Lifeforce

by Colin Wilson

  Under the unrelenting pressure, he felt his defences yielding; the thing was forcing its way past them. He was suddenly aware of the consequences that would follow. This creature intended to enter his nervous system and sever it from his will; he would be a prisoner in his own brain, unable to move, like a fly bound by spider’s silk. It needed to keep his individuality alive, but only for the sake of its knowledge. The thought of sharing his brain with the alien lent him a frantic strength. With his teeth clenched tightly together, he forced it away. This time he locked his will, as if contracting his arms and legs into the foetal position. The thing continued to cling, without relaxing its grip, hoping to exhaust him. It was aware now that there were no pretences. They were enemies; nothing could change that.

  Ten minutes passed; perhaps more. His strength began to return. The alien’s chief weapon was fear; yet he realised that, deep down inside, he was not afraid. He had grasped its weakness, the angry desire to impose its will that made it careless. It had the desire to be absolute master at all costs; and now it had been placed in a position where it could not destroy something it hated. As the thought passed through his mind, he felt it becoming angry again; his insight was like a taunt. It renewed the pressure, tearing frantically at his locked will. Again he resisted with the strength of desperation. After a few minutes, he realised that it was defeated again. Some instinctive biological loathing had aroused a deeper resistance. He felt a flow of power, a sense of being prepared to resist for days or weeks if necessary. He experienced a curious pride. This creature was in every way stronger than he was; its power and knowledge made him feel like a child. Yet some universal law made it unable to invade his feeble individuality against his will.

  The pressure suddenly relaxed. He opened his eyes, which had been tightly closed, and noticed that the dawn was streaking the sky outside the windows. Then he was alone again. He moved his hands and realised that the bed was soaked with perspiration, as if he had suffered from a fever. His pyjamas were as wet as if he had just taken a shower with them on. He pulled the damp sheet around his neck, turned the pillow over onto its other side, and closed his eyes. The room seemed strangely peaceful and empty. A moment later he was deeply asleep.

  He was awakened by the sound of a key in the door. It was the chief orderly, Lamson; he was carrying a tray. He said cheerfully: “Good morning. It’s a lovely morning. I’ve brought you coffee.”

  Carlsen struggled into an upright position. “That’s kind of you. What’s the time?”

  “Eight-fifteen. Dr. Armstrong says there’ll be breakfast in half an hour.” He placed the tray on Carlsen’s knees.

  “What’s this?” Carlsen pointed to the glossy magazine on the tray. The cover looked familiar.

  “Ah, I wonder if you’d mind, sir?” Lamson was holding out a pen. “My nephew’s a great admirer of yours. Would you sign your picture for him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes, after I’ve given the other gentlemen their coffee. Isn’t that Dr Fallada, the man who does the Crime Doctor programmes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And haven’t I seen the other gentleman on TV?”

  “Sir Percy Heseltine, the Commissioner of Police.”

  Lamson whistled. “Not often we get such famous visitors. Matter of fact, it’s not often we get visitors at all… except relatives, of course.”

  He went out, leaving the door slightly ajar; Carlsen watched him push the trolley on to the next door.

  As he drank the coffee, he re-read the article. It was headed: “Olof Carlsen — Man of the Century.” He winced as he recalled the nonstop publicity of three months ago; it had been more exhausting and nerve-wracking than his most difficult assignments in space exploration. This was one of dozens of similar articles that had appeared in the world’s press; it was sentimental, with a double-page colour photograph of Carlsen with Jelka and the children.

  As Lamson came back in, Carlsen asked: “What’s your nephew’s name?”

  “Georgie Bishop.”

  He signed the photograph “For Georgie, with best wishes,” and handed the magazine and pen to Lamson.

  “He’ll be real thrilled.” He looked at the photograph. “You’ve got good-looking kids.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You”re lucky.” He doubled the magazine and slipped it into the pocket of his white smock.

  “Do you have children?”

  “No. The wife didn’t want ‘em.”

  “You’re married?”

  “I was. That’s all over now. We separated.”

  Carlsen changed the subject. “Have you seen this man Reeves today?”

  “Oh, yes. I took his breakfast up at seven. We put the sedative in, as the doctor suggested.”

  “How was he?”

  “Well… I wouldn’t have thought it necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was pretty quiet already.” He did a pantomime of a zombie, the eyes glazed and vacant, mouth hanging open, arms flopping loosely at his sides.

  “Will it knock him out?”

  “No. Just make him feel happy and relaxed. You don’t want him unconscious if you’re going to try hypnosis.”

  Carlsen asked curiously: “How did you know we are? Did Armstrong tell you?”

  Lamson grinned. “He didn’t have to. He told me to prepare the nortropine-metbidine mixture for injection. That’s only used for pre-hypnosis and severe shock, and I know Reeves isn’t in shock.”

  “You should be a detective.”

  Lamson was obviously pleased. “Thanks.”

  “How does this drug operate?”

  “Induces mild paralysis of the nervous system — makes their minds go blank, if you like. After that, they’re easy to hypnotise. Dr Lyell — the man who used to be in charge of this place — used a lot of it. Dr Armstrong says he doesn’t approve of it.”

  “Why not?”

  Lamson shrugged and grunted. “Says it’s equivalent to brainwashing.” He looked keenly at Carlsen, decided he could trust him, and said: “I think it’s a lot of balls. Dr Lyell didn’t want to brainwash anybody. He just wanted to help people.”

  Carlsen said sympathetically: “I know what you mean.” He had already concluded that Armstrong was the kind of man who gave high-minded moral reasons for decisions that were based on laziness.

  Lamson sighed. “I’m not so sure you do.”

  “No? Why do you think we’re here?”

  Lamson looked at him, startled. “What?” Carlsen realised he had misunderstood the question, “You don’t mean —”

  There was a knock on the door. Fallada’s voice called: “Ready to eat, Olof?” The door handle turned.

  Lamson said: “Oh, well, I’d better get back anyway. See you later.” He stood aside for Fallada, then went out.

  “Still in bed? Shall I come back?”

  “No, come in.” Fallada closed the door. “I’ve just been talking to Lamson.”

  “He seems a good man.”

  “Too bloody good.” Carlsen collected his clothes and went into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. “He checked up on this man Reeves last night. And I think he’s given us away.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  For some reason, Carlsen felt unwilling to talk about what had happened in the night; it seemed too personal. “He says Reeves is back to normal this morning.”

  “Normal?”

  “Semi-imbecillic.”

  There was a silence. Carlsen tucked his shirt into his trousers. Fallada said: “So you think it’s moved on?”

  “It looks like it.” He began to shave with the electric razor. Neither spoke until he had finished. When he came out of the bathroom, dabbing after-shave on his face, Fallada was staring gloomily out of the window, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets. “So this… creature is still one jump ahead of us?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “It may have moved back to
the girl — the nurse.”

  “Probably it did. And found out that we know about her too.”

  “And it could be anywhere in this place — or out of it, for that matter.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and Carlsen felt no need to reply. He folded his pyjamas and packed them in the bag. Fallada stared at him thoughtfully. “I could try hypnotising you again.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “To begin with, it’s too dangerous. It might try and move into me while I’m hypnotised. And second, it wouldn’t do any good anyway. I’ve lost contact with it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  He was glad Fallada asked no more questions.

  On the sunlit lawn, Sergeant Parker was lying on his back, adjusting the vertical takeoff jets of the Grasshopper. Carlsen said: “Aren’t you coming for breakfast?”

  “I ate with the medical staff, thank you, sir.”

  “Did you see a woman there? Nurse Donaldson?”

  “Oh, yes.” He cried. “She asked a lot of questions about you.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Well, like whether you were married.” He winked.

  “Thanks.” As they walked on, Carlsen told Fallada: “That answers your question.”

  “Does it?”

  “If she was possessed by the alien, she wouldn’t ask questions. She’d try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

  Fallada said thoughtfully: “True.” He smiled. “You’re becoming a Sherlock Holmes.”

  Armstrong’s dining room caught the morning sunlight. Heseltine was already seated at the table. Armstrong rubbed his hands. “Good morning. What a beautiful morning. Did you sleep well?”

  They both made affirmative noises.

  Armstrong said: “Lamson administered a tranquilliser to Reeves. In his coffee, of course. I also told Lamson to prepare a mild hypnoid solution. That’s probably the simplest way, if you want to ask him questions — don’t you think?”

  Fallada said absent-mindedly: “Excellent. You think of everything.”

  “I’m delighted to be of use. Really delighted.” He called into the kitchen: “George, more coffee please.” He stood by the door, beaming at them. “Please sit down. Don’t wait for me — I’ve already eaten. I’ll leave you now and do my ward round. George will get you anything you need.” He went out, closing the door carefully. The youth with a cast in one eye, now wearing a white coat, brought in coffee and grapefruit segments.

  When they were alone, Fallada said: “I’m afraid it’s going to be a waste of time.”

  Heseltine looked up quickly. “Why?”

  Carlsen said: “It’s only a suspicion. I’ve been talking to Lamson. He told me Reeves has changed again. He doesn’t seem alert any more.” He still felt the same reluctance to talk about what had happened in the night.

  Heseltine shook his head. “So what do you suggest?”

  Carlsen said: “Let’s continue as before. It can’t do any harm to question this man Reeves.”

  Fallada said: “Perhaps he may still be in mental contact with the alien, as you were. He might even be able to tell us where it is now.”

  “That’s possible.” But even as he spoke, Carlsen knew it was untrue.

  The youth in the white coat brought in eggs and bacon. During the remainder of the meal, there was no conversation. Carlsen could sense that the other two were depressed, at the prospect of failure. His own feelings seemed to be strangely passive and dormant, as if exhausted by the strains of the past few days.

  Armstrong returned as they were finishing the meal; he was followed by Lamson and another male nurse.

  “Was there enough to eat? Good. I always start the day with a good breakfast.” Armstrong was wearing a white coat; Carlsen observed that he seemed unusually cheerful. “I’m convinced that’s the trouble with half the people in here.”

  Heseltine looked at him in astonishment. “Breakfast?”

  “Or lack of it. They never acquired the breakfast habit. And the result: nervous tension, bad temper, ulcers — and emotional strain. I’m serious. If you really want to cut the crime rate in England, persuade everyone to eat a good breakfast.” He laid his hand lightly on Carlsen’s shoulder. “Eh, Commander?”

  Carlsen said: “Yes, I agree.” He realised now what was different: he no longer possessed insight into the minds of those around him. He realised it as Armstrong touched his shoulder; the contact was anonymous, devoid of intuition.

  Armstrong rubbed his hands. “Well, gentlemen, are we ready to start?”

  They all looked at Carlsen; somehow it was assumed that it was his decision. He said: “Yes, of course,” and stood up.

  “Then I would suggest that Lamson and I go in first. He’ll assume it’s the usual medical checkup.” He explained to Fallada: “I check his adrenaline levels throughout the period of the full moon. If they get too high, there’s danger of psychotic panic, in which case we administer tranquillisers.” He turned to Carlsen and Heseltine. “Perhaps you’d better keep out of sight until we’ve injected him.”

  They followed him across the hall and up two nights of stairs. Carlsen found the place depressing. It had been built around the turn of the century, when the rate of mental illness was soaring. The architecture was purely functional. The plastic walls, which had once produced an impression of light and air, were now greasy and scratched. On each landing, there were metal doors, with peeling green paint. Armstrong said: “Those are the main wards. We keep the solitaries on the top floor, in soundproof rooms, so as not to disturb the others. Would you unlock the door, Norton?” The male nurse inserted keys into the two keyholes and turned them simultaneously; the door swung open without creaking. The walls of the corridor beyond were decorated with a plastic mosaic showing mountain scenery. Armstrong said: “Reeves is in the room at the other end.” Carlsen observed that he refrained from calling them “cells.”

  The door at the far end of the corridor opened, and Ellen Donaldson came out; she closed it carefully behind her. She looked startled to see so many people; then, as her eyes met Carlsen’s, she went pale. As Armstrong drew level with her she grasped his sleeve.

  “Could I speak to you for a moment, Doctor?”

  “Not now, Nurse. We’re busy.” He brushed past her.

  “But it’s about Reeves —”

  He turned on her sharply. “I said not now.” His voice was not loud, but there was a steely undertone of command. The two orderlies exchanged glances of surprise. The nurse turned away and walked past them. Carlsen expected her to glance at him, but she walked on without raising her eyes. Her manner puzzled him. It was not the reaction of a senior nurse who has been irritably dismissed; she seemed totally subdued and without resentment.

  Norton opened the door and stood aside for Armstrong to enter. Without turning, Armstrong made a peremptory gesture with his hand, ordering them not to approach. Lamson was filling a syringe from a rubber-capped bottle.

  It was then Carlsen understood. Suddenly, with no possibility of doubt, he knew that Armstrong was harbouring the alien. At the same time, in the same instantaneous process of comprehension, he knew what had to be done. He reached out his hand towards Lamson, smiling. Lamson looked startled, but allowed him to take the syringe. He stepped past Norton with a single stride. Armstrong was bending over a man who lay on the bed, saying: “Good morning, Reeves —” Before he could go on, Carlsen’s left arm was around his throat, jerking him backwards. Norton shouted something. Carlsen’s senses were totally calm. With a strength that surprised him, he pulled Armstrong’s head back against his chest, carefully sighted the syringe, then drove it carefully through the cloth of Armstrong’s jacket. He felt Armstrong wince as the point drove home; then, without haste, Carlsen pressed the plunger. Lamson had moved to the head of the bed, where he could see Carlsen’s face. As their eyes met, Carlsen smiled and nodded. He had a sense of being totally in control of the situ
ation. He counted to ten and felt Armstrong relax against him. He allowed his body to sag to the floor. Suddenly, Armstrong moved, twisting onto his face and flinging his arms around Carlsen’s legs. Carlsen had made allowance for such a move; he dropped immediately, his knees striking between Armstrong’s shoulder blades, pressing him to the floor. At the same time, Lamson knelt on Armstrong’s thrashing legs. Armstrong struggled for a moment, then the efforts became weaker and ceased. When Carlsen turned him over, his eyes were glazed.

  Heseltine, his voice unexpectedly calm, said: “What was that for?”

  Carlsen smiled at Lamson. “Thanks for your help.”

  Lamson said: “You should have told me. I always thought there was something odd about him.”

  “I daren’t risk it.” He turned to Fallada and Heseltine. “Let’s get him to an empty room. I want to question him before it wears off.” He asked Lamson: “Where could we take him?”

  “Down to surgery, I should think. Hold on a minute, I’ll get a wheelchair.” He went away and returned a moment later, opening a collapsible bathchair with a canvas back. “Give us a hand, Ken.”

  For the first time, Carlsen looked at the man on the bed. He seemed unaffected by the commotion. He was staring at the ceiling, his face calm. He was powerfully built and tall, but with slack, sallow skin. In spite of the breadth of his shoulders and the powerful hands, it was difficult to think of him as dangerous.

  Lamson said: “I’ll take him down in the lift. I’ll meet you on the ground floor at the bottom of the stairs.”

  As soon as they were on the stairs, Fallada asked: “What happened?”

  “I realised the vampire had moved into Armstrong.”

  Heseltine asked: “Can you be certain of that?”

  “Quite certain. I should have guessed earlier. I don’t know why I didn’t. Armstrong was the logical choice for the next takeover. Shifty, vain, full of sexual hang-ups.”

  “How did Lamson know?”

  Carlsen laughed. “He didn’t. I said something this morning that made him think we’re after Armstrong. And he hates Armstrong.”