Lifeforce by Colin Wilson

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