by Brian Lumley
He turned his face back to the twisted, flailing, changing man on the cross, and along with Mordris One and Three used the touch to send mutative energies blasting through their victim’s racked body.
His arms seemed to be melting; like softening candles they lengthened, dangling long hands with globular tips on foot-long fingers. His legs, too, until his naked feet stood on the black disc; except the word “stood” gives a false impression. For the flesh was folding out from inside the legs of his trousers like puddings of soft dough, forming elephantine pads with flattened toes. His face was now freakishly elongated, with his lower jaw slumping onto his chest on a neck that was collapsing into itself like a concertina stood on end.
He was now a travesty of a man. His eyes stood out an inch from their sockets; his ears, pulled by gravity, were beginning to slide out of place; the place where his mouth had been throbbed, pulsing like a bellows as he tried in vain to suck through a hole that was no longer there. And even though the Three had withdrawn their hands, still he continued to melt, the flesh of his body, and even the bones, pooling and folding over his belt and the tatters of his jacket; while his head slumped onto what remained of his shoulders, his shoulders into his ribs, and his ribs into his lower body. Thinned down to little more than skin over bones, his fleshless arms slid from their manacles, flowed into the rest of him; and all of him began to sink down through his clothing onto the disc.
And as he sloughed away, so the totality of him, his complete self, was turning black, merging into and becoming part of the black disc. And now too the nature of that disc became apparent. It was what remained of men, their elemental ingredient, when nothing any longer remained of their humanity, their form, their minds and personalities, their very being. And now in the briefest of moments the man on the cross—who had been the man on the cross—was part of the disc, which was just a fraction of an inch thicker!
In silence absolute She and her leering companions turned again to the crowd. “It is done,” she said. “Now you go back to work, and remember: in mere weeks, a month at most, our work is done here. Then all shall be as it was, all put back to rights, all set free. All you have to do is live until then—and work, of course. Guards, trustees, foremen, gangers—see to it.”
She made an adjustment to what might be a bracelet on her wrist, as did her colleagues on the dais. And in another moment the dais was empty . . .
Ganzer was as good as his word. Later that day, when something like normality—at least a semblance of calm—had returned to Schloss Zonigen, he sought out Hans Niewohner at the benches in the great cavern where he supervised a handful of electricians, took him aside and mainly out of sight, and spoke to him.
“As for why I’m doing this,” he said, “it is because I can sense desperation in you. You are a pleasant young man, Niewohner, and I wouldn’t want you to come to harm.”
“About my desperation: you’re right,” said the other. “And yes I would run—but after I think about it for a while, then I begin to see the problems.”
“Have you considered them all?” said Ganzer. “I doubt it. For after all you spoke to me, and without first assuring yourself of my loyalties.”
Niewohner nodded his shock of red hair. “Well, you looked honest enough to me. As for the problems: I’m fairly sure that by now I have considered most of them. But yes, the difficulties would seem to be a great many.”
“To say the least,” Ganzer agreed. “I would have said too many. This place is a towering crag. There are three ways down: by road, by cable car, and by a leap into space.”
“Yes,” said Niewohner, glumly. “Or maybe four—if I had a thousand feet of good rope!”
“You won’t find much climbing rope here,” Ganzer told him. “Plenty of cable, but it’s heavy. And how to move it unnoticed, from here to one of the ice shafts?” He shook his head. “Forget it. Even if you got that far you’d be seen. They have a watcher stationed at every vantage point; you would be hauled up, which would leave you with a choice: either to let go the cable or to be dragged before the Three. Me, I would let go the cable first—but it will never come to that, for I’m no climber; nor am I in any fit state to climb.” He waggled his twisted foot. “And anyway, why do you even consider it? You haven’t been here very long, and if they speak the truth there’s an end to all this in just a few weeks’ time.”
“You take their word for that?” said Niewohner, lifting an eyebrow. “They have a weapon that they’ve spent years designing and building, and in a month’s time . . . what then? Surely their intention must be to test it. But to what purpose? Shouldn’t we be trying to warn the outside world of what’s going on here?”
“But we don’t know what’s going on here,” Ganzer replied. “And we don’t even know if it’s a weapon. Indeed, all we do know is that everything here is illegal and that we are slaves, literally.”
Niewohner shook his head, chewed his lip. “None of which eases my feeling of desperation one jot. I just want to be out of here!”
Ganzer said, “So does everyone—so did I—and look what it got me.” Again he waggled his foot. “This was when I determined to test their precepts by staying in the village beyond my personal curfew; I was one hour late returning. That was in the first year of the Three’s occupancy, since when there have been plenty of others who just wanted to be out of here, who pursued their desire to its end. And its end is over there.” He pointed across the cavern to the central dais. “You see that black disc there? There was nothing there when first they came here—not even a dais. That disc is made of men who, much like you and I, just wanted to be out of here.’ ”
Niewohner stood straighter, pulled back his shoulders, and said, “Why don’t we rise up? They are Three and we are many. We could be all over them in moments!”
“And the trustees?” Ganzer had learned practicality. “What of the guards?”
“Couldn’t they be swayed to our cause?”
“Now hold!” said Ganzer, suddenly alarmed and looking all about. “Your cause, Niewohner, not mine! In fact, I’m only here to talk you out of it! And as for the guards and trustees being swayed to your cause: impossible! They have crimes of their own to answer for. My wife, my poor wife . . . ! And she is only one of the many poor creatures—women, children, and some men—who are daily abused in this place.”
“But I have no one here,” Niewohner answered. “Only myself. And I feel like . . . like a damned coward for not doing anything! If I could only hot-wire a car and get down to the village—”
“The plateau is under constant surveillance,” said Ganzer, “and there are watchers in the village.”
“Watchers?”
“The Three have been here for five years. One of the first things they did was to secure the village; also, certain of the villages around, unless I miss my guess. Face it, Hans, Schloss Zonigen is locked down!”
“The cable car—”
“But you don’t have a pass; the guards and trustees would question you, find you out in a moment. And even if you somehow succeeded where would you go? Across the mountains on foot? No, you would go to the village, the only route out . . . and then be brought back up here.”
“But—”
“Now listen—” Ganzer paused; but then, after a moment’s thought, “Oh, to hell with it! What matter the niceties of polite conversation now? Do you use the toilet? Do you . . . relieve yourself of your body’s natural desires: which is to say, masturbate? Do you even eat?”
Niewohner shook his head. “No. None of that. They’ve done something to me, some chemical in the water . . . I really don’t know. That’s another of the things I wanted to ask you.”
Ganzer nodded. “Yes, yes. You have been touched! There is no chemical in the water. They have touched you when first you came here. They have this power; they control flesh, interfere with natural functions. Why haul edibles up here when they can stop you eating? Why install toilet facilities to clog Schloss Zonigen up and slow the work? A
nd why permit small, well, ‘comforts’ to weaken us and similarly slow us down?”
Standing straighter yet, Niewohner glared and clenched his fists. He looked about to burst out with some loud imprecation, and Ganzer immediately cautioned him: “Quietly now!”
Niewohner deflated. “Damn!” he said, between his teeth. “I still think we could take them.”
“Then you think wrong,” said Ganzer. “Three years ago one of the guards went mad. He turned his gun on the female. We saw her cut down, there on that dais, where she delivered some kind of inspirational oratory. Her Khiff detached itself, and like a bubble of blue-grey snot it sped to the madman and entered into his head. His brains came out through his ears and he fell like he’d been axed! In a matter of moments his entire body . . . God! It turned inside out!”
Niewohner stepped back from Ganzer, as if he, too, were mad. He looked about to laugh, however shakily, but Ganzer went on: “The Khiff sped back to the female; she got up; she was entire, whole again! She went and stood in his entrails, and they were alive—at least until she’d separated them out!”
Niewohner blinked, and said, “And that’s the truth?”
Ganzer shrugged. “There are others you can ask.”
“I don’t think I would dare.”
“Rightly so. Nor should you ‘dare’ consider escaping. But you are not alone. I, too, am a coward; or maybe not. Think on this: if the Three were done away with—if that were possible—who would there be to put right the monstrousness which even now lives a life, of sorts, in Schloss Zonigen’s cells?”
“I’ve heard something of that,” said Niewohner.
“Oh, I expect you have,” said Ganzer, with an uncontrollable shudder. “But you haven’t seen it!”
Then, suddenly aware of a prickling sensation at the back of his mind, Schloss Zonigen’s “Direktor” excused himself, letting Niewohner get back to his work . . .
Hurrying to return to his own station in a small office close to the reception area, Ganzer was almost at once brought to a halt in a well-lighted access shaft when She flowed from a side tunnel into his path. Seeing Ganzer go pale as the blood immediately drained from his face, Mordri One smiled and said:
“Ah, Gunter! That was well done. I commend your response—your sensible arguments—in a most indiscreet conversation.”
Oh, God! She knows! thought Ganzer, before he could control his mental processes.
“But of course I know,” she said. “On occasion my Khiff is wont to scan those within his sphere of responsibility. In this way unusual circumstances are at once brought to my attention.”
“I . . . I . . .” said Ganzer.
“Fortunately your responses to, er, certain rash ideas and proposals do you great credit—fortunate for you, that is! And meanwhile this young person of our mutual acquaintance performs his duties inadequately because his mind is full of troublesome thoughts. I go to see him now; my Khiff is anxious to meet him, in order to explain things. He is in any case due a visit, and perhaps even overdue.”
“Yes, of course!” Ganzer gasped. “Quite right.”
“You may carry on.”
“Yes, indeed!”
Trembling, Ganzer watched her glide off down the shaft in the direction of the great cavern. As she drifted away a malignant grey-green blob of a face peered avidly at him from behind the collar of her kaftan . . .
18
“Not long,” Shania had told him, but already it had been three days (well of course it had!) and Scott still hadn’t heard from her. Now on the evening of the third day he looked back on what little he’d achieved since her extraordinary visit.
He had contacted St. Jude’s to see if he could acquire any leads on the parents of those no-longer-sick kids. His thinking was that if he could track them down they might be able to tell him how to contact Salcombe . . . not that he intended to contact him, not yet, but he would certainly like to know where the man was located. But the receptionist and then the staff at the hospital had given him the runaround and in the end told him nothing. It was all highly confidential, they said; it went against hospital policy that didn’t permit them to discuss ex-patients or their relatives, they said. Well, Scott hadn’t been too hopeful in the first place, but at least it had been worth a try.
Then he’d tried several of the better known orphanages, to see if he could locate the third once-poorly kid. Here he found himself on firmer footing, even though it went somewhat against his natural instincts to pose as the father of yet another sick child. But:
As “Quentin Mandeville” on the phone to the Geoffrey Bartholomew Sanctuary for Bereaved and Orphaned Children, his sixth such inquiry, Scott explained how he’d been given hope—indeed how he had been inspired—by what he had heard of the works of the faith-healer Simon Salcombe, and desired to seek him out to discuss the case of his own son, whose extremely rare disorder was slowly but surely killing him.
He’d then been put through to the so-called Head Warden, who had answered him: “Er, this is Pastor Patterson speaking—Mr. er . . . ?”
“Quentin Mandeville,” Scott had growled in reply. “And by the way, that’s ‘the’ Quentin Mandeville. It’s possible you may have heard of me in connection with various charities—?”
“Ah! Er, indeed!” said the other, trying to sound at least as convincing as Scott, and falling just a little short.
“—But none so charitable as that person with whom I now wish to acquaint myself, through your good offices,” Scott continued. “Namely Simon Salcombe. Pastor, I have this sick child, my own dear son, and if it is at all possible that Mr. Salcombe can do for my boy what he did for your ward in St. Jude’s Hospital—”
“My dear sir,” the pastor had cut him off. “Is it that you are seeking a connection?”
“Precisely. I wish to contact Mr. Salcombe at the earliest possible opportunity. My son’s life may well depend upon it. No one else can offer any hope to my only son and heir. Perhaps it is beyond the powers even of Mr. Salcombe, and I will be spending a vast sum of money to no avail. But still I must try.”
“And so you have answered my next question before I asked it,” said Pastor Patterson. “You see, I have been given permission to pass on information with regard to Mr. Salcombe only to persons of proven means. This may sound very uncharitable, but as it was explained to me, the facility in Switzerland where Mr. Salcombe and his colleagues, er, meditate and aspire to perfect their healing arts has a multitude of overheads; in short, huge expenses. Mr. Salcombe’s time being limited and costly, he must perforce charge those who can afford him in order to compensate for those who cannot, such as the children at St. Jude’s Hospital. Myself, I understand this well indeed, since the Geoffrey Bartholomew Sanctuary struggles under, ahem, similiar financial burdens. For which reason I know you’ll understand if I require you to supply certain, er, documents, credentials, and validations . . . ? All in compliance with Mr. Salcombe’s instructions, of course.”
At which Scott’s tactics had changed up a gear. It seemed distasteful but he must continue with his lies, making promises he couldn’t keep; this wasn’t at all to his liking but now that he’d started he simply couldn’t let it get away from him.
“Sir,” he said, “tomorrow I attend a children’s charity in Washington, DC; a ball where my dinner will cost four thousand dollars, and each glass of wine two hundred more. Forgive me if I seem vulgar in respect of such sums—if I toss them off as lightly as certain men drop famous names—but money is literally nothing to me! What good are millions if one’s health, or the health of one’s family, is in jeopardy? No good at all. And please rest assured that the finances of the Geoffrey Bartholomew Sanctuary will not suffer as a result of this conversation. Indeed I have a check which I’m prepared to fill in now, this very minute, but since I’m flying tonight I cannot immediately satisfy all of your other requirements.”
“My dear Mr. Mandeville, I’m so sorry! I really would like to help you; why, I even see it as my d
uty! But—”
“If you insist,” said Scott, “in my absence my agents will contact you with the various documents you require. But time is of the essence. My poor son is dying . . . surely you can appreciate the life-and-death urgency of the situation? Simply supply me with Mr. Salcombe’s address, or a way of contacting him, and all concerned—yourself included, or rather your Sanctuary—will benefit by reason of my gratitude.”
“Mr. Mandeville, I see you are a man generous to a fault,” said the pastor. “Your offer to assist with our funding is appreciated beyond my ability to convey. Even so, I can only give you the barest of details, for these are all I have! The faith-healer Simon Salcombe may be reached at his research establishment in the Swiss Alps. And the only address I have is Schloss Zonigen: an icy, honeycombed crag, or so I am led to believe. I do have permission to telephone this mountainous retreat, but I may not under any circumstances divulge the number. Such are Mr. Salcombe’s very strict instructions. However, if you would like me to call on your behalf, in a purely introductory capacity, I find myself once again obliged to require that—”
“Pastor Patterson,” said Scott, cutting in and barely concealing a sigh, “my agents, trusted men who are able to contact me at all times, will be in touch with you—with my check, of course—at which time you may make the necessary introductions. Meanwhile I shall look forward to dealing with Mr. Salcombe himself. Now I am afraid I must get on; I fly within the hour. But you’ll never know how relieved and grateful I am for your assistance in this matter.” (Well at least that was the truth!) “And now I leave it up to you and my agents, and bid you good night.”
“One last thing!” said the pastor, hurriedly. “While I and the Sanctuary look forward to receiving your check, I think it best to forewarn you that in this respect Mr. Salcombe is, well, oddly specific. It would appear to be one of his—how may one put it?—foibles, to take the bulk of any payment in gold. And this, er, very discreetly since his offices are in Switzerland, if you follow my meaning: the international laws with regard to trading in precious metals, et cetera—er, ahem!”
