the offices. I can find him.”

  “Let him go, let him go!” the one guard said to the other. “Zen, what difference does it make?”

  Tilly waited no longer. She and her companion headed for the door again, still eating their bananas. The second guard muttered something, but they were through the entrance.