Psychosphere (10 page)

And to himself:
Cop it while you can, Sweetheart. The next guy who takes a bite at your sweet little pussy will have gills and fins and slimy, slimy scales!

“W
HO WERE YOU WAVING AT
?” Garrison asked the stewardess when she came into the plane's tiny, luxurious lounge after the takeoff. “You were all at the hatch, laughing, waving.”

“Oh,” she smiled, “that was just a friend we met up with in Rhodes. Nice chap. More money than sense—but, you know, nice.”

“Ah!” Vicki smiled. “Romance on a Greek island, eh?”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “Well, not exactly. He was pleasant enough, I suppose, but—oh, I shouldn't think I'll see him again. Anyway, there was something about him.” She shrugged. “Good fun, yes, but a bit too calculating for my likes. Too cold by far.”

She frowned for a moment, thoughtfully, then smiled. “It helped pass the time. Now then, Mr. Garrison, Mrs. Garrison, what can I get you to drink while you choose a meal for yourselves?”

Garrison and Vicki drank a little ice-cold lager, picked at cold meats and salad from the limited menu, finished with ice cream, coffee and liqueurs. While they ate they talked.

“You promised you'd tell me what it was all about,” Vicki worriedly pressed him when they were alone, dropping the witty, happy attitude she had adopted for the benefit of the crew. “Why are we going home, Richard? Why now, halfway through our holiday?”

Garrison gazed out of his window for a moment, sipped lager, used his fork to toy with a piece of chicken breast. “Vicki, you remember our conversation the other night? Well, now I'm ready to face up to what's wrong. And I'm ready to start doing something about it—while there's still time.”

“And is there something you can do about it?” she asked.

“With a bit of luck, yes. What went wrong was this: I destroyed Psychomech. Simple as that. But that's not an end to it. No, for I'll build the machine again. Or rather, I'll have it built. The man who modified Gareth Wyatt's original Psychomech now works for me. If I give him a helping hand—or mind—there should be no problem.”

“No problem,” she nodded and sighed. “But you felt it was sufficiently urgent that it couldn't wait.” She sighed again. “I really did like Lindos a lot, but—”

“No buts about it, Vicki,” he cut her short. “It
is
urgent. I thought you understood that from our conversation the other night. If I told you just how urgent I believe it is, then I'm sure it would frighten you—as it frightens me.”

“It frightens me anyway,” she answered. “The thought of a mind-expanding machine—and you at its mercy!”

He chuckled, however mirthlessly. “Psychomech wasn't a monster,” he told her. “Even if the men who built it were monsters, the machine was…just a machine. I
was
at its mercy, yes, but only because I placed myself in unscrupulous hands. Anyway, that backfired on the people who would have hurt me. Backfired badly!” Again his chuckle. “My multimind was the result, but that's all history now. Except…I have to do it again. For myself, yes—and for you.”

She knew what he meant, could suddenly feel it in her bones. She fed on Garrison's power no less than the others, was kept alive by it, and his battery was leaking. She shuddered, cringing as her mind conjured once more the agony she had known in those tortured days before…before she had died.

Remembering, she clutched at Garrison and began to say something. Perhaps she had something to say, perhaps not; in any case it went unspoken. One hour had gone by since the plane had taken off in Rhodes. They were now out over the Aegean, heading for the Yugoslav-Bulgarian border.

Beneath their feet, down in the little jet's luggage hold, Bomber Bert Black's device stopped ticking. An electrical connection was made. The floor jumped as from the blow of some mighty hammer, and the plane gave a great shudder in answer to a strangely dull, booming explosion. Debris flew past the windows as the small craft lurched and shook. Then—

Like a mortally wounded dragon the jet screamed her agony as her nose tilted and she commenced a tight spiral down the sky….

Charon Gubwa sat in his study. Although the metal-walled room was a large one, with two great desks and with steel shelves along three of the high walls, still the place was cluttered. Its chaotically untidy appearance was, to Gubwa, a luxury. In his own eyes his life was very ordered, so tightly ordered indeed that a measure of personal imperfection or imbalance was a necessity. Books were piled everywhere in apparent disarray, and empty spaces gaped along all of the shelves.

Those books which were in their places, however, displayed Gubwa's passion for so-called “fringe” sciences, his consuming interest in that paranormal of whose powers a perverse Nature, aided and abetted by the equally perverse Science of man, had gifted Gubwa excessively. But quite apart from these there were dozens of works offering mute witness to their owner's other leanings. For alongside books on parapsychology (mainly volumes concerning telepathy but including levitation, prevision, telekinesis and a half-dozen others) there were numerous volumes dealing with politics and political doctrines, world religions and mythologies, war—its causes and effects, aftermath and survival—and a host of biographies of warlords, dictators, kings, emperors and tyrants. There were, too, a large number of books concerning themselves with man's inhumanity to his fellow man, and bulky treatises on the effects upon human beings of narcotics, carcinogens, other poisons, acids and lethal chemicals, and radiation.

A workbench displayed a fantastic array of half-assembled or dis-assembled instruments and gadgets, some of which—intended eventually for Gubwa's mind-lab—were or would be tools for the measuring of forces and stresses other than those of mass, space and time; and in and about the general clutter stood devices of hypnotic or brainwashing natures, ranging from revolving mirrors and faceted crystals through common stroboscopes to a small pulse-laser. The fourth wall was a melange of large framed photographs depicting sex in all its many phases and facets, from simple love through gross indecency to the lewdest forms of perversion, sadism and bestiality.

In short, the study was nothing less than the den or lair of a twentieth-century sorcerer; and its magics were not white but black.

Amongst all of this apparent disorder, the sole item kept impeccably tidy was the tall filing cabinet in which Gubwa kept the records of his workforce. From this cabinet he had taken a file whose cover bore the name: Charles Edwin Jackson. The case was now closed, the file dead as its subject. Gubwa felt no sorrow, no regrets, no guilt. Such feelings were for fools. He riffled once more through its pages, scowled, tossed it into a wastebasket.

Waste, yes, as everything and everybody must waste in the end. Unless one were immortal, of course. Gubwa did not pursue that line of thought; it was one which already occupied enough of his time, and time was always a pressing matter.

More than twenty-four hours had gone by since he mind-probed Vicki Maler, and they had been busy ones. The Castle's internal security had been shown to have loopholes and Gubwa had needed to plug them. The rape of one of his mind-guards should not have been possible and that was worrying; it had showed a weakness in the systems Gubwa employed to make and keep his soldiers subservient.

All of them were addicts to a greater or lesser degree, slaves of the common and occasionally not so common drugs available to Gubwa through various markets. Not all of them had come to him that way, however. But…their complete dependence upon him was his most powerful ally. Dogs were loath to bite the hand that fed them.

Jackson, apparently, had been a dog of a different color! At least until Gubwa had looked a little closer at the man's records. Then a previously overlooked pattern had become immediately visible.

First of all, Jackson had been partially resistant to hypnosis. But
resistant
, not immune. There were men who could not be hypnotized (Gubwa had come across several in his time), but Jackson was not one of them. His resistance probably sprang from a constant battle of wills between himself and his parents during his teen years, which had made him not only highly argumentative but also very strong-willed and single-minded. There was that in his mind which resisted outside interference or “commands” contrary to his nature or natural desires. This was present in all men but had been more so in Jackson; an additional manifestation of which was his “closeness” of mind, the fact that Gubwa found some difficulty in reading his thoughts. Having for so long been obliged to hide his feelings and thoughts from his parents, Jackson had developed a real resistance to mind-probing.

Secondly, his metabolism had been erratic: the drug he used would take him in a variety of ways. Normally Gubwa could keep a fine control over the dosages his soldiers required—they could not be allowed to become inoperative through their addiction—but again in Jackson's case there had been complications. During the last twenty-four hours outside operatives had discovered at least one external supplier who had admitted catering to Jackson's needs. And how many others? Obviously Jackson had “moonlighted,” supplementing Gubwa's drug allocation with privately contracted and often inferior supplies. This meant, quite simply, that he had made himself partly independent of Gubwa's control, had become a rogue in the organization.

Not only was he less likely to listen to Gubwa's hypnotic commands but he might well read or translate them to his own advantage. Especially considering his ghetto background and upbringing. For instance, Gubwa's orders that his soldiers would “do no deliberate wrong outside the Castle” but “live their lives normally,” and so on. Jackson had never considered it “wrong” to take drugs; it had been a way of life in the circles he frequented. And his view of “normalcy” was hardly the common one. The ghetto is not a normal place, and it has its own “laws of the land.” In this connection Jackson could no more be said to be contemporary with society's majority than Charon Gubwa himself.

And finally there had been the simple fact that Jackson was a rapist. This had not been proven and Gubwa had not seen fit to follow it up, but in 1979 the police had twice connected him with attacks upon women. In enlisting Jackson, Gubwa had merely noted this additional warp in the fabric of his psychology, this additional appetite to be fed; for it was one which, along with drug addiction, must in the end increase Jackson's dependence. Less fortunately, it had also increased his unpredictability. Where sex is free and freely given, the rapist's violent
psychological
need becomes starved!

And so a lesson learned and Charon Gubwa had no one to blame but himself. Indeed he might be seen as more to blame than Jackson. By the simple expedient of allowing his soldiers more knowledge of the purpose and nature of the mind-guards, he might well have avoided the entire incident. In this episode the need-to-know basis he usually employed had failed him; for the fact was that, in the mentally negative condition in which the mind-guards protected him, they were totally susceptible to even the slightest physical movement or exertion. Their condition could be compared to a dreamless, mental hibernation, when all their brains were capable of was the basic control of bodily life-support systems. And they must be allowed simply to sleep the condition off and the drug out of their systems. Just as creatures forced from hibernation will often die, so, too, Gubwa's mind-guards.

Fortunately there was in his harem a woman whose drug dependence fast approached critical. She was useless now except as a sex surrogate, for even her lovemaking was unreal. Well, her fate was decided: she would finish her service to Gubwa as a mind-guard, and at the last…the pits beneath Gubwa's Castle were deep and uncaring. For full fifteen years those pits had offered mute, unprotesting service and would continue to do so as long as they were needed…

The Castle's master stirred himself from his musing. Time was wasting and that irritated him. More than twenty-four hours on this one investigation, and important things waiting to be done which could wait no longer. Gubwa had set pots boiling all over the world; unless he stirred them occasionally his special brew might lose something of its flavor.

He left his study, passed through the mind-lab, out into the Castle's central corridor junction and made for the Command Center in his private quarters. The entire route was no more than thirty strides from start to end, but as he went Gubwa planned ahead, singling out those garden minds he must once more infiltrate, and the seeds he must sow in them.

Gadaffi, for example. A little pressure there and Gubwa could turn Libya's eyes south to Nigeria, Chad and the Sudan. Not too much pressure, however, for here there was a fine balance to be maintained. The mind was volatile enough without external influences; too sharp a probe might well overbalance the whole thing. Better to keep things on the brink; just keep the pot boiling.

Then there were the generals Chan Tan Masung and Li-pan Dang on the Sino-Soviet border. An incident or two there wouldn't go amiss. And it was time, too, that France offered Argentina the new Excism III air-to-sea missile, with its infallible anti-jamming system. That would give the Falklands and the British government something to think about; for of course Gubwa would see to it that news of the sale was “leaked” worldwide.

Nor must he forget the PLO: since Israel's crippling blow against them almost a year ago, they had been far too quiet. A gentle squeeze or two—an idea implanted—in the minds of the at present low-lying leaders of the organization might just succeed in elevating young Ali Zufta into prominence and power overnight! But
there
was a mind to be watched! Gubwa must be careful not to create that which might grow beyond the measure of his control. But at the same time it would be remiss of him to forego a little mental agitation in certain Israeli power-circles…

He reached the Command Center and issued instructions that he was not to be disturbed, then took his computer remote and seated himself before the great globe.

Now where to start?

Gubwa smiled, keyed GLOBE and WASHINGTON DC on the remote. And as the globe spun and steadied he fixed his eyes and thoughts firmly on the North American capital. In his mind's eye he formed a picture of the White House, remote-viewing its inner chambers. The mind he sought was in residence, was…taking a nap! Preparatory to a busy evening ahead. That was all to the good.

Gubwa probed…

…
Dreams of grain, wheat…endless conveyor belts carrying countless bags of it…buckets and bushels and tons of it…goldengrain to fill the rumbling bellies of the USSR
…

…
Peace and goodwill…and ice splintering and melting from a glass containing cold-war cocktail
…

…
Leaders of nations smiling, shaking hands across a table, embracing…their flags side by side on a wall behind them
…

…
Money for the farmers, the poor folk…work for all…peace…prosperity…votes!

NO! Gubwa insinuated his own thoughts. WOULD YOU FEED THE DEVIOUS BASTARDS AND MAKE THEM STRONG ENOUGH TO GO TO WAR WITH YOU? WOULD YOU REALLY BOW TO THE DIRT-GRUBBERS, PANDER TO THE WORK-SHY FOR THE SAKE OF A FEW VOTES? AND IN ANY CASE, WHO IN HIS RIGHT MIND WOULD VOTE FOR A MAN WEAK AS THAT?

…
Chaos!…A dream growing into nightmare…pictures chasing themselves in endless procession…grain wasting…empty Russian ships turned back…thin Russian faces…hungry children…grain again, heaped in the docks, rotting, rat-infested…chaos and horror!

NO!—Gubwa pictured a vast iron hand smashing down, destroying the idle conveyor belts, scattering mountains of foul grain left and right. He pictured Russian factories, workers building missiles; pictured them weakening as they exhausted their supplies of food. Missiles rusting in their silos. Armies of tanks grinding to a halt on the plains of Europe, their skeleton crews leaving them and advancing, arms outstretched, begging for food. A HUNGRY ENEMY IS A WEAK ONE!

…
A weak enemy…Cossacks falling from their mounts…Mongol hordes throwing down their weapons, their arms too weak to carry them
…

STARVE THE BASTARDS!

And again: STARVE THEM!

Yet again: STARVE THEM!

…
A world map, Russia and its satellites in relief, packed with a sea of gaunt, hollow-eyed, starving faces
…

AND ONLY FEED THEM IN YOUR OWN GOOD TIME—WHEN THEY COME TO YOU ON THEIR KNEES!

…
The All-Giver handing out food to a silently bowed multitude…the USSR, the entire world on its knees, praising the great, the mighty, the almighty America, A-m-e-r-i-c-a!
…

…
The Star-Spangled Banner…the White House
….

…Retreating now in the mind's eye of Charon Gubwa. He opened his eyes, sighed, smiled.

Good! Very good!

Now then, in Moscow the time would be, oh, early morning. Very well, now would be as good a time as any to see what
he
was up to. Gubwa keyed GLOBE, MOSCOW into the remote, his mind seeking the Kremlin, his eyes narrowing as the suspended sphere reacted to meet his requirement…

T
HE PLANE SPIRALLED DOWN OUT OF THE SKY LIKE A LAZILY FALLING
autumn leaf, or a great silver moth singed by the candle sun. Ten seconds had passed since the explosion. Inside, the floor tilted at forty-five degrees and G-force held Garrison and Vicki together, crushed to each other and to the curving wall beside Garrison's seat and window. The engines had stopped, their howl replaced by the whispering
hiss
of sliced air. Cabin pressure had somehow been maintained but the main controls were gone. The situation was hopeless; the spiral was tightening as the angle of descent increased.

Forward, the door to the cockpit slammed back on its hinges and a moment later the hostess staggered through billowing curtains, literally dragging herself or climbing up the length of the small lounge. Blood poured from her nose. Her eyes were wide, bright in a face filled with fear. “Going down!” she needlessly gasped.