The Source by Brian Lumley

dropped the weights clanging to the floor. “Bare-fisted, maybe, in the ring?”
    â€œJust say the word, Ivan,” Jazz answered, half-smiling, his voice low. “I still owe you for a couple of teeth, remember?”
    Vyotsky showed his own teeth again, but not in a grin, and put on his pullover. Khuv turned to Jazz, said: “Don’t push your luck with Karl, my friend. He can give you twenty pounds and ten years of experience. On top of which he has some ugly little habits. When we caught you on that mountain he knocked your teeth out, yes, but believe me you were lucky. He wanted to pull your head off. And it’s possible he could do it, with a little effort. I might even have let him try, except that would have been a terrible waste, and we’ve already had enough of that around here.”
    They began to walk again, passed through the gymnasium and out into a room containing a small swimming pool. The pool wasn’t tiled; it had simply been
blasted out of the bedrock along a natural fault. Here, where the uneven, veined ceiling was a little higher, several of the Projekt’s staff were swimming in the pool’s heated water; the room echoed to the slapping sounds of flesh on plastic as two women open-handed a ball to and fro between them. A thin, balding man was practicing jack-knives from a springboard.
    â€œAs for your ‘debriefing,’” said Khuv, shrugging, “well, there’s high-tech and there’s high-tech. The West has its miniaturization, its superb electronics, and we have our—”
    â€œBulgarian chemists?” Jazz cut him short. The tiled walkway at the side of the pool was wet and his feet were slipping; he stumbled, and Vyotsky caught his arm in a powerful grip, steadied him. Jazz cursed under his breath. “Do you know how uncomfortable it is walking round in this thing?” He was talking about his strait-jacket.
    â€œA necessary precaution,” said Khuv. “I’m sorry, but it really is for the best. Most of the people here aren’t armed. They’re scientists, not soldiers. Soldiers guard the approaches to the Projekt, certainly, but their barracks are elsewhere; not far away, but not here. There are some soldiers here, as you’ll see, but they are specialists. And so, if you were to get loose—” again his shrug. “You might do a lot of damage before you met up with someone like Karl here.”
    At the end of the pool they passed out through another door into a gently curving corridor which Jazz recognized as the perimeter. That was what they called it, “the perimeter”: a metal-clad, rubber-floored tunnel which enclosed the entire complex about its middle level. From the perimeter, doors led inwards into all the Projekt’s many areas. There were still a few doors Jazz hadn’t been through, the ones which required special security access. He’d seen the living areas, hospital, recreation rooms, dining hall and some of the laboratories, but not the machine itself, if there was such a
beast. Khuv had promised him, however, that today he was to visit “the guts” of the place.
    Khuv led the way, Jazz following, with Vyotsky bringing up the rear. People came and went around them, dressed in lab smocks, overalls; some with millboards and notes, others carrying pieces of machinery or instruments. The place could easily be some high-tech factory anywhere in the world. As Jazz and his escort proceeded, so Khuv said:
    â€œYou asked me about your debriefing. Well, you’re right about our Bulgarian friends: they really have a knack for brewing potent stuff—and of course I’m not just talking about their wine. The pills were to cause you pain; they cramp muscles, heighten sensitivity. The shots are part truth-drug, part sedative. They have the effect of making you susceptible to suggestion. It’s not so much that you can’t refuse, more that you’re far more