Psychomech (10 page)

Schroeder frowned, his grip slackening on Garrison’s wrist. ‘What else about him?’

‘Only that I couldn’t reach him. I was trying to get to him, but something held me back.’

‘And what part did I play in your dream?’

Garrison slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t know. A face in the sky. Your face. I thought of you as a man-God.’

Schroeder’s grip tightened again. ‘And Willy?’

‘A friend. He… showed me the way. It’s hard to explain. He stood on a tall rock, pointing the way. Beside him, your Mercedes.’

‘A Mercedes, yes,’ Schroeder nodded. ‘My symbol. Here in Germany I own several. All of them are silver in colour. And abroad I always hire one. What else?’

‘A… Machine?’

‘Machine? You seem uncertain. And I sensed that you said machine with a capital M.’

‘I did, you’re right.’

‘And what was this machine?’

‘That’s what I’m uncertain about. I don’t know what the Machine was. But I think I rode it…’

Frustrated, Schroeder shook
his
,head. Garrison sensed that he was eager to know more.

‘There are no clear details,’ he told the German.

‘Again you anticipate me,’ Schroeder was quick to note. ‘Your perceptions are almost telepathic. But please go on. What more do you remember of this dream?’

‘Only one more thing,’ Garrison told him. ‘A dog, a black bitch.’

Schroeder breathed in sharply and his excitement drove him to his feet. ‘A dog? A black dog, you say? A bitch? By
God!
’ He slammed a fist into the palm of his hand, then grunted and stumbled, clutching at the table for support. For a moment he swayed before almost falling into his seat. His breathing had gone ragged with pain.

‘Easy,’ Garrison told him. ‘Jesus! Don’t go banging yourself up for the sake of a bloody dream.’

Schroeder snorted, then gave a shaky laugh. ‘A bloody dream? My God, a bloody dream! Richard, the more I know of you, the more convinced I am that you—that you…’

‘Yes?’

‘Listen,’ said Schroeder, ‘that was no ordinary “bloody dream”, Richard. It was precognition of the first order. But something puzzles me. If you really did see the bomb in your dream—’

‘I saw it. It exploded!’

‘—Then why did you go with me into the Europa?’

‘The dream was never sufficiently distinct. I failed to relate it to reality. Why should I? I had been dreaming the thing for three weeks. Lots of guys dream of bombs in NI. It just didn’t connect. It wasn’t until I saw the bomb itself—sitting there in your hotel room—that I knew what was going to happen. But the bomb must have blown the whole thing back into my subconscious mind. Jesus, it’s only just surfaced again! And even now I can’t be sure.’

‘But you will let me call in a hypnotist? A very professional one, I assure you.’

‘If it will make you happy. But I’m no closer to knowing what all this is about.’

‘Very well, I’ll try to explain—in a moment. But first—come with me.’ Schroeder stood up and led the other to the far side of the table, which in fact formed the platform of a large reflecting telescope. There he placed Garrison’s hands on the cylindrical body of the instrument and let his fingers trace something of its outline.

‘Telescope,’ said Garrison. ‘For… astrology!’

‘Astronomy too,’ Schroeder answered. ‘But mainly astrology, yes. It is an ancient and quite exact science. My personal astrologer is Adam Schenk, who claims direct descendance from Giambattista Porta. In fact he claims he is Giambattista Porta! Porta invented photography, wrote the often misquoted
De Furtivis Literarum Notis
, and several volumes on astrology, geometry, astral projection and the power of human thought. He also produced a pamphlet on reincarnation, of which I have a very rare copy. I consider it highly likely that Schenk’s claim is genuine, for certainly he seems to have retained and extended many of Porta’s facets.

‘He came to me here three weeks ago. He worked, ate, slept, studied and came to his conclusions here, at this very table, in almost complete solitude. Part of what he told me prompted me to contact you, to bring you here. I had already decided to provide for you—to repay my debt, as it were—but after what Schenk told me…’ Garrison sensed the other’s fatalistic shrug. ‘Now it has gone further than that.’

‘Actually,’ said Garrison, ‘I sort of know I’m tied up with you. I don’t know how, or why, but I feel it. It’s very frustrating. Lack of understanding can be worse than blindness. Everything is a huge knot. I need it unravelling. Where did it all begin?’

‘For me it began in Hitler’s Germany,’ Schroeder told him. ‘There were those high in the Fuehrer’s favour who used black arts, dark forces. Oh, yes, they actually did. They interested him in their subject and he was converted. He came to believe in the metapsychic powers of the mind. And he had certain powers, believe me. Or if you doubt me, listen to his oratories. He did not merely rant, Richard.’

‘Perhaps he was merely grasping at straws, like us,’ Garrison answered. ‘I mean, in respect of his war effort.’

‘I don’t know. He was of course a madman. But if it might help him rule the world, then he must try it. Still, he only dabbled. There were those in his employ, however… I was for a time very friendly with one of them, even though I had always considered him a crank. Certain experiments, some of which I myself took part in, helped convince me that there was more to the parapsychological world than mundane science might explain away. You may not sense it in me, but I am highly intuitive.’

‘I have noticed,’ Garrison wryly answered. ‘You often act instinctively, like me.’

Schroeder nodded. ‘But I am also a sensitive. That is to say, my hunches work out more often than they fail me. I hope soon to prove that you too are a vessel.’

‘Vessel?’

‘A receiver for whatever these forces are which we loosely term ESP.’

After a moment Garrison said: ‘Go on with what you were telling me.’

‘Well, it was then, towards the end of the war, the collapse, that I became interested in the, shall we say, esoteric sciences? And it was an interest which has never flagged. What I have learned has been profitable. I am “instinctive” in business, too, you see? By 1952 I was a millionaire, by ‘57 a multi-millionaire. Now…’? Suffice it to say that I am very, very rich.

‘However, I do not wish to bore you with the entire story, which would take up far too much of our time. Only believe me when I tell you that I have come to be extremely learned in several obscure fields. Not a master in any of them, no, for I started too late; but I do have contact with the masters.

‘Adam Schenk is one such. He is
the
astrologer, a great clairvoyant, an interpreter of dreams. In short, the stuff of ESP is strong in him.

‘As to why he came to me: he said I needed him, that the cosmic influences on my life were bending towards a focus, and that the
genius loci
lay in an outsider, a foreigner to whom I owed a great debt.’

‘Myself,’ said Garrison.

‘Who else? And so Schenk came, cast my horoscope and those of my inner circle of friends, and yours—’

‘Mine?’ Garrison felt a small annoyance.

‘Yes, it was necessary. If the idea offends you then I am sorry. But since I had already collected together so many of your, shall we say, “details”, it was not a difficult task. And once you were
so
obviously indicated by my own horoscope, I requested that he do it.’

Garrison’s annoyance turned to amusement. Suddenly the whole thing seemed funny to the point of ridiculous, ‘I’m listening,’ he said, ‘and I’m trying to keep an open mind, but—’

‘Be quiet!’ Schroeder snapped, angry in a moment. ‘Open mind, you say? You had better keep an open mind! We are talking about your entire future. We may even be talking about
my
entire future…’ And again that strange chill struck at Garrison out of nowhere.

‘Copies of Schenk’s forecasts,’ Schroeder continued in a moment, ‘are still here on this very table.’ There was the rustle of paper. ‘Here is yours. There, hold it up for me while I read it. If you don’t believe what I tell you is on it, take it to Willy and ask him.’

The strip of card, perhaps three inches wide and nine long, felt heavy as a death warrant in Garrison’s hand. He held it up towards Schroeder’s voice. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘what’s in it?’

Schroeder drew a deep breath. ‘Just a series of words, Some bunched together, others by themselves, written in ink to form a column down the left-hand side of the card. There’s a time-scale on the right. Are you ready for this, Richard Garrison?’

‘Is it as bad as all that?’

‘It is… remarkable.’

Garrison nodded. ‘Let’s see if I find it remarkable,’ he said.

‘“Richard Garrison,”’ Schroeder commenced. ‘“Darkness. Time-scale: now.”

‘“Limbo. Time-scale: to six months.”

‘“WK and Black Dog, ‘S’? Time-scale: to three years.”

‘“Girl “T. Time-scale: to eight years.”

‘“Machine. Time-scale: to eight years.”

‘“RG/TS…”

‘“Light!”’

Garrison was cold, his flesh creeping. He shuddered, his voice shaky when he asked, ‘That means something to you?’

Schroeder had seen his condition, however, and tossed the question right back to him. ‘How do you read it?’

‘Mumbo-jumbo!’

‘Wrong! This is the meaning:

‘That you are blind, and for six months your life will be meaningless, suspended in a sort of limbo. Then there will be a decisive change, brought about by WK and a black dog, “S”. After three years you will meet a girl, “T”, with whom your involvement is to last for four years before—’

‘Before the Machine,’ said Garrison.

‘Yes.’

‘And WK? And RG/TS?’ Garrison knew the answers but wanted them from Schroeder.

‘Willy Koenig, Richard Garrison, Thomas Schroeder,’ said the other.

‘And light?’ Garrison had gone very quiet.

‘If darkness means blindness, light can only mean sight,’ the industrialist answered.

‘I’m to see again, in eight years?’

‘So it would appear.’

‘But how?’

‘New surgical techniques, who can say?’

After a while Garrison said: ‘For a man with no real or serious hangups, it comes as a queer sensation to find myself suddenly grasping at straws.’

‘I know,’ answered Schroeder. ‘Oh, I know so well! But grasp at them, Richard, and hang on for dear life. Believe me, you are not alone.’

‘Who else’s horoscope do you have?’ asked Garrison after a pause of several minutes.

Willy Koenig’s,’ Schroeder answered. ‘My son Heinrich’s. My wife’s, my own and Vick—’ He tried to snatch back the last word, but too late.

‘Vicki’s? What of Vicki?’

‘Why, nothing!’ Schroeder tried to make light of it. ‘She was simply here when Schenk came, that’s all. Her horoscope has nothing to do with yours. There’s no connection.’

‘No connection? Between Vicki and me? There has to be read it to me, please.’

‘But, Richard, I—’

‘You don’t know all of it,’ said Garrison, never dreaming that in fact Schroeder did know all of it. ‘Please…’

Schroeder sighed.’“Vicki Maler,”’ he began, and at once halted.

Again Garrison said, ‘Please!’

‘As you wish.’ The German’s voice was now little more than a dry croak. ‘“Vicki Maler, darkness. Time-scale: now.”

“‘Death. Time-scale: one year!’”

‘
No!
’ Garrison cried. He reached out and snatched the card from Schroeder’s fingers, his instinct deadly accurate, the crumpled the card, threw it down on to the telescope’s platform.

Schroeder grabbed his trembling, balled fist. ‘Richard, schenk could be wrong. It’s possible. He’s only human. He will readily admit that he makes mistakes…’ He paused. ‘But not… often.’

Garrison’s face was twisted, his teeth gritted. ‘Vicki is to die? How? Why?’

‘She came here from Siebert’s sanatorium where they had been testing her eyes. Saul was hoping that perhaps there was a chance, for partial sight, anyway. While she was there he discovered a disease. Very rare. He knows now that this is what blinded her, and that ever since it has been spreading through her system. A sort of cancer. It is now critical. How critical remains to be seen when the final test results come in tomorrow.’

‘And does Vicki know all this?’

‘Oh, yes. About the disease, not about the horoscope.”

‘And what will these test results tell you?’

‘How much time she has.’

‘No cure?’

‘Out of the question.’

‘You told me that the horoscope could be wrong.’

‘I… lied.’

‘This Schenk must be a fraud!’ Garrison burst out. ‘He must have known she’d been to the sanatorium. Must have known why. He’s been in touch with Siebert. He’s a con man. If she’s to die—’ he almost choked on the word, ‘—she’s to die. Why drag this weird bastard in on it?’

‘No, no, Richard,’ Schroeder tried to calm him. ‘Adam is a good friend. I’ve known him for more than twenty years. He is a very genuine person.’

Garrison snatched up the crumpled card, and his own, and stuffed them into a pocket. ‘I’ll have Koenig read them to me.’

Schroeder sighed. ‘Do you really think I would lie to you about these things?’

‘Let’s just say I don’t want to believe you. But yes, I believe. But I’m blind! Willy’s eyes are good. Proof is positive.’

Garrison sensed Schroeder’s nod. ‘Very well. And I know how you must feel.’

‘What of your own horoscope?’ Garrison asked. ‘And Willy’s?’

‘This is mine,’ Schroeder handed him a card. ‘It simply says: “Thomas. Death. Time-scale: six months.”’

Garrison gripped the other’s hand. ‘Jesus! This Schenk’s a bloody murderer. No, a witch-doctor. Can’t you see he’s but a witch-doctor? He’s told you you’re going to die and you believe him, and you’re simply willing yourself to death!’

‘No,’ Schroeder answered, his voice gentle against Garrison’s passion. ‘I knew it before Adam told me, before my doctors told me. They only confirmed what I could feel inside. My guts are breaking down.’

Garrison shook his head; and again, wildly. ‘But there’s no proof yet for any of this. None of it has to be. These are forecasts, that’s all. And damned ghoulish ones at that! I will think this Schenk must be a charlatan.’