” ‘According to Dr Werner Mass, the physicist who accompanied Wolfson, the instruments in the control room revealed a technology far ahead of anything on earth.
” ‘Captain Wolfson told his wife that the control room showed no sign of damage, but that papers and star maps were scattered over the floor. “The cabin looked as if it had been abandoned half an hour earlier,” commented Wolfson. But there was no sign of the living creatures who had been on the control deck. Wolfson told his wife: “It made me think of the mystery of the Mary Celeste.”
” ‘The documents in the cabin were printed on a material resembling thick paper impregnated with wax. This could provide a clue to the galaxy in which the Stranger originated.
” ‘Wolfson and his team were still aboard the Stranger when the Vega received the message from moonbase forbidding exploration of the derelict on account of radiation hazards.
” ‘Our space correspondent comments. . .’ ”
Carlsen lowered the newspaper and held it over his shoulder. “Here, read it for yourself.”
Fallada said: “I wonder who gave him permission to explore?”
“Probably nobody. Wolfson’s the sort who does things without permission.”
The cabdriver said: “Rather have my job than his.” It reminded them that they could not speak freely. They sat in silence for the next ten minutes, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Carlsen was thinking again of the disturbing beauty of the underwater paintings of the Stranger, and of its vast, cathedral-like spaces, and wondering how he could convey these to Fallada.
Fallada said: “Mary Celeste of space. Another journalistic cliché.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t stick.”
At New Scotland Yard, the duty sergeant recognised them. “The Commissioner wants you to go up right away, sir. You know the way, don’t you?”
In the lift, Fallada said: “I wonder what that means?”
“What?”
“Sounds like a new development. He knew we were coming anyway, so there was no reason to leave a message.”
“This Mary Celeste story, I suppose.”
The big, bald-headed man was waiting for them as they stepped out of the lift. He wore civilian clothes but carried himself as if they were a military uniform.
Fallada said: “Sir Percy Heseltine, this is Commander Carlsen.”
The big man’s grip was powerful. “Glad you’ve come, Commander. There’s a message for you, by the way. Bukovsky from Space Research wants you to contact him right away.”
“Thank you. Is there a telescreen I can use?”
“In my office.”
They followed him into the big, anonymous office that overlooked the helicopter landing port on the roof. Heseltine pointed. “Use the one in my secretary’s office. It’s empty.”
Carlsen left the door open. He had a feeling that whatever Bukovsky had to say would be for all of them. When he asked for Bukovsky, the operator said: “I’m sorry, sir. He isn’t available.” But when he gave his name, she said: “Oh, yes. He’s waiting for a call from you. We’ve been trying to contact you for the past hour.”
A moment later Bukovsky appeared. He looked harassed and irritable. “Olof, thank heavens we’ve got you finally. We tried to get your home for an hour, but your wife was out.”
“I’ve been with Dr Fallada.”
“So I gather. Have you seen the papers?”
“I saw that Captain Wolfson had been into the Stranger.”
“Captain!” Bukovsky said grimly. “He’ll be lucky if he’s a second lieutenant by the time I’ve finished with him. As to that moronic wife of his. . . I can’t imagine what Zelensky was doing letting her into moonbase. And now on top of everything else, we’ve got a new problem. The Space Minister’s just been on to me, saying he wants every inch of the Stranger explored immediately.”
Carlsen said: “Tell him to get screwed.”
“All right. Why?”
“Because Dr Fallada thinks the three aliens aren’t dead after all.”
“What! Not dead? What the hell are you talking about? We saw them.”
Carlsen said quietly: “And I think he’s probably right.”
Bukovsky suddenly became quiet and concentrated. “What makes you think so?”
“What I saw in his laboratory this afternoon. If you saw it, I think you’d be convinced.”
“If they’re not dead, where are they?”
“I don’t know. You’d better ask him.” He beckoned to Fallada, who was standing in the doorway, Heseltine beside him. Fallada came in and leaned forward so his face was within camera range.
“Hello, Bukovsky. Carlsen’s right. By the way, is it safe to talk like this? Are you sure we can’t be overheard?”
“Yes. This screen has an A.C.M. But how can these things still be alive? You mean they can exist without bodies?”
“For a limited time, yes.”
Bukovsky asked quickly: “How do you know it’s a limited time?”
“Deduction.”
“Will you explain it?”
“Certainly. When I heard Carlsen’s tape describing his encounter with the girl, I couldn’t believe she was dead. If she was as dominant as he says, she’d be a match for any sex maniac.” Bukovsky nodded; he had clearly thought the same thing. “I wondered then if she could have lured some man into the park and somehow taken over his body. So I tested her body to see if the life field was still intact. It wasn’t. It hadn’t been drained — like the body of young Adams. But it was still abnormally low. So it struck me as a working hypothesis that the girl was alive, in a man’s body. But then there was the problem of what happened to Clapperton. You know about that?” Bukovsky nodded. “He disappeared about half an hour after the girl escaped from the Space Research building, and at about the time you discovered the other two creatures were dead. Clapperton was last seen in Hyde Park with a woman who sounds like the alien. But she couldn’t have wanted his body for herself — she was still around several hours later. My guess is that she wanted it for one of the other two. Why such a hurry if they could live outside their bodies indefinitely?”
Bukovsky interrupted: “So you assume there was a third victim?”
“Almost certainly. Possibly a girl — if they prefer to stick to their original sexes. And now there must have been still another. You know Clapperton’s body was found in the river this afternoon?”
“No.” Bukovsky hardly seemed interested. Carlsen had observed before that when Bukovsky was faced with serious decisions, his usual nervous, aggressive manner disappeared, and he became totally calm, a calculating machine surveying a thousand possibilities. After a moment of silence, he said: “This obviously has to be treated with the utmost secrecy. If it got out, there’d be a panic. I’m going to speak to the Space Minister. What’s your number there?” Fallada gave it to him. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, do you think there’s any possibility of destroying these things?”
“I am inclined to doubt it.”
Bukovsky sighed. “So am I.” He rang off.
None of them spoke for a moment. Then Carlsen said: “I’m afraid I’ve got a great deal to answer for.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” It was Heseltine who spoke. “You were only doing your job. Thank God you didn’t bring more back.”
Carlsen said: “I suppose that’s one consolation.”
Fallada placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be too gloomy. Luck has been on our side so far. If that girl hadn’t given herself away by killing Adams, they’d all be on their way back to earth by now. And if I hadn’t applied my new lambda test to her body, we’d now be assuming they were all dead. Things could have been much worse.”
“Except that you think they’re indestructible.”
Heseltine said: “Come into my office. I’ve ordered tea and sandwiches. I don’t know about you, but I’m damned hungry.”
It struck Carlsen suddenly that he was hungry too, and that part of his depression was probably due to an empty stomach.
Fallada helped himself to a cigar from the box on the desk. “I didn’t say I thought they were indestructible. There’s no way of knowing. But at least there are certain things in our favour. In effect, we have three murderers loose in the community. But murderers leave a trail behind them, as we have seen.”
There was a knock at the door; a girl came in pushing a tea trolley. The ham sandwiches were freshly made; as Carlsen ate, he felt his optimism returning. He said: “Well, I suppose the damage they can do is rather less than the road-accident rate.”
Heseltine said: “I should hope so. The present fatality rate is about forty-nine a day.” He pressed the key of the telescreen. “Mary, get me the City Co-ordinator, will you. It’s probably Philpott today.”
When the screen buzzed, a few minutes later, they heard him say: “Hello, Inspector. There’s something I want you to do for me. You remember the girl found on the line at Putney yesterday? It turns out to be a case of murder. I want you to collect together reports of all similar deaths, from all over England. Got that? Anyone who dies suddenly, either from strangulation or without apparent cause. Get the directive out to every police headquarters in the country. I don’t want any panic about it. If the press get wind of it, say it’s a routine enquiry — you know, a statistics test, or something. But I want you to notify this office within seconds of getting any new report. We think this chap’s a lunatic, and he’s got to be caught. By the way. . . don’t go away. . . he may have a woman accomplice. All right?”