Lifeforce by Colin Wilson Page B

the sleep out of his eyes, he knew there could be no doubt about it: he was feeling more alive. Everything seemed more vivid and exciting than he had known it since childhood.
    Jelka came back as he was drinking his second cup. He asked, “What’s the news?”
    “None.”
    “None? Didn’t they mention what had happened on the television news?”
    “Only that the aliens had all died.”
    “That’s as well. No sense in causing a panic. Any messages for me?”
    “Nothing very important. Who’s Hans Fallada?”
    “He’s a criminologist. Don’t you remember? He used to appear on the series about famous murder cases.”
    “Ah, yes. Well, he rang you. He wants you to call him back. He says it’s urgent.”
    “What’s his number?”
    When he was dressed, he rang Fallada. A secretary answered. “He’s at Scotland Yard at the moment, sir. But he left a message to ask you to come here as soon as possible.”
    “Where are you?”
    “The top floor of the Ismeer Building. But we’ll send a Grasshopper for you. When will you be ready to leave?”
    “A quarter of an hour?”
    He ate his scrambled eggs sitting in the garden, in the shade. Even there, the heat was uncomfortable. The sky was a clear, deep blue, like water. It made him want to strip off his clothes and plunge into it.
    He was drinking iced orange juice when the Grasshopper arrived. There was a policewoman at the controls. As he waved goodbye to Jelka and the children, Jelka called: “Don’t go too near the edge.”
    She was referring, to the roof of the Ismeer Building. Occupying a square quarter-mile in the City of London, this was the highest building in the world. It had been built in the days of overcrowding, by a Middle East consortium. Their solution to the problem of lack of office space in London was to build a skyscraper a mile high, with five hundred floors. They had intended to build a similar skyscraper in every capital city of the world, but devolution planning had made the idea obsolete. The Ismeer Building remained unique: the greatest concentration of offices in the world. Now the Grasshopper was climbing steeply upwards through the smokeless air and the sides of the building already loomed above them. Carlsen was suddenly reminded of the Stranger, and his heart contracted.
    He asked the policewoman: “Where are we going?”
    “The Psychosexual Institute, sir.” She seemed surprised that he didn’t know.
    “Is that run by the police?”
    “No, it’s independent. But there’s a great deal of cooperation.”
    As he stepped out onto the roof, he was surprised by the coolness. Above him, the sky looked as distant and blue as it had from the ground. He walked to the parapet; this was surmounted by a steel fence. From where he was standing, he could follow the curves of the Thames, down through Lambeth and Putney to Mortlake and Richmond. If Jelka used the astronomical telescope, she could probably see him standing there.
    The policewoman said: “I expect this is Mr Fallada.”
    Another Grasshopper was hovering above the roof; it dropped silently, landing as gently as a moth within six inches of the other vehicle. Fallada climbed out and waved to him.
    “Good, it was kind of you to come so promptly. How are you feeling now?”
    “Fine, thank you. Never better in my life.”
    “Good. Because I need some help from you. I need it urgently. Come on down.”
    He led the way down a flight of stairs. “Excuse me one moment. I must speak to my assistant.” He pushed open a door labelled Lab C. They were met by a smell of chemicals and iodoform. Carlsen was startled to find himself looking at the naked body of a middle-aged man; it lay on a metal trolley near the door. A white-coated assistant was bent over a microscope. Fallada said: “I’m back now. Sometime over the next half-hour, the Yard will be sending another body. I want you to drop everything to work on it. Call me as soon as it arrives.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He closed the door.