A telescreen buzzed upstairs, then stopped. She withdrew her hand reluctantly. She said in a low voice: “Your coffee must be cold.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He sipped the brandy with pleasure.
There was a constraint between them, like two people who have just made love for the first time and are now aware of the consequences. She poured herself coffee.
“Do you think this is grounds for divorce?”
The bantering tone sounded false. He said seriously: “I suppose it is, in a way.”
She held out her glass and touched his. “Have you ever made love as quickly as that before?”
He said: “Made love?”
“I suppose that’s what it is. Or don’t you agree?”
There was an odd kind of relief in merely talking to one another, without any other communication. She sat in the armchair facing him. She said: “I now feel no curiosity whatever about you. I know you as if we’d been lovers for years. I feel I’ve given myself to you and allowed you to look into all my secrets. Isn’t that being lovers?”
“I suppose so.” He was feeling very tired, but relaxed.
“Are you still afraid of turning into a vampire?”
It was then that he realised, for the first time, that he had experienced no desire to take her life energy. He said: “My God!”
“What is it?”
“Now I”m beginning to understand. These things could be deathless, couldn’t they? They could simply transfer into new bodies.”
He started to laugh. She waited for him to explain.
“It’s absurd. This morning, Geijerstam told me that I wasn’t turning into a vampire, I was only becoming aware of the vampirism that exists in all of us. I didn’t understand what he was talking about — or rather, I thought he was talking nonsense. Now I see he was right. I wonder how he knew that?”
“He’s probably more feminine than you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s something I’ve always known. Although I must admit, I’d never realised it as clearly as in the last ten minutes. I think most women know it. When a woman falls in love, it’s because she wants to know a man — to get inside his skin, become a part of him. I suppose masochism’s a kind of distorted form of the same thing — the desire to be absorbed, to give oneself completely and entirely. On the other hand, I suppose most men just want to possess a girl — to feel they’ve conquered her. So they never notice that what they really want is to absorb her…”
“That’s what Fallada says in his book — he’s talking about cannibalism.”
She laughed. “He’s a clever man, our Hans.”
He crossed to the window and stood looking out on the neon-lighted trees of Eaton Square. “Geijerstam said another thing. He said he thought human beings are at a turning point in their evolution. I wonder…”
She stood beside him, and he experienced the desire to touch her. He moved away quickly. “What is it?” she asked.
“I… Something in me wants to take your energy.”
She reached out for his hand. “Take it if you need it.” When he hesitated, she said: “I want to give it to you.” She raised his hand and placed it on the bare flesh below her throat. He tried to control the sudden voracious desire as his hand groped inside the kimono and found the naked breast. Suddenly, with exquisite pleasure, the energy was flowing into him; he was drinking it like a thirsty man. He felt her shudder and lean against him. He looked down at her face; the lips were bloodless, but it was perfectly calm. All his tiredness had left him as the force flowed from her. It was a temptation to bend down and suck the energy through her lips; some odd touch of conventionality restrained him. As he withdrew his hand, she moved dreamily across the room and sank onto the settee, closing her eyes. He said anxiously: “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Tired, but… quite happy.” She looked up at him; it struck him that he had seen the same look in Jelka’s eyes when she was exhausted after giving birth to Jeanette. She said: “Go upstairs and see what Hans and Percy are doing, would you?” She was afraid that they would come down and see her like this.
“Of course.”
“Upstairs and first on the right.”
He went slowly up the stairs. He could hear Fallada’s voice coming from behind the door. He knocked, then went in. “Your wife sent me up to see where you were.”
Fallada said: “Oh, dear, I suppose we’d better go down.”
He said quickly. “Don’t worry — I think she understands.”
Heseltine rose from behind the desk to shake hands. “You’re looking well, Carlsen. I’ve been hearing about your incredible adventures in Sweden. Do have a seat. Whisky?”
“No thanks. I’ve had a brandy.”
“Then have another.” As he poured, he asked: “How seriously do you take this business about the Prime Minister?”
Carlsen said: “I don’t know what to reply. In a way, I know as little about it as you do. I simply heard my own voice on the tape.”
“You’ve no memory of saying it?”
“I’ve no memory of anything that happened while I was hypnotised.”
“Frankly” — Heseltine searched for words — “you see, I’ve been at Downing Street all afternoon. I find it frankly incredible to think —”
He was interrupted by the telescreen. He pressed the receiving button. “Hello?”
“Sir Percy? It’s Chief Constable Duckett on the line.”
A moment later a broad Yorkshire voice said: “Hello, Perce, me again.”
“Any news?”
“Ay I think so. I’ve checked up on Arthur Pryce. He runs an electronics factory at Penistone — that’s just across the moor from Holmfirth.”
“And the hospital?”
“That’s more of a problem. There’s five in the Huddersfield area, including one for geriatrics. The only one near Holmfirth is Thirlstone.”
“Thirlstone? Isn’t that an asylum?”
“Ay, for the criminally insane. That’s up on the moor, a mile outside the town.”
Heseltine was silent for a moment, then said: “Okay, Ted, that’s fine. Very helpful. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”
“Are you coming up yourself?” He was obviously surprised.
“It might be necessary. See you then.”
As he cleared the line, Carlsen said: “That’s the place.”
Heseltine looked at him with surprise: “Thirlstone? How do you know?”
“I don’t. But if it’s a criminal lunatic asylum, it’s the kind of place they’d choose.”
Fallada said with excitement: “He’s right. It hadn’t struck me before we went to see Geijerstam, but these things can probably possess people without actually killing them. When I saw the way Magnus’s handwriting had changed after he made the Black Pilgrimage, I suddenly realised that he was two people — in the same body.”
Heseltine interrupted: “Who the hell’s Magnus?”
“I’ll explain that later. All I’m trying to say now is that an asylum for the criminally insane would be an ideal refuge for a vampire. If she’s still in that area, that’s where she is.”
“In that case” — Heseltine looked at his watch — “I wonder if we can afford to wait until tomorrow.” He looked at Carlsen, then Fallada. “How do you feel?”
Fallada shrugged. “I’ll go anywhere at any time. I’m not so sure about Olof. He’s got a wife and family waiting at home.”
Carlsen said: “No. They expect me when they see me.”
“Good. In that case…” He pressed the dialing buttons.
“Hello. Sergeant Parker, please… Ah, Parker, I’m going to need a Grasshopper tonight. I have to go to Yorkshire. Are you free to take us?”
“I will be in ten minutes, when Culvershaw gets back.”
“Good. That’ll be excellent. Land in Belgrave Square and give me a call when you arrive.” He cleared the line and turned to Carlsen. “Now, Commander, if you’d like to call your wife. And after that, I’ll see if I can get on to the Superintendent of Thirlstone and warn him to expect us.”
Twenty minutes later, they were watching the neon flares of the city recede into the distance behind them. As far ahead as the eye could see, the lights of the Great North Way stretched like a giant airstrip. They were flying well below the usual air-traffic routes, at a speed of three hundred miles an hour. On the road below them, car headlights moved in a continual stream.
Heseltine said: “Strictly speaking, I’m disobeying instructions in leaving London.”
“Why?”
“I’m supposed to be working directly under the Home Secretary and reporting every fresh development direct to his office. That’s what the P.M. wanted to see me about — coordinating the search for the aliens.”
Carlsen asked: “Did he have any suggestions about how to go about it?”
“No. In fact, he rather implied — without actually saying so — that he thought you and Fallada were slightly mad. All the same, we’ve set up an elaborate report procedure.”
Fallada said with disgust: “And if nothing gets reported, he’ll use that as evidence that there’s no danger.”
They were silent for several minutes, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Heseltine said: “Do you think there’s any way of testing whether an individual’s a vampire?”
Carlsen shook his head. Fallada looked at him in surprise. “Of course there is. We used it on you this morning.”
Heseltine asked: “What’s that?”
“Radiesthesia — the pendulum.”
Carlsen grunted. “I didn’t get the impression it proved anything except that I’m male.”
“Ah, but you missed the most interesting part. You were asleep.”
Heseltine said: “Would you mind explaining?”
Fallada said: “You can use a pendulum like water-divining rods. It reacts to different substances at different lengths — twenty-four inches for a male, twenty-nine for a female. The Count said he’d used it to test whether one of his patients was possessed by a vampire — it reacted to both the male and female length when it was held above him. That’s why he tried it on Olof.”
“And what happened?”
“It reacted for male and female. But that’s not all. Geijerstam agreed it could be a coincidence, because the female length also indicates danger. So he tried testing Olof at lengths beyond forty inches — that’s the length for death and sleep. Apparently there shouldn’t be any reaction beyond that length, because death’s an ultimate limit. As Olof lay asleep, the old woman tested him at forty inches, and got a strong reaction. Then she lengthened it to sixty-four — forty inches plus the normal male length. She got no reaction at all. So she lengthened it to sixty-nine-forty plus the female length. And the damn thing began to sweep around in enormous circles.”
Heseltine asked quietly: “Which indicates what?”
“He wasn’t sure. But he said that it could mean that whatever was causing the reaction was already dead.”
Carlsen felt the hairs on his neck prickle. His voice sounded oddly strained as he said: “I don’t believe that. These things are alive, all right.”
Fallada shrugged. “I’m only reporting what Geijerstam said. I don’t think these things are supernatural either.”
Heseltine said: “That depends on what you mean by supernatural.”
“Well, dead… ghosts, whatever you want to call it.”
Carlsen experienced the now-familiar sense of despair and hopelessness, the feeling that the world had suddenly become immensely alien. He was accustomed to the emptiness of space, but even in the outer limits of the solar system, he had never lost a sense of belonging to the earth, of being a member of the human race. Now there was a frightening sense of inner coldness, as if he were moving into areas where no other human being could follow. Looking at the endless lights of the Great North Way and at the glow of some city — probably Nottingham — in the distance, he was overwhelmed by a sense of unreality that was like falling. The panic began to build up. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Whatever happened was too quick to be grasped by his perceptions. There was a flash of insight that made the panic seem absurd. Then the lights below seemed to become brighter; there was a sudden wave of delight, a sense of freshness. It had gone as quickly as it came, leaving him startled and puzzled. His eyes felt tired, and he closed them.
A moment later, Fallada was saying: “Wake up, Olof. We’ve arrived.”
He realised that the Grasshopper was about to land on a deserted road and that its powerful searchlights were illuminating the tops of trees. He said: “Where are we?”
The pilot said over his shoulder: “A few miles south of Huddersfield. Holmfirth can’t be far away.”
He looked at his watch. It was nine-fifteen; he had been asleep for half an hour.
On the road, the Grasshopper ceased to be powered by jets; rotary drive took over, and the short wings retracted; in effect, it became a large car. A few yards further on, they halted at a crossroad; one arm of the signpost pointed to Barnsley, the other to Holmfirth.
Heseltine said: “It’s still early. I think we have time to pay a visit to Mr Pryce. Sergeant, get on to Information and find out where we can find Upperthong Road.”
The pilot dialled the computerised street guide. A map of Holmfirth flashed onto the television monitor, one of the roads illuminated in red. Parker said: “That’s lucky. We seem to be on it.”
It took less than five minutes to locate the house, an expensive bungalow of glass and fibreflex standing in a quarter of an acre of lawn; a spotlight illuminated the ornamental pond and the flower beds.
An elderly lady answered the doorbell; she looked alarmed to see three strangers. Heseltine produced his identification. “Is it possible to speak to your husband?”
She asked: “Is it income tax?”
Heseltine said soothingly: “No, no. Nothing to worry about. He might be able to help us with a piece of information.”
“Just a moment, please.” She disappeared inside.
Heseltine looked at the others and winked. “It’s obvious what she’s got on her conscience.”
Several minutes elapsed, then the woman came back.
“Come in, please.”
She led them into a curtained sitting room. A powerful elderly man in a wheelchair was seated at the table, with a cold meal in front of him.
Heseltine said: “Mr Arthur Pryce?”
“Yes.” He seemed unalarmed; only curious.
“I… think there must be some mistake. Do you own a Crystal Flame number QBX 5279L?”
“Ay. That’s mine.”