Lifeforce (30 page)

The buzzer on the desk startled them all. Jamieson snapped: “Hello?” and his voice had a note of suppressed hysteria. The secretary’s voice said: “The Minister of Works to see you, sir.”

Jamieson said: “Not now, for Christ’s sake.” He made an effort to control himself. “Make some excuse, Morton. Tell him something’s come up unexpectedly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jamieson shook himself and sat up, looking from one to the other. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” He looked and sounded like a man who has exhausted himself from vomiting. Carlsen was interested to observe that this was acting. For Jamieson, it was a matter of policy to hide his thoughts. “Merriol, get the whisky out, will you?” Carlsen could sense Armstrong’s disappointment as she pulled down her dress and stood up.

Armstrong laughed nervously. “I’ve never needed one so much in my life.”

Jamieson nodded approvingly. “I think you behaved admirably, my dear chap.”

Armstrong accepted the compliment modestly. “Thank you, Prime Minister.”

Carlsen met Fallada’s eyes. Both were aware of what was happening. The situation called for responses beyond the normal range of daily emotions; Jamieson and Armstrong were “normalising” it.

The girl placed the whisky decanter on the desk, and a tray of glasses. Jamieson slopped whisky into six glasses, unashamed of the shaking of his hand. He raised the tumbler to his lips and drained it, then set it down again, breathing heavily. Carlsen accepted a glass from the tray; whisky dripped from its bottom onto his leg. The drink tasted raw and unfamiliar, as if he were drinking petrol. It came to him that he had not entirely lost the sense of a deeper reality. It was as if he had become two persons; one looking out through his eyes at the world around him, the other looking at it from a different position, as if slightly to one side. And the tension between the two endowed him with the power to fight against the dream.

Jamieson drank his second drink more slowly. He said: “Well, gentlemen, we have all been through a strange ordeal. Thank God it is now over.”

Heseltine said: “But what happened to the vampires?”

Carlsen felt Jamieson’s flash of alarm. Jamieson said: “They have gone. That is all that concerns us.”

Fallada asked Carlsen: “Do you know what happened?”

“I think so.”

Armstrong said: “Does it matter?” He was following Jamieson’s lead.

Fallada ignored him. “Why did they all vanish?”

Carlsen tried to find the right words. He could understand, but it was difficult to express. “You could say it was a kind of suicide. They’d forgotten.”

Jamieson said: “Forgotten what?” His curiosity overcame his fear of losing control of the situation.

“That we all take energy from the same source. It’s like stealing apples from the larder when you have the run of the orchard.”

Fallada said: “But what happened to them?”

“He gave them all the energy they wanted, the energy they needed to get back to their own star system. He was speaking the truth when he said they wouldn’t be punished. Their law knows nothing about punishment. But he warned them they’d be judged. He was trying to warn them what to expect. As the energy flowed into them, they ceased to be vampires. They became gods again — because that’s what they were originally. And now they could judge for themselves whether they were right to become vampires. They passed judgement on themselves — and condemned themselves to extinction.”

Jamieson said: “You mean they could have lived and returned to their own planet?”

“Yes. It was entirely up to them to decide.”

Jamieson said: “They must have been insane…”

“No. Just totally honest; incapable of self-deception. As vampires, they’d become experts in the art of self-deception. Then they faced the truth and knew what it involved. Self-deception is to pretend that freedom is necessity.”

He was aware that his words were stirring up a deep uneasiness in Jamieson, a self-doubt that could turn into panic. Jamieson said: “According to the Christian religion, no sin is unforgivable.”

“You don’t understand. They could have told themselves that they weren’t really to blame, or that they’d make up for their evil by doing good. But they’d become too conscious to indulge in self-deception. They suddenly understood what they’d done.”

Fallada said: “So they had to die?”

“No, they didn’t have to. It was their choice. You once described the body of someone who’d been killed by a vampire as a tire with a thousand punctures. They were the same. That’s why they disappeared.”

Heseltine asked: “What about the others — in the Stranger?”

“They’ll be given the same choice.”

Jamieson said: “And some of them may choose to live?”

His eyes held Carlsen’s, and Carlsen was surprised by the anxiety that communicated itself. He felt the disgust vanish, replaced suddenly by pity. He said: “I don’t know, of course. But I think it is possible.”

“You have… no way of finding out?”

“No.”

Jamieson looked away; Carlsen could sense his relief. Big Ben began to strike the hour. They all listened, counting the strokes: midday. As the last sound died away, Jamieson stood up. He seemed filled with a new vigour.

“And now, gentlemen, if you don’t mind… I think we all need time to rest and recover.” As Carlsen rose to his feet, he went on quickly: “But before we leave this room, can I take it that we are all agreed on the need for silence? For the time being, at any rate?”

Fallada said doubtfully: “I suppose so.”

Jamieson said: “I am not asking for my own sake. Or for the sake of Dr Armstrong or Miss Jones. This is something that concerns us all equally.” Carlsen could feel his confidence returning as he spoke. Jamieson leaned forward, placing his fingertips on the desk. “If we told this story, some people would believe us. But I can tell you this with confidence: the great majority would think we were insane. They would lock us up in the nearest lunatic asylum. And frankly, I think it would be our own fault. For why should anyone believe such an incredible story?”

Fallada said: “Why should anyone disbelieve it?”

“But they would, my dear doctor. And the Opposition would be the first to imply that we were all mad, or inventing the whole thing for sordid personal motives. I would feel bound to offer my resignation — not because I feel in any way ashamed of my part in this matter, for which I hold no responsibility, but because I would feel I was endangering my party. If that happened, then the Commissioner would also be expected to resign. In short, we would be inviting scandal and mud-slinging. It would damage every one of us.”

Carlsen was observing Jamieson’s mental processes with amusement. When he had started to speak, he was concerned only to persuade them to keep silent; within a few sentences, he had convinced himself that his motives were totally disinterested. With wry self-mockery, Carlsen realised that his pity had been misplaced. He said, with apparent concern: “But is it fair to put our own interests first and keep these things a secret from the world? Surely people have a right to know?”

“That, Commander, is an abstract question. As a politician, I am a pragmatist. I tell you, quite simply, that we would make our lives intolerable. There is also the moral question. I am the Prime Minister of this country. It is my business to do my best for Great Britain. This affair would turn into a scandal that would damage us in the eyes of the world. Have any of us a right to take that risk?” As Heseltine began to speak, he held up his hand. “Let me tell you frankly that what has happened this morning has left me with a sense of profound unworthiness. I can say in all sincerity that I shall spend the remainder of my life pondering its significance. When I think of the peril that has been averted, I feel as though I were standing on the edge of a deep abyss. We have faced that peril together and, by the grace of God, we have somehow triumphed. I feel that this has bound us all close together. And, I may add, I shall make it my business to ensure that you all receive the recognition that is due for your services. I think that you will find that your country will not prove ungrateful.” He poured himself the last of the whisky and smiled at Heseltine. “May I take it that I have your agreement, Commissioner?”

Heseltine said: “Whatever you say, Prime Minister.”

“Commander Carlsen?”

Carlsen said: “When you put it that way, how can I help agreeing?”

Jamieson looked keenly at Carlsen, scenting mockery; Carlsen’s gravity reassured him. He turned to Fallada. “Doctor?”

Fallada said: “And my book? Am I supposed to suppress that?” He was having difficulty keeping his voice level.

“Your book?” Jamieson looked puzzled.

“ The Anatomy and Pathology of Vampirism.”

“Good heavens, no! What an extraordinary idea! The book is obviously an important contribution to science. I shall see personally that it receives the full backing of the British Medical Association. No, no, Doctor, the book must certainly be published. And I have no doubt that it will earn you a knighthood.”

Fallada said irritably: “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He stood up. Jamieson pretended not to notice his annoyance.

Heseltine said: “And what about the Stranger ?”

“Ah, yes. The Stranger.” Jamieson frowned, shaking his head. “I am inclined to think that the sooner we forget about that, the better.”

Fallada went out, slamming the door. As Carlsen started to follow, Jamieson gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Have a word with him, Commander. He’s understandably upset. But I’m sure he can be persuaded to see our point of view.”

Carlsen said: “I’ll do my best, Prime Minister.”

He caught up with Fallada outside the front door. Fallada looked around angrily, then relaxed as he recognised Carlsen. Carlsen said: “Don’t let it upset you, Hans.”

“It doesn’t. It bloody well disgusts me. He’s not a man so much as a reptile. How does he know my book’s important when he hasn’t even read it?”

“It’s important, whether he’s read it or not. So what does it matter?”

Fallada grinned, suppressing his irritation. “I don’t know how you can take it all so calmly.”

Carlsen placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not difficult. We’ve both got more important things to think about.”

Extract from Mathematicians and Monsters: The Autobiography of a Scientistby Siegfried Buchbinder (London and New York, 2145)

I was probably among the first to hear Carlsen use this famous phrase (time-reversal). This was in the spring of 2117, and it came about in this manner.

During the second year of his visiting professorship [at M.I.T.], Professor Fallada became a frequent visitor to our house on Franklin Street. This was partly because of his friendship with my father (who was then head of the Psychological Section of Space Research), but mainly because my sister Marcia and Fallada’s attractive wife Kirsten had become inseperable companions. Fallada was more than fifty years his wife’s senior, but the marriage seemed an exceptionally happy one.

One warm April evening, the Falladas had been invited to our house for a barbecue. Around nine o’clock, Kirsten Fallada rang my mother to ask if she could bring a guest; naturally, my mother said yes. Half an hour later, they arrived with a man we all recognised as the famous Commander Carlsen. Only that morning, a national news magazine had reported that Carlsen had turned down a sum of nearly two million dollars for his book on the space vampires. For more than two years, his whereabouts had been a secret; Universe magazine reported that he was living in a Buddhist monastery in the Sea of Tranquillity area of the moon. And now the legendary figure strolled onto our patio and began to talk about the art of frying reindeer steaks…

Even then, when he was approaching eighty, Carlsen was a big man, well over six feet tall. At a distance, you would have taken him for fifty; you had to get close up to observe the fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. My sister Marcia said he was the most attractive man she had ever met.

It is unnecessary to say that I spent the evening in a state of tongue-tied hero worship. Like all schoolboys, I wanted to be a space explorer. I should add that most of the family shared the emotion; it was like having Marco Polo or Lawrence of Arabia to dinner.

For the next couple of hours the conversation revolved around general topics, and we all relaxed. I was allowed a mug of homemade beer with my chicken. When nobody was looking, I sneaked to the barrel and refilled it. Towards midnight my mother told me to go to bed; when she told me a third time, I went around the table saying good night. When I got to Carlsen, I stood staring at him, then blurted out: “Could I ask you something?” My mother said: “No, go to bed,” but Carlsen asked me what it was. “Do you really live in a monastery on the moon?” Dad said: “That’s enough, Siggy. Do as your mother says.” But Carlsen didn’t seem offended. He smiled and said: “Why, no. As a matter of fact, I’ve been living in a lamasery at Kokungchak.” “Where’s that?” I asked (ignoring my father’s head-shaking). “In the central highlands of Tibet.” So there it was. The secret that any journalist would have given his eyes for — handed out to a twelve-year-old schoolboy. And still I wasn’t satisfied. “Why don’t you come and live here at Cambridge? Nobody’d bother you.” He patted me on the head and said; “I may at that.” Then he told my father: “I’m going back to Storavan, in northern Sweden.”

At this point I sat and listened, and nobody told me to go to bed. Now the ice was broken, and Carlsen didn’t seem to mind answering questions. My sister Marcia took up the questioning (as a child she was known as Keyhole Kate because of her insatiable curiosity). She asked him what he’d been doing in Tibet; he said he’d gone there to escape the publicity after the vampire story appeared in Universe magazine. [ The Killers from the Stars: The True Story of theStranger Incident by Richard Foster and Jennifer Geijerstam — 26 January, 2112, later expanded into the book of the same title.] My father asked whether trying to escape publicity didn’t produce the opposite effect. Carlsen said that was true, but it hadn’t always been true. When the vampires were destroyed [in 2080], he needed time to be alone and think. Fallada needed time to rewrite his book. If the full story had been published then, their lives would have become a hell of nonstop publicity. Whatever happened, they had to avoid that.