The sandwiches came. When he washed them down with beer, he felt better.
Harlow came on the telescreen. “She’s definitely not on this floor — probably not in the building. We’ve searched everywhere.”
“That’s impossible. She couldn’t get off this floor without a pass card.”
“She had my pass card,” Carlsen said.
“God, now he tells me!” Bukovsky turned back to Harlow. “So she can get to other floors. But not out of the building. For Christ’s sake, Robert, a naked girl can’t get far.” He turned back to Carlsen. “How in hell did she get your pass card?”
“She took it.”
“How did she know about it?”
“She read my mind.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“That complicates things. Do you think she can read the minds of the security guards?”
“Probably.”
Bukovsky went to the cabinet and poured himself a Scotch; Carlsen nodded when he held out the bottle. Bukovsky came back with the drink. Carlsen took a long pull and experienced relief as the smoky liquid burned his throat.
Bukovsky sat down. He said: “Listen, Olof, I’m going to ask you a straight question, and I want a straight answer. Do you believe this girl is dangerous?”
He said: “Of course. She killed a man.”
“That’s not what I mean. I want to know: Is she evil?”
He tried to answer, and the conflict built up inside him. His strongest impulse was to say no, but his reason told him he would be lying. Oddly enough, he felt no resentment about her, although he knew she wanted to drain his life force. Was she evil? Is a man-eating tiger evil?
As he stared at the floor, trying to find a reply, Bukovsky said: “You know what I’m asking. That man intended to rape her. She destroyed him. Was it basically self-defence?”
He knew the answer. He said wearily: “No. It wasn’t self-defence. She needed his life. She took it.”
“ Deliberately?” As Carlsen hesitated, he said: “She was unconscious. I’ve seen her a dozen times. Her lambda field was .004. That’s as low as a fish frozen in the ice. Is it not possible that she had no control over what happened?”
He took his time to answer. Finally he said: “No. She had control. It was deliberate.”
“Okay.” Bukovsky stood up and went to the telescreen. He said: “Give me George Ash… George, those two space creatures in the specimen room. I want them destroyed. Tonight. Now. Then get a message to the Vega . They’re not to approach the Stranger. Stay at least a hundred miles from it.”
Ash headed the S.R.I. police; he was directly subordinate to Harlow. He said: “I’ll get them to the incinerator.”
Bukovsky came back. He said: “Now all we have to do is to find that girl. I wish I knew she was still in the building. A general alert’s going to cause panic.” He plunged his face in his hands; he was obviously tired. “Thank God there’s only that one.”
“Inspector Caine is here, sir.” It was Bukovsky’s secretary. Caine looked like a policeman: bulky, sad-faced, grey-haired.
Bukovsky introduced himself and Carlsen. Caine said: “Ah, yes, I recognise you, sir. You found them in the first place, didn’t you?”
Carlsen nodded. “If that’s what you can call it.”
Caine was about to go on, but Bukovsky interrupted him. “What do you mean by that?”
Carlsen shrugged, smiling tiredly. “Did we find them? Or did they find us? Had the Stranger really been there for a million years? Or was it planted so we’d find it?”
Caine obviously found this speculation futile. He said patiently: “Excuse me, sir, but I’d like you to tell me in your own words just what happened this evening.”
Carlsen went through it again, and Caine recorded it. He listened without interruption until Carlsen described running into the specimen room and finding the body.
“You say she opened her eyes. Then what happened?”
“She sat up… and held out her arms… like this. Like a baby asking to be picked up.”
“And how did you respond?”
He shook his head. It would have sounded stupid to say, “I fell in love with her.” Bukovsky was watching him closely. He said: “I did nothing. I just stared.”
“You must have been pretty shaken. Then what?”
“Then she got up — very lightly. And she tried to put her arms round my neck.”
“She wanted to drain you too?”
“I suppose so.” It was incredible how difficult he was finding it to answer their questions; an immense inner resistance was building up like a wall.
The telescreen buzzed. Ash came on. He said: “These creatures, sir… They’re dead already.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Come and look for yourself.”
Bukovsky went out. They followed him without speaking.
There were three policemen in the specimen room; one of them was measuring it with a tape; another was taking photographs. Adams’s body lay undisturbed. The police surgeon knelt beside it. The drawers containing the aliens were open. Carlsen saw immediately what Ash meant. There was no mistaking death. As he came closer, the faint odour of decay reached his nostrils.
When he looked at Seth Adams’s body, he was shocked. Now it was like a mummy. The flesh had shrunk tight on the bones.
Caine said incredulously: “Did you say the victim was about twenty?”
He nodded, experiencing a wave of depression. He asked Bukovsky: “I don’t suppose his mother’s been contacted?”
“No. We don’t know her address.”
“I suppose I’d better do it.” He asked Caine: “Will you be needing me again tonight?”
“I don’t think so. Are you in the telescreen book?”
“No. I’ve had to go ex-directory recently.” He gave Caine his number.
Bukovsky and the police doctor were looking down at the aliens. Bukovsky said: “Well, that only leaves one.”
Carlsen started to speak, then changed his mind. He preferred not to let them know what he was thinking.
The buzzing of the telescreen brought him out of a deep, exhausted sleep. He heard Jelka say: “Who is it?… I’m afraid he is asleep…” She was using the earphone. He asked thickly: “Who is it?”
“The police.”
“Give it here.” He took the earphone. “Hello.”
“Mr. Carlsen? Detective Sergeant Tully, sir. Chief Inspector Caine asked me to ring you. He’d like you to come immediately, if you can.”
“Is it urgent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“If you could be ready in five minutes, sir, we’re sending a Grasshopper for you.”
As he dressed, Jelka said: “Why do you have to go? Don’t they know you’re exhausted?”
“He said it’s important.”
She switched on the light between their beds. Her cheek was marked where the pillow had pressed. He pulled on his trousers over the pyjamas, then a woollen sweater. He ruffled her hair playfully, touched by protectiveness. “Go back to sleep. Lock the door, and don’t open it to anyone.”
As he walked out into the road, he switched on his homing device. He could see the blue light of an aircraft overhead. Thirty seconds later, the Grasshopper swept down silently, hovered for a moment, then landed on the road. The door opened. The uniformed policeman helped him up the steps. Only one of the three seats was empty. The man who sat behind the pilot’s cabin wore evening dress. He turned and said: “I’m Hans Fallada. How d’you do.”
Carlsen took the hand he proffered over his shoulder.
In spite of the German name, Fallada’s accent was British upper class; the voice was throaty and rich.
He said: “I’m delighted to meet you.”
Fallada said: “And I too. It’s a pity it had to be on business.”
Carlsen watched the Thames recede underneath them. In the east, the grey line of the dawn was already showing; below, the lights of the suburbs glowed yellow and orange.
Both started to speak at once. Then Fallada answered the question Carlsen had started to ask. “I’ve just flown back from Paris. It was rather appropriate really. I was addressing the annual dinner of European criminologists when they sent for me. Now it looks as if the trip was wasted.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t they told you? They think they’ve found her body.”
He was too tired to experience the full shock. He heard himself say: “Are you sure?”
“No, they’re not sure. That’s why they want you to identify her.”
He sat back in his seat, and tried to assess his reactions. His feelings seemed numb. He was certain of only one thing: that some instinctive part of him refused to believe it.
Within five minutes, the lights of central London were below them. Fallada was saying: “Amazing things, these Grasshoppers. I’m told they can do four hundred miles an hour, and land on a two-foot space in the middle of a traffic jam.” He recognised the green light on the S.R.I. building near Piccadilly. They planed down towards the black expanse of Hyde Park. The searchlight caught the still waters of the Serpentine.
The Grasshopper hovered, then landed without a bump. He let Fallada climb out first. Caine advanced to meet them; he saw Bukovsky and Ash behind him. Twenty yards away, they had erected canvas screens.
Caine said: “Sorry to bother you, sir. But it won’t take more than five minutes.”
“What makes you think it’s her?”
Bukovsky said: “It’s her, all right. But they need you to identify her. You were the last to see her.”
They led him behind the screens. The body was covered with a blanket. He could see the legs were spread apart, the arms outflung.
Caine pulled back the blanket, shining the torch. For a moment, he was doubtful. The left eye was blackened; the lips were swollen and bruised. Then he saw the shape of the chin, the teeth, the high cheekbones. “Yes, that’s her.”
“You’ve no doubt?”
“None whatever.”
Fallada pulled back the rest of the blanket. She was naked except for a green nylon smock and an overcoat; both were open. The body was smeared with blood from the neckline to the knees. In the light of the torch, he could see teethmarks in the flesh. One nipple was missing. Rubber shoes lay within a few feet of the body. When Fallada touched the head, it rolled sideways.
Caine said: “She found the clothes in a cleaner’s cupboard.”
Fallada asked: “How long has she been dead?”
“About nine hours, we think.”
“In other words, she was murdered about an hour after escaping from the Space Research building. What an incredible thing to happen. Do we know if there’s a sex maniac on the loose in this area?”
“We’ve no record of one. The last murder of this type was in Maidstone a year ago.”
Carlsen straightened up from his knees. His trousers were wet. He asked Fallada: “But why do you think he bit her?”
Fallada shrugged and shook his head. “It’s a familiar sexual perversion. It’s known as vampirism.”
He woke up in darkness. The luminous dial of his watch showed two-thirty.A.M.orP.M.?He reached out and flicked down the switch of the soundproofing mechanism; immediately, he could hear the laughter of his children. That answered that question; it was afternoon. He pressed the switch that controlled the blinds; they slipped upwards, flooding the room with sunlight. He lay still for another five minutes, disciplined to move. Jelka came in with a tray.
“Here’s some coffee. How are you feeling?”
He yawned. “I’ll tell you when I wake up.” He struggled into a sitting position. “I slept well.”
“You certainly did.”
Seeking the significance of her words, he looked again at his watch, and noticed the day: Thursday. He said: “My God, how long have I been asleep?”
“I make it… nearly thirty-three hours.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because you looked worn out.”
The two children came in and climbed on the bed. They were both girls and both blonde. Jeanette, the four-year-old, got into bed and asked for a story. Jelka said, “Daddy wants to drink his coffee.” She led them firmly out.
He stared out of the window, and wondered whether the grass was really greener or whether it was some trick of his eyes. He tasted the coffee and experienced a flood of sensual delight. For the first time since he returned to earth, he felt no residue of tiredness. Outside, the gardens and houses of the Twickenham Garden Suburb looked peaceful and beautiful in the sunlight. Now, as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he knew there could be no doubt about it: he was feeling more alive. Everything seemed more vivid and exciting than he had known it since childhood.
Jelka came back as he was drinking his second cup. He asked, “What’s the news?”
“None.”
“None? Didn’t they mention what had happened on the television news?”
“Only that the aliens had all died.”
“That’s as well. No sense in causing a panic. Any messages for me?”
“Nothing very important. Who’s Hans Fallada?”
“He’s a criminologist. Don’t you remember? He used to appear on the series about famous murder cases.”
“Ah, yes. Well, he rang you. He wants you to call him back. He says it’s urgent.”
“What’s his number?”
When he was dressed, he rang Fallada. A secretary answered. “He’s at Scotland Yard at the moment, sir. But he left a message to ask you to come here as soon as possible.”
“Where are you?”
“The top floor of the Ismeer Building. But we’ll send a Grasshopper for you. When will you be ready to leave?”
“A quarter of an hour?”
He ate his scrambled eggs sitting in the garden, in the shade. Even there, the heat was uncomfortable. The sky was a clear, deep blue, like water. It made him want to strip off his clothes and plunge into it.
He was drinking iced orange juice when the Grasshopper arrived. There was a policewoman at the controls. As he waved goodbye to Jelka and the children, Jelka called: “Don’t go too near the edge.”
She was referring, to the roof of the Ismeer Building. Occupying a square quarter-mile in the City of London, this was the highest building in the world. It had been built in the days of overcrowding, by a Middle East consortium. Their solution to the problem of lack of office space in London was to build a skyscraper a mile high, with five hundred floors. They had intended to build a similar skyscraper in every capital city of the world, but devolution planning had made the idea obsolete. The Ismeer Building remained unique: the greatest concentration of offices in the world. Now the Grasshopper was climbing steeply upwards through the smokeless air and the sides of the building already loomed above them. Carlsen was suddenly reminded of the Stranger, and his heart contracted.