Brian Lumley - Psychomech 02 - Psychosphere

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Chapter
i
TWO FAIRS OF EYES WATCHED RlCHARD GARRISON and Vicki Maler leave their holiday
residence and disappear into the maze of steep narrow streets leading down
into the heart of the Greek island village; two pairs, neither one aware of
the other. One pair belonged to a thief, the other to an assassin.
The latter, Joe Black by name, was seated at a table on the raised patio of
the taverna where the pair he watched normally breakfasted—a taverna they were
obliged to pass on any excursion away from their accommodation—whose open-air
eating area presented Black with a distant but unobstructed view of the door
to their courtyard, seen above rising tiers of flat white rooftops. The
village, dropping down into a valley or bay, seemed to have been built on much
the same lines as an auditorium or amphithea-
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tre; for which kindness Black gave the ancient architects a generous ten. It
made his task as observer that much easier.
Black wore Lederhosen and braces, a wide-brimmed straw hat and an open-neck
shirt loud with red and yellow flowers. He was not German—despite his dress,
his fat face and cigar— but Cockney: the hired hand of a middling Mafia boss,
Carlo Vicenti, who once owned a quarter-share of one of London's less
reputable and far more profitable casinos. Richard Garrison now owned that
quarter-share, a fact which irked Vicenti more than a trifle. Hence Joe
Black's presence here in Lindos, Rhodes, the Aegean.
Black was not alone on Rhodes: a second hitman, his brother Bert ("Bomber Bert
Black," to his dubious circle of friends), waited in Rhodes town itself. Bert
was the "hard" part of the team on this occasion. That is to say, his was the
hand which would directly terminate Garrison's life. Brother Joe's role was
simply to tell him when to do it.
Just a minute or so after 11:00, the subjects of Black's covert surveillance
emerged from an alley into the narrow "main" street, crossing it to climb
wooden stairs to the breakfast patio. He waited for them to seat themselves
close by, waited again until they engaged the waiter's attention and started
to give him their orders, then folded his shielding newspaper and left.
He glanced only once at the pair as he went, his eyes lingering momentarily on
the black-as-night lenses and frames which Garrison wore. A blind man, this
Garrison, allegedly. Black
PSYCHOSPHERE
snorted as he descended the stairs to the street and made his way towards the
open village square and coach-and-taxi booking office. "Huh!" The damnedest
blind man he had ever seen! And his mind went back to the first time he ever
came into contact with Garrison . . .
That had been at the Ace of Clubs, where on occasion Black had used to do
bouncer (or "floor attendant" as the dealers and their minders preferred it).
The "blind" man had come in one night with his woman, also blind, the first
time they had ever visited the place. The last, too, if Black's memory served
him correctly. As patrons, anyway. He snorted again: "Huh!" Well, and hadn't
once been enough?
That had been, oh, six or seven months ago, but Black remembered it like
yesterday . . .
... Remembered Garrison buying one large pink chip worth fifty pounds
sterling, and the way he had casually crossed to the central roulette wheel to
toss the chip onto the table's zero. And how with the next spin the ball had
dropped, as if pre-ordained, directly into that very slot—how in fact it had
fallen into that slot twice in succession. And how Garrison had let the spoils
of his first incredible gamble ridel
The gasps of shock, astonishment and appreciation that went up then had been
the summons which brought the boss, the raven-haired Carlo Vicenti himself,
hurrying up to the table, his face darkening under brows already black as
thunder. "Mr, er, Garrison? Yes, your custom was recommended. The club's
misfortune, it ap-
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pears." He forced a smile. "Well, sir, you have won a great deal of money, in
fact a fortune, and—"
"And I want to let it ride one last time," Garrison had unsmilingly cut him
short.
"On the zero?" Vicenti's jaw had dropped.
Garrison had frowned thoughtfully, only half-seriously, almost mockingly.
"Certainly, on the zero, why not?"
"But sir, you have already won over sixty thousand pounds, and—"
"Sixty-four thousand and eight hundred, to be exact," Garrison had cut him
short again, "—including my stake, of course. But please do go on."
Vicenti had leaned towards him then, staring up into his dark, heavy lenses
and stating in a lowered tone, but perfectly audibly, "Sir, unbeknown to you,
the operator of this wheel has already been obliged to ask the house for
permission to cover your second bet. normally, you understand we would have a
limit of one thousand pounds on this wheel. And besides, the zero cannot
possibly come up a third time."
Garrison had stood rock still, apparently frozen to the floor by something
Vicenti had said. His answer, when finally it came, was delivered in a voice
steady, firm and chill: "Am 1 to understand that this wheel is fixed?"
Vicenti was astounded. "What? I said no such thing! Of course the wheel is not
fixed. I did not mean that the—"
"Then it can 'possibly' spin a third zero?"
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PSYCHOSPHERE
"But certainly, sir—except it is most unlikely, and—"
"Unlikely or not," Garrison cut in for the third time, "I wish to bet."
A half-apologetic shrug. "We cannot cover it. And sir—" this time Vicenti's
voice had been almost conspiratorial, wheedling, "—aren't you being just a
little frivolous with your money?"
"Not with mine," and now Garrison smiled broadly. "With yours, perhaps, but
not mine. I only started with fifty pounds."
All of this Joe Black had witnessed from a position close at hand. Also the
way Vicenti had turned an explosive purple at Garrison's last remark. At that
moment Joe had known, whatever the apparent outcome of this confrontation,
that the little Sicilian would take a terrible revenge on the blind man—in one
way or another. The one thing Vicenti had never been able to stand was to be
laughed at—and here he stood, an object of ridicule. Certainly in his own
eyes. Possibly in the eyes of half of the club's regular clientele, who now
gathered about the table in various attitudes ranging between awe and delight.
In fact it was mainly Garrison's lucky streak which had fired their
imaginations, not Vicenti's discomfiture; but the Sicilian had taken their
smiles, their subdued laughter, chuckles and excited whispers as being
derogatory to himself.
"Wait!" he had snapped. "I need to confer." And the wheel had remained
stationary for a full five minutes until he returned.
"Well!" Garrison had remained cool, smiling—
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at least with his mouth, for of course his eyes had been invisible.
And now Vincenti had seemed eager that everyone should hear him. "Mr—er,
Garrison?—I am a part-owner of this club. Indeed I own one quarter of all its
assets. Even so, I personally could barely cover tonight's losses. Your
winnings, that is. But ... I am a gambler." And he had paused to smile a
shark's smile, teeth white and gleaming in a veritable death-grin. "Since you,
too, are a gambler—a most extraordinary gambler, obviously—I have a
proposition which might interest you."
"Go on."
Vicenti had shrugged, continued: "I have been authorized to take full
responsibility in this matter. Responsibility for the current, er, damage,
shall we say?—and for my, er, proposition."
"Which is?"
Vicenti had then taken out his personal checkbook, written a check for
£64,800, folded it neatly and delicately placed it on the table's zero. "Take
my check by all means, or—we spin the wheel. But on this understanding: since
the club does not have that sort of money, if you win you accept my share of
its ownership by way of payment."
Which was where, if Garrison was a normal, sober man and in his right mind, he
should have backed down and taken his winnings. Everything was against him:
namely the incredible odds against the zero and the fact that he could win no
more real cash. And at the same time Vicenti stood to gain immeasurably. For
despite
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PSYCHOSPHERE
the fact that all the odds were on his side, still he had shown that he was
indeed a gambler— that he personally was willing to risk his all on this one
spin of the wheel—and that Garrison was up against a man of equal verve,
daring and determination. But more important by far to Carlo Vicenti, there
was no longer any laughter from those patrons crowding the table, no more
amused sniggers and whispers. Instead the mood had become one of tense
excitement, of breathless suspense. Quite simply, it was now Vincenti against
Garrison. This had become a very personal matter.
Then—
Joe Black remembered a very strange thing, something which even now, six
months later, made him shudder in a thrill of almost supernatural intensity.
Garrison had seemed—to change. His very shape inside his evening suit had
seemed somehow to bulk out, to take on weight, solidity. He had
become—squarer. His face, too, had taken on this squareness, and his smile had
completely faded away.
No one else appeared to notice these things— with perhaps the one exception of
the blind man's woman, who backed off from him a little, her hand going
nervously to her mouth—but Joe Black was absolutely certain of what he had
seen. It was as if, in the space of only a few seconds, a different man stood
in Garrison's shoes. A man with a different voice. A harsh, arrogant,
authoritative, somehow Germanic voice:
"1 accept your gamble, my little Sicilian friend. Let the wheel spin. But
since so very much rests
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upon it—in your eyes at least—please be so good as to spin it yourself."
"That's most. . . unusual," Vicenti had grated in return. "But so is
everything tonight, it appears. Very well — " and in utter silence he had
moved through the throng, which opened to let him pass, spun the wheel, raced
the ball against the spin—and waited.
Rock steady he had stood there as the wheel gradually slowed and the ball
skittered and clicked, ramrod straight at the head of the table, his face
split in a frozen, almost meaningless grin. And the ball jumping, rolling,
skittering, and the wheel slowing. And a sea of faces watching the
wheel—except Garrison's which, blind or not, seemed turned upon Vicen-ti's
face—and Joe Black's, which watched only Garrison.
And the wheel still turning but the ball now firmly lodged in its slot.
Vicenti's eyes bulging. A touch of foam at the corner of his madly grinning
mouth. Concerted gasps, sighs, amazed little utterances going up from the
onlookers—and all of them drawing back from the swaying Vicenti to give him
space, air.
And his half-gasp, half-croak, as the fingers of his left hand clawed at the
table's rim, giving him support: "Zero!"
"You have my address," Garrison's voice was still the new, cold Germanic one.
"I shall expect the documents delivered in the near future. Goodnight to you."
And he had picked up Vicenti's check and pocketed it, and without another
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PSYCHOSPHERE
word had led his wife across the floor, out of the room, out of the club and
into the night.
Oh, yes, Joe Black remembered that night, flow rage and utter hatred had
blazed in Vicenti's fever-bright eyes as he watched Garrison leave; how he had
then switched off the table's overhead light and given the dealer and his
assistant the rest of the night—indeed the rest of their lives—off, telling
them never to return; and how he had retired rubber-legged to the club's
offices. There he had consumed large amounts of alcohol, being quite drunk
later when, after the club had said goodnight to its last patron, he
staggeringly returned—returned with a fire axe and great gusto to reduce the
table, wheel and all to very small fragments.
Mot a night Black might easily forget... it was the night Vicenti had offered
him the contract on Garrison's life ...
The second pair of eyes watching Richard Garrison and Vicki Maler belonged to
a gentleman from Genoa named Paulo Palazzi. A gentleman, that is, to
unacquainted eyes. Unlike Joe Black, Palazzi had no prior knowledge of
Garrison beyond the fact that he was a very rich man. Anyone with his own
chartered aircraft sitting idle in a hangar at Rhodes airport would, of
necessity, be very rich. This had seemed indisputable to Palazzi;
nevertheless, he had made several discreet, local inquiries to prove the
point; and if further confirmation were needed there was always the fact that
Garrison and his lady had paid for and were now enjoying the luxury of
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rooms large enough to accommodate three to four times their numbers. Privacy
costs money. A lot of money . . .
Paulo Palazzi was small, slim, immaculate in a white, lightweight Italian suit
and patent leather shoes, and bareheaded to show off his mop of curly black
hair. Light-skinned, clear-eyed and fresh-faced, he could be anything between
twenty-five and forty years of age. A cheerful, fairly well-to-do Italian
tourist—to anyone offering him less than a very close scrutiny. And indeed he
was fairly well-do-to, on the spoils of various illicit occupations, including
his very successful summer trips. This was one such: a week on Rhodes which,
with a bit of luck, would pay for itself many times over.
He had been watching Garrison's comings and goings for three days now,
sufficient time to acquaint himself quite intimately with the man's humors and
habits. Only one thing continued to concern him: Garrison's blindness. For
plainly Garrison was not blind, despite the heavy dark glasses he constantly
wore. Or if he was, then his four remaining senses had expanded out of all
proportion—or, more likely, he was richer than even Palazzi had reckoned. For
who but an extremely rich man could possibly afford the very special and
miniaturized aids he would need to make so light of so serious an infirmity?
Mot that Garrison's blindness—real or assumed—gave Palazzi any sort of moral
pause, on the contrary. The thing was a positive boon, or might be if
Palazzi's plans needed to be altered. Mo, it was just that Garrison seemed to
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PSYCHOSPHERE
see so very well... for a blind man. Well, doubtless he had his own reasons
for the subterfuge, if indeed it was such. And for Palazzi ... it must remain
simply a curiosity, one of the idiosyncrasies of a victim-to-be.
Palazzi sat upon a spread handkerchief, his slim legs nonchalantly crossed,
his back to a merlon of the ancient battlements, high over Lindos on the
precipitous wall of the Acropolis itself. He held a pair of powerful
binoculars to his eyes in slender, highly articulate and well-manicured hands,
his gaze fixed upon the vine beneath which he could just make out the light
blue of Garrison's T-shirt and the coolly contrasting greens of Vicki's skirt
and top. He smiled to himself, idly reflecting upon his own cleverness.
His modus operand! was simplicity itself, perfected over the last three
seasons. Three seasons, yes, for he had discovered Lindos three summers ago.
Lindos and its mighty rock.
From the old battlements, courtesy of the crusading Knights of St. John of
Jerusalem, he could see virtually all of the village. Not a single house or
home, shack or taverna was hidden from his scrutiny. Sitting here, warm in the
brilliant sunshine and breathing the sweet, clean air of the Aegean, he could
study any victim's to and froings at will, picking and choosing the perfect
time to strike. And occasionally, just occasionally, there would be enough in
it to keep him in luxury for . . . well, for a little while at least,
As for the way it worked:
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Tomorrow evening, for example, Garrison and his lady would very likely go out.
They would eat, drink, talk a little in one or another taverna late into the
Lindos night. Their movements would be languid, leisurely. They were on
holiday, in no mood to hurry. Later they might go to a disco, burn off a
little excess energy. But whatever they did, it would make little difference.
Palazzi, having seen them leave their rooms, would have plenty of time to get
in, discover their hidden valuables (they all did that, hid away their jewelry
and spare cash), take what he wanted and get out.
And of course Garrison would not be his only victim tomorrow night. There was
also a fat, rich Frenchman and his mistress, who Palazzi knew were booked to
see a show tomorrow in Rhodes; and finally there was a Swiss playboy and his
girlfriend, who invariably danced and drank the night away. And all of them
would be leaving their accommodation at approximately the same time, their
movements entirely visible in the magnifying lenses of the thief's binoculars.
And the cost of remaining up here when the crowds of visitors were finally
ushered out of the place and the Acropolis locked its door? Oh, a few hundred
Drachmas, enough to keep the gnarled old watchman in ouzo for a night or two.
And in the early hours of the following morning—with the sun not long up and
the local constabulary still rubbing the sleep from their eyes—why, Paulo
Palazzi would be gone! Lone passenger in a taxi headed for Rhodes town, where
he would change his suit, his style, un-
12
PSYCHOSPHERE
load a few choice items for cash and re-adopt his real name. Under which, four
or five days from now, he would fly back to Genoa and business as usual. And
if what he had seen of Mrs. Garrison's jewelry alone was anything to go by ...
it would be quite a long time before he needed to do any "serious" work again.
Which was probably why he was so cheerful, nodding a bright good morning to a
couple of pretty British girls with Birmingham accents where they leaned out
over the wall close by and oohed and aahed their awe at the scene spread
below. Yes, it was a very pretty scene, and a very good morning. Hopefully
tomorrow would be just as good, and especially tomorrow night.
Putting his binoculars away, snapping shut the catch on their case and
standing up, Palazzi smiled at the girls again. One of them had the most
exquisitely jutting breasts. He licked his lips. A pity this was a purely
business trip, but-Well, business is business . . .
Five minutes after Joe Black left the elevated patio where his intended victim
now breakfasted, Garrison paused with a forkful of scrambled egg raised
halfway to his mouth. Suddenly upon his mind's eye, leaping into view from
nowhere, he had viewed—something. A scene, not a true memory but something
else entirely. Just what . . . he couldn't say, except that for a moment all
of his senses had seemed electrified into a tingling defensiveness. The scene
had been dim and smoky and had depicted a male figure, seated, his hand
spinning a small rou-
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lette wheel which he held between crossed legs. The thing had lasted no longer
than a split second. Mow it was gone, beyond recall.
"Richard?" Vicki's voice reached him. "Something with your egg?"
He unfroze, relaxed shoulders grown too tight, and lowered his fork. "Ho," he
smiled, "it's fine. I've had enough, that's all."
"You looked so strange just then," she was concerned.
"Did I? Oh, I was probably miles away."
She tilted her head questioningly. "Is it nice there?"
"Um?" He was still distant.
"What were you thinking?"
"Thinking?" He shrugged, shook his head, said the first thing that came into
his mind— something which mildly surprised even him. "Did you notice the man
who left a few minutes ago? With the leather pants and flowery shirt?"
"Yes, a German like me. Or rather more typical—or at least how you English
believe a typical German should be." She smiled. "A bit loud, really. You were
thinking about him?"
"Too loud," Garrison answered, "and not at all German. And yes, I suppose I
must have been thinking about him."
"not German? But he looked so—" She stopped smiling. "You were eavesdropping?
Listening to his thoughts? But why, Richard?"
"Actually, I wasn't," he said truthfully. "Hell, I hardly noticed the bloke.
But—oh, I may have seen him before somewhere. He's not German, though, you can
be sure of that."
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PSYCHOSPHERE
"And does it matter? His nationality, I mean?"
He wrinkled his nose, gave her question perfunctory consideration, grinned and
said, "Shouldn't think so."
flow Vicki relaxed, reached across the table and took his hand, laughed out
loud. "Oh, Richard, you really are the strangest man!" And because it had been
spontaneous, she failed to see the significance of her words.
Garrison continued to grin outwardly, while inside:
Oh, yes, he thought, / really am. But there are stranger things in heaven and
earth, Vicki, my sweet. Stranger by far.
And he knew that one of those things, those oh-so-strange things, was even now
beginning. Or perhaps it had started long ago and only now was coming to a
head, like pus gathering in a boil.
All about Garrison the Psychosphere eddied and swirled, pulsing endlessly,
apparently ordered and serene. But occasionally it carried the ripples of far,
distant disturbances beyond his understanding. Such ripples were there even
now; they did him no harm, but they troubled him. He felt like a fish swimming
in the Great Sea of the Psychosphere, and like a fish he sensed the presence
of some mighty predator. Out there, somewhere in the fathomless deeps— a
shark!
That was an interesting thought:
A shark in the Psychosphere, and Garrison not so much a ftsh as a
spear-fisherman. While he preyed on smaller denizens of the deeps, some-
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PSYCHOSPHERE
where close at hand a large predator circled him. But he wasn't afraid, or at
least not wholly afraid, for he had his spear-gun. Except ...ifa confrontation
was in the offing, would his gun be powerful enough? Its once-tough rubber
hurlers were getting old, growing weaker from continued stretching.
Worse than this, would he even see the enemy if it came—or would it coast up
silently behind him, jaws agape?
Suddenly fearful, lost in his fantasy, Garrison cast about with his mind.
Terror was the spur, boosting his ESP even as it boosted his adrenalin.
Searching, he peered deep into the Psychosphere. Somewhere, somewhere...
. . . There!
That mottled, marbled shape, silent as a shadow, intent upon the pursuit of
some other prey, showing no interest in Garrison whatsoever. Until—
—The shark-shape turned suddenly in Garrison's direction, came at him in a
blind, head-on fury, a dull-gray bullet snarling through the mat-terless stuff
of the Psychosphere.
It was close, looming closer . . . it sensed him!
"Richard?" Vicki's voice reached in to him, causing him to start as if
slapped—which in turn made her jump. "Wandering again?" she nervously asked.
Garrison's face felt drained of blood—but he forced a grin, rose and reached
across the table to draw her up with him. He hoped she couldn't feel the
trembling in his arms. "Good idea," he
16
said. "To wander, 1 mean. Let's walk down towards the beach ..."
But even as they set out she could tell that he was still not entirely with
her . . .
17
Chapter
2
MORE THAM FIFTEEN HUMORED MILES NORTHWEST of Rhodes it was midday and
brilliant with sunshine. London was abustle—but in Charon Qubwa's mind-castle
all was cool, shaded and calm as a somnolent beast. The Castle did not
sleep—it never slept—but Qubwa had been alone all morning in his private
quarters and not to be disturbed; which was about as close as the Castle as an
entity might ever get to the stasis of slumber.
The Castle's staff, Qubwa's "soldiers," went about their tasks almost
robotically, corpuscles in the Castle's veins; the machines and computers and
support systems throbbed and pumped, rustled and ticked and whirred, organs by
which the Castle lived; but Charon Qubwa himself— rather, the Qubwa
consciousness, the id, the mind of the place—he had in part removed himself.
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PSYCHOSPHERE
Physically he was there, for he was also the Castle's pulse, without which it
could not function and would have no purpose, but mentally .. .
This was one of those days when Qubwa practiced his arts, when he exercised
his mind as more orthodox men might exercise their bodies; except that where
the latter were bent upon physical creativity, the structural improvement of
themselves, Qubwa's exercises were designed for the mental degradation and
eventual destruction of others. And they were in truth "exercises": training
tasks he set himself to carry him to the very threshold of an objective—but
not to cross it. Not yet. Not until the time was ripe, when the result could
only be total victory.
And in this respect Qubwa was a general, whose weapons were the telepathic and
hypnotic powers of his own mind. The Castle and its staff: they were merely
his armor. The world outside, the world of common men: that was his objective.
Eventually.
But Qubwa was tiring now. His exercises had lasted for close on three hours
and he was beginning to feel that mental strain which ever accompanied such
excesses of mind.
He was seated in a massively padded armchair before a great glass tube which
reached vertically from floor to ceiling. Within the tube a large globe of the
world, with its continents and oceans etched in realistic bas-relief and
color, hung in electro-magnetic suspension. Qubwa's eyes were closed; he sat
completely relaxed— physically. Indeed he might well appear to be asleep, but
he was not.
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Upon his lap lay a computer remote, its tiny screen glowing with this word and
coordinates:
MOTH: 3°95' —64°7'
"Moth" was the codename of one of Britain's Polaris submarines and the
coordinates told her location: midway between Iceland and Norway, roughly
halfway along an imaginary line drawn due North between the Shetlands and the
Arctic Circle. On Qubwa's globe this location showed as a steady point of
light in the western reaches of the Norwegian Ocean, a telltale glow which
served purely as a guide, a focal point, for his intense telepathic
transmissions.
The coordinates had been snatched from the unsuspecting mind of the Duty
Officer at the pen in Rosyth, roughly corroborated by a similarly unwitting
mind in the Admiralty, and given final definition by Moth's Captain himself
where he went about his duties 400 feet beneath a sparkling, choppy,
sun-flecked surface. And that was where Qubwa's mind was at this very moment,
seated astride the mind of Moth's commander.
The Castle's master was well pleased with the way the morning's exercises had
gone—so far. But this was his last "visit" of this session and it was the most
important; it would determine his mood for days to come—it might one day
determine the fate of the world.
As for the rest of the morning's work, work already completed:
Strategic Air Command had been a hard one. The Americans—especially their
military ele-
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PSYCHOSPHERE
ments—had a rigidity of mind difficult to crack; they were mentally obstinate.
USAD's pilots were no exception. The United States Airborne Deterrent had
often been described as a never-ending flirtation with disaster, but it was
also the symbol of a nation's security-consciousness carried to the nth
degree. Never a moment of the day or night went by without some of those
planes were in the sky, and the minds of their pilots were never easy to find
and had proved singularly difficult to penetrate.
Be that as it may, Qubwa knew most of them by now; and yet not one of them
knew him. His knowledge was the result of over three years' covert
surveillance, a gradual insinuation of himself into their minds. This was a
continual process which he must forever update and change to suit
circumstances. Air patrol routes were changed from day to day (deliberately,
of course, to confound the Russians; but as often as not to Qubwa's confusion,
too) and pilot turnover was fairly frequent. Because of the nature of the
task, however, pilot substitution or replacement never occurred en bloc; there
were always half-a-dozen easily recognizable, susceptible minds open to him,
most of which he had learned to control in one degree or another. For control
was the real object of these exercises. To control minds such as these was to
control world destiny. Literally.
This morning Qubwa might well have started World War III, and it was his
intention one day to do exactly that. For example: he might have caused one or
more of the supersonic, nuclear-
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armed American bombers to enter into Russian airspace, ignoring all commands
to turn back. Simultaneously he might have bombed or "nuked," as current
jargon would have it, Detroit, Boston and Ottawa. And if he had also managed
to maintain radio silence there would have been no way to convince the
Pentagon and US authorities that such an attack had been carried out by their
own planes! Even had they accepted the unacceptable, conditions worldwide
would by then have been rapidly disintegrating, with every country of major
military capability elevated to or accelerating towards a "red alert"
situation. At which stage ... a little pressure applied to a certain jittery
mind controlling the firing-buttons of a nest of missiles in their silos at
Vytegra, USSR, and— —And then there had been the Chinese, Qubwa had been
there, too—to a selected location in the scattered chain of silos along the
border of the North Sinkiang Desert. The Chinese still did not have the West's
or Russia's targeting technology, but what they lacked in sophistication they
more than made up for in muscle. And their bombs were incredibly dirty. A
chain-reaction of hysterical button-pushing there could well result in a
thousand-mile wide band of nuclear destruction and desolation reaching from
the Aral Sea to Siberia!
All very gratifying, and Charon Qubwa might well congratulate himself on the
success of the morning's exercises so far. He had broached these various
thresholds without breaching them, which remained a step for the future. But
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now, in the mind of Moth's commander, he desired to apply one last test before
terminating today's training session. And this was a test which would require
a delicate touch indeed— or a brutal one, depending on the point of view.
Qubwa had long since learned all of the atomic submariner's habits and
idiosyncrasies, and he was well aware of Captain Gary Foster's wont to catnap.
The sub's commander was one of those people who work best under pressure, the
more extreme the better; whose mind and body performed at their highest levels
of efficiency under a workload others would deem crippling. And when called
upon he could perform under such stress for long hours at a stretch, even
days. His secret (or so he himself believed) lay in an equally impressive
ability to fall asleep, however briefly, at the drop of a hat.
This he was given to do as often as three or four times in any period of
twenty-four hours, always to the amazement and occasionally the consternation
of his immediate subordinates and crew; for while they themselves would
normally sleep for six or seven hours at a stretch between duties, their
Commanding Officer rarely went down for more than two hours and often made do
with as little as fifteen minutes! In the middle of a watch—or a good read of
Playboy, or a hand of poker—when by all rights Captain Foster should be deep
in slumber, he would silently, unexpectedly appear in a hatchway or through a
bulkhead door, his sardonic, humorless grin cold as the wind from the pole. So
that
23
Brian Lumley
Moth's company was aware to a man that there was never a time, nor even a
moment, when they could guarantee that their Captain was "off-duty." It made,
he was in the habit of reminding them, for a "very tight ship." It was good
for discipline.
And it made Charon Qubwa's task that much easier.
Sleeping minds were far simpler to penetrate; in sleep a man's mental defenses
are down, where often a mere suggestion may carry the weight of a command.
Using his usual technique of gradual insinuation over many short visits, Qubwa
had found that he could slip in and out of certain minds as easily as unlocked
rooms, inhabiting and using them as he saw fit. And from the sleeping
mind—where certain deeply embedded post-hypnotic commands could be left to
take root and germinate—it was usually only a short step to the waking mind,
when Qubwa's unwitting host would become quite literally a zombie working to
his command. Thus it was with several of the USAD pilots, and thus he intended
it to be with Moth's commander.
It is, nevertheless, a rare brand of hypnotism indeed that can cause a man to
do that which his nature would not permit at its normal level of
consciousness. And this was the purpose of today's test run: to see if it were
possible so to manipulate Gary Foster's mind that he would perform contrary to
the fundamental elements of his own nature, ideals, and training. In short:
24
PSYCHOSPHERE
to see if he could be made to press the button! fiot to actually cross that
threshold, no, but certainly to stand upon its doorstep.
Qubwa had found Foster taking a catnap, a habit of the Captain's around
midday, and had crept into the unguarded, sleeping mind. There had been no
dreams as such, merely an awareness of the great gray metal shape surrounding
mind and body as it cruised in the deeps, powerful as the atomic engine which
propelled it and semi-sentient with its computer-controlled "mind" and
sensors. With no dreams to usurp, Qubwa had simply inserted a phantasm of his
own:
IT'S COLD OUTSIDE, BITTERLY COLD. WE ARE THREE HUNDRED MILES INSIDE THE ARCTIC
CIRCLE, EDGE OF THE BARENTS SEA, LYING STILL ON THE BOTTOM AT THIRTY FATHOMS.
MOSCOW IS 1300 MILES AWAY. THIS IS NO EXERCISE. THE ALERT STATE IS RED. IT IS
RED ALL OVER THE WORLD. THIS IS WHAT YOUR TRAINING WAS ALL ABOUT, GARY. THIS
IS WHAT IT WAS FOR . . .
NOW YOU CAN ONLY WAIT. YOU WAIT IN THE OPS AREA. YOUR RADIO OP HAS JUST
RECEIVED INFO THROUGH THE DECODER. HIS FACE IS WHITE, DRAWN . . .
In his tiny cabin, Foster moaned and turned over on his narrow bunk. Droplets
of sweat stood out suddenly upon his brow. He mumbled some incoherent query,
but in his dream his words were sharp-etched, brittle with tension. "What is
it, Carter?"
"Russian bombers are on the edge of our air-
25
Brian Lumley
space. Others are coming over the roof, closing on Canada. American bombers
are already inside Red airspace. And . . . and . . ."
"Yes, Carter?" Foster snapped. "Come on, Sparks, what is it?"
Carter nodded, gulped. "We're to initiate NU-CAC 7."
NUCAC 7: first phase of a missile launch! Following which there would be
NUCACs 8, then 9 . , . and finally 10. And 10 would signify the launch itself!
Foster almost said: "No, I don't believe it," but he held the words back.
Instead he said: "Action stations, all. NUCAC 7 op immediate. Other NU-CACs .
. . imminent. Mate?"
His 2IC, Mike Arnott, nodded briefly, grimly. NUCAC required both of them: in
the hands of one man alone it would be too dangerous. Un-thinkably dangerous.
Carter called out: "Corns cut between Moscow and Washington ..."
The keys code had come through with the NU-CAC 7 order; Carter had already
punched the code into Moth's ops computer. Twin red lights were flashing on
panels in the curving walls; the panels slid open. Foster reached up and took
out a bunch of harmless looking keys from one recess; likewise Arnott from the
other.
To one end of the ops area, built into the bulkhead, stood a booth only
slightly larger than a telephone kiosk; its windows were dark, tinted; its
sealed door bore the legend:
NUCAC CELL 26
PSYCHOSPHERE
Foster and Arnott crossed to the booth, inserted duplicate keys in locks on
opposite sides of the door, turned them. The seals snapped open, interior
lights flickered into life. Foster slid the door aside and they entered,
cramming themselves into tiny padded seats and facing each other across a
table whose center was a screen. Foster reached up and pulled the door shut.
Outside in the ops bay Sparks plugged in their audio system and gave them
direct access to all incoming signals.
GOOD! said Qubwa, fascinated by the progress of the dream he had instigated.
Foster glared across at Arnott and barked, "Good? What the hell's good about
it?" The other stared blankly back. Both men put on headphones.
NUCAC 8, said Gubwa.
"Jesus Christ!" Foster hissed through clenched teeth. "It's all coming apart!"
Almost automatically, he and Arnott pressed twinned buttons, fed coded
coordinates into the computer for its translation, watched the illuminated,
reticulated table-screen coming to life between them in lines of red and blue
light, glowing with figures, times, ever-changing computations.
Gubwa was now the voice of incoming signals. He painted a scenario of chaos,
madness:
SEVEN RED BOMBERS INTERCEPTED AMD TAKEN OUT OVER MANITOBA. SATELLITES REPORT
INCREASED ACTIVITY ROUND SILOS IN RUSSIA AND INTERMEDIATE MISSILE BATTERIES IN
EAST GERMANY. FRENCH SILOS SABOTAGED
27
Brian Lumley
BY 5TH COLUMNISTS. PARIS NUKED! ICBMS FIRED IN USSR! AND IN USA! CRUISE
MISSILES LAUNCHED ON USSR FROM EUROPE! INNER LONDON NUKED!
"Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!—" Foster was whispering over and over.
摘要：

ChapteriTWOFAIRSOFEYESWATCHEDRlCHARDGARRISONandVickiMalerleavetheirholidayresidenceanddisappearintothemazeofsteepnarrowstreetsleadingdownintotheheartoftheGreekislandvillage;twopairs,neitheroneawareoftheother.Onepairbelongedtoathief,theothertoanassassin.Thelatter,JoeBlackbyname,wasseatedatatableonthe...

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