Psychomech (7 page)

They came to a gate and Schroeder told Garrison to stop, The industrialist applied his chair’s brakes and guided Garrison round to the gate, describing how it could be opened. Working by touch, Garrison managed it easily. Leaving the gate open he went back to the wheelchair, but as he did so there came the rustle of leaves and stealthy footsteps. He heard the sharp
ch-ching
of an automatic weapon being cocked.

‘Thomas,
look out!
’ Garrison hoarsely yelled, flinging himself face-down in pine needles, leaves and loam.

‘Easy, my boy, easy!’ Schroeder’s voice came to life, as if their previous conversation had been a drugged mumbling. There are no enemies here. This is Gunter, one of my men.

There are a good many of them in the woods and on the approach road. They reinforce the warning notices. I value my privacy, you see.’

‘Jesus!’ Garrison gasped. ‘You should have told me.’ He climbed shakily to his feet and Schroeder could see that his face was filmed with sweat.

‘Your reactions have not slowed down,’ the German told him, his eyes narrowing where they peered at Garrison through thick lenses. ‘No, indeed. I rather think that Gunter is lucky you don’t have your SMG, eh?’

‘Damn right!’ Garrison growled. ‘He’d probably be a dead man.’

‘Still,’ Schroeder continued, ‘it’s a pity.’ He wheeled his chair over to where Garrison dusted himself down, picked pine needles from the Corporal’s shirt and trousers. ‘You have come to associate me with danger.’

Garrison turned to the man and frowned. He was trembling a little. ‘Yes, I guess I have. But you should know this: I wasn’t afraid for myself. Why should anybody want to shoot a blind man?’

‘And you asked me if I would trust you,’ Schroeder softly reminded. Then, in harsh and stinging tones, he tongue-lashed his watchman for a full three minutes, barely pausing for breath. The man mumbled his excuses, which only brought more fury from his employer, until finally Schroeder was through with him. Then Garrison made out Gunter’s gruff ‘Entschuldigen sie,’ before the bushes rustled and the man was allowed to depart into the trees.

‘He is a bloody fool!’ Schroeder snarled. ‘He frightened me, too, coming upon us like that. But… I suppose he was only trying to show me how alert and capable he is. Here, let’s have a cigarette as we go. The man’s made my nerves jump. The place of the mushrooms is not much farther now. And of course we must be back for your swim with Vicki.’

‘Vicki,’ said Garrison, his voice giving nothing away. ‘So You’ve seen her this morning and she spoke of me. Who is she?’

‘The daughter of a friend. She has been blind since she was fifteen. Nothing can be done for her.’

‘And why is she here?’

‘Company for you,’ Schroeder was frank. ‘I thought you might feel less isolated if there was another blind person here. Also, this is a nice place to holiday. Yes, let us simply say that she is enjoying a holiday with her Uncle Thomas, eh?’

‘Listen,’ Garrison said, his voice hardening. ‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I really don’t need anyone pimping for me!’

Schroeder was ready with his dry chuckle. ‘I said she was company for you. I did not say anything about her being you whore! Look, Vicki
is
good company. Whether or not you can take her to bed is your business. But I’ll tell you something: she has red hair and brilliant green eyes, and in my experience that’s a deadly combination—especially in a german woman! Pimp, did you call me? But you might be safer with a cobra, Richard Garrison, than with Vicki. Yes, and you might stand more chance. But of course I could be wrong… Ah!—there are our mushrooms.’

Under Schroeder’s guidance Garrison stepped a few paces from the path through grass and clover. He halted at the German’s command and went carefully down on one knee. From their feel the mushrooms were more like toadstools: long-stemmed, fully domed and warty. Completely unlike the common field mushrooms of England, they were sticky, irritatingly pungent and they grew tall, at least six inches. Even without Schroeder to direct him, Garrison would have found the things. Once he had their scent he was drawn to them almost magnetically. ‘Six will be sufficient,’ Schroeder called to him. ‘Enough for our purposes. Wrap them in your handkerchief.’ Garrison collected six, returned to the wheelchair and handed them over. Schroeder sniffed them appreciatively.

‘Semen!’ he said. ‘From their shape and their smell, you could almost picture nymphs of the forest crouching down over them, eh?’

Garrison laughed. ‘What are they for?’ he asked.

Schroeder reached up and tapped the other’s nose twice before he could jerk his face away. ‘None of your business. You, who have declared your independence of drugs. But come, turn us about and let’s be on our way. You must swim and relax, and I have things to do. And then there’s lunch. And this afternoon—the photographers!’

‘Photographers?’ Garrison was bemused.

‘Oh, yes. And my tailor to take your measurements. And your voice to be taped. And a specialist to fit you up. And—’

‘Whoa!’ said Garrison.-Tm not getting any of this…’

‘Ah, but you will! You will!’

Garrison slowly nodded. ‘OK,’ he said, refusing to be tantalized, ‘we’ll see what we’ll see. But one thing: maybe I’d better cancel my date at the pool with Vicki. I don’t have any swim trunks.’

‘Trunks?’ Schroeder laughed. ‘We can find some for you. But what difference does it make? Vicki has no costume either!’

‘But—’

‘Or perhaps you think that I am not only a pimp but also a peeping-Thomas, eh?’ At which they both burst out laughing…

At Garrison’s insistence, Willy Koenig brought him a pair of swimming trunks. He went to his room to put them on before allowing Koenig to take him out to the pool, by which time Vicki was already whooping and splashing about in the water. She was like a child in her pleasure. The pool was no more than sixty inches deep, perhaps sixty feet long by thirty wide. It had steps and a slide.

Braving the slide, Garrison seated himself on smooth boards slick with running water, gathered in his breath and was about to take the plunge when Koenig chopped his hand away from the rim and gave him a hefty shove in the middle of his back.

‘Bastard!’ Garrison expelled his air in a shout, shot down the slide and into the water. The pool’s temperature was perfect, so that there was no shock at all to his system as he was fully immersed. Finding his feet, Garrison gasped, ‘Willy, are you trying to start World War III?’ His question was answered by a receding laugh as the big German walked away. Garrison nodded after him and grinned. ‘Oh, ganz komisch!’ he said.

Vicki was laughing. ‘He pushed you in?’

‘Down the slide, yes.’ He dog-paddled in the direction of her voice.

‘Now you keep away,’ she answered, backing off. ‘I’m very strong in the water. And I refuse to be ducked!’

‘Funny way you Germans pronounce your Fs,’ he growled.

‘Not only are you forward, you’re very vulgar!’

‘Who said anything about ducking you?’ he laughed. And who was it asked me to swim with her anyway?’

‘Swim in the same pool with me,’ she agreed. ‘Not necessarily side by side, or touching. Oh!’ He cornered her, drew her close.

‘Shit! You’re wearing a costume.’

‘A couple of hankies, yes. And you are wearing trunks. Silly of both of us, really. After all, there’s no one else here.’

‘There’s Willy,’ he said, kissing her forehead.

‘Oh, Willy is not a peeper.’ She splashed water in his face. And anyway, there won’t be anything worth seeing.’ She swam swiftly away from him.

‘Vicki,’ he said, following the sound of her splashes. ‘I was thinking I might have an early night tonight.’

‘Oh?’ Her tone was casual. ‘Are you still tired, then? It must be the mountain air. Myself, I shall probably stay up very late.’

‘Don’t take the mickey, you know what I mean.’

‘Yes I do. And I should invite, you to my room, should I? As simple as that?’

‘Well, that would be… simple.’

‘I may not want it to be simple.’

He trapped her again, drew her close, this time kissed her full on the mouth and moved his body against hers. ‘But you do want it,’ he said, releasing her.

‘There are twenty-four suites in the central building,’ she said, her voice at once breathless and husky. ‘At midnight, come into my room and get into bed with me.’

‘Which is your room?’ Garrison, too, had difficulty speaking.

‘I won’t tell you. Not the room, not even the floor.’

He laughed shakily. ‘Hell’s teeth! It could be pretty embarrassing if I make a mistake.’

‘Then don’t make one.’

‘No clues?’

‘Hmm—possibly. And one rule—you mustn’t ask anyone. I don’t want it to be common knowledge.’ She broke free and swam away. A moment later he heard her feet on the pool’s tiled surround. She was moving away, back towards the central building.

‘Hey!’ he called after her. ‘Is that it? Is that our swim?’

‘It served its purpose,’ she called back.

Garrison stood in silence, the water making tiny wavelets against his chest. A wasp hummed out of the sun and settled on his shoulder. He submerged, came up, swam for a further ten minutes. Time enough for his erection to collapse…

Garrison ate only a light lunch. Several things competed to rob him of the morning’s appetite, not the least of them being the knowledge that tomorrow would find him entering Schroeder’s mysterious building, which apparently contained or explained the reason for Garrison’s being here.

But before then there was that army to face, and the cold efficiency with which they invaded and occupied—for however brief a spell—his body. He was photographed a great deal. He was photographed in stills and in motion, dressed and undressed, seated, standing, walking, speaking and shouting; with and without his dark spectacles, in colour and in black and white, with and without sound.

His voice was taped in all its range. Talking, shouting commands in German and in English, swearing. In normal conversation, in excitement, in anger. No slightest inflection, no minor point of dialect (though he was naturally void, or almost void, of dialectal influence), no smallest nuance or vocal idiosyncrasy was left unrecorded.

He was given the most thorough physical check-up of his entire life. The Army’s annual PULHEEMS had nothing to compare with this. They measured, weighed, tugged at, listened to, pulled and sampled him. His organs were sounded. His blood and urine were tested. They even dabbled with sweat, saliva and excreta. He expected they might want semen, too, but that was not on their list.

And then he was measured again, but this time by a pair of obviously homosexual tailors, Schroeder’s personal tailors from Kassel, come up into the Harz at the industrialist’s bidding, to perform his will. Which was to be the manufacture of two uniforms, six suits and a full complement of casual wear, and all in accordance with Schroeder’s impeccable taste, designed to his specifications, suggestions and instructions.

And finally there was a specialist of a very different sort.

This one, a tiny, dome-headed boffin who could only talk to Garrison through an interpreter, seemed only interested in (strangely) his temples and his wrists. The span of the latter, left and right, the distance between the plates of the former. Finally he made adjustments to instruments taken from a large case and placed a set of earphones on Garrison’s head. Another dip into the case brought expanding’ wrist-bands. These were placed on Garrison’s wrists and were then attached to a small battery and pushbutton which Garrison held in his hand.

The interpreter, Schroeder himself, explained: ‘This is purely a demonstration, Richard. The final fitting, perhaps a month from now, will involve a small, painless operation. After that there will be no wires, no visible batteries. The wrist-bands will to all intents and purposes be jewellery—and they will be of pure, solid gold. The spectacles will be a little heavier than the ones you are used to, with silver reflective lenses, and they will perfectly suit your face and swept-back hairstyle. They will never be a substitute for eyes, of course, but—’

The specialist spoke, Schroeder translated. ‘Stand up, Richard, please.’

Again a guttural gabble of thick German accents, and again Schroeder’s translation: ‘One push of the button will bring the wrist-bands into play. They will whistle, the left with a slightly higher note than the right. Try it.’

Garrison obeyed. Two distinct whistles sounded, low and not yet annoying. ‘Now I shall wheel my chair in front of you,’ Schroeder told him. ‘Do not move. Just let your wrists hang normally, thumbs facing forward.’

Garrison waited expectantly, full of a sudden excitement. The tone of the whistles changed, minutely, and almost immediately returned to normal. Garrison was disappointed. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Was I supposed to ‘see’ you or something?’n

‘No, no, of course not. You were simply supposed to know that something was there.’

‘Useless!’ Garrison snapped. The afternoon had frayed at his nerves. He was taking a lot on trust.

‘Patience, Richard. Now turn on the spectacles. Another push of the button will do it.’

This time there was a sharp stuttering like the chatter of a Geiger counter. The German specialist stepped directly in front of Garrison and the chatter grew more rapid. He backed away and the chattering subsided. Schroeder explained his actions.

Garrison replied: ‘I could get more information—distance, location, male/female, friendly/unfriendly—if he were simply to speak to me.’

‘But that way you would be dependent upon him, not on yourself.’

The noises suddenly annoyed Garrison intensely. He felt like a dimly flashing light bulb in the guts of some complex, incomprehensible machine. ‘The whole thing’s a mess!’ he snarled. He ripped the wrist-bands off and threw them down, snatched the ‘phones from his head and hurled them away. ‘How the hell am I to make sense of anything with all this fucking chattering and whistling going on?’

‘Richard,’ Schroeder’s voice attempted to soothe, ‘you—’

‘Shit!’ Garrison shouted. ‘I’m sick of the whole bloody game. I thought you were different, Thomas, that I was more than just a freak to you. But Jesus—
this
? Give me back my stick any old day!’ He spun about, crashed into a plastic garden chair and sent it flying, picked himself up and ran for the central building. Ran
unerringly
for the central building—and half-way there flew straight into Willy Koenig’s arms.