Psychomech (40 page)

Now all that remained was for the crewcut Kraut bastard to come back—

Out!

Connery’s luck was holding. It was almost as if he had willed Koenig out of the house. Moreover, the German headed straight for the garage.

-‘I’m not sure where you think you’re going, me boy,’ Connery whispered to himself, ‘but I’ll bet you my last harp-backed tenpence piece you don’t make it!’ And his scars grew whiter still as he smiled a grim and ghastly smile…

Garrison had commenced to hurl himself and his Machine time and again against the Wall of Power, the invisible force-screen emanating from the castle. A sweat of exertion already filmed his skin, and his bones felt shaken with recurrent concussions. But he knew he must go on, must break through, succeed, bring his quest to its close before—

Before those previsioned disasters came to pass. But at the same time (nightmare of frustration) he also suspected that he was already too late, a suspicion which took on flesh as he suddenly heard a splintering of bleached brittle-trees from the bone-white forest behind. It was Koenig, of course, could only be Koenig, driving the Mercedes through the forest, crashing a path through everything standing in his way.

Garrison turned his head to see, was in time to witness the Mercedes ploughing to a halt in the sticky pitch of the shore.

The German was out of the car in a moment, shouting: ‘Richard, Richard—I’ve got to get you off the Machine. I must get you off Psychomech!’

Garrison shook his head, held up a hand as if to hold Koenig back. ‘No, the Machine is mine now. I’m safe on the Machine.’

But Suzy had heard and understood their words, and she agreed with Koenig. And for the first time in her life she heeded the advice of a man other than her master, even to the extreme of going against her master’s wishes. Thus she sank her teeth into Garrison’s sleeve and tried to drag him from the back of the Machine. It was not to be that easy, however; he clung desperately to his metal and plastic mount, until finally Suzy’s teeth tore his shirt. Off balance, yelping, she fell in a spastic thrashing of limbs to the tarry shore beside the blackly lapping lake.

Only then did the man-God Schroeder appear, that great face in the sky crying—ACCEPT ME, RICHARD! ACCEPT ME AND WIN. LET ME IN…

But the face was different now, full of desperation, of fear. It was an intense face, a face knowing its own weakness, the face of impending failure.

‘Accept him, Richard!’ Koenig cried from where he dragged his feet in tar. ‘Remember your pact—’

‘
No!’ Garrison screamed his answer. ‘I have won through, I myself have conquered. I don’t need him—he needs me! And why should he live in me? Where was the man-God when I faced the zombie-tigers? Where was he then?’

RICHARD, I AM WEAK NOW, and indeed the man-God’s voice seemed weaker. I AM FADING. MY FORCE IS GOING OUT OF THE WORLD, MY LIGHT IS BURNING LOW. I TRIED TO COME TO YOU IN THE CORAL CAVES BUT HAD NOT THE STRENGTH. AND HOW WOULD IT PROFIT ME? YOU WOULD NOT HAVE ACCEPTED ME. NOT THEN. NO, I HAD TO PRESERVE MY STRENGTH. BUT NOW?… THIS IS MY LAST CHANCE. YOU MUST ACCEPT ME NOW OR I AM NO MORE. AND THEN YOU WILL BE NO MORE, KOENIG WILL BE NO MORE, SUZY WILL BE NO MORE. ACCEPT ME NOW, RICHARD—PLEASE!

Garrison felt torn. He snarled his torment into the faces of Schroeder. Koenig, Suzy and turned the Machine until it once more faced the invisible wall of energy, the Power from the castle. He must make one final assault upon that barrier, break through, cross the lake and enter the castle. Then… the Black Room!

That was where the Horror lurked, in the Black Room, and he must banish that Horror forever.

‘
Richard, Richard!’ Koenig cried, his voice full of distress. ‘Please, please…’

Garrison suffered agonies hearing that cry. He turned his head and looked back. The silver Mercedes was sinking into the tar, going down fast, its bonnet already disappearing as black bubbles rose all about, bursting in sticky tatters.

Koenig floundered forward, his feet sinking in the black ooze but still moving fast enough to keep its hideous suction at bay; like some strange, squat insect stumbling over the scummy film on a stagnant pool, its feet trapped in tiny boots of algae.

BELIEVE ME, RICHARD, boomed the man-God, but with a voice even less sure of itself now, YOU DON‘T WANT TO DIE. YOU MUST BELIEVE ME. AFTER ALL, I KNOW WHAT ITS LIKE HERE!

And then the bomb, the burning brown-paper cube, spinning out of the sky and hovering over Willy Koenig where he struggled in tar up to his calves. ‘Willy, look out!’ Garrison cried. He turned his Machine upon the spinning bomb and rammed it where it flared and sputtered over Koenig’s head. Even knowing that the thing must soon turn incandescent and blow him to hell, he rammed it again, knocking it away from Koenig and placing himself and the Machine between bomb and mired man.

ACCEPT ME, RICHARD! the man-God Schroeder howled. ACCEPT ME NOW!

Suzy, too, gave one last desperate howl as she went down into the tar, her black body disappearing into blacker deeps. For a moment only her working muzzle showed—then was gone. ‘Suzy!’— and Garrison’s howl was more desperate, more agonized yet.

ACCEPT ME, RICHARD, AND SUZY CAN LIVE AGAIN. INDEED, SHE IS NOT YET DEAD, NOT TRULY. THIS IS MERELY A FORECAST, A WARNING. BUT WITHOUT ME SHE WILL DIE AND STAY DEAD. YES, AND SO WILL I—YOU—ALL OF US!

Koenig, sucked down now and only his head showing, gurgled: ‘Accept him, Richard!’ The bomb flared and sputtered over his tar-spattered head.

‘
Damn you, man-God!’ Garrison cried finally. ‘Tell me the nature of this bonier.’

YOU ARE THE BARRIER, RICHARD! the face in the sky answered at once. IT IS YOUR LAST GREAT FEAR. IT IS THAT YOU DON‘T WISH TO KNOW WHAT LIES BEYOND. IT IS THAT YOU ALREADY KNOW BUT WON‘T ACCEPT. VERY WELL, ACCEPT ME INSTEAD, AND TOGETHER WE CAN COMPLETE THE QUEST.

‘
Promise me that!’ Garrison’s request was almost plaintive. ‘Promise me you’ll help me see beyond, help me find the answer.’

I DO PROMISE IT. I PROMISE ANYTHING.

Garrison clenched his fists, ground his teeth and rolled his eyes—then threw his arms wide. ‘Very well,’ he hissed, his face pale as death, foam showing white at the corners of his mouth, ‘I accept you. Come into me, man-God!’

Their minds meshed, became one.

Garrison’s brain felt as if it suddenly bulged in his skull.

He knew… things. Many things. And he knew how to discover more. How to discover… almost anything. Or everything!

He knew that he was still Garrison, and yet he was so much more than merely Garrison. And he knew a gnawing, greedy hunger. For life. For love. For sex, food, drink, air—for all sensual, and pleasurable things. Like a man denied these things for long, long years. Like—yes, like a corpse risen up—like a man returned from death, given a new lease of life.

Life…

Death!

And soon Koenig would be dead, unless—

Garrison/Schroeder reached out with his mind and lifted Koenig up from the tar, setting him down again on firm ground at the edge of the brittle-tree forest. As for the sputtering, smoking bomb: he simply teleported that back to its source, returned it to its sender.

Then—almost without considering what he did, without real or conscious volition—he ate and drank, doing it quickly, almost greedily. For he was aware now of a very special urgency growing in him. And finally he drank deeply of the air, filling his lungs before once more turning his face towards the castle across the lake.

And thrusting all fears aside he sped his Machine forward, hurtling out over the sluggish black wavelets like an arrow to its target. And no screen of Power obstructed his course now, for no power in the universe could stop him. Thus he hurried to quest’s end…

As Koenig drove the Mercedes slowly down the drive, Connery rolled on to his side and took what looked like a pocket radio from his knapsack. It was in fact a small radio-control device. He jerked up the aerial, flipped a switch and a tiny red light began a steady blinking. The bomb in the car was now armed. Koenig had only thirty seconds to live.

At the end of the drive the Mercedes passed out through ornate wrought-iron gates and turned right behind a high brick wall and down an avenue of blighted elms. Connery held his binoculars to his eyes and trained them upon the spot where the car would come back into view at the end of the wall which marked the boundaries of Garrison’s property. Ten seconds had gone by.

Koenig had driven half-way along the avenue of elms and was just beginning to accelerate when he felt the steering wheel twist in his hands. At first he guessed the car had gone over some unnoticed obstruction, but in the time taken for this thought to enter his head the Mercedes had already slowed to a halt. Frowning, he glanced down at the pedals. The brakes were full on—and now his frown became an astonished gape as the car’s engine switched itself off!

‘Verdammt!’ he hissed out loud. And, ‘What in the name of—?’

The short hairs at the back of his neck prickled as he felt his hands caught and gently but firmly removed from the steering wheel and pushed down into his lap.

‘Richard!’ he gasped.

The bonnet clanged open. Startled, Koenig jerked his head and shoulders back against the padding of his seat. As he did so he saw a small cardboard box trailing tatters of black adhesive tape rise up like a balloon from beneath the bonnet, accelerating upwards and over the wall and so out of sight.

Then, volition returning, Koenig tugged at the door release. The door refused to open, would not move a fraction of an inch—but the bonnet did! Slowly it fell, clicked shut, allowed Koenig an unobstructed view of the lane ahead. Finally, as the engine again started itself up with a throaty cough and a roar, Koenig felt his hands taken in that phantom grip and returned to the steering wheel…

Seven seconds to go, and Connery began to count-down. He cast a nervous glance at the second sweep of his watch and licked his lips. ‘Six, five, four,’ he gritted his teeth and made slits of his eyes. ‘Three, two—’

Something flew in through the hanging fringe of leaves and trailing branches. Something that Connery knew just could not be. A cardboard box, it twirled like a top, suspended before his face in the quiet, sun-splashed shade of the bush.

‘
One!
’ Connery heard himself croak—which was the last thing he ever heard…

The near-distant detonation puzzled Koenig but he was given little or no time to wonder at it. The Mercedes had suddenly started forward of its own accord and its controls had been returned to him. He got a grip of himself, pushing any and all questions about the incident to the back of his mind, and drove on.

Reaching a metalled surface he picked up speed, breathing more deeply as the car responded to
his
touch and not that of some unseen other. And knowing now that his premonition had been right—that indeed Garrison had called out to him—he drove hard and fast.

As he drove he began to think his bad thoughts. Thoughts which, as always, were more instinctive than deliberate. Thoughts about Gareth Wyatt.

Yes, and about Terri Garrison, too…

4.35 P.M.

They had made love, slept a short, exhausted sleep, and just a moment ago Wyatt had started awake from a bad dream. A nightmare which had featured (of all things!) the downstairs kitchen, particularly the fridge. The nightmare had been vivid and persistent—its images were there still in Wyatt’s mind—and as he came more fully awake he took note of the contrasting quietness of the house. A contrast, yes, for the dream had been anything but quiet. He could still hear the door of the fridge clicking open and slamming shut, open and shut, repeatedly in his mind.

As the dream-echoes receded he considered again the quietness of the house. Too quiet. His flesh crept. What time was it?

Checking the time, Wyatt drew air sharply into his lungs. Garrison must surely be dead by now. Must…? Surely…? Wyatt grimly corrected himself:
should
be dead by now. He must go to the room of the machine at once. But—

—But the dream continued to bother him.

Terri came awake. ‘Gareth?’

‘I’m… just going down to the kitchen.’ His voice was slurred with sleep.

She quickly got out of bed. I’ll come with you.’ Tousle-haired, pale and beautiful, she drew on a dressing gown. ‘I don’t want to be left alone… here. It’s too quiet, somehow.’

‘You too?’ He shivered, understanding her apprehension. ‘OK.’

They went downstairs, Wyatt entering the kitchen and Terri pausing in the doorway. She watched him, unable to understand his agitation. He stared all about at the familiar room and its contents, went to the fridge and opened the door. He looked inside, poked about, closed the door. Then he began to pace the floor—to and fro, to and fro—worriedly scratching at his neck. And again he paused at the fridge, and after a moment clicked open the door and peered inside.

Suddenly Terri felt very much afraid. For Wyatt, for herself. She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He started at her touch and she snatched back her hand.

‘Terri, I’m… sorry,’ he said. His voice sounded haunted.

‘Gareth—’ She was filled with concern. ‘What is it? I mean, if there’s anything I—’

‘
Look!
’ he gasped. Again he was staring into the fridge, staring at his nightmare given substance. Her dark eyes followed his gaze—and widened. Her lips drew back from her teeth in an involuntary snarl of fear.

One after another, three slices of melon—slices Terri herself had cut from the fruit—disappeared before her eyes, eaten away down to the rind, snatched from the plate and invisibly devoured in a moment. The level of an orange drink in a plastic bottle declined until the bottle, in answer to Nature’s insistence, crushed in upon its own sudden vacuum. Cubes of cheese on a small wooden platter vanished one by one, crumbling into thin air. Cold cuts of meat were likewise taken, bite by supernatural bite.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Wyatt hissed between clenched teeth. ‘Jesus H Chr—’ He reached a trembling hand into the fridge.

Blue tendrils of writhing, crackling fire enveloped his hand, the fridge, Wyatt himself. He was hurled back, knocked from his feet and sent skidding across the floor. The door of the fridge swung wide, slammed itself shut. The traceries of blue fire flickered out.