Before the CIA man could comment, Ford said, "The computer's right
inside this doorway. Let's get this over with while the building is
still empty."
* * * * *
They stepped in. The physicist and the general showed the CIA man
through the room-filling rows of massive consoles.
"It's all transistorized and subminiaturized, of course," Ford
explained. "That's the only way we could build so much detail into the
machine and still have it small enough to fit inside a single building."
"A single building?"
"Oh yes; this is only the control section. Most of this building is
taken up by the circuits, the memory banks, and the rest of it."
"Hm-m-m."
[Illustration: ILLUSTRATED BY SCHELLING]
They showed him finally to a small desk, studded with control buttons
and dials. The single spotlight above the desk lit it brilliantly, in
harsh contrast to the semidarkness of the rest of the room.
"Since you've never run the computer before," Ford said, "General LeRoy
will do the controlling. You just sit and watch what happens."
The general sat in one of the well-padded chairs and donned a grotesque
headgear that was connected to the desk by a half-dozen wires. The CIA
man took his chair slowly.
When they put one of the bulky helmets on him, he looked up at them,
squinting a little in the bright light. "This ... this isn't going
to ... well, do me any damage, is it?"
"My goodness, no," Ford said. "You mean mentally? No, of course not.
You're not on the General Staff, so it shouldn't ... it won't ... affect
you the way it did the others. Their reaction had nothing to do with the
computer _per se_ ..."
"Several civilians have used the computer with no ill effects," General
LeRoy said. "Ford has used it many times."
The CIA man nodded, and they closed the transparent visor over his face.
He sat there and watched General LeRoy press a series of buttons, then
turn a dial.
"Can you hear me?" The general's voice came muffled through the helmet.
"Yes," he said.
"All right. Here we go. You're familiar with Situation One-Two-One?
That's what we're going to be seeing."
Situation One-Two-One was a standard war game. The CIA man was well
acquainted with it. He watched the general flip a switch, then sit back
and fold his arms over his chest. A row of lights on the desk console
began blinking on and off, one, two, three ... down to the end of the
row, then back to the beginning again, on and off, on and off ...
And then, somehow, he could see it!
He was poised incredibly somewhere in space, and he could see it all in
a funny, blurry-double-sighted, dream-like way. He seemed to be seeing
several pictures and hearing many voices, all at once. It was all mixed
up, and yet it made a weird kind of sense.
For a panicked instant he wanted to rip the helmet off his head. _It's
only an illusion_, he told himself, forcing calm on his unwilling
nerves. _Only an illusion._
But it seemed strangely real.
He was watching the Gulf of Mexico. He could see Florida off to his
right, and the arching coast of the southeastern United States. He could
even make out the Rio Grande River.
Situation One-Two-One started, he remembered, with the discovery of
missile-bearing Enemy submarines in the Gulf. Even as he watched the
whole area--as though perched on a satellite--he could see, underwater
and close-up, the menacing shadowy figure of a submarine gliding through
the crystal blue sea.
He saw, too, a patrol plane as it spotted the submarine and sent an
urgent radio warning.
The underwater picture dissolved in a bewildering burst of bubbles. A
missile had been launched. Within seconds, another burst--this time a
nuclear depth charge--utterly destroyed the submarine.
It was confusing. He was everyplace at once. The details were
overpowering, but the total picture was agonizingly clear.
Six submarines fired missiles from the Gulf of Mexico. Four were
immediately sunk, but too late. New Orleans, St. Louis and three Air
Force bases were obliterated by hydrogen-fusion warheads.
The CIA man was familiar with the opening stages of the war. The first
missile fired at the United States was the signal for whole fleets of
missiles and bombers to launch themselves at the Enemy. It was confusing
to see the world at once; at times he could not tell if the fireball and
mushroom cloud was over Chicago or Shanghai, New York or Novosibirsk,
Baltimore or Budapest.
It did not make much difference, really. They all got it in the first
few hours of the war; as did London and Moscow, Washington and Peking,
Detroit and Delhi, and many, many more.
The defensive systems on all sides seemed to operate well, except that
there were never enough anti-missiles. Defensive systems were expensive
compared to attack rockets. It was cheaper to build a deterrent than to
defend against it.
The missiles flashed up from submarines and railway cars, from
underground silos and stratospheric jets; secret ones fired off
automatically when a certain airbase command post ceased beaming out a
restraining radio signal. The defensive systems were simply overloaded.
And when the bombs ran out, the missiles carried dust and germs and gas.
On and on. For six days and six firelit nights. Launch, boost, coast,
re-enter, death.
* * * * *
And now it was over, the CIA man thought. The missiles were all gone.
The airplanes were exhausted. The nations that had built the weapons no
longer existed. By all the rules he knew of, the war should have been
ended.
Yet the fighting did not end. The machine knew better. There were still
many ways to kill an enemy. Time-tested ways. There were armies fighting
in four continents, armies that had marched overland, or splashed ashore
from the sea, or dropped out of the skies.
Incredibly, the war went on. When the tanks ran out of gas, and the
flame throwers became useless, and even the prosaic artillery pieces had
no more rounds to fire, there were still simple guns and even simpler
bayonets and swords.
The proud armies, the descendents of the Alexanders and Caesars and
Temujins and Wellingtons and Grants and Rommels, relived their evolution
in reverse.
The war went on. Slowly, inevitably, the armies split apart into smaller
and smaller units, until the tortured countryside that so recently had
felt the impact of nuclear war once again knew the tread of bands of
armed marauders. The tiny savage groups, stranded in alien lands, far
from the homes and families that they knew to be destroyed, carried on a
mockery of war, lived off the land, fought their own countrymen if the
occasion suited, and revived the ancient terror of hand-wielded,
personal, one-head-at-a-time killing.
The CIA man watched the world disintegrate. Death was an individual
business now, and none the better for no longer being mass-produced. In
agonized fascination he saw the myriad ways in which a man might die.
Murder was only one of them. Radiation, disease, toxic gases that
lingered and drifted on the once-innocent winds, and--finally--the most
efficient destroyer of them all: starvation.
Three billion people (give or take a meaningless hundred million) lived
on the planet Earth when the war began. Now, with the tenuous thread of
civilization burned away, most of those who were not killed by the
fighting itself succumbed inexorably to starvation.
Not everyone died, of course. Life went on. Some were lucky.
A long darkness settled on the world. Life went on for a few, a pitiful
few, a bitter, hateful, suspicious, savage few. Cities became pestholes.
Books became fuel. Knowledge died. Civilization was completely gone from
the planet Earth.
* * * * *
The helmet was lifted slowly off his head. The CIA man found that he was
too weak to raise his arms and help. He was shivering and damp with
perspiration.
"Now you see," Ford said quietly, "why the military men cracked up when
they used the computer."
General LeRoy, even, was pale. "How can a man with any conscience at all
direct a military operation when he knows that _that_ will be the
consequence?"
The CIA man struck up a cigarette and pulled hard on it. He exhaled
sharply. "Are all the war games ... like that? Every plan?"
"Some are worse," Ford said. "We picked an average one for you. Even
some of the 'brushfire' games get out of hand and end up like that."
"So ... what do you intend to do? Why did you call me in? What can _I_
do?"
"You're with CIA," the general said. "Don't you handle espionage?"
"Yes, but what's that got to do with it?"
The general looked at him. "It seems to me that the next logical step is
to make damned certain that _They_ get the plans to this computer ...
and fast!"
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Analog Science Fact & Fiction_ May
1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.