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.
He asked the policewoman: “Where are we going?”
“The Psychosexual Institute, sir.” She seemed surprised that he didn’t know.
“Is that run by the police?”
“No, it’s independent. But there’s a great deal of cooperation.”
As he stepped out onto the roof, he was surprised by the coolness. Above him, the sky looked as distant and blue as it had from the ground. He walked to the parapet; this was surmounted by a steel fence. From where he was standing, he could follow the curves of the Thames, down through Lambeth and Putney to Mortlake and Richmond. If Jelka used the astronomical telescope, she could probably see him standing there.
The policewoman said: “I expect this is Mr Fallada.”
Another Grasshopper was hovering above the roof; it dropped silently, landing as gently as a moth within six inches of the other vehicle. Fallada climbed out and waved to him.
“Good, it was kind of you to come so promptly. How are you feeling now?”
“Fine, thank you. Never better in my life.”
“Good. Because I need some help from you. I need it urgently. Come on down.”
He led the way down a flight of stairs. “Excuse me one moment. I must speak to my assistant.” He pushed open a door labelled Lab C. They were met by a smell of chemicals and iodoform. Carlsen was startled to find himself looking at the naked body of a middle-aged man; it lay on a metal trolley near the door. A white-coated assistant was bent over a microscope. Fallada said: “I’m back now. Sometime over the next half-hour, the Yard will be sending another body. I want you to drop everything to work on it. Call me as soon as it arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
He closed the door. “This way, Mr Carlsen.” He led the way into an office on the other side of the corridor; the card on the door read: “H. Fallada, Director.”
Carlsen said: “Who was the man?”
“My assistant, Norman Grey.”
“No, I mean the dead man.”
“Oh, some idiot who hanged himself. He may be the Bexley rapist. We have to find out.” He opened the drink cupboard. “Is it too early to offer you a whisky?”
“No, I think I’d like one.”
“Please sit down.” Carlsen took the reclining chair near the immense bow window; it moulded itself to his body. From up here, the world looked sunlit and uncomplicated. He could see clear to the Thames estuary and Southend. It was difficult to believe in violence and evil.
On the metal bookcase a few yards away, Fallada’s face stared at him from the jacket of a book called A Primer of Sexual Criminology. The thick lips and drooping eyelids gave it a curiously sinister appearance in photographs; in fact, there was something humor
ous, almost clownish, about Fallada’s face. Behind the thick lenses, the eyes looked as if he was enjoying some secret joke. “Your health.” The ice clinked as he drank. Fallada sat on the edge of the desk. He said: “I have just been examining a body.”
“Yes?”
“A dead girl. She was found on a railway line near Putney Bridge.” He reached into his pocket, and handed Carlsen a folded paper.
It was a typewritten sheet, headed Deposition of Albert Smithers; address, 12 Foskett Place, Putney : “At about 3.30, I realised my wife had forgotten to pack my tea flask, so I asked the foreman’s permission to return home for it. I took the shortcut along the line, a matter of about five hundred yards. About a quarter of an hour later, at ten minutes to four, I made my way back along the same stretch of line. As I approached the bridge I saw something on the tracks. It had definitely not been there twenty minutes earlier. Approaching closely, I saw that it appeared to be the body of a young woman lying face downward. Her head was across the inner line. I was about to run for help when I heard the approach of the goods train from Farnham. So I grabbed the body by the ankles and pulled it onto the side of the track. My reason for doing this was that I thought she might be alive, but on feeling her pulse I realised she was dead…”
He looked up. “How was she killed?”
“Strangled.”
“I see.” He waited.
Fallada said: “Her lambda count was only .004.”
“Yes, but… but surely that doesn’t mean much? I thought that anyone who died by violence —”
“Oh, yes. It could be a coincidence.” He looked at his watch. “We should know for certain in less than an hour.”
“How?”
“By means of a test that we have developed.”
“Is it a secret?”
“It is a secret. But not from you.”
“Thank you.”
“In fact, that is why I asked you here today. This is something that you have to know about.” He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a small tin box. He opened the lid and placed it on the desk. “Can you guess what they are?”