Under the unrelenting pressure, he felt his defences yielding; the thing was forcing its way past them. He was suddenly aware of the consequences that would follow. This creature intended to enter his nervous system and sever it from his will; he would be a prisoner in his own brain, unable to move, like a fly bound by spider’s silk. It needed to keep his individuality alive, but only for the sake of its knowledge. The thought of sharing his brain with the alien lent him a frantic strength. With his teeth clenched tightly together, he forced it away. This time he locked his will, as if contracting his arms and legs into the foetal position. The thing continued to cling, without relaxing its grip, hoping to exhaust him. It was aware now that there were no pretences. They were enemies; nothing could change that.
Ten minutes passed; perhaps more. His strength began to return. The alien’s chief weapon was fear; yet he realised that, deep down inside, he was not afraid. He had grasped its weakness, the angry desire to impose its will that made it careless. It had the desire to be absolute master at all costs; and now it had been placed in a position where it could not destroy something it hated. As the thought passed through his mind, he felt it becoming angry again; his insight was like a taunt. It renewed the pressure, tearing frantically at his locked will. Again he resisted with the strength of desperation. After a few minutes, he realised that it was defeated again. Some instinctive biological loathing had aroused a deeper resistance. He felt a flow of power, a sense of being prepared to resist for days or weeks if necessary. He experienced a curious pride. This creature was in every way stronger than he was; its power and knowledge made him feel like a child. Yet some universal law made it unable to invade his feeble individuality against his will.
The pressure suddenly relaxed. He opened his eyes, which had been tightly closed, and noticed that the dawn was streaking the sky outside the windows. Then he was alone again. He moved his hands and realised that the bed was soaked with perspiration, as if he had suffered from a fever. His pyjamas were as wet as if he had just taken a shower with them on. He pulled the damp sheet around his neck, turned the pillow over onto its other side, and closed his eyes. The room seemed strangely peaceful and empty. A moment later he was deeply asleep.
He was awakened by the sound of a key in the door. It was the chief orderly, Lamson; he was carrying a tray. He said cheerfully: “Good morning. It’s a lovely morning. I’ve brought you coffee.”
Carlsen struggled into an upright position. “That’s kind of you. What’s the time?”
“Eight-fifteen. Dr. Armstrong says there’ll be breakfast in half an hour.” He placed the tray on Carlsen’s knees.
“What’s this?” Carlsen pointed to the glossy magazine on the tray. The cover looked familiar.
“Ah, I wonder if you’d mind, sir?” Lamson was holding out a pen. “My nephew’s a great admirer of yours. Would you sign your picture for him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, after I’ve given the other gentlemen their coffee. Isn’t that Dr Fallada, the man who does the Crime Doctor programmes?”
“That’s right.”
“And haven’t I seen the other gentleman on TV?”
“Sir Percy Heseltine, the Commissioner of Police.”
Lamson whistled. “Not often we get such famous visitors. Matter of fact, it’s not often we get visitors at all. . . except relatives, of course.”
He went out, leaving the door slightly ajar; Carlsen watched him push the trolley on to the next door.
As he drank the coffee, he re-read the article. It was headed: “Olof Carlsen — Man of the Century.” He winced as he recalled the nonstop publicity of three months ago; it had been more exhausting and nerve-wracking than his most difficult assignments in space exploration. This was one of dozens of similar articles that had appeared in the world’s press; it was sentimental, with a double-page colour photograph of Carlsen with Jelka and the children.
As Lamson came back in, Carlsen asked: “What’s your nephew’s name?”
“Georgie Bishop.”
He signed the photograph “For Georgie, with best wishes,” and handed the magazine and pen to Lamson.
“He’ll be real thrilled.” He looked at the photograph. “You’ve got good-looking kids.”
“Thank you.”
“You”re lucky.” He doubled the magazine and slipped it into the pocket of his white smock.
“Do you have children?”
“No. The wife didn’t want ’em.”
“You’re married?”
“I was. That’s all over now. We separated.”
Carlsen changed the subject. “Have you seen this man Reeves today?”
“Oh, yes. I took his breakfast up at seven. We put the sedative in, as the doctor suggested.”
“How was he?”
“Well. . . I wouldn’t have thought it necessary.”
“Why not?”
“He was pretty quiet already.” He did a pantomime of a zombie, the eyes glazed and vacant, mouth hanging open, arms flopping loosely at his sides.
“Will it knock him out?”
“No. Just make him feel happy and relaxed. You don’t want him unconscious if you’re going to try hypnosis.”
Carlsen asked curiously: “How did you know we are? Did Armstrong tell you?”
Lamson grinned. “He didn’t have to. He told me to prepare the nortropine-metbidine mixture for injection. That’s only used for pre-hypnosis and severe shock, and I know Reeves isn’t in shock.”
“You should be a detective.”
Lamson was obviously pleased. “Thanks.”
“How does this drug operate?”
“Induces mild paralysis of the nervous system — makes their minds go blank, if you like. After that, they’re easy to hypnotise. Dr Lyell — the man who used to be in charge of this place — used a lot of it. Dr Armstrong says he doesn’t approve of it.”
“Why not?”
Lamson shrugged and grunted. “Says it’s equivalent to brainwashing.” He looked keenly at Carlsen, decided he could trust him, and said: “I think it’s a lot of balls. Dr Lyell didn’t want to brainwash anybody. He just wanted to help people.”
Carlsen said sympathetically: “I know what you mean.” He had already concluded that Armstrong was the kind of man who gave high-minded moral reasons for decisions that were based on laziness.
Lamson sighed. “I’m not so sure you do.”
“No? Why do you think we’re here?”
Lamson looked at him, startled. “What?” Carlsen realised he had misunderstood the question, “You don’t mean –”
There was a knock on the door. Fallada’s voice called: “Ready to eat, Olof?” The door handle turned.
Lamson said: “Oh, well, I’d better get back anyway. See you later.” He stood aside for Fallada, then went out.
“Still in bed? Shall I come back?”
“No, come in.” Fallada closed the door. “I’ve just been talking to Lamson.”
“He seems a good man.”
“Too bloody good.” Carlsen collected his clothes and went into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. “He checked up on this man Reeves last night. And I think he’s given us away.”
“What makes you think so?”
For some reason, Carlsen felt unwilling to talk about what had happened in the night; it seemed too personal. “He says Reeves is back to normal this morning.”
“Normal?”
“Semi-imbecillic.”
There was a silence. Carlsen tucked his shirt into his trousers. Fallada said: “So you think it’s moved on?”
“It looks like it.” He began to shave with the electric razor. Neither spoke until he had finished. When he came out of the bathroom, dabbing after-shave on his face, Fallada was staring gloomily out of the window, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets. “So this. . . creature is still one jump ahead of us?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It may have moved back to the girl — the nurse.”
“Probably it did. And found out that we know about her too.”
“And it could be anywhere in this place — or out of it, for that matter.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Carlsen felt no need to reply. He folded his pyjamas and packed them in the bag. Fallada stared at him thoughtfully. “I could try hypnotising you again.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“To begin with, it’s too dangerous. It might try and move into me while I’m hypnotised. And second, it wouldn’t do any good anyway. I’ve lost contact with it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
He was glad Fallada asked no more questions.
On the sunlit lawn, Sergeant Parker was lying on his back, adjusting the vertical takeoff jets of the Grasshopper. Carlsen said: “Aren’t you coming for breakfast?”
“I ate with the medical staff, thank you, sir.”
“Did you see a woman there? Nurse Donaldson?”
“Oh, yes.” He cried. “She asked a lot of questions about you.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Well, like whether you were married.” He winked.
“Thanks.” As they walked on, Carlsen told Fallada: “That answers your question.”