Psychosphere (19 page)

“What…?” Garrison fell into a crouch, gazed all about, first at the left-hand path, then the right. “Where? Who?” But Suzy, her coat bristling, knew no such indecision. No, the bitch stared straight into that well of shadows which was the left-hand path, and her growl was all the answer Garrison needed—for now
.

“So that's the way, is it, girl?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And you heard it, too, did you?” Suzy whined in answer, pressed closer to his knee
.

“Richard, please!”
came that woman's sigh again
. “Please help me! Oh, please, please let me go!”

Help her? Let her go? What did it mean? Garrison's flesh crept. Wizardry? Witchcraft? A very black magic, certainly. And yet he knew, or had known, that voice. In some other place, some other time. He grasped at that last thought: some other time. Could it be, he wondered? A voice from his future, auguring some event yet to come? He had, after all, expressed his desire to glance once more beyond the veil of the present and into future time. And was this his answer?

He strained forward, his limbs shaking, his eyes already stinging from fathoming or attempting to fathom the vault of shadows which lay behind the entrance to the left-hand path. Did something move there? The figure of a girl, seen fleetingly, a wraith amongst the shadows? A girl, hiding, fleeing from shaded place to shaded place? Fleeing from whom? From Garrison? Possibly, for she had begged to be let go. Why, then, had she called on him for help? And if not fleeing from him, fleeing from—what?

Something else moved in there! Garrison's flesh crept again, violently, rippling on his limbs and body like the ripples on a pool. Cold sweat started from his forehead. Something moved, hanging from above, drifting, swaying along the zig-zag, flitting route taken by the girl. Several somethings. Trailing somethings—like tentacles
.

The Other! That diseased evil insidious as cancer, gray as leprosy, warped as insanity. That vast octopus of evil from Garrison's dream within a dream! His enemy of enemies!

He waited no longer but clambered back onto the Machine. Suzy made no effect to mount behind him but raced beneath as he rode Psychomech into the gap of the left-hand path. In there was a deeper gloom than had been expected, a chill gloom and clammy as fog, but Garrison knew it for a psychic thing. The depression was in his mind, its external oppression springing from the heaviness of spirit within
.

But now, too, he found that he must go cautiously; for here, where overhead the cliffs actually met in places—or rather where the upper strata remained but had been undercut by ancient waters—great stalactites depended to bar his way with their looming mass, forming columns where upthrusting spires had long ages since cojoined. And between and around these limestone relics he must drive the Machine, never knowing what lurked beyond or when it would strike, but ever aware that terror was here, breathing in the centuried stone
.

Then, far down the cleft where the way grew narrower still—another movement!—a fleeting inkblot amongst the shadows, pressed low to the ground. “Suzy!” cried Garrison. “Wait, girl!” And her bark coming back to him, echoing with his own voice and dying into chill silence. But no, he must not call her back. She scouted the way for him and that was good
.

He urged a little more speed from the Machine (in truth he merely exerted himself the more, for Psychomech was now worse than useless), and as his eyes grew more accustomed to the ever-deepening darkness bore along the old watercourse, whose walls continued to close in on him. And thus, suddenly, from a claustrophobic realm into a wide, expansive elf-land! Or perhaps a place of ogres
…

So it seemed to Garrison as, bursting from the now completely arched-over tunnel, he entered through a portal into a huge irregular cavern of strange beauty and even stranger horror; and here he brought his Machine to a halt. Perhaps it was the sight of Suzy, cowering, that caused him to apply mental brakes; perhaps the sure knowledge that this was the subterranean lair of Evil itself. Oh, of shimmering beauty the cavern had its share, but so does the web of a spider
.

The place had a domed, stone dagger-festooned ceiling, irregular perimeter columns of stalagmitic rock, a fairly even floor, though dotted here and there with weird mushrooms of dripstone, and the ghostly luminescence of the long-entombed: a firefly glitter that lent illumination and wonder to an otherwise lightless hole. Garrison skirted a column of massive girth which obstructed his way and his view, and came to where Suzy crouched, panted and whined. She immediately scrabbled up behind him, pressing to his back and shuddering as from a drenching in icy water
.

And now Garrison saw the reason for Suzy's dread and understood his own. For without a doubt the Being which sat upon or floated over its stalagmitic throne at the far side of the cavern was that same Other of his inmost dream, the many-tentacled blasphemy whose nature was neither male nor female, neither black nor white, neither truly sane and human nor insane and inhuman but Other than these things
.

Red-eyed, that horror, and glaring intently, searchingly—but not in Garrison's direction. No, for at the foot of that Being's throne here lay the phantom girl, whose sobbing was audible only as a distant sighing, whose shape and form were hidden in an ethereal glow or nebulosity from beyond the grave. And though Garrison could swear he knew or had known this creature, now he saw that she was indeed a wraith, a ghost; and knowing this he knew the Other for a necromancer, a wizard who raises up and questions the dead! But to what end, and how and why should it concern Garrison? In what way might the dead instruct the living, and how might Garrison possibly be endangered by such instruction?

With his flesh freshly acrawl, still he urged the Machine forward across the open floor of the cavern, and emerging from the shadows of encircling columns…was checked. He found himself shut out…beyond a certain point, roughly halfway, the Machine would not go, had seemed to come up against some invisible wall or impenetrable barrier. Garrison had met with such before and knew their breaking was impossible or at best most difficult. Weary and debilitated as he was through his fear, he could not summon the strength even to attempt such a breaking. How then might he help the ghost-girl or in any way interfere with the wizard's necromancies?

It seemed that he could not; moreover, slowly it was dawning on him that what he saw was not real, or at best some symbolic vision from an as yet inchoate future. Else why had the Other failed to detect him? The answer seemed simple: he had asked to see the future, the Other in that future had not asked to see the past. Garrison could observe but could not interfere
.

His frustration knew no bounds. He must help the poor, shrinking luminescence, the ghost-girl of whom no single detail could be gleaned beneath her ethereal glimmer but whose whispered pleas had raised ghosts of their own, the ghosts of Garrison's memory. But how might he help? Too weary now even to think clearly, he could only look on as the tableau enacted itself beyond his and the Machine's and Suzy's range—but in another moment he held his breath at something else he saw
.

For within the impenetrable area were not two figures but three, the third emerging with some stealth from behind a row of thin stalactites that arrased the upward curving far wall like a curtain—and Garrison knew the intruder. It was the Secret One, also from his dream within a dream, and clad in his Robe of Secrecy. An acolyte of the Other? Perhaps. But that did not explain the way he glided, silent and stealthy, now darting to place himself between ghost-girl and monster and drag her up and out of the clutches of that dread Being
.

Across the floor of the cavern they fled, the Secret One bearing up her luminescent form where she lay half-fainting in his arms. And after them the now enraged Other, clearly bent upon their destruction, his many tentacles outstretched, with all their hooked sucker-mouths gaping and constricting in a frenzy of loathsome anticipation. For a moment it seemed that all would be well, that the pair might possibly escape—but then they came up against the inside of that very wall which kept Garrison out—and behind them the monster, leprous-gray and pulsating with rage!

“No!” Garrison cried out his frustration, his anguish. “No, this must not be!” And whatever part of him it was that issued forth from him at that moment to sear the wall—whatever ESP power he inadvertently unleashed, which attempted to transcend time itself and strike for the future—it seemed that it drained him utterly. For the moment, at least
.

The Machine settled to the floor and teetered there an instant, then lay inert; and Garrison fell in a half-faint to sprawl across its broad back. Yet still he clung to consciousness long enough to see the Secret One straining forward through the weakened wall, and the ghost-girl bundled in his arms, and long enough to watch them make away, safe now from pursuit
.

Then the darkness swept in upon him, and only with the greatest effort of will was he able to keep his eyes open and witness the final wonder: that of the Other in all his monstrousness, writhing and raving and fading away, back into that future whence Garrison had drawn this strange and inexplicable vision
…

I
T WAS NOT UNCONSCIOUSNESS THAT CLAIMED
G
ARRISON THEN BUT A
psychic numbness, a spiritual exhaustion or weary lassitude; from which, with her pawing and whining, Suzy eventually contrived to rouse him. She knew, wise creature, that this was no place to sleep, that they must be up and about, away on their quest
.

And surprisingly, for all the aching weariness of his body, head and limbs, Garrison discovered that he could now sit up; moreover that he could lift Psychomech up from the floor and however sluggishly guide the Machine from the great cave. Where the Other had writhed on or over his stalagmite throne there now opened a gloom-shrouded tunnel, and far along its curving length a glimmer could be seen as of daylight
.

Slowly, yard by aching yard, man, dog and Machine made for that glimmer, that glow of life which grew and expanded with each passing moment. Of the three Suzy seemed least affected, merely eager to be out of the place. Garrison had gone beyond tired, could only sway and nod and groan where he sat. And the Machine…?

Below Psychomech's belly a worn-through, fraying cable dangled, and in the Machine's wake lay frequent patches of red, fallen rust
…

At 11:00
A.M.
, on the following Monday, Carl Vicenti released himself from care. His doctor argued with him, likewise the nurses on his ward, but Vicenti's boys helped him dress and gave him what assistance they could to limp out of the place. Through the worst of it one thought made it all worthwhile: that when the Big Guy was finished with Garrison, then it would be his turn. Vicenti knew exactly what Mr. Garrison's fate was to be: concrete boots and a deep, very damp grave. And Garrison going down slow with a gag in his mouth, terror in his eyes and gaping, bubbling nostrils.

As for the subject of Vincenti's plan: as coincidence would have it Garrison left Dr. Jamieson's house in Haslemere at about the same time. Vicki Maler took his great silver Mercedes to pick him up, but from the moment she parked the car and got out of the driving seat she knew something was wrong. There was a sign she could hardly fail to recognize, one she had come to know all too well. Suzy was sitting outside the open front door of the house, her expression one of complete dog-despondency. The great black bitch had not been beaten or even chastised, Vicki knew that. It was simply that she had sensed a change in her master; this was how she was affected whenever one of Garrison's Gestalt facets took ascendence.

On this occasion that facet was Thomas Schroeder, and Vicki knew him as soon as he appeared with Jamieson in the open doorway. Oh, it was Richard Garrison's body and shape—though even these seemed strangely altered, so that at best his suit was ill-fitting—but the alien gestures and posture and voice, particularly the voice, quite gave him away. While the vocal cords were Garrison's, the accent and inflection could only be Schroeder's.

“Vicki, my dear!” he greeted her. “And punctual as ever. Thank you for coming for me.” He took her hand like an old friend, which of course he was or had been, but there was a chill in his flesh and a feel to it that Vicki couldn't quite stomach. His kiss, for all that it was the merest peck, was almost unbearable. She knew exactly how Suzy felt and was glad when finally Garrison/Schroeder released her and turned to Dr. Jamieson.

“Just let me know what I owe you,” he told him smiling. “You shall have my check by return.”

“Of course, Mr., er, Garrison.” The doctor briefly took his hand and shook it, then turned to Vicki. “Now do take care of him, young lady, won't you? He's still not as strong as he should be, and—”

“And you fuss too much, my friend!” Garrison/Schroeder was smiling still, but his tone had grown harder, the German accent coming through a shade stronger. “I shall be just fine. I needed a little rest, that's all. Some peace and quiet—which you and your home provided most admirably. And for which you will be paid.”

“Of course, of course,” Jamieson was quick to placate him. “It's just a doctor's natural concern for his patient, that's all.”

“Quite,” Garrison/Schroeder nodded his head. “Well, thank you again, but now we must be on our way. Time is mistakenly thought of as a commodity—but none of us ever really has enough of it, and it is something we can't buy more of.”

He led Vicki to the car, helped her into the front passenger seat and opened a back door for Suzy. The black Doberman whined as she jumped into the back to sit there, staring at him curiously, but Garrison/Schroeder merely smiled as he started the car and nodded a last farewell to the doctor.

Jamieson was still standing there as the car turned out of his drive and onto the country road beyond the gardens…

“V
ICKI
,”
SAID
G
ARRISON
/S
CHROEDER WHEN THEY HAD FOUND A
first-class road and were speeding for home, “you know of course who I am?”

“Oh, yes, Thomas,” she answered, sighing, “I know.”

He nodded, never taking his eyes from the road. “Very well, then know this also: I am not here through any ordinary resurgence of psyche. In future I will be here more often. Willy, too. He shall have his place. This is not a late recognition of status, more an
equality
of the same. True we all inhabit Richard's body, his mind, but not in the way I envisioned it when I was…before.

“We are, in a way, completely separate identities. But Richard's was the strongest identity—yes, I said
was
—and he would not relinquish control lightly. Despite my earlier generosity, he quickly grew jealous over his right of tenancy.”

“Your generosity?” she broke in when he paused. “Are you talking about the money you left him? His right of tenancy? But you said it yourself: it's his body!”

“But
our
mind! We're all in here, Vicki. We share knowledge. Even suppressed, kept down, Keonig and I know when Richard is well, when he is unwell. Happy, unhappy. Threatened. Hurt! And we know that when—if—he dies, then we must die with him. Not only us, the three of us in here, but you, too. Oh, Vicki, Vicki child! You are resentful of us, Willy and I, but don't you see? We are your protection!”

“That's a…a side-effect, a spinoff,” Vicki protested weakly. “Thomas, you were my father's friend, like a kind—a very kind—uncle to me. I appreciated that, but now I—”

“Now, now,
now
!” Garrison/Schroeder snapped. “Like it or not we are both of us, all of us, in the same boat!” His voice had risen in pitch, was harsh as chalk on a board. “
Mein Gott!—was ist los mit dir?
”

“
Mit mir? Nichts!
” she answered, her own heat rising. “But with you…? Is this the immortality you wanted, Thomas? What of our ‘immortality' now?”

He was suddenly livid, Vicki could see that, but he made a concentrated effort to retain or regain his composure before answering. “Vicki, my dear, there are two flies in the ointment of ‘my' immortality,” he rasped. “You are one, the other is Richard himself. You because you interfere, Richard because he is the ascendant one: he is more often in possession. What an irony that of the three of us—myself, Willy, and Richard—Richard is least well-equipped to protect himself!”

“Is that why you're here? Now, I mean? To protect Richard?”

“To protect us all!” Garrison/Schroeder was calmer. “You know that the power is draining, Vicki. When it goes you will be the first to suffer. Don't you see how you will suffer? Blindness first, then death. You will…decay, Vicki! And very quickly. And like me, you have already been there once. You know what death is like…”

She shuddered. “Please don't!”—and turned to him sharply. “Thomas, I—”

He took a hand from the steering wheel, quietened her words before she could give them form. “Let me finish,” he said. “The loss of power is not all. The plane was sabotaged, you know that. And so you must also know that an unseen, unknown agent is at work against us. Who? Why? Oh, I've had enemies enough in my time, but
that
Thomas Schroeder is no more. Likewise Koenig. And who would want to murder Richard, for what reason?”

“I…I don't know,” she answered frowningly. “He's crossed people, I suppose, but—”

“—But murder? No, I think it goes deeper than a mere feud. That is merely its guise. We have become aware recently of another power in the Psychosphere, Vicki. An incredible, hostile power. That is the other reason I am here, the reason why I may yet have to call up Koenig in our defense. It is the sort of work Willy and I understand far better than Richard. So you see, there are problems enough without your adding to them with merely mundane, personal and emotional troubles of your own…” He looked at her shrewdly as her hand went to her mouth.

“You…know?” her eyes were wide, incredulous. And they were frightened.

“That you have started to doubt your love for Richard? Yes.”

Now she sobbed openly, had difficulty controlling the ache inside her body, her soul. Finally she said: “I've tried to hide it…” She dabbed furiously at her tears. “But I knew that sooner or later you, he—all three of you—must read it in my mind. No, I don't love him!”

She had finally said it, was terrified of what she had said, and now clutched at Garrison/Schroeder's arm and wept harder yet. She buried her head in his breast, and as he pulled off the road and stopped the car on the grass verge, she said, “Oh, Thomas, Thomas—I can't help it! He
is
my life, but I don't love him. Yes, you're right, I have been…
there
. I have been dead. Oh, God!—and I fear it, fear it,
fear it
! But how can I love someone who must in the end kill me?”

“Vicki, Vicki!” he patted her shoulder, held her close and tight. “Don't, don't. Do you consider yourself a sinner? You haven't sinned. Were you disloyal? No, merely afraid. So you don't love Richard. Is that a crime? Not in my eyes—not even in Richard's, I am sure. What did you think he would do, will you out of existence? Is he—was he ever—that sort of man? Richard did not take lives, he saved them! He saved mine, for what it was worth…”

She looked up, dabbed at her tears; and for the first time it was as if Schroeder were actually here, that this was indeed that kind old uncle she used to know so very long ago. “He'll forgive me?”

“He'll be hurt, no doubt,” Garrison/Schroeder answered. “He may not forgive you, not immediately. But is he a murderer? Is he a coldblooded killer? Vicki, I Thomas Schroeder have killed men. I will not admit to murder, for those I killed or caused to die deserved it. Willy Koenig has also killed men, but for him I cannot answer. Still I tell you
nothing
could bring us to harm you. Why should we? And Richard—how could he? No, on that point you needlessly impale yourself.”

“Oh, Thomas, if only—”

“My child, listen to me. We both fear death, you and I. Yes, for we of all mankind—and Christ, too, if you believe—have been dead and returned. Can you believe that while it is in my power to live I will suffer death again? You know I will not. But…someone wants to kill Richard. And however unwittingly, he would kill all of us with Richard. That is a terrible threat and my first task is to remove it. After that—” He shrugged, started the car.

“Yes?” she prompted him as he eased the Mercedes onto the road.

“After that I shall turn my attention to a much more difficult problem. Having removed the threat of immediate death, I hope to solve the riddle of eternal life. For I—we—are not immortal, Vicki, not yet. We lost that when Richard destroyed Psychomech. But the machine can be rebuilt, or a greater power may yet be discovered. Richard has dreamed, is dreaming even now, and his dream is a quest. He seeks that greater power.”

“But what of me?” she asked. “Am I tied to him forever, without love?”

“I can't speak for Richard, Vicki,” Garrison/Schroeder answered. “He may want to keep you, even without your love, but I doubt it. But whichever way it goes there is one thing I can promise you: while I live, you live. And, Vicki—you may believe that life is still very dear to me…”

A
T THE HOUSE IN
S
USSEX
G
ARRISON
/S
CHROEDER WASTED NO TIME
but took a heaped tray of food with him and locked himself in the study. He did not want to be disturbed. At midday a constable and police inspector called at the house, having driven up from Chichester to record statements. They had been requested to do so by the Metropolitan Police. Garrison/Schroeder emerged from the study for twenty minutes to offer them food and drinks and give them the statement they required. Vicki declined, saying that her experience on the plane had been more or less the same as his.

One thing Garrison/Schroeder did ask of the police was the names and addresses of the crew and hostess. During the outward flight to Rhodes the crew had only used shortened fore-names, nicknames, and of course neither Garrison nor Vicki had known anything of their personal particulars.

When the police left, Garrison/Schroeder went back into the study. Before he locked the door, Vicki saw him take down a street map of London. A short while later she heard him using the telephone but could make out nothing of what he said.

He was in there for a further hour, finally came out looking pale and tired. His tray was empty and he was still hungry. While Cook prepared him a “proper meal” he sat and smoked, talked to no one. He ate his fill—not enjoying his food, simply stoking the fire, Vicki thought—then rested in the study, sprawled out at his ease in a great padded chair. At 4:00
P.M.
he left the house, but before going he said to Vicki: “My dear, I'm not sure how long this will take. Do nothing out of the ordinary. Merely stay here and live as normally as you may. One of us will be back. Myself, Richard, or Willy.”

Then he drove away in the big Mercedes, with Suzy (who appeared to be over her indecision about him) sitting beside him. Vicki waved them goodbye from the drive.

She would never see either one of them again…

A
T
G
ATWICK AIRPORT
J
OHNNIE
F
ONG USED A PUBLIC TELEPHONE
to contact Gubwa. “Charon, I am at Gatwick. I followed Garrison here from the house.”

“What's he doing?” Gubwa's interest was immediate.

“He appears to be waiting,” Fong sighed. “He sits in the arrivals lounge with an airport magazine, but I do not think that he reads it.”

“This is interesting,” Gubwa answered, his excitement mounting. “Perhaps we are about to learn something new about our Mr. Garrison. He will be waiting for the Black brothers, a pair of common thugs. They are due in at seven o'clock. Now, Johnnie, I want you to watch most carefully what happens, and…” he paused. “No, better still, I'll watch it for myself—through your eyes. Let me know when the plane lands and position yourself so that you can see everything. After that—do nothing until I tell you. Understood?”