Jamieson said: “That’s enough, Vraal.” She removed her hands reluctantly; one of them lingered on Heseltine’s shoulder. Jamieson snapped: “I said enough.” The hand dropped. Heseltine opened his eyes drowsily and looked at Carlsen without seeming to see him.
The girl turned to look at Carlsen; her lips were moist. Jamieson said: “No. There is no need to show Commander Carlsen. He has already experienced it.”
The wind stirred the window curtains. Jamieson sat in his chair and stared at them. The face seemed to be made of stone. There was a dreamy silence in the office. The traffic in Whitehall sounded very far away. Carlsen summoned all his energy to fight off the drowsiness. He could see that Heseltine and Fallada were on the edge of sleep. There was no sense of panic, only the warm sexual langour. Time seemed unimportant. Memories were flooding through him: stories from childhood, the field, of poppies in The Wizard of Oz, the cottage made of gingerbread in “Hansel and Gretel.” There was a feeling of total relaxation, a sense that all was well. When he tried to tell himself they were in danger, his feelings refused to respond. A golden mist of happiness drifted through his mind, blurring his thoughts.
There was a ring at the doorbell, and Carlsen realised that he had been asleep. Jamieson said: “That should be our colleague.” He went out. A few minutes later he returned. Carlsen summoned the energy to twist around in his chair. Armstrong was there, looking grey and sick. His walk was slow and clumsy. Jamieson led him to the chair behind the desk. Armstrong looked at Carlsen, then at Fallada and Heseltine, without interest. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Jamieson said: “Look up at me.” Armstrong raised his eyes unwillingly. Jamieson grabbed him by the hair, making him wince, then forced his head back and stared into his eyes. Armstrong cleared his throat and groaned. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Armstrong’s face changed. The slack skin seemed to become firmer; the line of the mouth hardened. When he opened his eyes, they were clear and penetrating. He shook off Jamieson’s hand.
“That’s better. Thank you. They gave me three doses of that damned stuff.” He looked at Carlsen with cold anger, and Carlsen felt the impact of his will-force, like a slap in the face. Armstrong said: “If he is to be killed, I will do it.”
The girl said: “He is already promised to me.”
Jamieson said: “The choice is his.” He turned to Carlsen. “Which would you prefer? To be possessed by her? Or destroyed by him? Make up your mind quickly.”
Carlsen made another attempt to move, but their three wills were pinning him to the chair like iron bands. He experienced a sense of helplessness, of being a child in the hands of adults. It cost him an effort to speak. “You’d be stupid to kill me. You could make use of my body, but it wouldn’t deceive anybody who knew me.”
“That will not be necessary. All that we require of you is that you give your television interview this evening. You will then recommend that the Stranger should be brought back to earth immediately. You will say that it is stupid to delay when other countries might get there first. After that, I shall announce that you have been placed in charge of an expedition to bring back the Stranger, and you will leave early tomorrow for moon-base. That is all that will be required of you.” Carlsen stared back, fighting off the fatigue and a deepening sense of defeat. The voice said: “Make your choice now.”
The girl said: “Shall I try to persuade him?” Without waiting for a reply, she sat on Carlsen’s knee and tilted back his head. It was done without coquetry, like a nurse preparing a patient for an operation. As he felt her cool hands on his skin, he was aware of the draining of his energies as they flowed into her hands. She was using her body to intensify the contact; he was aware that under the brown skirt she was almost naked. Paradoxically, in spite of his exhaustion, he felt a stiffening of desire. With her hands over his ears, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth against his. Again he experienced the drowsy delight, the desire to surrender, to allow her to take possession of his will. As she felt his relaxation, she moved her bare arms around his neck, and the lips became moist and urgent. He felt the life being drained from him into her body; the vital forces were flowing like blood from an open artery. When he tried to move, with a final effort at protest, he felt the united force of their wills pinning him to the chair. Then, as he ceased to resist, the sense of helplessness dissolved into a glow of response. It seemed to be due to the movements of her buttocks, pressing rhythmically against him in a simulation of lovemaking. He could feel the warmth of her breasts against him, and he wanted to reach up and tear the material from her shoulders. The desire became hard and violent; he was aware of her surprise as he ceased to be passive. It was then that he realised he could use his will against her, pinning her closer and forcing her mouth against his with a strength that emanated from a source in the centre of his brain. Without moving his body, he was holding her as a bird might hold a worm. As he sucked the vital energy from her, his whole body burned with the greed of absorption.
Armstrong’s voice said: “What are you doing, Vraal? Don’t kill him.”
He tightened his grip, giving himself up wholly to the pleasure of drinking the essence of her being. The intensity of the contact made his flesh burn.
He saw Jamieson grip her shoulders; he released his grip as she was torn away from him. Jamieson used so much force that she staggered against the desk and fell to the floor. Jamieson started to speak, then saw the bruised mouth and the shocked exhaustion in her eyes. His reaction was instantaneous; he turned on Carlsen, and the force of his will was like a bolt of lightning. It should have smashed Carlsen back in his chair, ending his resistance like a bullet in the solar plexus. But Carlsen’s reaction had been even faster; he parried the blow, turning it aside like a boxer rolling to a punch; then, before Jamieson could recover, his own will-drive struck back, catching Jamieson in the ribs and throwing him sideways into the wall. A movement to his left made him aware of Armstrong; before he could throw up a defence, a clumsy hammer-blow of force had struck him on the side of the head. The pain irritated him into using more power than he intended. His flash of anger caught Armstrong’s shoulder like a blow from the paw of a bear, breaking the bone; Armstrong spung across the room, his head cracking against the wall. He half turned and slumped to his knees, the eyes blank and stunned.
Jamieson had dragged himself upright; he was supporting himself against the desk as he stared at Carlsen. The left eye was half closed, and blood ran down the cheek; yet it was a measure of his power that his face showed no defeat or fear. He said quietly: “Who the hell are you?”
As Carlsen started to formulate an answer, he was suddenly aware that it was unnecessary. The question was not addressed to him. A voice was speaking from his lips in a foreign language that he was able to understand. It said: “I come from Karthis.”
He was aware that it was the language of the Nioth-Korghai.
Jamieson reached into his pocket, pulled out a snow-white handkerchief and mopped the blood from his face. His voice was level and calm. “What do you want with us?”
“I think you know that.” As he spoke, he observed that the vampire who had possessed the girl was now detaching itself from her body. Although Carlsen was looking in the opposite direction, some additional sense made him aware that she was moving towards the window. He said: “You cannot escape, Vraal. It has taken us more than a thousand years to find you. We shall not allow you to go again.” He caught her and forced her back into the room. Heseltine and Fallada were staring in amazement at the transparent violet shape now visible against the wall. It shimmered in the light, its internal energies causing a constant motion, so that it resembled coiling smoke.
Carlsen turned to Fallada. “I apologise for speaking in a foreign language. In our natural form we communicate by thought alone, but we can still use the ancient language of the Nioth-Korghai.”
Fallada said: “I don’t understand. Are you. . .?”