by Brian Lumley
“Willy looked after me, too—just as he’d always looked after Thomas, his beloved Colonel.” The smile slipped away completely. “Just as he’s looking after us even now—damn him!”
“Richard!” she gripped his hand. “Don’t! You only make it easy for them.”
He relaxed, grunted: “You’re right, of course. I do make it easy for them, and I really can’t afford to. Not any longer.” Again the insecurity.
“What is it, Richard?”
He shook his head. “Let me tell it my own way, in my own time…
“Schroeder made me rich before he died. After he died I was incredibly rich. Now—? Even I don’t know how rich I am. You see, since coming back he’s opened up sources only he had the keys to, funds which had doubled and sometimes trebled during the years passed between. His interests were worldwide. Even in his lifetime he made some of your so-called ‘tycoons’ look like penniless paupers by comparison! And all of that is mine now—or ours. His, mine, Koenig’s. Thirty guys have a big office in London—more a block of offices, really. They look after my interests. Some of my interests, anyway. There are other people in Zurich, Hamburg, Hong Kong—you name it. But none of them knows what I’m really worth.
“Suddenly the world of international finance was open to me, and I couldn’t resist it. And no risk involved. With my ESP powers working for me I couldn’t pick a loser. I was a Midas. Everything I touched turned to gold! And then…then one day I heard about the machine. I stumbled across Psychomech.”
As he paused Vicki said: “You’ve missed something out, Richard. What about your wife? You never did tell me about her.” Vicki’s voice was soft, low. “Or does it hurt too much?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t hurt at all, not now. Terri was something that had to be—she’d been ‘foreseen’ by Adam Schenk—and without her I’d never have found Psychomech. You might have remembered something about Terri and her lover, something unpleasant, but I made you forget. I removed it from your mind. Believe me, it really doesn’t matter now.” Again he paused, then continued in a burst:
“Anyway, I found Psychomech. A machine that could blow up a man’s darkest fears to giant size—until they’re about to crush him or drive him insane—and then give him the strength to fight back, to defeat them. A tremendous boon to psychiatry. A mechanical psychiatrist. A tin shrink.
“But think about it:
“What happens if you totally liberate a man’s mind, if you rid it of all its fears? Would there be any limits to the scope of such a mind? And what if that mind were already rich in psychic energy, powers almost beyond imagination?”
Vicki’s golden eyes were wide behind dark lenses. “That’s what happened to you,” she sighed. “The birth of a god!”
He nodded. “Or a demon, yes. But on my own I wasn’t ready for it, wasn’t big or strong enough. I had to have help, had to let Schroeder in, fulfill our pact. Then…we let Koenig in.”
Vicki shuddered. “I seem to remember something of that. Willy was there, and you told me not to be afraid, and then—he wasn’t there any more.”
Garrison said: “It was the only way. He wasn’t like Schroeder and me. He was clever in his own way, but not in ours. And I was a god! Psychomech had blown me up into something awesome. I was bigger than myself, bigger than Schroeder and myself, bigger than Psychomech—or so I thought. My powers seemed immeasurable. God!—I brought you back, didn’t I? Took away your agony, gave you life, sight?
“Absorbing Willy was—” he shrugged, “—a mere nothing. Ultimate power, ultimate ego, infinity stretching away and out before me. Infinity, Vicki, with all its infinite possibilities! Until—”
“Yes?”
“Until something went wrong. I’m not sure what…Or maybe I am. Maybe I’m ready to admit it now.” For a moment he was silent, his mind miles away. Then: “Anyway, I destroyed Psychomech.” He sat up and took her hands. “With Psychomech I was, could have been, immortal. Without Psychomech? I’m a man, a three-dimensional body, flesh and blood. How could I hope to contain all of that power in this little battery? I couldn’t. The battery leaks. The power is leaving me, more every day. And now? Each time I use—each time they use—that power, I grow just a little weaker.
“Do you remember my gambling phase: London, Monte Carlo, Las Vegas? Do you know what that was all about? I mean, didn’t you ever ask yourself what I got out of it? Me, rich as Croesus, playing cards and roulette? Winning money on the horses, the football pools? Hell, I would’ve enjoyed that sort of thing when I was in the army, but with my sort of money? So why did I do it? I’ll tell you why: at first it was the sheer excitement! Oh, I knew I couldn’t lose, but still it was exciting to win! Do you see? Every gambler’s ultimate fantasy.
“Maybe my powers were wasted, eh? Fantastic, beautiful, wonderful powers, all locked up in an ordinary, greedy, conceited little body. But in the end I stopped gambling. I realized that the thrill had gone out of it—that I was doing it now for an entirely different reason—doing it because I had to! No, it wasn’t a vice, I wasn’t hooked on it. Not that way. But I had simply been testing myself. Because I knew that if ever the day came when I should lose…”
“Then that your powers would be failing you,” she finished it for him, nodding.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s it exactly. I mean, after Psychomech I was a god—for a fortnight, a month? Then I was a godling—for how long, a year? Now a superman. And tomorrow?”
She wrapped her arms around him. “I would be satisfied with you as a man, Richard. Just a man. That’s all you were when you first loved me, when I fell in love with you, and—”
His laughter, brittle as ice, choking itself with its cold bitterness, cut her short. “No, Vicki, no!” he finally shook his head. “You don’t see, do you?” Now his words sounded strangely hollow, and yet full of a sadness. “You would not be satisfied because you simply would not be! You are—you exist—because of my power, because I commanded it.”
“But I—”
“I’ve tried to explain before, Vicki. What would become of you if I were simply a man? What will become of you if that day should ever arrive when my commands go unheard, unheeded?”
She had no answer, only a memory. The memory of acid in her veins, a burning current in her blood, the white-hot grip of Death’s bony fingers.
“Yes,” Garrison had nodded grimly, “that’s it exactly…”
After that…there had been little more to say, and then it had taken them a long time to get to sleep. When finally they did, Garrison had dreamed…
Chapter 5
Garrison’s dream began, as had another dream some ten years earlier, with a Machine. The Machine. The Machine known as Psychomech.
It was not a car or a motorcycle or an airplane, that Machine, not any sort of conveyance one might readily imagine, and yet Garrison rode it. His journey or “quest” was symbolic, for symbolism is one with the very nature of dreaming, but like any ordinary dreamer he was not given to know that. He had not known it in that earlier dream, neither did he know it now—nor indeed that this new dream would be equally prophetic and much more of an omen.
But…he rode the Machine.
He rode it through weird, alien valleys where tall, lichenclad rocks cast ominous ochre shadows, flew it high over dazzling furnace deserts and vast tundras of yellow marshland, sailed it across strange gray oceans whose giant squidlike denizens rolled up their saucer eyes to gaze unblinkingly upon him, and with it threaded previously unvoyaged paths through the mazy gorges and passes and precipitous needle-peaks of scarlet mountains.
He rode effortlessly, with authority, towards quest’s end…without ever knowing what the end of the quest would be. But for all his apparent mastery of the Machine—that Machine which, while it seemed almost omnipotent for the moment, he nevertheless and naggingly suspected to be slowly failing, gradually leaking its energies and wasting them uselessly—still he knew there would be obstacles in the way. In this wo
rld, as real to Garrison as the dreamworld of any dreamer, there were always obstacles. Had he not faced them before?
Oh, yes, he had been here before, several times. This much he knew. But he could not remember when or why. Or what his quests had been on those previous occasions. He did know he had not been alone. There had been—friends.
Friends, yes. Suzy had been one such.
Suzy. The name was warm in Garrison’s mind, a comfort to him. Suzy the dog, the black Doberman bitch. And almost as if he were a magician, as if remembering her had conjured the physical Suzy out of midair, he became suddenly aware of her presence. She was there even now, seated on her haunches, close behind him on the broad back of the Machine, one great paw firm on his shoulder, her warm breath on the back of his neck and her occasional, muted whining a reassurance in his ear. Suzy, Garrison’s familiar spirit.
How long she had been there he could not say. Perhaps he really had conjured her out of thin air, for certainly he controlled strange powers. He remembered that now: how he was gifted with powers far beyond the grasp of mundane men. A magician? Garrison smiled at the thought. Yes, a magician, a wonder-worker, a warlock; and Suzy his familiar. But what sort of warlock who could not remember the nature of his quest or how he came to be here…or even where he came from?
Or perhaps some other warlock, more powerful yet, had robbed him of his memory…
Garrison became wary. Were there enemies here, close by?
In his mind he began to check off points in his favor. He was strong and he had powers. He had the Machine (for all his anxiety about its ebbing strength) and he had Suzy. And—
He frowned, forcing himself to concentrate. There had been other—friends? Their names came to him in a sudden, vivid flash of memory.
Schroeder and Koenig.
Strange names—and stranger friends!
Now he remembered. Schroeder had been the man-God, and Koenig his familiar. But that all seemed so very long ago, and where were they now, these two? Garrison shuddered as a tiny voice from within seemed to whisper: “Closer than you think, Richard. Much closer…”
The images of Schroeder and Koenig burned bright a while longer in the eye of Garrison’s memory: the former lean and pale, small and balding; older than Garrison and wise in the ways of men, wise as the bright eyes that gleamed huge behind thick crystal lenses. And Koenig, huge and blocky, bull-necked and pig-eyed, his sandy hair cropped in a crew-cut, with hands and feet and body and head all honed to a perfect razor’s edge in death-dealing arts. Their images burned bright before flaring up and blinking out like snuffed candles. They were gone, but their names remained.
Schroeder and Koenig.
And again that tiny voice seemed to whisper in Garrison’s mind—or perhaps it laughed? Or maybe it was not one voice at all but two…
A sudden chill drew him from his reverie, that and Suzy’s great paw insistently scratching at his shoulder. Lost in thought as he had been, his mechanical mount had continued to forge ahead under its own direction. The Machine had negotiated the maze of mountainous needle-peaks and now paused at the rim of a canyon whose sides sank sheer into a haze of mist and depth and darkness. It was a canyon whose deeps were unplumbed, whose secrets remained unfathomed, and whose name—
—was Death!
Death has many shapes and sizes, colors, creeds and guises. Garrison knew that. Also, instinctively, he knew that this canyon was one such guise. He jerked his body back from the yawning gorge, hauling on mental reins—and the Machine reared beneath him like a startled horse. Cold and afraid, he yet gentled his metal and plastic steed; while behind him Suzy’s breathless barking and pawing warned him that his fear was not unjust.
Garrison felt it in his guts like an icy blade. He feared Death.
But how so? He was a wizard and immortal, and—
Immortal? His mind grasped at the word, the concept, crushed it and held it close, examined it.
Immortal. Undying. Why then should he fear Death? Unless…unless he was mistaken.
Perhaps he was not immortal after all. Perhaps that was the nature of his quest: to seek out and seduce the Goddess Immortality? And to do that—why, naturally he must first overcome Death himself, in whichever guise he found him! Very well, the canyon was one such guise and so he must cross it. But—
What if he should fall?
He nodded and smiled, however wryly. Fall? He could not fall. The merest command, by word or thought, and he would be buoyed up. He remembered the word for it: levitation. And himself a master of the art. How then might he fall?
Consciously he could not. Unconsciously? The fall would crush his body and so kill him. A large stone banged against his head would break it and also kill him. Left alone he might just be immortal, but if some accident should occur—or an unsuspected hand directed against him…
Oh, yes, a clever enemy could kill him. He could be made to die.
Perhaps that, then, was his quest: the search for true immortality. And only Death standing between himself and quest’s end. Death and his minions.
Motionless the Machine stood in air, with evening on the one hand staining the far horizon, and on the other a sinking sun whose rim showed like a scythe above far purple hills. And directly in Garrison’s way this canyon, whose gaping maw split the land as far as the eye could see.
No way round it, Garrison knew now. It was here to test him.
A moaning wind came up and stirred the dry dust of the canyon’s rim into spiralling devils, whipping at the legs of Garrison’s tattered trousers. It was a chill wind, reminding him of night, which drew closer by the minute. No good to be caught out here, exposed, in the open, when darkness fell.
He scanned the far side of the chasm: a flat expanse, wooded in places, reaching back to low hills beyond which a darkening horizon merged with a darkening sky. He must cross. And soon.
He felt a sudden urge to ride furiously forward, now, out over the rim, without another second wasted—but Suzy seemed to read his mind and whined afresh in his ear, her paw digging insistently into his shoulder. He turned to her. “Where are they, Girl, eh? Where do they hide, Death’s soldiers?”
She licked at his ear, her moist eyes anxious, then pointed with her muzzle down into the gorge. The loose flesh of her mouth drew back in a snarl, exposing sharp ivory fangs, and her ears lay flat upon her head. Left and right she gazed, and up into the high sky, and her black coat bristled into a million spines that stood out stiff from her body.
Then…the spell was broken. She lay down, panting, offering up a series of baffled, curious short yelping barks.
Garrison smiled grimly. “Everywhere, eh? Well, I suppose I knew that.” Then his grim smile became a frown and he grew angry again—at his own frailty, his indecision, weakness. And him with such powers to command.
“Fool!” he cursed himself. “Wasting time like this!”
He quickly set the Machine to rest upon the canyon’s rim, climbed down from its back and stretched his limbs. Suzy jumped down beside him, easier now, her tongue lolling, her eyes gazing at him inquiringly. He patted her great black head. “Let’s see what’s in store for us, eh, girl?”
And placing his hands on his hips he lifted up his head and arrogantly threw out his voice across the darkening gorge:
“Death,” his voice was strong, echoing loudly, “I know you seek to claim me. Well, that won’t be so easy. I’m no ordinary man simply to die at your command, be sure. And now I command you! Show yourself, Death. Show me your soldiers, your devices, your pitfalls, so that I’ll know them and give you a better fight. Or are you really the great skulking coward I suspect you to be?”
He waited expectantly—perhaps just a little nervously, despite his bold stance—but…
No answer.
The wind from the gorge moaned louder and Garrison felt its chill more keenly. He shivered, his flesh shuddering as shadows started to creep.
And what now? For plainly he had been correct in the first instance:
not only had some greater warlock robbed him of his memory, but also of his powers. There once was a time when he might have drawn strength from the Machine, but now—?
It was worth a try.
He laid his hands upon smooth metal flanks, searching for those weird energies which had sustained him through so many strange adventures. Nothing. The Machine was cold, lifeless as an old log.
“Steed?” he snarled, snatching back his hands in frustration. “You, a steed? A beast of burden? A burden, sure enough. An anchor! Carry me? On the contrary, I carry you! Yes, and you weigh me down.” He turned his back on the Machine and roared his rage and defiance out over the shadowed gorge:
“Death, I’ll not be denied. If you won’t show yourself then I’ll not come to you. Why should I meet a challenge I don’t understand? Fight opponents I don’t know, can’t see? No, I’ll simply wait here, or go back the way I came—and to hell with questing!”
“Richard,” came a faint whisper, seemingly from within his own mind. “Richard, I can help you—if you’ll let me.”
Garrison’s hair bristled on his head and his flesh grew clammy. He knew that voice, soundless except in the immense caverns of his own mind, that insinuating whisper from within. It was the voice of the vanished man-God Schroeder, who in another world he had called his friend.
“Is that you, man-God?” he sought confirmation. “Or are you in fact Death, seeking to make a fool of me? If you really are Thomas Schroeder, then show yourself.”
The voice within chuckled, however drily. “Oh, you know me well enough, Richard. And you know I cannot show myself, not in the flesh. Not any more. But I can still help you, if you will let me.”
Garrison was still suspicious. “You, help me? True, you were a man-God, Thomas—but no more. How would you help me, ghost? I am flesh and blood, and you—a mere memory, a voice in my head.”
“More than that, Richard,” the whisper was stronger now, gaining in confidence. “And if your memory was whole you’d know it. Myself—and Willy Koenig, too—we’re more than mere voices in your head. And we can still help you, just as we helped you before.”