Lumley, Brian - PM 2 - Psychosphere

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Chapter

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

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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."

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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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"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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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

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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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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

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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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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-

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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,

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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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"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...

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. . . 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

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 . . .

Chapter

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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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

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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-

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

PSYCHOSPHERE

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

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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:

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-

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

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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

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.

NUCAC 9, said Qubwa.

"No!" Foster gasped. "It's all wrong! It has to be wrong! We would've been the first to know, not

the last. They're blowing up the world out there—bombers, ICBMs, Cruise—and we're only on NUCAC

9?" Sweat dripped from his chin, plastered his shirt to his back. Outside his dream, Foster's body

struggled out of his bunk, staggered from his tiny cabin.

NUCAC 10, said Qubwa.

"It's all yours, Captain," said Arnott, feeding the final code into the computer. A tiny panel

snapped open in the table's surface beside Foster's right hand. In the recess, a large red firing-

button blinked on—off—on—off—on—

"Captain?" said Arnott.

NUCAC 10! Qubwa snapped.

For a moment Foster's right hand hovered over the button—then shot across the table and grabbed

Arnott's throat. "Dream!" he was babbling. "Dream—nightmare—it has to be—!"

NUCAC 10! Qubwa squeezed Foster's mind.

But Arnott was dissolving away in Foster's grasp, the outline of his face and form melting down.

And the NUCAC cell's lights and fittings were blurring, shifting like melting wax. Foster was

waking up!

Despite Qubwa's every effort to restrain him,

PSYCHOSPHERE

the man was breaking free. His situation had been too nightmarish, the ultimate nightmare, and he

must—

—"Wake up!" Foster gasped.

NO!

"Must!"

Failure! Qubwa was furious. There must be a fault in his scenario. He hadn't built it carefully

enough.

Foster was almost awake. And his mind was agitated, a whirlpool, crowded with terror, confused and

yet resolute. Qrimly determined to ... to wake up! Useless in this condition. Useless to Charon

Qubwa.

The exercise was over. The Castle's master withdrew from Foster's mind.

At which precise moment, in Lindos, Rhodes, Richard Allan Garrison was fantasizing about the great

mottled mind-shark . . .

"Captain! Captain Foster! Qary!" someone was yelling. The voice was Arnott's, but choked,

strangled. Foster felt his grip broken, was hurled back. The slender thread which remained,

linking him to the world of dreams, snapped. The last revenant of Qubwa's hypnotic scenario

vaporized as Foster felt the pain of slamming backwards into a bulkhead . . . but hands were there

to grab him and hold him up. He shook his head, stared about through eyes which refused to focus,

shrugged off the two crew members who stood gaping at him.

"What in hell—?" Then he looked down at himself where he stood trembling in shock,

Brian Lumley

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dressed in loose, sweat-soaked issue pajamas! He remembered now: he had intended to sleep for an

hour, maybe a little longer.

Across the ops area Mike Arnott was perched on a table, massaging his throat. Foster moved

unsteadily towards his 2IC. "Mike, what—?"

"You tell me, sir," said the other hoarsely. "You floated in here like a ghost just a minute ago.

You were gabbling something—don't ask me what. I only caught one word, NUCAC—then you grabbed me

by the throat!"

Foster wasn't yet oriented. "I grabbed you? You're on watch?"

"Of course."

"And nothing . . . unusual? No incoming signals?" Foster's eyes were wide now, staring.

"Only . . . well, this!" Arnott answered. "The rest was routine." He grabbed the other's trembling

arms, held him steady. "Gary, what is it?"

"Where are we?" the Captain's breathing was slowing down, regulating itself. He peered at location

charts, sighed his relief. "An hour from turnabout. Thank God!"

"Where did you think we were?" Arnott was incredulous. "Were you asleep, dreaming?"

Foster nodded. "Only explanation. Sleepwalking, too, apparently." He almost fell into a chair,

reaction catching up with him. "It was the Big One-NUCAC 10!"

Arnott's eyebrows went up. He nodded to the crewmen. "You two wait outside a minute." They left.

"Sir, that's a funny sort of dream you've had." He shrugged. "Understandable, consider-

PSYCHOSPHERE

ing our job, but . . . been pushing it too hard, perhaps?"

Foster looked at him, narrowed his eyes. "That could be the answer, I suppose. Don't concern

yourself, I'll have a checkup. But. . . I'd like it if this didn't go any further. Speak to those

two, will you?" He nodded towards the hatchway.

"Of course."

"Good. Now I'd better get some clothes on." Foster turned away, glad that his cabin was close by.

As for the checkup: he would speak to the ship's doctor. And he'd see another doctor later—just as

soon as Moth got back to Ros-yth . . .

Thwarted, on leaving Foster's mind Qubwa should have soared instantaneously back to his own seat

of consciousness in the Castle, but something intervened.

Another mind moved in the Psychosphere, was close, almost on a collision course. There was no real

contact but an awareness—from which Qubwa recoiled no less sharply than the other. Two wary forces

facing each other, drawing back, finally fleeing in mutual panic—

—And Gubwa snapped open his eyes in the Castle, starting at once to his feet. If he had been

furious before, now he was doubly so—and not a little worried. Now what had that been? Who?

Of course there were other minds in the Psychosphere: the Psychosphere was the essence of all

sentience, of mental intelligence. But the vast majority of minds were no more aware of

Brian Lumley

the Psychosphere than a bird is aware of air. This mind had been aware, or had seemed so. And

Qubwa had sensed . . . fear? Perhaps. In which case the close brush had probably been accidental.

The Castle's master knew that the Russians had their own telepaths, as did the Americans. They had

a certain raw talent, these ESPers, but they were amateurs compared with Qubwa. Fifty percent of

what they learned was guesswork, none of it could ever be trusted. Polaris submarines were almost

impossible to detect through technology, so it could have been a Russian mind Qubwa had come up

against— even an American for that matter. And because it had been unexpected, Qubwa had panicked.

He snorted. Obviously the USA and USSR—one of them, at least—was making some progress in the

training and use of ESP-endowed surveillance agents, telepathic spies. It was something which

would bear looking into.

But meanwhile, there was the other problem, the fact that Foster had broken free of Qubwa's

control, had refused to press the NUCAC button. Oh, in a genuine crisis he would respond to

training, of course he would—but even then he would have to be absolutely certain of the nature of

the situation. This u?as his training, had to be; the world could not afford that kind of mistake.

Given the smallest loophole or blind spot in even the most perfect scenario, Foster would reject

it. Qubwa couldn't win!

The Castle's master cursed vividly. It was a problem. If he could not control Foster's single

PSYCHOSPHERE

mind, how could he hope to control both his and his 2IC's simultaneously? Trust Great Britain to

build these sort of dual-control, failsafe systems into its hardware!

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