At some point, I switched on my portable tape recorder; then I fell asleep behind the armchair. My father carried me up to bed. The next morning, Carlsen had gone. But my recorder was still running under the armchair. And I still possess the recording of the conversation. Most of what was said appeared later in Carlsen’s book The Stranger Incident. But that book ends with the story of the recovery of the Stranger and its landing on the moon. Carlsen went on to discuss his life in Storavan and his work on vampire theory with Ernst von Geijerstam; this ended with von Geijerstam’s death in a skiing accident at the age of 105. Carlsen was convinced that von Geijerstam would have died anyway. His “benevolent vampirism” prolonged his life, but only by slowing down the normal metabolic change. The problem, Carlsen said, was not merely to slow it down, but to reverse it.
This idea was apparently new to Fallada, who says at this point: “It is a physical impossibility to reverse time.”
Carlsen replies: “Time in the abstract, yes. But not living time. In our universe, time is another name for metabolism — or process. In our bodies, this process ticks on, like the hour hand of a clock, gradually burning away our lives. But every time we concentrate, we slow this process — that is why scientists and philosophers tend to live longer than most men. Benevolent vampirism increases the length of human life because it increases the power to concentrate. The Space Vampires acquired a kind of immortality by concentrating for a thousand years on avoiding destruction in a black hole. But they failed to recognise the meaning of their discovery. They thought they had to keep on absorbing life energy to keep alive. They were wrong. It only stimulated them, like a glass of whisky.”
My father interrupts: “But if they’d grasped the meaning of their discovery, would that have made them immortal?”
“No. Because they still hadn’t realised that the true solution lies in time reversal. I should have realised it that day in Downing Street [He apparently is addressing Fallada.] All that power flowing from the Nioth-Korghai… [words inaudible here; someone is throwing logs on the fire].
Fallada asks: “Then why were the Nioth-Korghai mortal?”
“Because they had pursued a line of development that involved abandoning their bodies. That made them subject to absolute time. The body protects us from absolute time. Which means that we have less freedom of movement, but more possibility of control. Our physical time can be reversed. Not permanently, of course. But for a split second, as you might halt a stream for a moment, or as the wind can hold back the tide…”
Fallada: “Are you telling me that this supersedes my theory of vampirism?”
Carlsen: “On the contrary, it completes it.”
My father: “But is there any evidence that we could achieve time reversal?”
Carlsen: “I have done it.”
At which point, you would expect someone to ask how or when. Instead of which, my mother asks: “Would anyone like coffee?” and my sister says: “I’ll make it…” The conversation then returns to matters of vampirism and victimology — the title of von Geijerstam’s last book. At which point, the tape capsule runs out.
This was the only occasion on which I spoke to Carlsen. After the decision of the World Court to protect his privacy against journalists, he retired once more to Storavan. Five years later, I wrote to remind him of that evening, and to ask if I could call and see him when I came to Europe. He replied, courteously but firmly, that his researches had reached a crucial point, and that he was unable to receive visitors.
I saw him only once more — in his coffin. I arrived in Stockholm the day after his death was announced, and immediately hired a private plane to take me to Storavan. His third wife, Violetta, received me kindly, but told me it would be impossible to invite me to stay. But she allowed me to join them at dinner — Carlsen’s family seemed to be enormous — and then conducted me into the mausoleum behind the chapel. This was an octagonal room containing a number of stone sarcophagi. These, apparently, were the tombs of von Geijerstam’s ancestors. [Editor’s note: Buchbinder is mistaken; the tombs are those of the de la Gardie family.] Von Geijerstam’s body was not among them; his last request had been that it should be sunk, in a granite coffin, in the middle of the lake. In the centre of the room stood four copper sarcophagi. Mrs Carlsen told me that one of these contained the ashes of Queen Christina’s lover, Count Magnus. Next to this, on a stone platform, stood the sarcophagus of Olof Carlsen. The lid had been pulled down to reveal his face. I was amazed to see that he looked no older than when I had last seen him. If anything, he looked younger. I placed my hand on the sunburned forehead. It was cold and had the slackness of death; yet the mouth looked firm, as if he were pretending to be asleep. He looked so lifelike that I overcame my misgivings and asked Mrs Carlsen if the doctor had performed a lambda test. She said he had, and that it indicated a total cessation of all normal metabolic change.
Mrs Carlsen — a Catholic — knelt to pray. I also knelt, as a mark of respect, feeling awkward and somehow dishonest. The stone slabs were cold, and after a few minutes, I began to experience the discomfort that I used to feel in our local Episcopalian church as a child. Mrs Carlsen seemed so absorbed that I was ashamed to move. I rested one hand on the stone platform and leaned forward so that I could see Carlsen’s face. And then, as I stared at the profile, I felt a strange calm that seemed to spread over my body like the effect of a drug. At the same time, I experienced an absurd sense of joy that brought tears to my eyes. I cannot explain the sensation; I can only record it. I was certain that the place contained some supernatural influence, an influence for good. The sense of peace was so profound that it seemed to me that time had ceased to flow. All discomfort vanished, although I remained kneeling for more than half an hour.
As Mrs Carlsen locked the door of the chapel, I said: “I find it hard to believe that he is dead.”
She said nothing, but I thought she looked at me strangely.
THE END
***
Scan Notes, v3.0:Changed ‘British Quotes’ to “American Quotes”; proofed carefully against the DT, italics intact. And yes, the character’s name really is Mr. M’Kay, m’kay?
Colin Wilson, Lifeforce
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