by Brian Lumley
As for the Machine itself:
Psychomech’s back was raw rust now, chafing at Garrison’s thighs through tattered trousers. Cables trailed behind, their plastic sheaths eaten away, exposing dulled wire cores. Cracks gaped in the plastic body and flanks, and spots of corrosion marred even the gleam of chrome.
“A junkyard!” Garrison found strength for a feeble curse. “And still I carry you with me. Another folly of a fool upon a fool’s quest!” But still he went on.
And where once he would have soared over the highest mountains, now he sought passes through them, making the way longer and his temper shorter. Forests of giant, twisted trees he would not enter for fear of what might lurk within, but had to skirt them; and remembering the circle of wizards and how they had gloated over their shewstone while he burned in the sand, he steered clear of all deserts.
Yes, and the memory of those wizards haunted him. He especially remembered the yellow, slant-eyed one. Indeed he could hardly forget him, for now it seemed that the Oriental mage followed him upon his quest, that wherever he turned his head the small yellow man would be there, distantly glimpsed, merging with trees or rocks or skylines the moment he was spotted. Aye, and possibly there were others on Garrison’s trail, vague, furtive ghosts who disappeared at once if ever he tried to focus his eyes upon them too keenly.
Of sleep Garrison had had none, for he wished no more dreams within dreams; but it seemed to him his weariness was such that it transcended mere sleep, so that he could not even if he would. And in this condition, finally he crested a range of low hills and saw spread beneath him the Valley of the Mists.
Now, whether he actually “saw” it or not (he could not be sure for his senses were no longer reliable; his exhaustion was such that this might simply be an hallucination, a vision) he could not say, but certainly there was something very strange and ethereal about the entire valley. Its expanse lay parallel to and between the hills now behind him and an even lower range of foothills to the fore, and to the right and left the valley or low ground between these ranges stretched away and out of sight. And along its entire length the mists curled and eddied like vapor over a lake or moat of milk. And the silence there might be that silence which will come, one day, at the end of time.
This time Garrison did not hesitate. This was an obstacle beyond avoidance, which must be crossed. There were at least three good reasons. For one: it might go on forever, this misty valley, and not have a way round at all. Two: time pressed and Garrison grew weaker. Three: a storm seemed to be gathering, a doomful oppression of atmosphere manifesting in dark clouds that boiled in the sky all around and momently closed with the as yet clear patch of sky directly overhead. Also, the temptation to cross the valley was great; it did not seem wide; the foothills beyond seemed to beckon Garrison on.
And so, as these thoughts passed through his dully aching mind, he rode the maimed Machine down and into the sea of mist, and uncaring of the terrors it might conceal passed forward until the milky stuff closed above him and the external world was shut out beyond eerily drifting walls of white.
Lulled by the silence and veritable creep of Psychomech through the mist, and by Suzy’s slow panting where she sat close behind him, Garrison’s initial alertness gradually dissipated and he closed eyes already heavy from lack of rest and from peering ahead in this milky submarine realm—and at that very moment the storm broke.
Thunder smote like titan hammers and lightnings flickered down, their transient trails hissing through the mist and stabbing the sodden ground to steaming, lighting up the way in glowing, blue-burning phantoms of rocky outcrops and shaly piles. And at any single moment one such bolt might have struck Garrison, or the metal of the Machine. But no, they were spared. Then, in the afterglow of a particularly vicious blast, Garrison saw, or thought he saw—
But no, in the booming confusion of thunder, the kaleidoscopic flicker of lesser lightnings and the blinding glare of that greater bolt, his eyes had deceived him—must surely have deceived him. He moved forward again, his flesh tingling, and not alone from the static electricity that plucked at his hair and the tatters of his clothing. And there it was again, but closer now and no longer limned by lightning. It was, could only be a Machine like Psychomech…but no such Psychomech as Garrison might ever have imagined!
Huge, gigantic, the thing towered, until its uppermost parts were lost in the ceiling mist. Vast and squat it sat there, pipes and panels and bulkheads sprawling away until, on both sides, their outlines became dim and mist-wreathed. It would take fifty, perhaps a hundred, no, a thousand Psychomechs such as Garrison’s Machine to fill the same volume! And deep within lights flashed and power surged, but silently, without the faintest hum of sound; and where the Machine should have had hard edges, they were instead blurred and indistinct; so that Garrison knew that in fact this was a vision, but of what strange place or event he could not say.
A vision, yes—a mirage such as men see in the desert—the mirror image of some distant thing or occurrence. Except that Garrison knew that the truth of this mirage was not distant in space but in time. It had been sent, or he had willed it, as a sign that he pursued the right path, had not strayed from the course which might yet carry him to quest’s end…
He moved closer still, but carefully, unwilling even to disturb the air or milky mist lest the vision dissolve away. But a moment later he stopped again, this time with a gasp. The incredible MACHINE had a platform—a raised central dais or bed beneath a pair of huge copper rods with knobbed ends, like vast electrodes—but it was the thing, the creature lying upon the bed, which caused Garrison to gasp.
He knew instinctively what the creature was, even found a word for it squirming its way up to the surface of his mind. A word from another place, another world. Frankenstein! The thing on the dais was a monster, composite of corpses, an unnatural creature created by a crazed science. And as the lightning crashed again Garrison moved closer still for there was something here that he must discover, must see for himself. Something to do with this manufactured, composite creature.
He got down from his Machine, approached the MACHINE until he stood in the shadow of its awesomely ethereal bulk, lifted himself up on tiptoe to gaze amazed at the monster spread-eagled upon the dais. It was in the shape of a man, yes, but a massive, powerful man. Garrison gazed along its length between huge, naked, callous-hardened feet, beyond which the trunk formed a horizon of flesh. He took a pace to one side, let his gaze follow the creature’s thigh up above the knee to where a great fist lay loosely clenched. Relaxed, that fist, certainly—in sleep or death Garrison could not say—but there was that about it which mutely spoke of deadly dexterity. The hand of a killer.
Garrison wondered at the sheer size and apparent hardness of the creature’s limbs, which were huge even compared to its body. Upright and awake, with arms and legs, fists and feet like these; the monster would be walking death to any ordinary opponent.
And yet there was also a slyness about it, the suggestion of wily intelligence, like that of a fox. Where this idea sprang from in Garrison’s mind was a mystery, but it persisted. This composite creature was made up of a brilliantly clever if morally suspect or even unscrupulous man, and of a simpler but definitely more brutal man—and of one other.
The thunder and lightning seemed to have moved on a little, lulling Garrison into believing that the storm had passed, but in the next moment he knew that he was mistaken. With a roar and a multiple crashing that near-stunned him, four great bolts, falling almost simultaneously, shredded the milky mist to tatters to strike at the MACHINE like hammers of Thor. In that one moment the entire MACHINE was bathed in flickering blue energies—Garrison, too, with his own nimbus of eerie fire—and in the next the lights burned brighter in the great engine’s guts and a mighty pulse of power rocked its towering structure.
Then—several things—culminating in a sheet of flame and a rending explosion that hurled Garrison head over heels, skidding and tumbling until his b
ack and shoulders came up against the rusty bulk of his Machine. And there he lay with reeling head and aching bones.
But before that tremendous blast…he would never be sure.
His senses seemed no longer reliable, were dulled from exhaustion and dazed from a succession of shocks. He had thought that the great copper rods with their huge electrodes had suddenly swelled up, as from an unbearable power gathering in them; and he had thought to see a lashing, streaming incandescence of energy unleashed between those terminals to cojoin and strike down at the naked monster. Then, finally, before the ultimate blast, he had thought that the entire body of the creature shuddered and jerked, and that he had smelled the reek of roasting flesh. And then with a shriek of absolute agony the thing had bent upright from the waist, glaring at him with mad golden eyes in a face which he had at once recognized—
—as his own!
LATER (HE HAD NO WAY OF KNOWING HOW MUCH LATER), GARRISON emerged from delirium to find himself on all fours, clawing uselessly at the rust-scabbed base of the Machine, Psychomech. Suzy was beside him, nuzzling his neck with a nose that was mainly dry, urging him back to his senses with little barks and whinings.
Of the MACHINE: no trace remained. Neither of MACHINE nor of monster. No trace—except in Garrison’s mind. He remembered the monster’s face, his face, and knew there must be a meaning. Doubtless he would discover that meaning at quest’s end.
Quest’s end. Hah!—that was a laugh. For all Garrison cared it could end right here and now. And yet—
He set his jaw stubbornly. “Suzy, up, Girl!” His voice was cracked, throat dry. “You’re not so heavy.” She scampered aboard the Machine. Then he straightened his shoulders, took hold of a dangling cable, willed the Machine to float free of the ground. It did: one inch, two. But that was sufficient. Walking ahead, he led the Machine out of the valley like a man leading some strange lame prehistoric beast.
The stars of night were bright above. The gentle slopes of the foothills rose dark ahead…
JOHNNIE FONG SAT IN HIS GRAY JAGUAR IN THE HOTEL CAR PARK AND watched until the light blinked out in Garrison’s first-floor bedroom. The man up there was in fact Garrison/Schroeder, but Fong didn’t know that. To the Chinaman he was simply Garrison.
Fong waited a few minutes, left his car and found a public telephone. Moments later Charon Gubwa answered his private telephone in the Castle and was brought up to date. It was late but Gubwa had already slept. Precognition had told him that the oncoming hours would be busy ones.
Having quickly absorbed all of Fong’s information, now the albino sent his mind out to Phillip Stone where he kept an eye on the Garrison residence. MR. STONE. GO BACK AND GET YOUR CAR. THEN BRING VICKI MALER TO ME.
Stone, a cigarette dangling from his lips, shielded by his hand in the darkness where he stood beneath trees not far from the house, jerked to attention. Or rather his mind did. He ground out the cigarette with his heel and looked around carefully in the empty darkness.
YOU STILL FIND DIFFICULTY IN BELIEVING, MR. STONE. PERHAPS YOU ARE NOT SO CLEVER AFTER ALL.
“How am I to get her to come with me?” Stone asked in a whisper, finding it too much of an effort to simply think his question. “And where to?”
It was as if he heard a chuckle. YOU ALREADY KNOW THOSE THINGS. YOU WILL REMEMBER THEM AS YOU GO, IMPROVISE AS REQUIRED. SIMPLY OBEY.
“Like shit!” Stone spat out the words—but already he was making his way back towards the spot where his yellow Granada was parked.
At the house it was easy. Stone found his mind whirling as his mouth ran on of its own accord—or of Gubwa’s accord—as the simple fact of what he was doing triggered a stream of post-hypnotic commands which could not be denied. He was Phillip Stone from MI6, he told the Maler woman; Richard Garrison was now in the care of the Secret Service; it was believed that a second attempt on his life was in the offing; Garrison had asked that Vicki Maler be picked up and brought to him, for her safety. While Stone’s mind might be in utter chaos, his words and actions were under a firmer discipline than ever he himself had mastered; and of course he carried proof of his identity. The woman had no choice but to trust him.
She had been preparing for bed but now she dressed, quickly packed a small case, gave the servants one or two cursory instructions and allowed Stone to take her to his car. Through all of this he wanted nothing more than to tell her to run, make herself scarce, phone the police—anything but go with him. Instead he smiled concernedly, told her not to worry, held the door for her while she got into his car after dumping her case in the boot.
And in a very short time they were on their way to London…
MEANWHILE GUBWA DARED DO NOTHING. Word had already reached him of Vicenti’s murder and the double-suicide of the Blacks, and he knew who was responsible if not quite how. But obviously Garrison was still a force to be reckoned with. A terrifying force.
Gubwa had taken a nail-biting chance when he had Stone pick up the girl; with powers such as Garrison commanded things still could have gone wrong. They still could, for which reason Gubwa would not rest easy until she was here, in the Castle, shielded by the mental blackout of his mind-guards. As for them: there were eight of them “on duty” now. Gubwa could take no more chances.
But with Garrison asleep and at a distance (though distance, as the albino had explained to Stone made little or no difference) Gubwa had not been able to resist the opportunity to strike. Success was now well within his reach. The girl would know the source or secret of Garrison’s power and she would also know his weaknesses.
Meanwhile, in a dark car park not too far away, Stone would have parked his Granada. He would then have wound down his window and at his signal one of Gubwa’s lieutenants would have stepped forward, broken the top off a tiny phial and splashed its contents into the car. A knockout gas, instantaneous, would then have put Stone and the girl to sleep. By now they were on their way to the Castle, and no power in the world could possibly follow their trail here…hopefully. That last because Gubwa knew, or strongly suspected, that Garrison’s power was not of this world but of the Psychosphere. But at least every human precaution had been taken.
And for now it was simply a matter of waiting…
RAMON DE MEDICI’S CALL ROUSED JOSEPH MAESTRO FROM AN UNEASY sleep. The Big Guy grumbled, switched on his bedside light, snatched the telephone handset from its cradle and checked the caller’s identity. “Ramon? Okay, wait.” Maestro turned to the girl in his bed and shook her awake. “You,” he said, “out!”
“What?” she drowsily blinked sleep from her eyes, wrapped too-willing arms around him. He grunted and shrugged her off. She was very young and very beautiful—worthless, to Joseph Maestro.
“Wake up, dummy!” he snapped. “Go clean your teeth.”
“But Joe,” she mumblingly protested, “I already cleaned my—”
“Then take a shower. Just get the hell out of here. I have to speak to somebody. I’ll call you when I’m through.”
Grumblingly, she got out of bed, moved in the direction of the bathroom.
“Yeah,” said Maestro into the phone, “what is it? You found Garrison?”
“Right,” came the answer. “His car, anyway. He’s not at home so we figure he’s with his car.”
“Where?”
“In Leicester.”
Maestro frowned. “Leicester? What the hell is he doing in Leicester? Where in Leicester?”
“We don’t know. Have to go up there to get a positive fix.”
“So get on it.”
“Tonight?”
“Right now!” Maestro snapped. “Hey!—we owe this guy. And not just for Vicenti. You ain’t telling me you enjoyed last night, are you? Three solid hours in the beautiful company of the filth—and then spat out like so much stale gum? Now get on it. I want Garrison dead!”
“Okay, Joe, you got it. His car’s not moving so we figure he’s staying over somewhere. I’ll go personally, take Carlo’s boys with me. They’
ll enjoy it.”
“Yeah, right,” said Maestro. “That’s good. The filth don’t know you were there when the Blacks snuffed Carlo and jumped. If they do somehow figure out that Garrison was involved with that, they still won’t be able to tie you in with it. You’re in the clear. Okay, the job’s yours.”
“Right.”
“Don’t screw it up.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re a good guy, Ramon.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
Maestro put down the phone. The glass door of the bathroom was steamed up now and he could hear the hiss of the shower. It was hot tonight. He threw back the sheets, stretched and yawned. “Hey, baby? Okay, you can come back to bed.”
She came out of the bathroom towelling herself down. He silently admired her breasts, the firm globes of her buttocks. “When you’re dry,” he told her, “you can do us both a favor and get your mouth round that.”
She came over to the bed, wrinkled her nose, looked pointedly down on him. “Round what?” she asked without malice.
Maestro grinned. “So work on it,” he said. “Hey!—I should keep a dog and bark myself?”
Chapter 17
Whatever forces or currents they are which circulate in or permeate the Psychosphere may never be known, but that Tuesday morning at dawn they roused neither Richard Garrison nor Garrison/Schroeder from sleep but Garrison/Koenig; and it was this third facet of Garrison’s multimind which drove the big Mercedes back onto the M1 heading north. As fortune good or bad had it, de Medici and his “boys” arrived seconds too late, just in time to see the silver car making away into the distance. Then it was a case of turning about and driving back to the M1, and of waiting there until their detector indicated that the Mercedes was heading north once more.
