Psychomech (30 page)

Reeling, spinning…

Reeling astride the Machine, with Suzy’s great paw upon his shoulder. The weird landscape—a landscape of unfettered mind—hurtling by, and ahead the bleached forest of brittle trees, like massed skeletal fingers clawing skywards. And beyond the forest the black lake of pitch, the black rock, the black castle—the quest!

‘Mr Garrison?’ the voice was worried, the hand gripping his arm full of tension. ‘Mr Garrison, is there something I can—’

‘No!’ His voice was too high, a falsetto croak. He controlled it. ‘No, I’m all right. A dizzy spell. This bloody Ligurian brandy, that’s all.’

‘But quite suddenly there you looked desperately ill! Your face went pale as death in a second! Something you ate, perhaps? Can I get a doctor?’

Doctor… Psychiatry… Wyatt…

A pattern emerging, forming, clicking into place. Garrison knew his man now, at least for what he had been—or for what he was told he had been. But… that was unimportant. There were greater things at stake here.

‘No doctor, no,’ he answered. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He turned his silver lenses like small mirrors upon Wyatt’s no doubt concerned face. No one else had seen the incident. He leaned back in his seat, breathed deeply and said:

‘Can you find my wife and bring her to me? I think I’ve had enough of this place for tonight.’

‘Certainly,’ the other answered. ‘But are you well enough to be left on your own while I—’

‘Of course!’ Garrison snapped. ‘I’m not sick, Wyatt! Nor am I a cripple!’

Wyatt stood, began to turn away. Garrison caught his elbow. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I snarled. Contact me tomorrow. In the morning. Come to see me.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You need money. I have plenty. Miller Micros have components you can use. I can help there, too…’

Wyatt’s mouth fell open—but this time he caught himself. Like the valves of a great clam, his mind’s edges clamped down tight upon themselves. He did not know how Garrison did it, no, but if there really was such a thing as telepathy—well, Garrison had already read his mind far too clearly.

‘You’re an amazing man,’ he said. He nodded. ‘Very well. Until tomorrow, then.’

Moments later Terri was back. She seemed a little anxious, a little annoyed. ‘Richard, what on earth—?’

‘We’re leaving,’ he brusquely cut her off. He dug into his pocket for a scrap of paper. ‘Here’s Willy’s number. Give him a ring, Terri, and tell him we’re ready.’

‘What?’ she gasped. ‘But I’ve just started to enjoy myself, and—’

‘And we’re leaving.’ He was adamant.

She pursed her lips, immediately relaxed and forced a smile, sat down beside him and took his hand. ‘Richard, has something happened? It wasn’t… him
,was it?
’

‘Him?’

‘Yes, that man you were speaking to. That was Gareth Wyatt.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I know that now.’

‘Has he said something to upset you? she flared up in a second, giving of her very best performance. ‘About my mother? About me?’

‘Your mother?” Garrison seemed distant, abstracted. ‘You? Why should he mention you?’

‘Then why do we have to—!’

‘
Just give Koenig a ring, will you?
’ 
he snapped.

When she was gone he sat back again, breathed deeply once more, drove all extraneous sounds from his ears and sensations from his body.

The Machine. The
Machine
. And Dr Gareth Wyatt had it. He had it, but needed financial assistance with it. Very well, he would get all the help he needed.

Coming from nowhere, chilly in Garrison’s mind, like the final brief squall which terminates a sudden storm, there came a single word. He grabbed at it, savoured it. His mind spelled it out in letters of metal and plastic and electrical current:

Psychomech…

B
etween 10.00 and 11.00 A.M. on the following day Wyatt visited Garrison’s house in Sussex and the two men talked in the study. Terri kept discreetly out of the way but Garrison secured Willy Koenig close to hand. In fact the German was out of sight behind a bookshelf partition, where he sat quietly and attempted to analyze the conversation between Garrison and his visitor. Garrison had briefed him on what to expect but still Koenig was astonished at the speed with which the blind man concluded his negotiations. It seemed that Garrison was able to grasp the principles of Wyatt’s project as quickly as they could be explained to him; in fact where Wyatt occasionally faltered, Garrison was often able to supply the right phrase or key word to bring the psychiatrist back on course.

But that aside, by the time the two shook hands and Garrison showed Wyatt out of the study and to the main door of the house, several important points had been agreed and Garrison had guaranteed Wyatt his financial support and all the facilities available at MME. After Wyatt’s car had driven away, then Koenig came out of hiding to sit with Garrison and silently consider all that had been said.

‘Well?’ Garrison asked eventually.

Koenig frowned. ‘Richard, I’ve heard of that sort of machine before—or one very much like it.’

‘Hitler’s machine? The one he hoped would create supermen?’

‘That’s the one. Thomas told you about it, eh?’

‘Yes he did. He also told me the only man who could build it was dead.’

Koenig nodded. ‘Otto Krippner, yes. A warped genius.

Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t But this machine of Wyatt’s certainly seems to bear a strong resemblance to Krippner’s.’ He frowned again. ‘One thing strikes me as being especially odd. Wyatt understood the function of Psychomech, which of course he should if he designed it, but technically—’

‘He seemed lost?’

‘Exactly! Psychiatrist he may well be, but electronic engineer—never!’

‘I agree,’ said Garrison; and now he too frowned. ‘Willy,’ he said after a while, ‘see what you can dig up on Dr Gareth Wyatt, will you? His recent past, I think. Put someone—a couple of someones—on to it. Actually, I know he’s hiding something from me, but I don’t know what it is. Although I suspect he has a weak or loose character, the actual mind of the man is tight as a vice. He’s something of a paradox. Last night, when I caught him off-guard, a whole burst of telepathic mish-mash came crashing out of him. This morning—nothing! He told me just what he wanted to tell me, nothing more.’

‘Krippner,’ Koenig mused. He shook his crewcut head indecisively. ‘Somehow… I still have a feeling he’s in this somewhere. I mean, I know that Wyatt’s not him. For one thing he’s British as Yorkshire pudding and for another he’s fifteen to twenty years too young. And yet…’

‘I can’t see any possible connection,’ said Garrison. ‘Even if Krippner were still alive, how could he possibly have got himself fixed up with Wyatt? No, we’re probably heading right up a blind alley.’ He paused. ‘But at the same time—’

‘Yes?’

‘Let’s play it safe. Who do we know who’s big, Jewish and preferably with strong Israeli connections?’

‘Are you trying to frighten me, Richard?’ Koenig grinned, but in a moment he was serious again. ‘We know a few such Jews. The best would be the biggest. How about Uri Angell in Golders Green? He has friends at the embassy. I take it you want to know if they’re still tracking Krippner?’

Garrison’s lenses stared at the German with an intensity that completely belied his blindness. He nodded. ‘I’ve come to rely heavily on your judgement, my friend. Your natural instinct is often far more reliable than my own ESP. After all, instinct is clear and decisive, while ESP is often vague and misleading. For example: my original dream of the Machine, the black lake, castle and all. Prevision, yes—but I still haven’t discovered what it was all about. You, on the other hand—’

‘As Thomas Schroeder used to say,’ Koenig cut in, ‘I think my bad thoughts first. You call it instinct, I call it survival. Your survival, my survival. We are agreed that Wyatt probably did not build Psychomech. All right, my bad thoughts are these: if he didn’t build it, who did?—and why does he pretend the machine is his invention? Or is it that he’s afraid to mention the real inventor’s name?’

‘OK,’ Garrison was convinced. ‘I’ll check out the Krippner angle myself. I’ll do it through Uri Angell, as you suggest. He owes me several favours. Meanwhile there’s something you can do. Drive up to Winchester, to Miller Micros. Get Jimmy Craig to come down and see me. I want to speak to him—at some length. You heard what I told Wyatt?’

‘About sending your own man to check Psychomech over? Yes. Actually, I thought he jumped at it, grabbed at it while it was still on offer. And who better to send than Miller Micros’ top engineer? But don’t you see? That’s just one more piece of evidence against Wyatt being Psychomech’s inventor! I mean, if he built the machine, then why can’t he repair it?’

‘Money, he says. He built Psychomech off the top of his head, so to speak. He “understands” the machine, it’s his baby—but he isn’t up on micro-electronics. He can’t specify what he doesn’t understand. That’s why he needs Jimmy Craig. Time is of the essence, you see? This guy’s up to his ears in debt—or so he makes out. He needs to make some money, and fast. That’s something I can understand. Once you’ve had it, it’s hard to do without.’

‘No,’ said Koenig, shaking his head, ‘too pat. And there’s something else.’

‘Oh?’

‘Surely you realize that this has to be the Gareth Wyatt? The same Dr Gareth Wyatt who was having it off with Terri’s mother?’

‘I know that, yes,’ Garrison shrugged. ‘Coincidence.’

‘
What?
’ Koenig was incredulous. ‘You believe that?’

‘Yes—no—what does it matter? Look, Willy, this is it! Psychomech is it!’ Garrison slammed a fist into his palm. ‘It’s
the
Machine—my Machine! Nothing matters except I ride that Machine.’

At Garrison’s last words Koenig felt the short hairs stiffen at the back of his bull neck. ‘Richard, that was a dream,’ he protested. ‘Just a—’

‘Just a dream? You’re not being logical,’ Garrison cut in, his voice sharp. He immediately softened. ‘Look, Terri was a dream too. The bomb that blinded me was a dream. Jesus Christ, dream or no dream there’s no other way, Willy! You must see that? Remember: “Machine—RG/TS—Light!” It’s as simple as that.’

‘But—’

‘No buts, Willy. Psychomech
is
my Machine. The end of the quest. Schenk’s horoscope working out to its final detail. Oh, Psychomech’s the answer, no doubt about it—and I’ve got a ticket to ride…’

Over the space of that next summer and winter, Gareth Wyatt and Terri Garrison were extremely lucky. Lucky that Garrison’s ESP powers were not more fully developed, that he could not read minds as well as he would like to. But in any case, he had no reason to suspect anything between them. Quite the reverse, for Terri would have nothing of Wyatt—would not even stay in the same vicinity with him—or so it seemed. They were also lucky that Koenig put himself only to the task of exploring Wyatt’s past, not his present. If he had done that… then were they soon found out. As it was their liaison continued, however covertly, but passionate as ever. And Wyatt ensured that he kept it that way.

In fact now that he was getting the help he needed—and especially now that he had gone, as it were, on to Garrison’s payroll—he had started to think of Terri as something more than merely a sprat to catch a mackerel. Where before she had been a girl, now she was a woman full-blown, and her appetite seemed great as Wyatt’s own—her appetite for him, at least. For it appeared she was not a naturally licentious woman after all, just a woman in love. And actually, they made a good match. She was very beautiful, and blossoming more yet as a direct result of her affair with Wyatt; while he… he was not getting any younger.

As time passed he found thoughts such as these recurring ever more frequently. Disturbing thoughts for a man who previously loved only himself…

Meanwhile Koenig’s detective work had paid off, and Garrison’s Jewish contact had likewise proven fruitful. The answers had not been quick in coming, but by late October it was known to Koenig and Garrison that Wyatt’s ex-gardener, Hans Maas, had been none other than Otto Krippner. Koenig had been perfectly correct in his suspicions: the ex-Nazi had quite obviously been Psychomech’s architect.

Less than a year ago the Israelis had discovered a trail leading to Gareth Wyatt. Along with certain high-ranking members of British Intelligence they had gone to Wyatt’s place, where finally the Nazi’s spoor petered out. Exodus bad obviously reached Krippner first and spirited hint away. Where he was now (if he still lived) was anybody’s guess. As for Wyatt: his story had seemed a little wishy-washy, inconclusive, but there had,certainly been consistency in his rigid refusal to believe that his gardener had been a much-wanted Nazi. In fact he had ridiculed the whole idea. Nothing could be proved against him. His home had been searched with his approval for clues as to Krippner’s present whereabouts, but nothing had been discovered. The entire investigation had been a very quiet affair, not the sort of thing to be brought to the attention of the general public.

No one had even bothered to question Wyatt about the huge machine in the upstairs room of his house; he was after all a doctor of sorts, and this was his place of practice. And in any case, who was there now to remember the Berlin Project? That had been a wartime thing, the aborted child of sick minds, obsolete now as the V2 rocket…

Koenig and Garrison knew better; Otto Krippner had finally built his machine in Wyatt’s house; Psychomech was a reality.

And of course within a few days of meeting Wyatt for the first time, and long before all of this secondary information was to hand, Garrison himself had been to see Psychomech—which had proven as disappointing an experience as any he could have imagined. For at first Psychomech had not seemed to be the beast he remembered from his dream. No sleek Machine this, to ride over weird landscapes and feel between your legs vibrant with awful strength; not this great squatting, inert electronic monster of pumps and graphs and snaking cables and dead grey screens. But with each successive visit the feeling had grown stronger in him that this
was
the Machine, for if Adam Schenk’s horoscopes were correct… why, then it simply had to be.