Fall of Colossus Read Free

largely finished. In any case, he lacked his old fire to fight. He had dully, dumbly accepted, and the Forbins had moved in.
    It was not ornate in the old-world sense, but Colossus had studied the world’s great palaces, incorporating the more successful ideas from Versailles, the White House, Buckingham Palace, and the Vatican. For example, a balcony projecting from the sheer, blank face of the complex’s north wall overlooked, dominated the landing area. The idea had been cribbed straight from the Palazzo Venezia. If Forbin chose to address the multitude in person, this was the place. Not that Colossus said he should, but the facility was provided, just in case. Forbin, being the man he was, never set foot on the balcony and had quickly and forcefully told Colossus of his views on megalomania. Colossus had said nothing, a fact that worried Cleo at the time.
    Then again, there was the vast banqueting hall, with adjacent reception rooms and kitchens. Forbin had toured them, Cleo on his arm, staring in disbelief and amazement at the silver cutlery, the gold plate, and the incredible gadgetry designed to reduce human help to a minimum. Even for the twenty-second century, it was fantastic.
    Seating five hundred, each place had its own control panel and TV screen. A guest could select his own meal and his individual preference in wines—or any other drink from water (several sorts) to fermented coconut juice—via the vineyards of the entire world.
    Each course appeared noiselessly at the serving hatch before the guest, sliding forward as the remains of the previous course sank out of sight. The TV was to enable Forbin to speak to individuals or to any combination of people he chose, to chat, propose toasts. This, Colossus evidently considered, would give an air of intimacy to such an occasion.
    Perhaps; Forbin never tried it. “My God!” was all he said, and never entered the banqueting hall again. The idea of ten people for a meal horrified him; as for five hundred… .
    So the Forbins lived in the smaller, private part of the residence. Cleo had managed to control the furnishing of the drawing room. She had gone for the old English style: chintz-covered chairs and sofas, rare antique mahogany tables and bookcases, light walls graced with gentle, undemanding watercolors. It was very elegant, and not a single square inch of plastic or an ergonomic chair was in sight. The TV, talk-backs, print-outs, and displays were firmly shut behind sliding panels. It was a room where they could live as humans, and both loved it. On a day like this, with the glass wall retracted, the terrace became part of the room.
    Even after several years, Cleo felt pleasure upon entering the room. It might lack the magnificence that some held was necessary for the most important man in the world, but it was a home, and although Cleo was a citizen of the United States of North America, she thought it the best kind. Whatever else, the English knew about homes and gardens, just as the French had forgotten more about cooking than most others ever knew. Her kitchen was French.
    She called the nursery on the intercom and organized Billy’s day—so far as their gaunt Scots nurse permitted. No, she had not forgotten the promise to take him on the beach; perhaps this afternoon.
    Walking to her office, she wondered yet again why she was such a fool when she had practically everything a woman could want. A beautiful home, a wonderful child, an absorbing job—and a loving husband. A loving husband… . That, she knew from traveling these well-worn thought paths so many times before, was the real rub.
    After her husband’s recovery, she had watched with growing alarm his increasing attachment to the computer. Not yet was it the love of a father for a son, but she was uncomfortably aware that Colossus had predicted this would happen one day. Her husband, apart from his work, was an essentially simple man, and while he did not like some things Colossus ordered,