It was a strange feeling, to be back. It seemed incredible that it was only a day ago since he had left London. He felt as if he had returned from six months in space.
Fallada asked: “How are you feeling?”
“Glad to be back. But a little depressed.”
“About Selma?”
“Yes.”
“No point in feeling guilty. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, we couldn’t stay longer.”
He said: “It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“I wanted to stay.”
Fallada looked at him quickly.
“Oh, not because I’m in love with her.” It seemed absurd, saying these ultimate things as they crossed to the waiting bus, surrounded by noise, but he persisted. “It was her vitality. . .” He stopped, unable to go on.
Fallada said quickly: “Don’t let it worry you.”
“It’s not myself I’m worried about.”
“I know. But you’ve got to remember that it’s just another instinctive response, like the sex drive. It can be controlled just as easily.”
But as the shuttle moved almost silently across the smooth concrete, Fallada tried to suppress his own disquiet. He understood why Carlsen should fear for his wife and children. He had seen the automatic telerecording of the death of Seth Adams; he retained an impression of instant deadly response, like a Venus flytrap closing on an insect.
In the terminal, they both made for telescreen booths. Carlsen rang Jelka; she appeared in a bathrobe. “I’m just washing my hair. Mandy and Tom said they’d be over about nine. Will you be back by then?”
“I don’t know yet. Fallada’s ringing Heseltine now. I’ll call you back.”
Fallada had spoken to the Duty Sergeant at the Yard; there was a message for him to ring Heseltine at home. Heseltine was chewing as he answered. Fallada said: “I’m sorry. Have I interrupted your dinner?”
“That’s all right — I was nearly finished. Where have you been?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. Did you trace the two car licence numbers?”
“Yes.” Heseltine took a slip of paper from his pocket. “One was a foreign car — Danish couple over here on honeymoon. The other’s registered to a man called Pryce at Holmfirth.”
“Where’s that?”
“In Yorkshire.”
“Excellent! I think we’d better come over to see you immediately. Are you free?”
“Of course. I’m just going to have a brandy and a cigar. Come over and join me. Is Carlsen with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. My wife’s longing to meet him. Come as soon as you can.”
On the way out of the airport, they stopped at the bookstall, and Fallada bought an atlas of the British Isles. In the helicab, he opened it, searched for a moment, then gave an exclamation of satisfaction. He handed it to Carlsen, his finger pressed on the page. “Look.”
Holmfirth, Carlsen saw, was a small town some five miles south of Huddersfield. The contour map showed high ground shaded in yellow and brown. Holmfirth was on the edge of a brown area.
“I’d guess it’s less than two hundred and fifty miles from London. That means we could make it in less than an hour in a Grasshopper.”
Carlsen said: “God forbid. . Not tonight, anyway.”
“Tired?”
“Yes.” But as he spoke, he knew it was not the truth. He was afraid: afraid to go home, afraid to seek out the aliens, afraid to do nothing. But the logical part of him told him he had nothing to lose by going on.
The helicab touched down at the ramp in Sloane Square; from there, they walked the two hundred yards to Eaton Place. Fallada said: “Incidentally, Heseltine’s wife is anxious to meet you. She used to be the most beautiful deb in London — Peggy Beauchamp.” He patted Carlsen’s shoulder. “So I hope you’ll control your fatal charm.”
He spoke jokingly, but Carlsen knew him well enough to sense the underlying seriousness. He smiled, clearing his throat.
They stopped at the front door of a red-brick three-storey house, whose ugly iron railings dated from the Victorian period. The door was opened by a slim, pretty woman in a green kimono. Fallada kissed her on the cheek. “Peggy, this is Olof Carlsen.”
“I’m so glad to meet you at last, Commander.”
Carlsen had expected her to be older. He said: “I’m delighted to meet you.” Their hands touched while he was still speaking; suddenly, without any process of thought, he was involved in her mind and feelings. He was glad the light in the hall was poor; he felt the colour rising to his face.
“Percy’s gone up to his study. Have you come here to talk shop?”
Fallada said diplomatically: “Not entirely. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“I hope not. I’ve just made coffee.”
She led them into the drawing-room; it was a pleasant, comfortable room, with old-fashioned furniture of the early twenty-first century.
“I’ll give Percy a buzz and tell him you’re here. He didn’t expect you to get here so soon.”
Fallada said: “Why don’t I go up myself? Olof, stay and talk to Lady Heseltine while I go and get Percy.”
As Fallada went out she asked: “Black or white?”
“White, please.”
“Brandy?”
“Just a little.”
Watching her as she stood at the sideboard, he experienced a confusion of feeling. The moment of insight had taught him more than he could have learned in weeks of intimacy. This power to enter the inmost thoughts of an attractive woman brought a sense of deep satisfaction. It also disturbed him; it seemed a proof that he was changing into another person.
She placed the coffee and brandy on the table. “It’s strange, but I feel as if I know you rather well. Perhaps because I’ve seen you on television.”
Their hands brushed as she handed him the sugar. He put it on the table and took her hand. Looking up into her face, he said: “Tell me something. Can you read my thoughts?”
She stared back with surprise but made no effort to withdraw her hand. His insight into her thoughts told him that she was about to say: “Of course not”; then she checked the response and allowed her mind to become receptive. At once he became aware of a flicker of communication. She said hesitantly: “I. . . I think I can.”
He released her hand; her thoughts became remote, like a poor telephone connection. She asked: “What on earth does it mean?”
“Did your husband tell you about the vampires?”
She nodded.
“Then you shouldn’t have to ask.”
Obedient to a thought suggestion, she sat beside him on the settee. He took her hand again, placing his thumb in the centre of her wrist, and the fingers spread across the back of the hand; he knew instinctively that this would ensure the best contact. She lowered her eyes to concentrate. It was a strange sensation: to have known her for less than five minutes and yet to have achieved a more intimate contact than her husband had. She was still too confused to read his thoughts accurately, but he was clearly aware of a two-way communication. She also registered his feeling-responses. The kimono had fallen open at the neck, showing the edge of a lace-trimmed bra; without observing the direction of his gaze, she reached up and adjusted it. Then she noticed him smiling, and coloured, realising that modesty was wasted. For all practical purposes, she might as well have been naked.
For the next ten minutes they sat perfectly still. They were not communicating so much as observing. He was inside her consciousness, seeing himself through her eyes, aware of the warmth of her body. An hour ago she had taken a bath and washed her hair; he was aware of the pleasure it gave her to feel relaxed and cool, faintly scented with the bath salts. It had never struck him that feminine consciousness was so basically different from a man’s When a Persian cat jumped into her lap and rubbed its head against her, purring, he had a momentary glimpse into the cat’s being, and was again astonished to realise that it was so unlike his own. For a moment, he was dazzled by the thought of millions of individuals, each a separate universe, each as strange and unique as an unexplored planet.
A telescreen buzzed upstairs, then stopped. She withdrew her hand reluctantly. She said in a low voice: “Your coffee must be cold.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He sipped the brandy with pleasure.
There was a constraint between them, like two people who have just made love for the first time and are now aware of the consequences. She poured herself coffee.
“Do you think this is grounds for divorce?”
The bantering tone sounded false. He said seriously: “I suppose it is, in a way.”
She held out her glass and touched his. “Have you ever made love as quickly as that before?”
He said: “Made love?”
“I suppose that’s what it is. Or don’t you agree?”