by Brian Lumley
Above him the darkness writhed, was filled, brimmed over with evil! A diseased evil insidious as cancer, gray as leprosy and warped as insanity itself. A vast octopus of evil, whose countless tentacles twisted and twined, with many sucker mouths that gaped and showed their sharp hooks, whose tossing flesh was livid with inimical energies, and whose eyes—
Whose eyes burned feral with a bestial lusting beyond any lusts Garrison could ever imagine as existing in the mind of man.
The mind of man? The thought was icy in its utter terror, freezing his brain. But surely what he saw was not, could not be, a man? And yet Garrison drew breath in a gasp. For his every instinct told him that it was some sort of man, this creature of evil. A man whose true form lay hidden behind or had been overwhelmed by the massive evil within him, so that Garrison saw only the evil itself. But what sort of man, whose aspect must needs carry this monstrosity of a mask?
Garrison called upon his own powers, the ESP magic he controlled (or which, in another world, he had once controlled) to seek beyond the octopus guise he saw. He closed his eyes and concentrated his will upon the discovery of the octopus-obscured Evil One, and…
…And in a flash—one brief instant of clear-sightedness—he viewed upon the surface of his mind’s inner eye the being behind the monster. He saw him—and in turn was seen!
Two minds touched, Garrison’s and that of the Other, touched and explored—however briefly—and drew back in mutual shock and astonishment! And both knew that this was not the first time they had met, and despite their shock both were equally curious.
But though Garrison might have attempted to look again, that single glimpse was all that he was allowed; for in the next moment he felt himself snatched up yet again and…transferred. His spirit melting down into his body…his body starting to shuddery life where it kneeled at the rim of the canyon…his brow cold where it rested upon the metal flank of the Machine.
And in the fast-fading light he saw streaks of rust like fresh-dried blood upon those same flanks. And he heard Suzy’s whining where she tugged at his ragged sleeve. And he saw that night walked the land and touched the stars into cold, glittering life.
Then Garrison sighed and gathered shaky legs beneath him and stood up, and before that last vision could escape him utterly he gave thought to what he had learned of the Other, that Evil One who wore the guise of a bloated, diseased octopus. Neither white nor black, that Other—neither man nor woman; neither sane nor insane—and yet all of these things. And human!
Human, yes. How?—Garrison could not say, could only shake his head in wonder.
And finally he sighed again and climbed wearily up on to the Machine’s broad back, calling Suzy to jump up behind him. Then, lifting the now pitted Machine into the air, he pointed its prow out over the canyon and with a gradual acceleration moved out beyond the rim and started across. And he knew no fear.
For if what he had seen of the future was real, then he knew that the canyon could not stop him. No, for there was a long, long way to go yet before his eyes would light upon Immortality’s temple, and—
And why then was he falling, curving down into the throat of the gorge like a hurled pebble at the end of its flight?
Faster and faster the Machine plummeted into blackness; and Suzy howling like a banshee where she crushed to Garrison’s clammy back; and the chill air of the canyon whistling through his hair and ragged, billowing clothes; and Garrison straining to bring the rushing descent to a halt, straining to use powers seemingly defunct in him, of which he had once been master.
And his own voice screaming his desperation, his hatred: “Liar! Schroeder, you lied! You showed me a false future!”
And in his head Schroeder’s whispered denial: “No, no, Richard—I told you no lie. There is a future, our common future—but this is merely a warning…” And a throaty chuckle fading and becoming one with the bluster of rushing air.
And man and dog and Machine, falling, falling, falling…
Chapter 7
Charon Gubwa had also dreamed, but at the moment of contact he had been shocked awake. A minute later—a mere minute to allow for orientation—and he lay still in his vast bed, listening to his own pounding heart. A dream, yes, but more than just that. Gubwa’s defenses had been down, breached. And such turbulence when the barriers were broken! A potential enemy, a powerful enemy, had located him, had penetrated his mind-castle.
But how? It had never happened before, should not even be possible; but…yesterday’s incident was still fresh in Gubwa’s mind, took on a new significance in the light of this latest incursion. He had thought the Polaris encounter an accident, but now…? No, whatever had gone wrong, it could hardly be accidental. Once, maybe—but twice?
Which meant—Gubwa must now assume that Garrison had been looking for him, had actually sought him out.
“Richard Allen Garrison,” Gubwa whispered the name to himself, his thoughts darkly seething and more than a little awed. “Oh, I’ve sought out your mind on occasion—or rather, the minds of those close to you—but I hardly suspected you would ever come looking for mine! Not twice in twenty-four hours!”
Garrison, yes—it could only be him. Who else could create such a turbulence in the Psychosphere? Only two men in the whole world had that sort of power. Garrison was the other one.
Gubwa heaved his great trunk upright and rested for a moment, panting from the exertion, until he could exercise his will upon himself and take command of his huge, obese and obscene body. Then, as the blood began to course more freely in his veins and his respiration regulated, he peered about in the dim glow of a tiny red ceiling light.
8:20 A.M. Gubwa stretched, yawned.
On his right lay a sleeping white woman who should have been beautiful, her face almost perfect but a little too thin. Her chest rose and fell evenly, smooth and unscarred despite the absence of breasts surgically removed. Perfect plastic surgery, it could almost be a male chest. Except there were no nipples. Not even the perfunctory nipples of a boy. And yet she was not sexless. On the contrary.
She lay on her back, shapely legs spread wide, exposing a huge and gaping vulva that vanished into her body like a tunnel. In sleep her mouth was wide open and even as Gubwa looked at her gaped wider yet. Utterly toothless, it was the entrance to a second tunnel: the ribbed vault of her throat. Her master knew both entrances intimately—yes, and a third for the moment hidden.
On his left lay a young male, black, entirely naked of hair. He was heavy-lipped, squat-nosed, slope-headed, utterly ugly—but his breasts were a woman’s breasts, with great square ebony nipples. His penis was a flabby pipe, without the support or benefit of testicles. A eunuch, but hardly the harem guard. Rather an intimate, a favorite at the Court of Gubwa.
Yes, both of them were of The Flock. Both “man” and “woman” (if such terms were at all applicable), “wives” to Charon Gubwa. Two among many.
Gubwa eased his bulk down the bed until he sat, feet upon the floor, at its foot. He stood up, his great flaccid penis reaching close to halfway down his thigh, its glans like the head of some dead cobra dangling in the shadow of his great belly. Folds of flesh heaved as he crossed the room, the effort quite literally more mental than physical. He lightened himself as he went, the closest he could come to actual levitation. His forte was of course telepathy, with hypnotism coming a close second and the other ESP abilities trailing behind. And while he was greatly practiced in his powers, still he knew their limitations.
As for Garrison’s limitations: Gubwa would give a lot to know them. They were what made the man so dangerous to him, and to his cause. Too dangerous. But…Gubwa was satisfied that the contact had been too brief to constitute a real breach of his security. He had after all been asleep and presumably dreaming. And it was not impossible that he, Gubwa himself, had subconsciously sought out Garrison. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d visited the minds of others in his sleep. Oh, it was unlikely, but…the man had been on his mind a lot lately. Bu
t even that couldn’t explain yesterday, and it certainly didn’t explain the failure of the mind-guards. Not this time…
Gubwa donned Eastern-styled slippers and a red, voluminous knee-length robe. Doors opened for him with a pneumatic hiss as he billowed towards and through them, out of his bedroom and into his general living quarters. This room was spacious: high-ceilinged, with resilient rubber-tiled floors, its dimly lighted decor almost industrial in slate-gray and silver tones. To one side stood a great heavy metal desk above which, carved into the striated bedrock of the wall, the squat, angular bas-relief figure of a naked man, arms akimbo, stared stonily down into the room.
The carved figure was that of Gubwa as he had been fifteen years ago when first he took up residence here, and closer examination of its stony features would show that he was not—not entirely—a man. Or perhaps something more than a man, depending upon the mental perspective of the viewer. For like Gubwa himself, and like the eunuch still sleeping in his bed, the great bas-relief had pendulous breasts; but there any comparison between Gubwa and the eunuch ended. For between the spread legs of the carving the heavy penis was deliberately shown erect, with bulbous testicles drawn to one side, displaying the parted lips of a female organ, clitoris swollen and extended like a small penis. The figure was hermaphroditic—as was the living creature it depicted. Its feet were set firmly upon a great globe in bas-relief, bearing carved representations of Earth’s islands, continents and oceans.
Gubwa crossed to the desk, stabbed at a button with the forefinger of a massive left hand and spoke into the grill of an intercom. “Gubwa to guardroom. There has been a mental intrusion. Check the mind-guards and report to me at once.”
He took his finger off the button, moved round behind the desk and seated himself in a padded steel chair. He waited, mused, explored the possibilities of the situation.
The mind-guards were Gubwa’s answer to the insomnia of the telepath, a sleeplessness he had suffered at intervals for twenty-five years before discovering the remedy. Awake he could control, channel and direct his contact with outside minds. They were at his mercy, to be read like books and picked clean of information. Most of them anyway. But asleep it was a different story. Asleep they impinged, infested his mind with their own innumerable fears and poisons. Or they had used to, before the mind-guards.
There were always four mind-guards “on duty” at any one time, men and women whose narcotic dependence was total. Addicts long departed the real world to dwell in the permanent twilight zone of their own deliriums. Gubwa was happy to let them live this way, to supply the drugs which alone kept them alive. When he was awake their chaotic nightmares could not affect him, and when he slept the mind-guards slept, guarding his mind. That was their sole function.
There was a drug, supplementary to their addictions, which effectively switched them off—cast them into a mental void, created within them what amounted to temporary brain-death—which was the absolute negation of thought. And which created around them a barrier impenetrable to the random thought-streams of the outside world. Impenetrable also to any thought-probe. Or so Gubwa had always believed.
And that was important! For there were people who could probe with their thoughts just as Gubwa himself but without his expertise, often without even knowing that they did it. Their minds were simply broadcasting stations, sending out a constant stream of telepathic waves. And they generally ignored or failed to recognize incoming messages. The dangerous ones were those who could actually read the minds of others, and one such was Garrison. Garrison, the world’s greatest telepath, whose thoughts—whose directed thoughts?—had now seemingly penetrated Gubwa’s barriers and shocked him from sleep.
Garrison would not have recognized him (sleeping minds are mere caricatures of the waking consciousness), but he most certainly would have detected something of Gubwa’s strength. And if he had been probing, why?—unless he actually suspected the presence of one whose ESP abilities might challenge his own! If that were so…then it was also Gubwa’s worst fear realized.
Where was Garrison now? Suddenly anxious, galvanized by an insecurity previously unvisioned, Gubwa typed Garrison’s name into his computer. The machine’s screen immediately responded:
AEGEAN…DODECANESE…RHODES…LINDOS…
Gubwa questioned the machine’s authority. It quoted date, time, destination and departure flight number from Gatwick. Its source was the airport computer. Gubwa’s anxiety turned to impotent rage. One day the tentacles of his organization would reach out to envelop the entire world, and then—
—He calmed himself. For the present he had nothing on Rhodes. The island was one of the many places as yet beyond even his ever widening technological sphere, which was the best money could buy. As were the completely illegal systems through which that technology was channelled.
He stabbed the intercom’s button again. “Guardroom—” his voice was harder now, slightly threatening. “When I say at once I mean at once!” He released the button, stood up, took his computer remote and went to his globe in its clear glass cylinder. Seating himself before it, he keyed GLOBE, RHODES and LINDOS on the remote and watched the miniature world rotate until the Greek island came to rest directly before his eyes. A pencil beam within the globe shone outwards upon Rhodes, its center the village where Garrison and Vicki Maler were staying.
Gubwa began to sweat. This wasn’t to his liking. There was always the possibility, by no means remote, that he might reveal himself. But he had to know.
Vicki Maler’s thought patterns were familiar to him. Very well, since he dare not carry out direct mind-surveillance on Garrison he must go instead to the girl. He stared once more at the Aegean island, the point of light, the location of the tiny village. He pictured the girl and allowed her image to swell large in his mind’s eye. His physical eyes he slowly closed, sending a telepathic probe out, out, searching the ether, searching…
…until he found her…
…touched upon her mind…
…a touch, nothing more…
…no awareness of his presence. Innocence. Innocent thoughts…
…mildly worried thoughts…worried for Garrison…
…he entered, unsuspected, less than a ghost in her head…
…and in the next instant Charon Gubwa gazed out through Vicki Maler’s eyes at the sleeping Garrison…
…sleeping for the moment, yes, but in the throes of nightmare…and even now she was reaching to wake him!
Gubwa withdrew at once, soared back into the Castle, into himself and opened his eyes. Garrison was asleep, or had been asleep at the moment of contact some minutes earlier. Garrison and Gubwa both.
Gubwa sighed and sank down heavily into his chair. What he had seen made for an easy, acceptable explanation. It seemed that Garrison had not sought out Gubwa but that indeed the reverse had been the case. Because he had been concerned about Garrison, in his sleep he, Gubwa, had unconsciously, involuntarily sought him out!
All well and good—but what if the other had been awake? Garrison’s telepathic ability was in a word fantastic! Gubwa hated to admit this even to himself, but it was so. The man might easily have trailed him back here, back to the Castle itself. And what then? Gubwa did not want to kill Garrison, not yet. There might be a great deal he could learn from the man, but secretly.
Which brought him once again to the question of the mind-guards. For just as their mental negativity kept unwanted thoughts out when Gubwa wished to sleep, so should they keep his in, or at least suppress them, when he was in fact sleeping. That is if they were operating with their accustomed efficiency. And four of them had always been sufficient, until now. Yesterday’s “meeting of minds” had occurred, as it were, outside the Castle—but this morning’s intrusion…? It was most suspicious.
As if to confirm Gubwa’s doubts, his intercom suddenly barked: “Number Three mind-guard has pegged it, sir. She’s dead.”
Gubwa quickly crossed to the desk and pressed his button. “Stay t
here!” he snapped. “I’m coming.”
Gubwa’s Castle was not the most heavily fortified inhabited retreat in the world, but it was one of the most secret. Indeed its ramparts were not at all in evidence.
Small by any ordinary castle’s standards, the Castle had but one level. It was square in shape, some thirty by thirty yards, with one perimeter corridor and two diagonal corridors; in plan, a square with a cross in it, forming four triangles equal in size and area. One of these contained Gubwa’s personal living quarters, his Command Center and (set quite apart and forbidden to all but The Flock and Gubwa himself) his “harem”; another held his extensive library, study, mind-lab and swimming pool; a third contained the “barracks,” accommodation for his two dozen “soldiers,” also a gymnasium and other recreational facilities; and the fourth was the utility area, housing the Castle’s air filtration, heating, electrical and general life-support systems. The four mind-guard cells were located in the Castle’s “turrets,” that is to say at its four corners, which could only be reached along the perimeter corridor.
The corridors were better lighted than Gubwa’s private rooms, so that he was obliged to squint his eyes as he made for cell Number Three. His eyes were weak, unable to cope with any but the dimmest light; for which reason, here in the Castle, all lighting was subdued. Not even the corridors were bright by normal standards, but they were still too bright for Charon Gubwa. Outside the Castle, there Gubwa wore tinted contact lenses, but such trips as he was obliged to make were extremely few and far between. Being physically agoraphobic (mentally to the contrary) he went out only when he had to go, which had become virtually never. With the exception of food and stores, which Gubwa’s “quartermaster” must of course periodically replenish, the Castle was to all intents and purposes self-sufficient.
Moving his bulk along the perimeter corridor whose outer wall was solid rock and whose inner wall was plastic-coated steel, Gubwa arrived at the cell in question. There a white man named Gardner one of his most trusted lieutenants, waited for him, coming to attention at his approach.
