Lifeforce

  “How did you get in?”

  “The heat laser sliced straight through it.”

  Carlsen said irritably: “Next time, you wait for my orders.” He brushed aside an interruption. “I meant to contact moonbase and suggest we leave the tombs untouched for a later expedition. Suppose that thing was in a state of suspended animation? And suppose you’ve now killed it?”

  “There’s twenty-nine more,” Murchison said.

  “That’s not the point. You’ve thrown away a life, just because the damn fools back on earth don’t know the meaning of the word patience. It’d take a few months to get a fully equipped expedition here. They could tow this thing into earth orbit, and spend the next ten years learning all about it. Instead —”

  Dabrowsky interrupted firmly: “Excuse my saying so, Skip, but this is your fault. You got them into this state by talking about giants.”

  “Giants?” Carlsen had forgotten what he said.

  “You said it looked as if it had been built by giants. That’s the story that went out on the television news last night:EXPLORERS DISCOVER SPACESHIP BUILT BY GIANTS.”

  Carlsen said: “Oh, shit.”

  “You can imagine the result. Everyone’s been waiting to hear about the giants. A spaceship fifty miles long built by creatures a mile high… They’re all dying for the next instalment.”

  Carlsen stared gloomily through the port. He picked up a mug of coffee from the table and absent-mindedly took a sip. “I suppose I’d better go and look…”

  Ten minutes later he was standing beside the bed, looking down at the naked man. He had removed the canvas blanket by cutting it. Now he could see that the man was held by metal bands. The flesh looked shrunken and cold; when he touched it, it moved under his gloved fingers like jelly. The glassy stare made him uncomfortable. He tried to close an eyelid, but it sprang open again.

  “That’s strange.”

  Craigie, back in the ship said: “What?”

  “The skin’s still elastic.” He looked down at the thin legs, the sinewy feet. Blue veins showed through the marble-coloured flesh. “Any idea how we get these bands off?”

  “Burn them with the laser,” said Murchison, who was standing behind him.

  “Okay. Try it.”

  The wine-red beam stabbed from the end of the portable laser, but before Murchison could raise it, the metal bands retracted, sliding into holes in the bed.

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I wasn’t even touching it.” Carlsen placed his hand under the feet and raised them. They floated into the air. The body remained at an angle, the head now floating clear of the canvas roll that served as a pillow.

  Carlsen turned to Steinberg and Ives, who were waiting outside. “Come and get him.”

  The body was placed in a grey metal shell. It was cigar-shaped and had two handles in the middle, giving it the appearance of an overlong carpetbag. In the ship’s inventory, this was known as a “specimen collector”; but all knew they were intended to serve as coffins in the event of a death in space. Dixon’s body now lay in a similar shell.

  When Steinberg and Ives had left with the body, Carlsen examined every inch of the surface of the bed. It was in fact little more than a metal slab, and when he removed the canvas underlay, there was no sign of buttons or levers. He crawled underneath, but the underside was also smooth and unbroken.

  Murchison said: “Perhaps it responded to your thought.”

  “We’ll find out with the others.”

  They spent half an hour examining and photographing the chamber; nothing of importance was revealed. Everything appeared to be purely functional.

  He watched with interest as the laser cut through the wall of the next room. The spectroanalyser showed it to be of some unknown alloy; at least, the molecular patterns were typically metallic. In every other way, it resembled glass. It was about three inches thick. He had wondered why Murchison had carved a comparatively small entrance in the other chamber; now he saw why. The metal resisted a beam that could normally slice Corsham steel like soft cheese. It took twenty minutes to cut out a segment four feet high by two feet wide.

  This was the room containing the dark-haired girl. After testing for space virus and radioactivity, Carlsen stepped over the threshold. He crossed to the bed, unsheathed the scoring knife, and sliced through the canvas where it vanished into the metal. He threw back the sheet. She lay as if on a mortuary slab, the feet together. The breasts, unflattened by gravity, stood out as if they had been supported by a brassiere.

  “Incredible,” Murchison said. “She looks alive.”

  It was true; the flesh of the body had none of the flabbiness associated with death.

  “Could be blood pressure. If she was placed in here immediately after death, there’d be enough pressure to make the body swell slightly in the vacuum.”

  “Shall I start with the laser?” The eagerness in his voice made Carlsen smile. Without taking his eyes off the girl, he said: “Okay. Go ahead.” As he spoke, the metal bands slid back, leaving marks on the naked flesh of the belly and thighs.

  “It must be some form of thought control. Let’s see if I can make them go back.” He stared at the bed, concentrating, but nothing happened. He turned and beckoned to Steinberg and Ives. “Okay. Take her back to the freezer.”

  Steinberg said: “If there’s no room in the freezer, she can share my bed till we get back to earth.”

  Carlsen grinned. “I don’t think you’d find her very responsive.” He turned to Murchison. “Let’s get back.”

  “Is that all we’re taking?” Murchison sounded disappointed.

  “Two’s enough, don’t you think?”

  “There’s plenty of room for more in the freezer.”

  Carlsen laughed. “All right. Just one more.”

  He let Murchison lead the way. As he expected, Murchison went to the chamber containing the blonde girl. He stood and watched while the laser turned the metal-glass into red-hot globules that splashed on the floor. When the last link had been cut through, the segment fell inward; Murchison stumbled forward and the laser bounced against the floor, searing a small crater.

  “Hey, careful. Are you all right?”

  “Sorry, Skip.” His voice sounded laboured. “I’m suddenly damn tired.”

  Carlsen peered through the glass of the space helmet; Murchison looked exhausted and pinched. “You go on back to the Hermes , Bill. Tell Dave and Lloyd to get back here with another shell.”

  He moved to the bedside. This time, instead of using the scoring knife, he tried an experiment. He stared hard at the canvas sheet and mentally ordered it to retract. For a moment nothing happened; then the metal bands under the sheet slid away. A moment later, the sheet itself slid across the body and into a gap that opened in the edge of the slab. He said: “Of course.”

  “What’s of course?” Craigie had overheard him in the Hermes .

  “I just made the bands retract by willing them to move. You realise what that means?”

  “High-power technology.”

  “I don’t mean that. It means these creatures are probably still alive. The bands are made to respond to their thought-pressure when they wake up. I wonder if I can…” He stared at the table, mentally ordering the bands to go back, but nothing happened. He said: “No. That makes sense. They wouldn’t need to make the bands go back, once they’d awakened. But how the hell were they supposed to get out of here?”

  “Out of the ship?”

  “No. Out of this glass chamber.” As he said this, he stared at the end wall and mentally ordered a door to open. Instead, the whole wall slid smoothly aside. At that moment, he saw Ives and Steinberg floating along the hallway, carrying the coffin shell. He said: “You don’t have to squeeze in through the door. Come on through the wall.”

  “How the hell’d you do that?”

  “Like this.” As he stared at the wall, he knew it would move. As he concentrated, it clicked into place. “This whole thing
’s designed to respond to telepathic orders. But only from inside.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look.” He walked to the wall, willing it to open; it slid aside to let him past. Outside, he ordered it to close. Nothing happened. “You see. It was designed only to be operated from the inside.”

  The men were staring down at the body of the blonde. She was slimmer than the other girl, and a few years older; but the flesh was as firm and unwrinkled.

  “Come on. Let’s get back to the Hermes .”

  As they removed their spacesuits in the airlock, he observed that Ives and Steinberg looked ill. Ives massaged his eyes with his hand. “I think I need a sleep.”

  “Me too,” Steinberg said.

  “Both of you go and lie down. You deserve it. Leave the girl, though.”

  Steinberg said: “Believe me, I feel so bushed I wouldn’t be any use to her even if she was alive.”

  As he went into the control room, Craigie said: “We’ve just had our orders from moonbase. We’re to spend a day filming the ship from end to end, then proceed back to earth.”

  In Hyde Park the daffodils were beginning to flower. Carlsen lay stretched out in a deck chair, his eyes closed, his skin soaking in the April sunlight. He had been back three months now, and he still found everything on earth almost painfully beautiful. The earth’s gravity still exhausted him after a few hours of being awake, so that he usually felt a pleasant fatigue, like convalescence.

  A voice said: “Excuse me, but aren’t you Captain Carlsen?”

  He opened his eyes wearily. This was one of the penalties of notoriety; strangers accosted him in the street. A powerfully built young man standing against the sunlight, his hands in his pockets. Carlsen’s stare was unwelcoming.

  “Don’t you remember me? I’m Seth Adams.”

  The name meant something, but he could no longer recall what it was. He said noncommittally: “Ah, yes.”

  “You were a friend of my mother’s — Violet Mapleson.”

  “Of course.” Now it came back.

  “Do you mind if I talk to you?”

  He indicated the empty chair beside him. “Please sit down.”

  A girl’s voice called: “Seth. Are you coming or not?” A pretty girl in a white dress came across to them. She had a Pekingese on a lead. The young man glared at her irritably. “Yes, in a moment. I —” He glanced with embarrassment at Carlsen. “This is Captain Olof Carlsen, a very old friend of my mother’s.”

  Carlsen heaved himself to his feet and held out his hand. The girl’s blue eyes were very wide. “Oh, you’re Captain Carlsen! How absolutely marvellous! Oh, I’ve so wanted to meet you… Queenie, do be quiet!” The dog had begun to yap furiously at Carlsen. Seth snorted, “Oh, Christ,” and raised his eyes to heaven.

  “That’s all right,” Carlsen said soothingly. He knelt down and held out his hand.

  The girl said: “Do be careful. She’ll bite.” But the dog stopped barking, sniffed his hand, then licked it. The girl said gushingly: “Oh, she adores you. She never does that to strangers.”

  Seth said firmly: “Look, Charlotte, do you mind making your own way home? I’ve got something I want to say to Captain Carlsen.” He took her by the elbow. The dog began to yap at him. He snapped, “Quiet, you little monster,” and the dog ran behind the girl’s legs. Seth turned to Carlsen with a charming smile. “Would you excuse us just a moment?” He drew the girl aside. Carlsen made a half-bow to her and sat down.

  He sat there, watching them ironically. Yes, he was Violet’s son, all right — totally ruthless when he wanted something. Twenty-five years ago Carlsen had been engaged to Violet Mapleson, the daughter of Commander Vic Mapleson, the first man on Mars. When he came back from his first three-month trip in space, she had married the television star Dana Adams. That had lasted only two years; then she’d left him for an Italian shipping magnate. Now, after her third divorce, she was a very rich woman.

  Carlsen heard the girl say: “How mean!” Obviously, she wanted to stay and talk to Carlsen; Seth was equally determined that she should go. He struck Carlsen as the sort of young man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. A few moments later the girl walked off without looking back. Seth came and sat down, a faint smile on his lips.

  “You must get pretty fed up with adoring females gaping at you?”

  Carlsen suppressed his annoyance. “Oh, I don’t mind. She seemed rather sweet.”

  Seth said magnanimously: “Oh, yes. Nice girl. But look, I really had to talk to you. I was furious when mother told me you’d taken her to dinner and she hadn’t introduced me.”

  “Er… no. We just had a quiet little meal.” In fact, Violet had contacted him the moment he got back to earth, and asked him to dinner. He knew her well enough to know that it would be a big dinner party, and that he was to be the showpiece. He had quickly countered by explaining that he was exhausted — which was true — but had asked her to dinner at the Savoy. She had accepted with a fairly good grace, and they had spent a pleasant evening talking about old times. Ever since then, he had been inventing excuses to avoid going to dinner at her house.

  Seth leaned forward. “Look, I think I’d better put my cards on the table. I’m working for a newspaper.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “That probably surprises you. But the fact is that my father’s broke, and mother’s as mean as hell. All she thinks about is her rotten weekend parties. Now I’m getting paid a lousy hundred a week on the gossip column of the Gazette .”

  Carlsen made sympathetic noises. Ten years ago he would have taken a violent dislike to this spoilt young man with his wavy black hair and sensual mouth. Now he listened detachedly and wondered how he could escape. He said: “You want to interview me?”

  “Well, that would be marvellous, of course…” His tone indicated that he had something more in mind. He glanced quickly at Carlsen, assessing his sympathy. “Would that be possible?”

  Carlsen smiled. “I dare say. But there is a problem. The S.R.I.‘s called a press conference for ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I shall be there. I don’t think your editor would care for two interviews.”

  “I know. That’s why I want to interview you first.”

  “You think your story would be given preference?”

  “It might, if I had some more interesting stuff than the other man.”

  “Of course. What had you in mind?”

  “Well, look, what really would be a tremendous scoop” — he had adopted the tone of an admiring schoolboy speaking to a football hero — “and I don’t mind if you tell me to go to hell — but what would be really terrific is if I could get into the lab and get a look at those creatures.”

  Carlsen chuckled. “Well, you’ve got ambition.”

  “I suppose.” Seth’s face darkened; he took it as criticism. “But Oscar Phipps of the Tribune has seen them.”

  “He happens to be an old friend of the director.”

  “I know. And let’s face it, you’re an old friend of my mother’s.”

  Seth’s smile said more than his words; Carlsen realised with mild astonishment that the boy thought he and his mother were lovers. In fact, for all he knew, Seth thought Carlsen was his real father. Playing for time, he said: “It’s hardly gossip-column material.”

  “Of course it’s not. That’s the whole point. Let’s face it, a gossip columnist’s a nobody. But if I could get an exclusive interview with you and see the space lab, I’d be writing features tomorrow.”

  Carlsen looked out over the park, reflecting on how much he detested people who said, “Let’s face it.” On the other hand, he felt guilty about Violet; if he gave her son this opportunity, he’d feel he’d discharged his obligation. He said: “So you want to do your features writer out of a job?”

  “I don’t want to. But if it happens that way…” Seth’s eyes were bright; he sensed he had won.

  Carlsen sighed. “Okay.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s go.”

/>   “What, now?” Seth was testing his luck as though it were thin ice.

  “It’d better be now, if you want to get that article written.”

  As they walked towards the cab rank at Marble Arch, Seth asked: “Any chance of getting a photograph of you in the lab?”

  “No, I’m sorry. That’s strictly against regulations. No cameras in the S.R.I. Security and all that.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  By the time their cab had crawled in a traffic jam from Park Lane to Whitehall, it was almost five o’clock, and the sky was darkening. As Carlsen expected, most of the office staff had left. The old doorman saluted him.

  “Is this young man with you, sir?”

  “Yes. We’re just going up to the club.”

  The doorman should have asked to see Seth’s S.R.I, card, but he had known Carlsen for twenty years. He let them past.

  Carlsen used his electronic computer card to summon the lift. There were no stairs in the S.R.I. building, so no one could get past the ground floor without a pass. Seth asked: “Are we going to the club?”

  “I think so. I need a drink.”

  “Could we see the lab first?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  As they walked down the corridor, Seth said: “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all this.” Carlsen wished he could have believed him. He had the feeling that Seth regarded the satisfaction of his own desires as a law of nature.

  At first sight, the laboratory was empty; then a young lab assistant came out of the specimen room. Carlsen recognised him as one of his admirers.

  “Oh, hello, sir. Come to see the film?”

  “What film?”

  “From the Vega. It arrived this morning.”

  The Vega was one of two big space cruisers that had set out for the derelict a month ago. They could achieve up to ten million miles a day.

  “Good. What’s the news?”

  “There’s another hole in the Stranger, sir.” The Stranger was a name the popular press had invented for the derelict.

  “How big?”

  “Pretty big. Thirty feet across.”