Free Psychomech by Brian Lumley

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.
    He knew the German’s aftershave, knew the strength of the arms that held him. ‘Out of my way, Willy,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve had this shit up to here. I’ll have no more of it!’
    ‘Be quiet!’ Koenig growled. ‘Listen…’
    Behind Garrison Schroeder tore into the specialist. He gave him hell. And all in an especially virulent German, so that Garrison would know he was not merely whitewashing. Then there came a crash of hurled instruments—an entire caseful—and finally the hoarse, still guttural protests of the specialist himself:
    ‘Viertzig tausend Marks!’ the man was moaning. ‘Viertzig tausend—’
    ‘Raiis!’ Schroeder finally roared, a strength in his voice Garrison would not have believed possible. The specialist gathered up his things and departed.
    A few moments later Schroeder came up to Garrison and Koenig on foot. His voice was pained, his breathing erratic. He took Garrison’s arm in a trembling hand. ‘It was a mistake, Richard. My mistake. I wanted to do too much, too fast. And that idiot—he was like an alien. Mechanical, uncaring. A mind thinking only in terms of money. And today has been—too much. Even a seeing man would have found it… too…’ He started to cough and Koenig immediately went to him. ‘Too much.’
    Garrison felt idiotic. A small child. Spoiled. He supported Schroeder, said to Koenig: ‘Willy, the chair…’ Koenig ran off.
    ‘I always try to do too much,’ Schroeder said. ‘And always too fast. It’s a mistake. You can burn yourself out. Everything I have, what is it worth? And you—no hangups, no neuroses—and here am I smothering you in hopes, aspirations. Offering you false gods. Except that… I feel you are extraordinary!’ He gripped Garrison’s arm and the blind man could feel the strength flowing back into Schroeder’s fingers, almost as if drawn from his own body.
    ‘What is it you want from me, Thomas?’ he asked.
    ‘I only want to give, pay my debt.’
    ‘No, you want something. I know