Carlsen asked: “Is it dying?”
“No. It has only lost the end of a tentacle.”
“Then what has happened?”
“I am not certain. But I think it has accepted the inevitability of death. It senses that nothing can save it. That graph is actually characteristic of pleasure.”
“You mean it’s enjoying being eaten?”
“I don’t know. I suspect the moray is exercising some kind of hypnotic power. Its will is dominating the will of the octopus, ordering it to cease to resist. But of course I could be wrong. My chief assistant thinks that it is an example of what he calls ‘the death trance.’ I once talked to a native who had been seized by a man-eating tiger. He said he experienced a strange sense of calm as he lay there waiting to be killed. Then someone shot the tiger, and he became aware that it had torn off most of his arm.”
The moray had returned to the attack. This time it gripped the octopus, trying to tear it away from the rock; the octopus was clinging with all its tentacles. The moray made a half turn then dived in to attack. This time it went for the head. There was more ink. On the monitor screen, the octopus’s graph suddenly leapt upwards, wavered and then vanished. The moray’s graph showed an upward sweep of triumph.
Fallada said: “That shows that the moray is very hungry. Otherwise, it would have eaten the octopus tentacle by tentacle, perhaps keeping it alive for days.” He turned away from the tank. “But you have still not seen the most interesting part.”
“God, don’t tell me there’s more!”
Fallada pointed to a grey box between the tanks. “This is an ordinary computer. It has been registering the fluctuations in the life fields of both creatures. Let’s have a look at the eel’s.” He touched several buttons in guide succession; a slip of paper emerged from a slot in the computer. Fallada said: “You see, the average is 4.8573.” He handed Carlsen the paper. “Now the octopus’s.” He pulled out the slip of paper. “This is only 2.956. It has little more than half the vitality of the eel.” He handed Carlsen a pen. “Would you add those figures together?”
After a moment, Carlsen said: “It’s 7.8133.”
“Good. Now let us check the reading of the moray during the past few minutes.”
He pressed more buttons, and handed Carlsen the paper without even looking at it. Carlsen read the figure aloud: “Seven point eight one three three. That’s astonishing. You mean the moray’s actually absorbed the life field of the. . . Christ. . .” He felt the hair on his scalp prickle as he understood. He stared down at Fallada, who was smiling happily.
Fallada said: “Precisely. The moray is a vampire.”
Carlsen was so excited that he could hardly speak consecutively. “That’s incredible. But how long does it last? I mean, how long will its field be so high? And how can you be sure that it’s really absorbed the life field of the octopus? I mean, perhaps the triumph of getting food sends its vitality shooting upwards.”
“That is what I thought at first — until I saw the figures. It always happens. For a short period, the life force of the aggressor increases by precisely the amount it has taken from the victim.” He looked into his glass, saw that it contained nothing but melting ice cubes, and said: “I think we deserve another drink.” He led the way back into the office.
“And does it apply to all living creatures? Or only to predators like the moray? Are we all vampires?”
Fallada chuckled. “It would take hours to tell you all the results of my researches. Look.” He unlocked a metal cabinet and took out a book. Carlsen saw it was a bound typescript. The Anatomy and Pathology of Vampirism, by Hans V. Fallada, F.R.S. “You are looking at the result of five years of research. More whisky?”
Carlsen accepted it gratefully. He dropped into the chair, turning over the pages of the typescript. “This is Nobel Prize stuff.”
Fallada shrugged. “Of course. I knew that when I first stumbled on this phenomenon of vampirism six years ago. In fact, my dear Carlsen, there is no point in being modest about it. This is one of the most important discoveries in the history of biological science. It places me in the same category as Newton and Darwin. Your health.”
Carlsen raised his glass. “To your discovery.”
“Thank you. So you see why I am so fascinated by your discovery — these space vampires? It follows logically from my theory that there must be certain creatures who can completely drain the lifeblood of fellow creatures — or rather, their vital forces. I am convinced that is the meaning of the old legends of the vampire — Dracula and so forth. And you must have noticed very often that certain people seem to drain your vitality — usually rather dreary, self-pitying people. They are also vampires.”
“But does this apply to all creatures? Are we all vampires?”
“Ah, there you have asked the most fascinating question of all. You observed the rabbits — how their life fields vibrated in sympathy? This is because there is a sexual attachment. When this happens, one life field can actually reinforce another. And yet my researches prove beyond all doubt that the sexual relation also contains a strong element of vampirism. This is something I first came to suspect when I studied the case of Joshua Pike, the Bradford sadist. You remember — some of the newspapers actually called him a vampire. Well, it was true, literally. He drank the blood and ate parts of the flesh of his victims. I examined him in prison, and he told me that these cannibal feasts had sent him into states of ecstasy for hours. I took his lambda readings while he was telling me these things — they increased by more than 50 percent.”
“And cannibals too.” Carlsen was so excited that he spilled whisky on the typescript; he mopped it with his sleeve. “Cannibal tribes have always insisted that eating an enemy enabled them to absorb his qualities — his courage and so on. . .”
“Quite. Now, that is an example of what I call negative vampirism. Its aim is total destruction of the victim. But in the case of sex, there is also positive vampirism. When a man desires a woman, he reaches out towards her with psychic forces, trying to compel her submission. And you know yourself that women can exert that same kind of power over men!” He laughed. “One of my lab assistants here is an ideal subject. She is literally a man-eater. It’s not her fault. She’s basically quite a sweet girl — tremendously generous and helpful. But a certain kind of man finds her irresistible. They hurl themselves at her like flies on flypaper.” He pointed to the typescript. “Her lambda readings are in there. They reveal that she’s a vampire. But this kind of sexual vampirism is not necessarily destructive. You remember all the old jokes about ideal marriages between sadists and masochists? They are basically accurate.”
The telescreen buzzed. It was the lab assistant they had seen earlier. “The body’s arrived, sir. Do you want me to go ahead with the tests?”
“No, no. I’ll come across now.” He turned to Carlsen. “Now you can see my methods in action.”
In the corridor, they stood aside to let past two ambulance men who were wheeling a stretcher. Both saluted Fallada. In Lab C, the assistant, Grey, was examining the face of the dead girl through a magnifying glass. A middle-aged, bald-headed man sat on a stool, his elbows on the bench behind him. When Fallada came in, he stood up. Fallada said: “This is Detective Sergeant Dixon of the Crime Lab. Commander Carlsen. What are you doing here, Sergeant?”
“I’ve got a message from the Commissioner, sir. He says not to go to too much trouble. We’re fairly certain who did it.” He gestured towards the body.
“How?”
“We managed to get fingerprints off the throat.”
Carlsen looked down at the girl. Her face was bruised and swollen. There were strangulation bruises on her throat. The sheet had been pulled far enough back to reveal that she was still clothed. She was wearing a blue nylon smock.
Fallada asked: “Was he a known criminal?”
“No, sir. It was this chap Clapperton, sir.”
“The racing driver?”
Carlsen asked: “You mean Don Clapperton?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Fallada turned to Carlsen. “He disappeared in central London on Tuesday evening.” He asked Dixon: “Have you found him?”
“Not yet, sir. But it shouldn’t be long.”
The lab assistant asked: “Do you still want to go ahead, sir?”
“Oh, I think so. Just for the sake of a routine check.” He asked Dixon: “Now, let me see, Clapperton was last seen at what time?”