The sandwiches came. When he washed them down with beer, he felt better.
Harlow came on the telescreen. “She’s definitely not on this floor — probably not in the building. We’ve searched everywhere.”
“That’s impossible. She couldn’t get off this floor without a pass card.”
“She had my pass card,” Carlsen said.
“God, now he tells me!” Bukovsky turned back to Harlow. “So she can get to other floors. But not out of the building. For Christ’s sake, Robert, a naked girl can’t get far.” He turned back to Carlsen. “How in hell did she get your pass card?”
“She took it.”
“How did she know about it?”
“She read my mind.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“That complicates things. Do you think she can read the minds of the security guards?”
“Probably.”
Bukovsky went to the cabinet and poured himself a Scotch; Carlsen nodded when he held out the bottle. Bukovsky came back with the drink. Carlsen took a long pull and experienced relief as the smoky liquid burned his throat.
Bukovsky sat down. He said: “Listen, Olof, I’m going to ask you a straight question, and I want a straight answer. Do you believe this girl is dangerous?”
He said: “Of course. She killed a man.”
“That’s not what I mean. I want to know: Is she evil?”
He tried to answer, and the conflict built up inside him. His strongest impulse was to say no, but his reason told him he would be lying. Oddly enough, he felt no resentment about her, although he knew she wanted to drain his life force. Was she evil? Is a man-eating tiger evil?
As he stared at the floor, trying to find a reply, Bukovsky said: “You know what I’m asking. That man intended to rape her. She destroyed him. Was it basically self-defence?”
He knew the answer. He said wearily: “No. It wasn’t self-defence. She needed his life. She took it.”
“Deliberately?” As Carlsen hesitated, he said: “She was unconscious. I’ve seen her a dozen times. Her lambda field was .004. That’s as low as a fish frozen in the ice. Is it not possible that she had no control over what happened?”
He took his time to answer. Finally he said: “No. She had control. It was deliberate.”
“Okay.” Bukovsky stood up and went to the telescreen. He said: “Give me George Ash. . . George, those two space creatures in the specimen room. I want them destroyed. Tonight. Now. Then get a message to the Vega. They’re not to approach the Stranger. Stay at least a hundred miles from it.”
Ash headed the S.R.I. police; he was directly subordinate to Harlow. He said: “I’ll get them to the incinerator.”
Bukovsky came back. He said: “Now all we have to do is to find that girl. I wish I knew she was still in the building. A general alert’s going to cause panic.” He plunged his face in his hands; he was obviously tired. “Thank God there’s only that one.”
“Inspector Caine is here, sir.” It was Bukovsky’s secretary. Caine looked like a policeman: bulky, sad-faced, grey-haired.
Bukovsky introduced himself and Carlsen. Caine said: “Ah, yes, I recognise you, sir. You found them in the first place, didn’t you?”
Carlsen nodded. “If that’s what you can call it.”
Caine was about to go on, but Bukovsky interrupted him. “What do you mean by that?”
Carlsen shrugged, smiling tiredly. “Did we find them? Or did they find us? Had the Stranger really been there for a million years? Or was it planted so we’d find it?”
Caine obviously found this speculation futile. He said patiently: “Excuse me, sir, but I’d like you to tell me in your own words just what happened this evening.”
Carlsen went through it again, and Caine recorded it. He listened without interruption until Carlsen described running into the specimen room and finding the body.
“You say she opened her eyes. Then what happened?”
“She sat up. . . and held out her arms. . . like this. Like a baby asking to be picked up.”
“And how did you respond?”
He shook his head. It would have sounded stupid to say, “I fell in love with her.” Bukovsky was watching him closely. He said: “I did nothing. I just stared.”
“You must have been pretty shaken. Then what?”
“Then she got up — very lightly. And she tried to put her arms round my neck.”
“She wanted to drain you too?”
“I suppose so.” It was incredible how difficult he was finding it to answer their questions; an immense inner resistance was building up like a wall.
The telescreen buzzed. Ash came on. He said: “These creatures, sir. . . They’re dead already.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Come and look for yourself.”
Bukovsky went out. They followed him without speaking.
There were three policemen in the specimen room; one of them was measuring it with a tape; another was taking photographs. Adams’s body lay undisturbed. The police surgeon knelt beside it. The drawers containing the aliens were open. Carlsen saw immediately what Ash meant. There was no mistaking death. As he came closer, the faint odour of decay reached his nostrils.
When he looked at Seth Adams’s body, he was shocked. Now it was like a mummy. The flesh had shrunk tight on the bones.
Caine said incredulously: “Did you say the victim was about twenty?”
He nodded, experiencing a wave of depression. He asked Bukovsky: “I don’t suppose his mother’s been contacted?”
“No. We don’t know her address.”
“I suppose I’d better do it.” He asked Caine: “Will you be needing me again tonight?”
“I don’t think so. Are you in the telescreen book?”
“No. I’ve had to go ex-directory recently.” He gave Caine his number.
Bukovsky and the police doctor were looking down at the aliens. Bukovsky said: “Well, that only leaves one.”
Carlsen started to speak, then changed his mind. He preferred not to let them know what he was thinking.
The buzzing of the telescreen brought him out of a deep, exhausted sleep. He heard Jelka say: “Who is it?. . . I’m afraid he is asleep. . .” She was using the earphone. He asked thickly: “Who is it?”
“The police.”
“Give it here.” He took the earphone. “Hello.”
“Mr. Carlsen? Detective Sergeant Tully, sir. Chief Inspector Caine asked me to ring you. He’d like you to come immediately, if you can.”
“Is it urgent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“If you could be ready in five minutes, sir, we’re sending a Grasshopper for you.”
As he dressed, Jelka said: “Why do you have to go? Don’t they know you’re exhausted?”
“He said it’s important.”
She switched on the light between their beds. Her cheek was marked where the pillow had pressed. He pulled on his trousers over the pyjamas, then a woollen sweater. He ruffled her hair playfully, touched by protectiveness. “Go back to sleep. Lock the door, and don’t open it to anyone.”
As he walked out into the road, he switched on his homing device. He could see the blue light of an aircraft overhead. Thirty seconds later, the Grasshopper swept down silently, hovered for a moment, then landed on the road. The door opened. The uniformed policeman helped him up the steps. Only one of the three seats was empty. The man who sat behind the pilot’s cabin wore evening dress. He turned and said: “I’m Hans Fallada. How d’you do.”
Carlsen took the hand he proffered over his shoulder.
In spite of the German name, Fallada’s accent was British upper class; the voice was throaty and rich.
He said: “I’m delighted to meet you.”
Fallada said: “And I too. It’s a pity it had to be on business.”
Carlsen watched the Thames recede underneath them. In the east, the grey line of the dawn was already showing; below, the lights of the suburbs glowed yellow and orange.
Both started to speak at once. Then Fallada answered the question Carlsen had started to ask. “I’ve just flown back from Paris. It was rather appropriate really. I was addressing the annual dinner of European criminologists when they sent for me. Now it looks as if the trip was wasted.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t they told you? They think they’ve found her body.”
He was too tired to experience the full shock. He heard himself say: “Are you sure?”
“No, they’re not sure. That’s why they want you to identify her.”
He sat back in his seat, and tried to assess his reactions. His feelings seemed numb. He was certain of only one thing: that some instinctive part of him refused to believe it.
Within five minutes, the lights of central London were below them. Fallada was saying: “Amazing things, these Grasshoppers. I’m told they can do four hundred miles an hour, and land on a two-foot space in the middle of a traffic jam.” He recognised the green light on the S.R.I. building near Piccadilly. They planed down towards the black expanse of Hyde Park. The searchlight caught the still waters of the Serpentine.