Lifeforce (28 page)

“The Swedish expert showed us how to do it. We’ve promised not to reveal the method.”

“I see. And what about the other two aliens?”

“We’ve traced one to New York. The other’s here in London.”

“And how do you propose to locate them?”

Carlsen said: “The first step is to broadcast that recording — to make people realise these things exist. I’ve arranged to be interviewed on television at ten o’clock tonight.”

“What!” The bushy eyebrows were raised in surprise. “But that would be violating our agreement.”

Carlsen said: “When we made that agreement, you thought the aliens were dead. This changes everything.”

Jamieson slapped the flat of his hand on the desk. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I must categorically forbid any such thing.”

Carlsen said quietly: “I am sorry, but you are in no position to prevent it. You are only the Prime Minister of this country — not its dictator.”

Jamieson sighed. “Commander, you are wasting my time.” He reached out and pressed a red key on the machine. “I have now erased the recording.”

Carlsen said: “It makes no difference. We made copies before we came here.”

“I want those copies.”

Carlsen said: “One has already gone to the television station.”

“In that case, you must recall it.”

Carlsen stared back without speaking. He saw a flicker of doubt in the eyes that were trying to stare him down. Jamieson said, in a conversational tone: “You are either very brave or very stupid. Or perhaps both.” As he spoke, his face changed. There was no physical alteration, and the expression remained impassive; but another personality was looking through his eyes. The gaze suddenly became hard and remote. All three of them felt the menace. It was like being in the presence of a despot with limitless powers. When Jamieson spoke, the voice was also different. It had lost the booming, assertive quality; it was depersonalised, almost metallic. There was something about its cold, totally detached quality that made Carlsen shiver.

“Dr Fallada, I want you to call your laboratory and ask your assistant to send Dr Armstrong over here.”

Fallada said dully: “You knew all the time.”

Jamieson ignored him. He touched a button on the desk. The Welsh girl came in.

“Vraal, I want you to get Dr Fallada’s laboratory on the private line. He wants to speak to his assistant, Grey.” Fallada began to stand up. A look of surprise crossed his face, and he sat down again with a bump. Carlsen was suddenly aware of a languor that flowed through his body, as if someone had injected anaesthetic. He tried to force his body away from the chair; it was impossible, as if the chair had become a magnet that held him tight. When he closed his eyes, it was as if his limbs had been transformed into something massive and very heavy.

The girl pressed the key of an electronic memo-pad on the desk, then dialed a number. When a girl’s voice answered she said: “Dr Fallada, for Mr Grey, please.” Carlsen observed the same mechanical quality in her voice.

Jamieson and the girl had both turned their eyes on Fallada. He jerked and stiffened, his face contorting for a moment. As their eyes held him, he stood up, moving stiffly, and started to cross the room. Heseltine said: “Don’t do it, Hans.”

Fallada ignored him, moving in front of the telescreen. “Hello, Norman.” His voice was hoarse. “I want you to send Armstrong over to Ten Downing Street. Could you do that right away?”

“Yes, sir. What about the hypnoid? Shall I inject another dose?”

“No. Bring him just as he is. I want it to wear off.”

Grey said, with concern in his voice: “Are you all right, sir?”

Fallada smiled. “Yes, I”m fine. A little tired, that’s all. Use the institute’s Grasshopper.”

“Very well, sir.”

The girl reached out and pressed the cut-out switch. Fallada staggered and had to support himself on the edge of the desk. Suddenly his face had become old.

Heseltine turned to Carlsen with a painful effort. “What are they doing to us?” His voice was thick.

“Using will-pressure. Don’t worry. They won’t be able to keep it up for long. It’s exhausting.”

Jamieson said, in his expressionless voice: “As long as necessary, I think.”

Fallada dropped back into his chair; his face was sweating. Carlsen felt a flash of piercing regret for exposing him to this ultimate humiliation: the use of his own body and voice at the bidding of another’s will. He said: “Don’t let yourself fall asleep, Hans. So long as you fight, they can’t break your resistance. The other one tried with me last night and didn’t succeed.”

Jamieson looked at him curiously. “There is a great deal we have to learn about you, Carlsen. Such as how you knew about will-pressure.” He looked at Fallada and Heseltine. “But do not be misled by his experience. He has had time to build up a certain resistance. You have not. Besides, believe me, you have no choice at all. We are making you a simple offer.”

He paused; Heseltine said: “Get on with it.”

The voice said: “We need your cooperation, and we can obtain it in one of two ways. We could kill you and take over your bodies. Alternatively, you could do as we ask you to do.”

Carlsen said: “He means let them take over our bodies.”

Jamieson said: “In case you think that might be disagreeable, let me reassure you.” He turned to the girl. “Show the Commissioner, Vraal.”

She moved behind Heseltine’s chair, and tilted back his head, her hand on his forehead. She placed the other hand on his throat. Watching Heseltine’s face, Carlsen saw the momentary resistance; it dissolved, attempted to reassert itself, then collapsed completely. Heseltine’s eyes closed, and he began to breathe deeply. The colour came back into his cheeks.

Jamieson said: “That’s enough, Vraal.” She removed her hands reluctantly; one of them lingered on Heseltine’s shoulder. Jamieson snapped: “I said enough.” The hand dropped. Heseltine opened his eyes drowsily and looked at Carlsen without seeming to see him.

The girl turned to look at Carlsen; her lips were moist. Jamieson said: “No. There is no need to show Commander Carlsen. He has already experienced it.”

The wind stirred the window curtains. Jamieson sat in his chair and stared at them. The face seemed to be made of stone. There was a dreamy silence in the office. The traffic in Whitehall sounded very far away. Carlsen summoned all his energy to fight off the drowsiness. He could see that Heseltine and Fallada were on the edge of sleep. There was no sense of panic, only the warm sexual langour. Time seemed unimportant. Memories were flooding through him: stories from childhood, the field, of poppies in The Wizard of Oz, the cottage made of gingerbread in “Hansel and Gretel.” There was a feeling of total relaxation, a sense that all was well. When he tried to tell himself they were in danger, his feelings refused to respond. A golden mist of happiness drifted through his mind, blurring his thoughts.

There was a ring at the doorbell, and Carlsen realised that he had been asleep. Jamieson said: “That should be our colleague.” He went out. A few minutes later he returned. Carlsen summoned the energy to twist around in his chair. Armstrong was there, looking grey and sick. His walk was slow and clumsy. Jamieson led him to the chair behind the desk. Armstrong looked at Carlsen, then at Fallada and Heseltine, without interest. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were bloodshot.

Jamieson said: “Look up at me.” Armstrong raised his eyes unwillingly. Jamieson grabbed him by the hair, making him wince, then forced his head back and stared into his eyes. Armstrong cleared his throat and groaned. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Armstrong’s face changed. The slack skin seemed to become firmer; the line of the mouth hardened. When he opened his eyes, they were clear and penetrating. He shook off Jamieson’s hand.

“That’s better. Thank you. They gave me three doses of that damned stuff.” He looked at Carlsen with cold anger, and Carlsen felt the impact of his will-force, like a slap in the face. Armstrong said: “If he is to be killed, I will do it.”

The girl said: “He is already promised to me.”

Jamieson said: “The choice is his.” He turned to Carlsen. “Which would you prefer? To be possessed by her? Or destroyed by him? Make up your mind quickly.”

Carlsen made another attempt to move, but their three wills were pinning him to the chair like iron bands. He experienced a sense of helplessness, of being a child in the hands of adults. It cost him an effort to speak. “You’d be stupid to kill me. You could make use of my body, but it wouldn’t deceive anybody who knew me.”

“That will not be necessary. All that we require of you is that you give your television interview this evening. You will then recommend that the Stranger should be brought back to earth immediately. You will say that it is stupid to delay when other countries might get there first. After that, I shall announce that you have been placed in charge of an expedition to bring back the Stranger, and you will leave early tomorrow for moonbase. That is all that will be required of you.” Carlsen stared back, fighting off the fatigue and a deepening sense of defeat. The voice said: “Make your choice now.”

The girl said: “Shall I try to persuade him?” Without waiting for a reply, she sat on Carlsen’s knee and tilted back his head. It was done without coquetry, like a nurse preparing a patient for an operation. As he felt her cool hands on his skin, he was aware of the draining of his energies as they flowed into her hands. She was using her body to intensify the contact; he was aware that under the brown skirt she was almost naked. Paradoxically, in spite of his exhaustion, he felt a stiffening of desire. With her hands over his ears, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth against his. Again he experienced the drowsy delight, the desire to surrender, to allow her to take possession of his will. As she felt his relaxation, she moved her bare arms around his neck, and the lips became moist and urgent. He felt the life being drained from him into her body; the vital forces were flowing like blood from an open artery. When he tried to move, with a final effort at protest, he felt the united force of their wills pinning him to the chair. Then, as he ceased to resist, the sense of helplessness dissolved into a glow of response. It seemed to be due to the movements of her buttocks, pressing rhythmically against him in a simulation of lovemaking. He could feel the warmth of her breasts against him, and he wanted to reach up and tear the material from her shoulders. The desire became hard and violent; he was aware of her surprise as he ceased to be passive. It was then that he realised he could use his will against her, pinning her closer and forcing her mouth against his with a strength that emanated from a source in the centre of his brain. Without moving his body, he was holding her as a bird might hold a worm. As he sucked the vital energy from her, his whole body burned with the greed of absorption.

Armstrong’s voice said: “What are you doing, Vraal? Don’t kill him.”

He tightened his grip, giving himself up wholly to the pleasure of drinking the essence of her being. The intensity of the contact made his flesh burn.

He saw Jamieson grip her shoulders; he released his grip as she was torn away from him. Jamieson used so much force that she staggered against the desk and fell to the floor. Jamieson started to speak, then saw the bruised mouth and the shocked exhaustion in her eyes. His reaction was instantaneous; he turned on Carlsen, and the force of his will was like a bolt of lightning. It should have smashed Carlsen back in his chair, ending his resistance like a bullet in the solar plexus. But Carlsen’s reaction had been even faster; he parried the blow, turning it aside like a boxer rolling to a punch; then, before Jamieson could recover, his own will-drive struck back, catching Jamieson in the ribs and throwing him sideways into the wall. A movement to his left made him aware of Armstrong; before he could throw up a defence, a clumsy hammer-blow of force had struck him on the side of the head. The pain irritated him into using more power than he intended. His flash of anger caught Armstrong’s shoulder like a blow from the paw of a bear, breaking the bone; Armstrong spung across the room, his head cracking against the wall. He half turned and slumped to his knees, the eyes blank and stunned.

Jamieson had dragged himself upright; he was supporting himself against the desk as he stared at Carlsen. The left eye was half closed, and blood ran down the cheek; yet it was a measure of his power that his face showed no defeat or fear. He said quietly: “Who the hell are you?”

As Carlsen started to formulate an answer, he was suddenly aware that it was unnecessary. The question was not addressed to him. A voice was speaking from his lips in a foreign language that he was able to understand. It said: “I come from Karthis.”

He was aware that it was the language of the Nioth-Korghai.

Jamieson reached into his pocket, pulled out a snow-white handkerchief and mopped the blood from his face. His voice was level and calm. “What do you want with us?”

“I think you know that.” As he spoke, he observed that the vampire who had possessed the girl was now detaching itself from her body. Although Carlsen was looking in the opposite direction, some additional sense made him aware that she was moving towards the window. He said: “You cannot escape, Vraal. It has taken us more than a thousand years to find you. We shall not allow you to go again.” He caught her and forced her back into the room. Heseltine and Fallada were staring in amazement at the transparent violet shape now visible against the wall. It shimmered in the light, its internal energies causing a constant motion, so that it resembled coiling smoke.

Carlsen turned to Fallada. “I apologise for speaking in a foreign language. In our natural form we communicate by thought alone, but we can still use the ancient language of the Nioth-Korghai.”

Fallada said: “I don’t understand. Are you…?”

He understood the half-formulated question. “I am an inhabitant of the world called Karthis, a planet of the sun you call Rigel. I am making use of the body of your friend Carlsen, who is fully conscious of all that is happening. You might say that I am borrowing it.”