by Colin Wilson
Carlsen bent down and peered at the tiny red globules, each the size of a pinhead.
“Electronic bugging devices?”
Fallada laughed. “Right the first time. But not the kind you’ve ever come across.” He closed the tin and dropped it into his pocket. “Would you like to come this way?”
He led the way through an inner door and switched on a light. They were in another small laboratory. The benches were lined with cages and glass fish tanks. The cages contained rabbits, hamsters and albino rats. In the tanks, Carlsen recognised goldfish, eels and octopuses.
Fallada said: “What I am going to tell you now is known to no one outside this institute. I know I can rely on your discretion.” He stopped in front of a cage that contained two tame rabbits. “One of these is a buck, the other a doe. The doe is now in heat.” He reached out and pressed a switch. A television screen above the cage was illuminated with a green glow. He pressed another button, and a wavy black line began to undulate across the screen; it might have been the path of a bouncing rubber ball.
“That is the lambda reading of the buck.” He pressed another button; a second, white line appeared, this one achieving higher peaks than the first. “That is the doe’s.”
“I don’t quite understand. What is it measuring?”
“The life field of the rabbits. Those small red objects were tiny lambda meters. They not only measure the intensity of the animal’s life field; they also emit a radio signal, which is picked up and amplified on this screen. What do you notice about these two signals?”
Carlsen stared at the wavering lines. “They seem to run more or less parallel.”
“Precisely. You notice an interesting kind of counterpoint — here, and here.” He pointed. “You have heard the phrase. ‘Two hearts beating as one.’ This shows that it is more than a piece of literary sentimentality.”
Carlsen said: “Let me make sure I understand you. You’ve planted these tiny red bugging devices inside the rabbits, and we’re now watching their heartbeats?”
“No, no. Not their heartbeats. The pulse of the life force in them. You could say that these creatures are in perfect sympathy. They can sense one another’s moods.”
“Telepathy?”
“Yes, a kind of telepathy. Now observe this doe.” He moved to the next cage, in which a solitary rabbit was listlessly gnawing a cabbage leaf. He switched on the monitor above the cage. The white line appeared, but this time it had fewer peaks, and its movement seemed sluggish.
“The doe is on her own, and she is probably bored. So her lambda reading is much lower.”
“In other words, their lambda reading is increased by the intensity of their sex drive?”
“Quite. And you ask if the meters are placed near the hearts. No. They are placed close to the sexual organs.”
“Interesting.”
Falladt smiled. “It is more interesting than you realise. You see” — he switched off the monitor — “not only does the rabbit’s life field intensify when it is in a state of sexual excitement. As you can see, their life fields interact. And I will tell you another interesting thing. At the moment, as you see, the buck’s field is weaker than the doe’s. That is because the doe is in heat. But when the buck mounts the doe, its life field becomes stronger than the doe’s. And now the doe’s peaks move in obedience to the buck’s, instead of vice versa.” Fallada laid a hand on his arm. “Now I am going to show you something else.” He led the way to the far end of the room, to a bench that contained only glass tanks. He rapped on the side of one of these. A small octopus, whose total width was about eighteen inches, started up from the rocks at the bottom of the tank and glided gracefully towards the surface, turning gently with a movement that made it resemble drifting smoke. Fallada pointed. “If you look carefully, you can see where we have planted the meter.” He switched on the monitor above the tank; the line that appeared had a slow, undulatory motion, without the sharp peaks that characterised the rabbits’ graph.
Fallada moved to the next tank. “This is a moray eel, one of the most unpleasant creatures in the sea. They regard the Mediterranean octopus as a rare delicacy.” Carlsen peered in at the devilish face that looked out from a gap between rocks; the mouth was open, showing rows of needle-sharp teeth. “This one is hungry — he hasn’t been fed for several days.” He switched on the monitor; the graph of the eel was also sluggish, but it had a surging forward motion that suggested reserves of power. Fallada said: “I am going to introduce the moray into the octopus’s tank.”
Carlsen grimaced. “Is that necessary? Couldn’t you just tell me what happens?”
Fallada chuckled. “I could, but it wouldn’t convey much.” He slid back a bolt on the metal lid that covered the octopus tank. “Octopuses love freedom, and they’re adepts in the art of escape. That’s why they have to be kept in closed tanks.” From under the bench he took a pair of transparent plastic pincers; they resembled coal tongs, but the handles were longer. He dipped them cautiously into the eel’s tank, reached down cautiously, then suddenly made a lunge. The water churned as the eel lashed violently, trying to bite the invisible jaws that gripped it.
Carlsen said: “I’m glad that’s not my hand.”
With a swift movement, Fallada raised the moray clear of the water and dropped it into the octopus tank. It swam down like an arrow through the green water. Fallada gestured at the monitor. “Now watch.”
Both graphs were visible: the octopus’s, still sluggish but intensified by alarm; the moray’s, surging now into peaks of anger. As Carlsen peered into the tank, Fallada said: “Watch the graphs.”
For the next five minutes, nothing seemed to change. In the tank, the moray had blundered around for a moment, blinded by the mud and vegetable particles churned up by its movements. The octopus had vanished completely; Carlsen had seen it slide between the rocks. The moray swam in the far corner of the tank, apparently unaware of its presence. “Do you see what is happening?”
Carlsen stared at the graphs. He now observed a certain similarity in their patterns. It would have been difficult to put into words, but there was a sense of counterpoint, as if the graphs were bars of music. The octopus’s graph was no longer sluggish; it was moving with a jerky movement.
Slowly, as if taking a stroll, the moray idled its way across the tank. There could now be no doubt about it; the two graphs were beginning to resemble each other in a way that reminded Carlsen of the courting rabbits. Suddenly the moray slashed sideways, driving into a crack in the rocks. A cloud of black ink darkened the water in the tank; the moray brushed the glass, its cold eyes staring out for a moment at Carlsen’s face. There was a lump of the flesh of the octopus in its jaws. He looked up again at the graphs. The moray’s had surged upwards: it moved forward with a series of peaks, like a rough sea. But the octopus’s graph had now changed completely. Once again, it had subsided into gentle undulations.
Carlsen asked: “Is it dying?”
“No. It has only lost the end of a tentacle.”
“Then what has happened?”
“I am not certain. But I think it has accepted the inevitability of death. It senses that nothing can save it. That graph is actually characteristic of pleasure.”
“You mean it’s enjoying being eaten?”
“I don’t know. I suspect the moray is exercising some kind of hypnotic power. Its will is dominating the will of the octopus, ordering it to cease to resist. But of course I could be wrong. My chief assistant thinks that it is an example of what he calls ‘the death trance.’ I once talked to a native who had been seized by a man-eating tiger. He said he experienced a strange sense of calm as he lay there waiting to be killed. Then someone shot the tiger, and he became aware that it had torn off most of his arm.”
The moray had returned to the attack. This time it gripped the octopus, trying to tear it away from the rock; the octopus was clinging with all its tentacles. The moray made a half turn then dived in to attack. This time it went for t
he head. There was more ink. On the monitor screen, the octopus’s graph suddenly leapt upwards, wavered and then vanished. The moray’s graph showed an upward sweep of triumph.
Fallada said: “That shows that the moray is very hungry. Otherwise, it would have eaten the octopus tentacle by tentacle, perhaps keeping it alive for days.” He turned away from the tank. “But you have still not seen the most interesting part.”
“God, don’t tell me there’s more!”
Fallada pointed to a grey box between the tanks. “This is an ordinary computer. It has been registering the fluctuations in the life fields of both creatures. Let’s have a look at the eel’s.” He touched several buttons in guide succession; a slip of paper emerged from a slot in the computer. Fallada said: “You see, the average is 4.8573.” He handed Carlsen the paper. “Now the octopus’s.” He pulled out the slip of paper. “This is only 2.956. It has little more than half the vitality of the eel.” He handed Carlsen a pen. “Would you add those figures together?”
After a moment, Carlsen said: “It’s 7.8133.”
“Good. Now let us check the reading of the moray during the past few minutes.”
He pressed more buttons, and handed Carlsen the paper without even looking at it. Carlsen read the figure aloud: “Seven point eight one three three. That’s astonishing. You mean the moray’s actually absorbed the life field of the… Christ…” He felt the hair on his scalp prickle as he understood. He stared down at Fallada, who was smiling happily.
Fallada said: “Precisely. The moray is a vampire.”
Carlsen was so excited that he could hardly speak consecutively. “That’s incredible. But how long does it last? I mean, how long will its field be so high? And how can you be sure that it’s really absorbed the life field of the octopus? I mean, perhaps the triumph of getting food sends its vitality shooting upwards.”
“That is what I thought at first — until I saw the figures. It always happens. For a short period, the life force of the aggressor increases by precisely the amount it has taken from the victim.” He looked into his glass, saw that it contained nothing but melting ice cubes, and said: “I think we deserve another drink.” He led the way back into the office.
“And does it apply to all living creatures? Or only to predators like the moray? Are we all vampires?”
Fallada chuckled. “It would take hours to tell you all the results of my researches. Look.” He unlocked a metal cabinet and took out a book. Carlsen saw it was a bound typescript. The Anatomy and Pathology of Vampirism, by Hans V. Fallada, F.R.S. “You are looking at the result of five years of research. More whisky?”
Carlsen accepted it gratefully. He dropped into the chair, turning over the pages of the typescript. “This is Nobel Prize stuff.”
Fallada shrugged. “Of course. I knew that when I first stumbled on this phenomenon of vampirism six years ago. In fact, my dear Carlsen, there is no point in being modest about it. This is one of the most important discoveries in the history of biological science. It places me in the same category as Newton and Darwin. Your health.”
Carlsen raised his glass. “To your discovery.”
“Thank you. So you see why I am so fascinated by your discovery — these space vampires? It follows logically from my theory that there must be certain creatures who can completely drain the lifeblood of fellow creatures — or rather, their vital forces. I am convinced that is the meaning of the old legends of the vampire — Dracula and so forth. And you must have noticed very often that certain people seem to drain your vitality — usually rather dreary, self-pitying people. They are also vampires.”
“But does this apply to all creatures? Are we all vampires?”
“Ah, there you have asked the most fascinating question of all. You observed the rabbits — how their life fields vibrated in sympathy? This is because there is a sexual attachment. When this happens, one life field can actually reinforce another. And yet my researches prove beyond all doubt that the sexual relation also contains a strong element of vampirism. This is something I first came to suspect when I studied the case of Joshua Pike, the Bradford sadist. You remember — some of the newspapers actually called him a vampire. Well, it was true, literally. He drank the blood and ate parts of the flesh of his victims. I examined him in prison, and he told me that these cannibal feasts had sent him into states of ecstasy for hours. I took his lambda readings while he was telling me these things — they increased by more than 50 percent.”
“And cannibals too.” Carlsen was so excited that he spilled whisky on the typescript; he mopped it with his sleeve. “Cannibal tribes have always insisted that eating an enemy enabled them to absorb his qualities — his courage and so on…”
“Quite. Now, that is an example of what I call negative vampirism. Its aim is total destruction of the victim. But in the case of sex, there is also positive vampirism. When a man desires a woman, he reaches out towards her with psychic forces, trying to compel her submission. And you know yourself that women can exert that same kind of power over men!” He laughed. “One of my lab assistants here is an ideal subject. She is literally a man-eater. It’s not her fault. She’s basically quite a sweet girl — tremendously generous and helpful. But a certain kind of man finds her irresistible. They hurl themselves at her like flies on flypaper.” He pointed to the typescript. “Her lambda readings are in there. They reveal that she’s a vampire. But this kind of sexual vampirism is not necessarily destructive. You remember all the old jokes about ideal marriages between sadists and masochists? They are basically accurate.”
The telescreen buzzed. It was the lab assistant they had seen earlier. “The body’s arrived, sir. Do you want me to go ahead with the tests?”
“No, no. I’ll come across now.” He turned to Carlsen. “Now you can see my methods in action.”
In the corridor, they stood aside to let past two ambulance men who were wheeling a stretcher. Both saluted Fallada. In Lab C, the assistant, Grey, was examining the face of the dead girl through a magnifying glass. A middle-aged, bald-headed man sat on a stool, his elbows on the bench behind him. When Fallada came in, he stood up. Fallada said: “This is Detective Sergeant Dixon of the Crime Lab. Commander Carlsen. What are you doing here, Sergeant?”
“I’ve got a message from the Commissioner, sir. He says not to go to too much trouble. We’re fairly certain who did it.” He gestured towards the body.
“How?”
“We managed to get fingerprints off the throat.”
Carlsen looked down at the girl. Her face was bruised and swollen. There were strangulation bruises on her throat. The sheet had been pulled far enough back to reveal that she was still clothed. She was wearing a blue nylon smock.
Fallada asked: “Was he a known criminal?”
“No, sir. It was this chap Clapperton, sir.”
“The racing driver?”
Carlsen asked: “You mean Don Clapperton?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Fallada turned to Carlsen. “He disappeared in central London on Tuesday evening.” He asked Dixon: “Have you found him?”
“Not yet, sir. But it shouldn’t be long.”
The lab assistant asked: “Do you still want to go ahead, sir?”
“Oh, I think so. Just for the sake of a routine check.” He asked Dixon: “Now, let me see, Clapperton was last seen at what time?”
“He left his home at about seven o’clock, on his way to a children’s party in Wembley. He was supposed to give away the prizes. He never arrived there. Two teenagers say they saw him at about seven-thirty in Hyde Park with a woman.”
Fallada said: “And this girl was killed by him about eight hours later, in Putney?”
“Looks like it, sir. Suppose he had some kind of brainstorm. Probably lost his memory and wandered around for hours…”
Fallada asked Carlsen: “What time did your space vampire escape from the S.R.I. building?”
“About seven, I suppose. You think —”
/> Fallada raised his hand. “I’ll tell you what I think when we’ve examined the body.” He told Grey: “I want to show Commander Carlsen how we test for negative life energy. So could you set up the apparatus on the man over there?”
Dixon said: “I’ll leave you now, sir. The Commissioner says he’ll be in his office until seven o’clock.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll tell him the result.” The body of the dead man was still lying on the trolley near the door, now covered with a sheet. Carlsen guided the other end of the stretcher as they wheeled it to the other end of the laboratory.
Grey said: “In through that door.”
It was a small room that contained only one bench. Suspended above this was a machine that reminded Carlsen of an X-ray apparatus. Carlsen helped the assistant transfer the body to the bench. Grey pulled off the sheet and dropped it onto the trolley. The man’s flesh was yellow and rubbery. The line made by the rope was clearly visible in the flesh of his neck. One eye was half open; Grey closed it perfunctorily.
Attached to the wall behind the bench was a large L-field meter, the scale calibrated in millionths of an amp. Next to this was a television monitor. Grey attached one lead to the man’s chin, clamping the other to the loose flesh of his thigh. The needle on the meter swung over. Grey said: “Point nought four. And he’s been dead for nearly forty-eight hours.”
Fallada came in. He looked at the reading, then said to Carlsen: “You see, this man also died by violence.”
“Yes, but by his own hand. That’s not like being beaten and strangled.”
“Perhaps. Now what we are going to do is to induce an artificial life field with this Bentz apparatus. Watch.” He pressed a switch; a faint blue light glowed down from the apparatus above the corpse, accompanied by a rising sound that soon passed beyond the range of audibility. After about a minute, the needle of the lambda meter began to climb steadily. Seven minutes later, it had climbed to 10.3, slightly lower than that of a living body. The needle wavered there. Fallada said: “I think that’s as high as it will go.” He snapped off the switch, and the light slowly died. Fallada indicated the meter. “Now it should take about twelve hours before the life field leaks away. And that is in spite of the decomposition that must have started in his intestines.”