Schmidt explained calmly what was about to happen. He would be killed the same way as Guy and Ed, but over a week’s time. A cocktail of Kässel products, mixed with trace amounts of deadly poison, would be administered twice a day for a week, or until he was dead. Schmidt would be able to view his agonies whenever she cared to. The “treatment” would begin the next day.
Hastings spent the night curled up in a ball on the floor, watched by a guard. Schmidt did not sleep in the chamber. The next morning, he was awakened from a surprisingly deep sleep by kicks from his guard. A few minutes later, a small, nervous-looking gray-haired man in a white coat entered the room, carrying a black physician’s bag. He pulled out a small syringe filled with a blood-colored liquid, avoiding making even the slightest eye contact. Hastings tried to fight, but the burly guard restrained him in an iron grip while the “doctor” rolled back his sleeve, and, without even bothering to carefully locate a vein, plunged in the needle. Hastings howled, but the man depressed the plunger then left the room in a hurry, sweating noticeably.
Hastings felt no effects for about an hour, then a feeling of strange euphoria came over him, which he recognized as the high induced by the Cognitive Enhancer, but amplified tenfold. His thoughts became scattered, and he was unable to focus his mind on any topic or his eyes on any object. His arms and legs began to move of their own accord, and he writhed around on the floor, watching his twitching limbs almost with disinterest.
Later in the day, just as the spasms were dying down, the man returned and administered another dose. Hastings didn’t have the strength to try to fight him off. This time the reaction was faster and was accompanied by a dull pain that gradually increased in intensity. The pain originated in his lower back and traveled up to his head. Soon he was moaning in agony as his guard looked on. Schmidt entered shortly after and sat watching, smoking, and drinking a glass of red wine, not speaking but watching him with quiet enjoyment.
Desperate to lose consciousness, Hastings closed his eyes and tried to relax his body, but the pain and loss of motor function could not be stopped. He had little doubt he had soiled himself at least once that day. Eventually, Schmidt dismissed the guard and prepared for bed. She went about her toilette, going modestly behind a screen and emerging in another nightdress, a deceptively virginal white garment embroidered with tiny edelweiss. Leaving a lamp on, she lay in bed and did not move for the rest of the evening, although he could see her eyes watching him, glinting for a while in the darkness until gentle snoring finally filled the room. He wanted to shout out and disturb her, but all he could produce were a few croaks that fell uselessly into the silence.
Throughout the night, his head cleared slightly and the pain lessened, but he was tormented by visions similar to those that had afflicted him during his bad trip. They primarily centered around his friends. He saw Teresa put in his place in this room, contorted by spasms of pain. He saw Marty screaming under assault by a hundred sonic guns. Ladbroke Grove was razed by an army of tanks and bulldozers led by his brother in a khaki Krupp-Benz, while Schmidt rode on a palfrey placed atop the fancy automobile. An airplane piloted by Schmidt dropped an atomic bomb on New York, and she cackled with glee as the city was vaporized. Hastings had never before been tormented by such powerfully clear, realistic visions, not even on his worst acid trips. He realized that a concentrated hallucinogenic had been included in the cocktail, and throughout the night he fought desperately to keep the visions at bay. This internal fight raged until dawn, when the drugs again began to subside. He was so weak that he could not move at all, and he was covered in a layer of cold, stale sweat.
Shortly after sunrise, Schmidt rose and left, patting him on the head. The guard dragged him to a washroom to allow him to relieve himself, and he was force-fed some kind of tasteless stew, most of which he defiantly spat out. The “doctor” returned and administered another dose, again refusing to meet his eyes and ignoring his mumbled pleas. Despite his best efforts, Hastings was slowly being reduced to a drooling mass of flesh that had only one goal left: to die and have the suffering end.
*
This went on for three more days, and he knew he would soon expire. Through all this time, Schmidt sat for long periods in her upholstered antique chair, saying little but watching him rave and fight off his invisible demons. When she spoke, it was only to ramble on calmly but insanely in the same fashion as she had when he was first captured. During his brief periods of lucidity, he would return her gaze glassily but mockingly to show he was still unconquered. Late at night, when the dosage would wear off a little, he reflected on the futility of the life he had lived. He had never taken the time to try to be content, his philosophical bent being his perpetual downfall. He had never learned to enjoy life for the moments of joy it presented and had rarely managed to generate any of his own. He had thrown himself, craving an optimistic meaning and goal, into a movement that now appeared pointless, its objectives unattainable and ill-defined. His was not the generation that would bring about utopia; they would fail their ideals.
At least he had always been able to immerse himself in the beautiful solace of music to remind himself that there may be other worlds beyond this prosaic, brutal one we are cursed to inhabit, even if, at the same time, his rational faculties denied it. If only he could have ignored the ugliness of the modern world and found a way to enjoy his small place in it, to “live in the world but be not of it,” as Mallorn was fond of saying.
But by the fourth evening, it had become obvious that his life was fast trickling away. He had refused to eat in an effort to speed things along and allow his oppressor as little pleasure as possible, but they had force-fed him twice. He could no longer move at all, but his eyes were still fixed on Schmidt from where he lay with a hateful intensity that matched her own. The sun was setting, and the room was suffused with an orange glow that, for a few moments, convinced him he was now truly dying and being welcomed into the very same afterlife he had never believed in. But though the glow remained for a while, his surroundings remained the same, and Schmidt loomed above him, framed in the light like an avenging angel, nudging him with the toe of her slipper.
Her voice rolled into the silence, breaking the spell. “You are fading fast. I had hoped to see more resilience from you, Herr Hastings. No matter. I have enjoyed this time with you. I will now stay at your side until you die, which will give me the greatest joy. Then, rest assured, I will do the same with to all that you love, cleansing the world.
“But first, let me enlighten you somewhat concerning your errors. After all, though I do hate you, I recognize that you are merely misguided, a product of your environment and upbringing, as we all are, to an extent. You no doubt like to shroud your degenerate nature in mysticism, with illusions such as the supposed equality of all living things, a concept borrowed from the barbarians of the East.”
She twirled an unlit cigarette in her fingers. “I realized early on, with my father’s assistance, that there is only one reason for human existence, and a rage-filled God designed the rules: survival. A man or woman exists only to procreate and to struggle with others for supremacy, to prove their worth. To decide how others will live and die, and thus reach a god-hood of their own. It is a harsh reality there is no point in fleeing. In fact, it must be embraced. And our race is the one best positioned to rule; do we not already rule the world?
“I found out early in life that I had no taste for domestic life. I do not dispute that bearing and rearing healthy babies is the woman’s natural role and proper place, but surely an exception must be made for women of genius! I was possessed of great intelligence, and I could defeat the male on his own terms. I did so, and I have conquered. You too, Herr Hastings, could have been a leader. I can tell by looking at the nobility of your face. But you turned your back on your own destiny to embrace these dreams of equality, for the mass of people who possess no more intelligence than dumb animals. Why? You see where that blind affection for the rabble has taken you?”
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br /> She walked over to a small, old-fashioned gramophone in the corner and put on a record. “I love music which can only be appreciated and understood by the chosen few, with arcane harmonies that speak only to the elite, those capable of understanding power and order. You know the work of Gregorovich? Court composer to the king of Prussia, where I was born. Something of a revolutionary in his youth, but he fortunately acquired greater wisdom from mixing with society’s rulers at court.”
The room filled with the hushed tones of a string quartet playing a mournful but sickly sweet melody. Hastings found a trace of humor left, thinking that stuff like this still wasn’t his scene, but it wasn’t that bad either. Guy had been right in a sense; the emotion in this music was so indirect, almost false and stylized, like an overwrought tragedy, created to be acted out for the pleasure of a debauched, shallow noble and his court.
Well, it didn’t matter now. What kind of music would they play in heaven, in the unlikely event such a dimension existed?
This last return to analytic thought was interrupted by a cracking sound from far away. It sounded like a gunshot. Schmidt sat bolt upright then jumped to her feet and lifted up the stylus. There were more muffled retorts, seemingly from the lower floors. She flung the door open, her already stretched skin taut with concern.
“Verdammit nochmal, was ist denn hier los?”
The guard shook his head. “Verkündige dich.”
He scurried off down the hallway. Schmidt turned back toward Hastings. “Broken plates in the scullery, no doubt. Not enough to distract us from our time together.”
But the musty silence was punctuated by yet another shot, and another; there was no doubt what they were.
“Scheisse!” she hissed through clenched teeth, opening a drawer and pulling out a pistol. She swung around to Hastings, her eyes alight. “If someone has come to rescue you, they will not find you alive!” She trained the gun on his head, her arm twitching with the slightest tremor, as though her mask of icy self-control was finally slipping for good.
The shots continued for a few seconds, until slow, dragging footsteps could be heard close by in the hall. Schmidt’s hand shook a little more as she swung her gun arm toward the door. “Halt!” The guard that she had sent to investigate the noise appeared in the doorway, his formerly beer-ruddy Bavarian face white as a sheet.
Then he fell to the floor, squirming a little, bleeding from his ears, his gasping face only a couple of feet from where Hastings lay. Hastings shuddered at the memory of Rosas, even as his spirit leapt with hope. This could only mean one thing.
The man managed to croak a little before he went limp.
Schmidt finally snapped. “So you have rescuers after all,” she shrieked. “You are a worthless insect, but you have more wiles than I thought. No matter. They will not dare to touch me, but they will find you dead!” She swung the gun up again.
Hastings made a wild kick upward with all that was left of his failing strength, connecting with her thigh and knocking her aside. Her gun fell to the floor. He dived for it, but his chain wasn’t long enough. Schmidt reached to recover her weapon, cackling madly, spittle dripping from her chin. She brought the gun up a third and final time, and Hastings fixed his eyes on hers.
At that moment, a dark hand reached down and plucked the gun neatly away. She gasped and fell backward. Ricardo Alvarez stood nonchalantly in the doorway, dressed in a dapper gray pinstripe suit and black fedora, looking like he was out for a leisurely stroll. He held one of the sonic weapons in his hand. Several men, dressed in black clothing and sunglasses like characters from a spy film, brandishing more conventional weapons, stood behind him.
Alvarez flashed Hastings his toothy smile. “Guten tag, Fräu Schmidt. And hello again, Mr. Hastings. I am glad to find you alive. It only improves what has already been a very successful day.”
Suddenly, without warning, he moved forward like a pouncing cat, grabbed Schmidt savagely by the head, and squeezed the trigger near her ear.
Hastings closed his eyes and stayed that way for several seconds. But never again would he be able drive the images of death from his mind.
AFTERWORD
An odd story indeed. And yet my conversations with Simon’s friends corroborate much of what has been recounted here. The truth about the death of my good friends Guy and Ed, as well as the mysterious murder of Helga Schmidt, an event that mystified the entire world, has finally been revealed.
The rest of the story is as follows: Hastings was released by Alvarez, but not before he had signed at friendly gunpoint a nondisclosure agreement (in triplicate), which required him to keep silent about all that happened. Hastings was tired of being pursued by killers. He was exhausted and sick in both mind and body, near death in fact, so he signed.
He kept silent, as have his friends, fearing for the life of this dear man — until now. Now that he is himself dead, there is no obligation to maintain the cloak of silence over these events, and I, as the one entrusted with the story, am morally obliged, despite the consequences, to tell it to the world as a warning and an alarm about what is going on behind the closed doors of boardrooms, factories, and mansions of the developed world. I alone have had exclusive access to these facts, and I have related them truthfully. If there are consequences for my own safety, I will accept them. Simon’s story has convinced me that I too must choose a side and take a stand to prevent a horrible future instead of standing by on the sidelines, commenting dryly on what I see.
After a brief stay in a Munich hospital as an overdose patient while he healed, Hastings returned to England to rejoin his friends, who had naturally cancelled the remaining dates of the tour and waited with fading hope for news of him. The following article appeared in the London Times two days after the secret assault on the Kässel fortress:
Kässel CEO Murdered in Bizarre Incident
Terrorists take responsibility for assassination
The headquarters of KässelPharma in Augsburg, Germany, were raided just after nightfall two days ago, seemingly by a large group of armed men. All of the guards in the castle inhabited by the company’s CEO, Helga Schmidt, and her servants, were killed, along with the businesswoman herself. The manner of her death has not been disclosed.
A terrorist group calling itself FreiBayern (A Free Bavaria) later telephoned the local police station and claimed responsibility for the raid, calling the deceased “an enemy of the free Bavarian state.” There is no such militant group on record.
The crime contains many baffling aspects. The guards at the gates of the heavily patrolled compound were also found dead of gunshot wounds, and no alarms were sounded. The perpetrators were never seen by any Kässel staff, and the bodies were found by maintenance workers the next morning. However, German police report that forensic evidence suggests several gunmen were present, some bearing weapons of a highly unusual function. Whoever designed this raid would have considerable resources and planning abilities. The authorities are not releasing further information until their investigation is complete.
KässelPharma AG is the largest producer of recreational pharmaceuticals in the world. Telegrams of sympathy have been sent by the British government, as well as the firm’s main competitors, United Chinese Chemical and the Colombian Cartels. It is unclear what the company’s leadership succession plan will be.
Of course, the investigation revealed nothing, and the crime remained unsolved. The Colombians did their work well. Although Simon Hastings was never troubled by Ricardo Alvarez again, he fell soon after into a deep depression from which he never really emerged for any length of time. Astronomy broke up, going their separate ways. Basil Baker and Marty Sharpe-Thornton founded the Time and Space Collective, which has released several fine albums on Groovy Melon Records. Hastings made one solo album two years, ago, Barren Land, a desolate acoustic album that wrenches the soul.
It did not sell well but is still worth seeking out as a singular artistic expression.
Teresa took him on
several trips around the world to try to lift him out of the darkness that enshrouded him, but to no avail. She did stay with him until his death.
A year ago, in December 1972, during an unseasonably cold early winter like that in which this story took place, Hastings stepped out onto Holland Park Avenue and was hit by a speeding motorist. He survived into the night, but the memory of the deaths he had witnessed had already destroyed his will to live. The press unashamedly and unfoundedly speculated that his death was a suicide.
It is my fervent wish that this book will at last give the public insight into the reasons for his decline, rehabilitate his reputation as an artist and a man, and preserve the memory of his bravery. I hope that you will remember my friend, Simon Hastings.
—Rodney Blair
APPENDIX: SONGS
THE MISANTHROPE’S BLUES
by Astronomy
Here comes the arrogant ape
Mother Nature’s fatal mistake
Each group wants the others dead
Atrocities they love to make
They strip the earth of all that’s good
Always too blind to see
Their evil sets my blood to boil
So I’ll let this fire consume me
They clog up the streets
They block out the sky
They cut down the trees
They tunnel in the mines
Somehow they think they own what they find
The Music of the Spheres Page 25