“But this first case he describes — do you remember, the sculptor? — is fascinating. It would be interesting to find out how he cured him. After all, he must have worked out some kind of defence against vampirism.”
Fallada nodded, thoughtfully. “Yes, that is interesting, now you mention it. Geijerstam must be dead, of course. But he had many students and pupils. Perhaps the Swedish embassy could help.”
Jelka, who was standing by the door, said: “How about Fred Armfeldt?”
Carlsen said: “Hold on a moment.”
Jelka repeated: “Fred Armfeldt, the man who got so drunk at your reception. He was the Swedish cultural attache.”
Carlsen snapped his fingers. “Yes, of course. He might be able to help. A man who came to my reception in the Guildhall. I think he was from the Swedish embassy. I’ll try to contact him.”
Fallada said: “Good. Ring me back if you make any progress. I’ll let you finish eating.” He had evidently noticed the breakfast tray on the bed.
Carlsen showered and shaved before he called the Swedish embassy. “Could I speak to Fredrik Armfeldt, please?” He gave his name. A moment later, he found himself speaking to a clean-shaven young man with pink cheeks.
Armfeldt said: “How good to hear from you, Commander! What can I do for you?”
Carlsen explained his problem briefly. Armfeldt shook his head. “I have never heard of this Geijerstam. He’s a doctor, you say?”
“A psychiatrist. He wrote a book called Spirit Vampirism.”
“Ah, in that case he would probably be in the Swedish writers’ directory. I have that here in the office. One moment, please.” He reappeared a moment later with a large volume. He searched through it, murmuring: “Eroding, Garborg. . . ah, Geijerstam, Gustav. Is that the man?”
“No. Ernst von.”
“Yes, here it is: Ernst von Geijerstam, psychologist and philosopher. Born Norrkoping, June 1987. Educated at the University of Lund and University of Vienna. . . What do you want to know?”
“When did he die?”
Armfeldt shook his head, then looked at the cover of the book. “As far as I can see, he’s still alive. He must be. . . ninety-three.”
Restraining his excitement, Carlsen said: “Does it give an address?”
“Yes. Heimskringla, Storavan, Norrland. That is an area of mountains and lakes.” Carlsen wrote down the address.
“There’s no telescreen number there?”
“No. But if you like, I can try to find out –”
“No, don’t bother. That’s very useful.”
They exchanged some general remarks, agreed to meet for a drink, and said goodbye. Carlsen immediately rang Fallada. “I’ve just discovered that Geijerstam’s still alive.”
“Incredible! Where does he live?”
“A place call Storavan, in Norrland. I wonder if I should send him a cable? He may have heard my name with all this publicity.”
Fallada shook his head; he said slowly: “No. I think I must try to contact him. In fact, I should have tried years ago. It was sheer laziness and stupidity on my part. After all, he was the first man to recognise the phenomenon of mental vampirism. Can you give me the full address?”
Carlsen spent the remainder of the morning sitting in the sun-lounge, reading. He had intended to read Fallada’s book, but he found Spirit Vampirism so absorbing that he was halfway through it when Jelka fetched the children from play school at lunchtime. The telescreen rang continuously: mostly newsmen wanting comments on the recall of the spaceships. After speaking to three of them, Carlsen told Jelka to say he was out.
At two o’clock, after a salad lunch, he was playing with the children in the paddling pool when Jelka came to the door. “Dr. Fallada on the screen again.”
He went indoors, his eyes adjusting with difficulty after the bright sunlight. Fallada was on the kitchen extension.
He said: “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”
Carlsen said: “Nothing but reading your book.”
“Can you come with me to Sweden?” He smiled with excitement.
“I suppose so. Why?”
“Geijerstam’s offered to see us. And we can be in Karlsborg by six-thirty if we catch a plane from London Airport at three forty-two.”
“Where’s Karlsborg?”
“It’s a small town at the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia. Geijerstam’s arranging for an air taxi to meet us there.”
“What shall I bring?”
“Just an overnight bag. And Geijerstam’s book. I’d like to read it on the way there.”
Carlsen’s helicab was late; he and Fallada barely had time to exchange more than a few words before they strapped themselves into their seats on.the Russian Airlines jet bound for Moscow via Stockholm and Leningrad. Carlsen had never lost a childlike sense of delight in air travel. Now, as he watched the green fields of southern England give way to the silver-grey mirror of the sea, he experienced a rising excitement, a feeling of setting out towards adventure.
Fallada asked: “Have you been in northern Sweden?”
“Yes. I wrote my doctoral thesis on suicide in Sweden, and spent many weeks in the north. They are a gloomy and reserved people. But the scenery is beautiful.”
A hostess offered them drinks; both accepted a martini. It was early, but Carlsen felt in a holiday mood. He asked: “Did you actually speak to Geijerstam?” “Indeed. For fifteen minutes. He’s a charming old gentleman. When I told him about my experiments, he became very excited.”
“How much did you tell him about. . . the aliens?”
“Nothing. It was too risky over the telescreen. All I could say was that I was dealing with the strangest and most complex case I had ever encountered. And he immediately invited me to come and see him. He must be fairly rich, incidentally, because he offered to pay my fare. Of course, I explained that the institute will pay. Incidentally, we are also paying your expenses. You are here officially, as my assistant.”
Carlsen chuckled. “I’ll try to give satisfaction.” They changed planes in Stockholm, moving into a smaller plane from Swedish Airlines. Fallada remained absorbed in his book; Carlsen stared down and watched the green countryside change to pine-covered hills, then to the black tundra veined with rifts of snow. The April sun now looked pale, as if its light were filtered through ice. They were served a snack of salted biscuits and raw fish with vodka; Fallada ate abstractedly, his eyes on the book. Carlsen observed the speed at which he read and the total absorption; in the two and a half hours since they left London, he had read more than three quarters of Geijerstam’s book.
The plane nosed down through misty cloud, over islands that were partly covered with snow. The airport at Karlsborg seemed absurdly small: little more than a control building and a tiny airfield surrounded by log houses. As they stepped out of the plane, Carlsen was surprised by the sharp chill in the air. The taximan who met them was not a Scandinavian type; he had black hair and a round face that reminded Carlsen of an Eskimo. He carried their bags to a six-seater helicopter in a field beside the airport; a few minutes later, they were flying low over snow-covered farmland, then over water again. Carlsen discovered that the pilot spoke a little Norwegian; he was a Lapp from the northern province. When Carlsen asked how big Storavan was, the pilot looked surprised, then said: “About ten kilometres.”
“That is a large town.”
“It is not a town. It is a lake.”
He said no more. The scenery changed to mountains covered with forest; Carlsen caught occasional glimpses of reindeer.
Fallada read on steadily. Finally, he closed the book. “Interesting, but definitely mad.”
“You mean insane?”
“Oh, no. Not exactly. But he believes that vampires are evil spirits.”
Carlsen smiled. “Aren’t they?”
“You saw the moray attack the octopus. Was that an evil spirit?”
“But if these aliens can live outside the body, doesn’t that make them spirits?”
“Not in his sense. He is talking about ghosts and demons.”
Carlsen looked down at the forests that were a mere hundred feet below the aircraft. In this country it was easy to believe in ghosts and demons. There were small, dark-tinted lakes, in which the sky’s reflection looked like blue stained glass. Half a mile away, on the granite hillside, a waterfall threw up a cloud of white mist; Carlsen could hear its thunder over the sound of the engine. In the west, the sky was turning from gold to red. There was something dreamlike and unearthly about the landscape.
A quarter of an hour later, the pilot pointed ahead. “Heimskringla.”
They could see a lake, winding between mountains as far as the eye could see; a few miles to the south, another immense lake gleamed between the trees. Below and to the right, there was a small town; for a moment Carlsen assumed this was Heimskringla, then realised they were heading past it. He asked: “Var är Heimskringla?” The man pointed. “Där.” Then he saw the island in the lake, and the roof showing among the trees. As they skimmed low above the trees, they could see the front of the house, grey and turreted like a castle. Its rear overlooked the lake; in front, there were lawns and winding paths among the trees. In an open, grassy space on the edge of the lake there was a small chapel of dark timber.