The policeman at the door saluted as he recognised Heseltine. A moment later, the front door was opened by a pretty, dark-haired girl.
“I believe the Prime Minister is expecting us?”
“Yes, sir. He’ll be free in a moment. Would you like to wait in here?”
Heseltine said: “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m Merriol.” She smiled, showing small, white teeth.
The accent had a Welsh lilt. She seemed scarcely more than a schoolgirl.
As she left the room, Heseltine said: “Curious.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing much.” He lowered his voice. “There’s gossip that Jamieson has a taste for young girls. In fact, it’s more than gossip. And the latest one’s supposed to be a student teacher from Anglesey.”
Fallada said: “But surely he wouldn’t bring her into Downing Street? That’s asking for trouble.”
“I’d have thought so. What do you think, Carlsen?”
Carlsen had been staring abstractedly out of the window. Now he looked up, startled. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“It’s just that it seems rather odd that this girl –” He stopped speaking as the door opened.
The girl said: “Would you like to come this way, please?” She smiled coquettishly at Carlsen. As she ran up the stairs ahead of them, he observed with appreciation the slim bare legs under the short skirt.
She led them into the office next to the Cabinet room. Jamieson was sitting at the desk; a bespectacled man in his sixties was sorting through a tray of letters. Jamieson said: “I think that will be all for now, Morton. Don’t forget that call to the Tsar’s private secretary.” He smiled at Heseltine over the top of his spectacles. “Ah, so the wanderers return? Have a seat, gentlemen.” Three armchairs had been arranged facing the desk. “Smoke? Throw that file on the floor — it shouldn’t be there.” He pushed the cigarette box across the desk. “I must say that I’m glad to see you. I’d begun to feel anxious. Anything interesting to tell me?”
Fallada said: “Commander Carlsen and I flew to Sweden to consult an expert on vampirism.”
“Indeed? How. . . er. . . how very interesting.” Jamieson’s smile conveyed a mixture of politeness, amusement and boredom. He looked at Heseltine. “Anything else?”
Heseltine glanced at Carlsen. “Yes, sir. I’m glad to report that we have now captured one of the aliens.”
“Good heavens! Are you serious?”
The well-bred astonishment seemed so genuine that Carlsen experienced momentary doubt. He reached into his pocket, and brought out the recording-capsule. He said: “May I?” He leaned forward, pressing the ejection button of the desk recorder. He pressed the capsule into the slot and then depressed the playback key. The controlled, unmodulated voice of the alien said: “Our planet is completely covered with water. And our race, as you have guessed, has the form of the creatures you call squids. But your molluscs have almost no brain. The Nioth-Korghai have a highly developed brain and nervous system. . .”
All three of them were watching Jamieson’s face. He was listening with total attention, his chin cradled in his right hand, the index finger scratching the line of the jaw. After five minutes he reached out and switched off the machine.
“That is certainly. . . very remarkable. How did you locate this. . . er. . . vampire?”
“The Swedish expert showed us how to do it. We’ve promised not to reveal the method.”
“I see. And what about the other two aliens?”
“We’ve traced one to New York. The other’s here in London.”
“And how do you propose to locate them?”
Carlsen said: “The first step is to broadcast that recording — to make people realise these things exist. I’ve arranged to be interviewed on television at ten o’clock tonight.”
“What!” The bushy eyebrows were raised in surprise. “But that would be violating our agreement.”
Carlsen said: “When we made that agreement, you thought the aliens were dead. This changes everything.”
Jamieson slapped the flat of his hand on the desk. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I must categorically forbid any such thing.”
Carlsen said quietly: “I am sorry, but you are in no position to prevent it. You are only the Prime Minister of this country — not its dictator.”
Jamieson sighed. “Commander, you are wasting my time.” He reached out and pressed a red key on the machine. “I have now erased the recording.”
Carlsen said: “It makes no difference. We made copies before we came here.”
“I want those copies.”
Carlsen said: “One has already gone to the television station.”
“In that case, you must recall it.”
Carlsen stared back without speaking. He saw a flicker of doubt in the eyes that were trying to stare him down. Jamieson said, in a conversational tone: “You are either very brave or very stupid. Or perhaps both.” As he spoke, his face changed. There was no physical alteration, and the expression remained impassive; but another personality was looking through his eyes. The gaze suddenly became hard and remote. All three of them felt the menace. It was like being in the presence of a despot with limitless powers. When Jamieson spoke, the voice was also different. It had lost the booming, assertive quality; it was depersonalised, almost metallic. There was something about its cold, totally detached quality that made Carlsen shiver.
“Dr Fallada, I want you to call your laboratory and ask your assistant to send Dr Armstrong over here.”
Fallada said dully: “You knew all the time.”
Jamieson ignored him. He touched a button on the desk. The Welsh girl came in.
“Vraal, I want you to get Dr Fallada’s laboratory on the private line. He wants to speak to his assistant, Grey.” Fallada began to stand up. A look of surprise crossed his face, and he sat down again with a bump. Carlsen was suddenly aware of a languor that flowed through his body, as if someone had injected anaesthetic. He tried to force his body away from the chair; it was impossible, as if the chair had become a magnet that held him tight. When he closed his eyes, it was as if his limbs had been transformed into something massive and very heavy.
The girl pressed the key of an electronic memo-pad on the desk, then dialed a number. When a girl’s voice answered she said: “Dr Fallada, for Mr Grey, please.” Carlsen observed the same mechanical quality in her voice.
Jamieson and the girl had both turned their eyes on Fallada. He jerked and stiffened, his face contorting for a moment. As their eyes held him, he stood up, moving stiffly, and started to cross the room. Heseltine said: “Don’t do it, Hans.”
Fallada ignored him, moving in front of the telescreen. “Hello, Norman.” His voice was hoarse. “I want you to send Armstrong over to Ten Downing Street. Could you do that right away?”
“Yes, sir. What about the hypnoid? Shall I inject another dose?”
“No. Bring him just as he is. I want it to wear off.”
Grey said, with concern in his voice: “Are you all right, sir?”
Fallada smiled. “Yes, I”m fine. A little tired, that’s all. Use the institute’s Grasshopper.”
“Very well, sir.”
The girl reached out and pressed the cut-out switch. Fallada staggered and had to support himself on the edge of the desk. Suddenly his face had become old.
Heseltine turned to Carlsen with a painful effort. “What are they doing to us?” His voice was thick.
“Using will-pressure. Don’t worry. They won’t be able to keep it up for long. It’s exhausting.”
Jamieson said, in his expressionless voice: “As long as necessary, I think.”
Fallada dropped back into his chair; his face was sweating. Carlsen felt a flash of piercing regret for exposing him to this ultimate humiliation: the use of his own body and voice at the bidding of another’s will. He said: “Don’t let yourself fall asleep, Hans. So long as you fight, they can’t break your resistance. The other one tried with me last night and didn’t succeed.”
Jamieson looked at him curiously. “There is a great deal we have to learn about you, Carlsen. Such as how you knew about will-pressure.” He looked at Fallada and Heseltine. “But do not be misled by his experience. He has had time to build up a certain resistance. You have not. Besides, believe me, you have no choice at all. We are making you a simple offer.”
He paused; Heseltine said: “Get on with it.”
The voice said: “We need your co-operation, and we can obtain it in one of two ways. We could kill you and take over your bodies. Alternatively, you could do as we ask you to do.”
Carlsen said: “He means let them take over our bodies.”
Jamieson said: “In case you think that might be disagreeable, let me reassure you.” He turned to the girl. “Show the Commissioner, Vraal.”
She moved behind Heseltine’s chair, and tilted back his head, her hand on his forehead. She placed the other hand on his throat. Watching Heseltine’s face, Carlsen saw the momentary resistance; it dissolved, attempted to reassert itself, then collapsed completely. Heseltine’s eyes closed, and he began to breathe deeply. The colour came back into his cheeks.