“I will speak, although I know it is useless. No one here is concerned with justice. But I would like to point out a simple fact. The Nioth-Korghai, like the human race, are mortal. We of the Ubbo-Sathla have achieved a kind of immortality. Is it nothing to have discovered the secret of living forever? You will say that we have achieved it by destroying lives. That is true. But is it not also a law of nature? All living creatures are murderers. Human beings feel no compunction about killing the lower animals for meat. They even eat the flesh of newborn lambs. And the cows and the sheep eat grass, which is also alive. Dr Fallada here has studied vampirism. He will tell you that is the basic principle of nature. If that is so, then in what way are we guilty?”
Fallada said: “Are you denying that you destroy for pleasure?”
“No.” The voice was calm and reasonable. “But since we have to kill to survive, is there any reason why we should not take pleasure in it?”
Carlsen was less concerned with the words than with the power that accompanied them. It surged into his consciousness like an electric current, producing a vision that brought a sense of ruthless delight. Human beings were trivial, irredeemably trivial; personal, self-obsessed, lazy, stupid, dishonest; a race of feeble-minded drifters, hardly better than imbeciles. If the law of nature was extinction of the weak, survival of the strong, then human beings were asking to be destroyed. In the essence of their being, they were victims.
Heseltine cleared his throat. “But surely. . . cruelty springs out of weakness, not strength?” He spoke hesitantly, without conviction.
The vampire said reasonably: “No one has a right to speak of weakness or strength who has not experienced total despair. Can you imagine what it is like to struggle for a thousand years against this possibility of extinction? After that, we saw no reason to accept death while there was still a chance of life. Do you condemn us for that?”
He was speaking to Heseltine and Fallada, but it was Jamieson who answered. He said: “You condemn yourself. You have just said that murder is a law of nature. You intended to murder us. Is there any reason why we should not murder you?”
“If you had the power, that is what I would expect of you.” There was no sarcasm in the voice. “But the Nioth-Korghai do not believe that murder is a law of nature. They believe in higher laws.” He tilted his head back, without looking directly at the ball of light. “That is why I want to know what you intend to do with us.”
Again the voice communicated without words. “That will be decided on Karthis.”
“But we cannot return to Karthis unless you give us the energy of transformation.”
“That will be given to you.”
“When?”
“Now, if you want it.”
Carlsen experienced the explosion of incredulity and delight. It ceased a moment later as the alien left his body. He tried to look toward the light, but it hurt his eyes. He glimpsed the pain on Heseltine’s face, then covered his face with his hands. It made no difference; the light seemed to be inside him, filling him with joy and terror. He was aware that the energy flowed from the being in the centre of the room, yet came from some other source in the universe. This in itself struck him as a revelation. The normal limitations of his mind had dissolved; he understood suddenly that all human knowledge is secondhand and drained of its content of reality. Now he was able to glimpse the reality directly, and the ecstasy was unbearable. His fear was mitigated by the knowledge that he was only a spectator; this force was flowing for the aliens. He opened his eyes and looked at the vampires. They were absorbing the energy, gulping it, bathing in it; and it flowed through them, their shapes solidified; their colour deepened and their outlines became firmer until they resembled physical bodies, seething with an inward force like coiled smoke. As he watched, they ceased to absorb; instead, they began to radiate energy, like the being in the centre of the room. This lasted only for a moment; patches of darkness formed in the light. Then he understood. He wanted to shout a warning, to advise them to retreat and begin all over again. Then, with a suddenness that shocked him, they had vanished; it was as if three electric light bulbs had simultaneously burned themselves out.
The room became dim and strangely silent. Fallada’s voice said: “What happened?” Carlsen was amazed that he could speak.
Jamieson shouted: “Wait. Don’t go yet.” Carlsen looked up and understood why the light was fading. Although it remained suspended in the same place, the Nioth-Korghai gave an impression of receding, as if hurtling into the distance. Carlsen experienced a feeling of loss that was as acute as pain. It was reality that was fading, and his thoughts tried to hold it back. Then he knew it was impossible; its business on earth was finished. As they watched, it shrank to the size of a pinpoint, hovered coldly, like a star in the dawn sky, then vanished. At once the room seemed to become cold and dull, as it filled with a snowy twilight. The usual dreamlike unreality, which he had always taken for normal consciousness, was back again.
Jamieson expelled a shuddering sigh of fatigue, and touched a button on the desk; the windows opened automatically. The sound of Whitehall traffic filled the room; the warm air smelt of summer. For several minutes no one spoke. Heseltine was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed. Fallada was slumped forward, his chin against his chest, although his eyes were open. The girl had dropped onto a reclining chair in the corner and was breathing through her open mouth. Carlsen closed his own eyes and ceased to resist the rising fatigue. As he did so, he experienced a stab of sexual excitement, and a momentary image of bare thighs. He opened his eyes and looked at Armstrong, who was staring intently towards the girl. By glancing out of the corner of his eye, Carlsen could see that she was lying with parted knees; her dress had slid up her thighs. Carlsen closed his eyes again. There could be no doubt about it; he was tuning in to Armstrong’s excitement. He shifted his attention towards the girl and knew that she was asleep. His mind caught the confused images of her dreams. He turned his attention to Jamieson and immediately realised that he was less exhausted than he pretended to be. Jamieson possessed remarkable inner powers of endurance and the tough, unreasoning stubbornness of the man who loves power. He was looking at Carlsen and Fallada and wondering how he could persuade them to remain silent. . .
The buzzer on the desk startled them all. Jamieson snapped: “Hello?” and his voice had a note of suppressed hysteria. The secretary’s voice said: “The Minister of Works to see you, sir.”
Jamieson said: “Not now, for Christ’s sake.” He made an effort to control himself. “Make some excuse, Morton. Tell him something’s come up unexpectedly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jamieson shook himself and sat up, looking from one to the other. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” He looked and sounded like a man who has exhausted himself from vomiting. Carlsen was interested to observe that this was acting. For Jamieson, it was a matter of policy to hide his thoughts. “Merriol, get the whisky out, will you?” Carlsen could sense Armstrong’s disappointment as she pulled down her dress and stood up.
Armstrong laughed nervously. “I’ve never needed one so much in my life.”
Jamieson nodded approvingly. “I think you behaved admirably, my dear chap.”
Armstrong accepted the compliment modestly. “Thank you, Prime Minister.”
Carlsen met Fallada’s eyes. Both were aware of what was happening. The situation called for responses beyond the normal range of daily emotions; Jamieson and Armstrong were “normalising” it.
The girl placed the whisky decanter on the desk, and a tray of glasses. Jamieson slopped whisky into six glasses, unashamed of the shaking of his hand. He raised the tumbler to his lips and drained it, then set it down again, breathing heavily. Carlsen accepted a glass from the tray; whisky dripped from its bottom onto his leg. The drink tasted raw and unfamiliar, as if he were drinking petrol. It came to him that he had not entirely lost the sense of a deeper reality. It was as if he had become two persons; one looking out through his eyes at the world around him, the other looking at it from a different position, as if slightly to one side. And the tension between the two endowed him with the power to fight against the dream.