Necroscope

It, he, was a man — a youth, anyway — naked as a baby, standing there facing Kyle, looking directly at him. But his feet weren't quite touching the carpeted floor and the bars of green light from the windows penetrated into his flesh as if it had no substance at all. Damn it — it had no substance at all! But the thing stared at him, and Kyle knew that it saw him. And in the back of his mind he asked himself: Is it friendly, or — ?

Inching his chair forward again, his eyes spied something in the back of the open drawer. A Browning 9mm automatic. He'd known Gormley carried a weapon but hadn't known about this one. But would the gun be loaded, and if it was would it be any good against this?

'No,' said the naked apparition with a slow, almost imperceptible shake of its head. 'No it wouldn't.' Which was all the more surprising because its lips didn't move by the smallest fraction of an inch!

'Jesus Christ!' Kyle gasped again, out loud this time, as he once more gave an involuntary start away from the desk. And then, controlling himself, to himself, he said:

You … you read my mind!

The apparition smiled a thin smile. 'We all have our talents, Alec. You have yours and I have mine.'

Kyle's lower jaw, already agape, now fell open. He wondered which would be easier: to simply think at the thing or to talk to it.

'Just talk to me,' said the other. 'I think that will be easier for both of us.'

Kyle gulped, tried to say something, gulped again and finally gasped out: 'But who… what… what the hell are you?'

'Who I am doesn't matter. What I have been and will be does. Now listen, I've a lot to tell you and it's all rather important. It will take some time, hours maybe. Do you need anything before I begin?'

Kyle stared hard at the… whatever it was. He stared at it, jerked his eyes away from it, peered at it out of the corner of his eye. It was still there. He surrendered to instinct backed up by at least two of his five senses, those of sight and hearing. The thing seemed rational; it existed; it wanted to talk to him. Why him and why now? Doubtless he'd shortly be finding out. But — God damn! — he wanted to talk to it, too. He had a real live ghost here, or a real dead one!

'Need anything?' he shakily repeated the other's question.

'You were going to light a cigarette,' the apparition pointed out. 'You might also like to take your coat off, get yourself a coffee.' It shrugged. 'If you do these things first, then we can get on with it.'

The central heating had come on, turning itself up a notch to compensate for the sudden fall in temperature. Kyle carefully stood up, took off his overcoat and folded it over the back of his chair. 'Coffee,' he said. 'Yes — er, I'll just be a moment.'

He walked round the desk and past his visitor. It turned to watch him leave the room, a pale shadow of a thing floating there, skinny, insubstantial as a snowflake, a puff of smoke. And yet…oh, yes, there was a power in it. Kyle was thankful it didn't follow him…

He put two five-pence pieces in the coffee machine in the main office, fumbling the coins into the slot, and headed for the gents' toilet before the machine could deliver. He quickly relieved himself, picked up his steaming paper cup of coffee on the way back to Gormley's office. The thing was still there, waiting for him. He carefully walked round it, seated himself again at the desk.

And as he lit a cigarette he looked at his visitor more closely, in greater detail. This was something he had to get fixed in his mind.

Taking into account the fact that its feet weren't quite touching the floor, it must be about five-ten in height. If its flesh was real instead of milky mist, it — or he — would weigh maybe nine stone. Everything about him was vaguely luminous, as if shining with some faint inner light, so Kyle couldn't be sure about colouring. His hair, an untidy mop, seemed sandy. Faint and irregular marks on his high cheeks and forehead might be freckles. He would be, oh, maybe twenty-five years old; he had looked younger at first but that effect was wearing off now.

His eyes were interesting. They looked atKyle and yet seemed to look right through him, as if he were the ghost and not the other way about. They were blue, those eyes — that startlingly colourless blue which always looks so unnatural, so that you think the owner must be wearing lenses. But more than that, there was that in those eyes which said they knew more than any twenty-five-year-old had any right knowing. The wisdom of ages seemed locked in them, the knowledge of centuries lay just beneath the faintly blue film which covered them.

Apart from that, his features were fine, like porcelain and seeming equally fragile; his hands were slim, tapering; his shoulders drooped a little; his skin in general, apart from the freckles of his face, was pale and unblemished. But for the eyes, you probably wouldn't look at him twice on the street. He was just… a young man. Or a young ghost. Or maybe a very old one.

'No,' said the object of Kyle's scrutiny, his lips immo bile, 'I'm not any kind of ghost. Not in the classic sense of the word, anyway. But now, since you obviously accept me, can we begin?'

'Begin? Er, of course!' Kyle suddenly felt like laughing, hysterical as a schoolgirl. He controlled it with an effort.

'Are you sure you're ready?'

'Yes, yes. Go right ahead. But — er — can I record this? For posterity or whatever, you know? There's a tape recorder here, and I — '

'The machine won't hear me,' said the other, shaking his head again. 'Sorry, but I'm only speaking to you — directly to you. I thought you understood that? But… take notes if you wish.'

'Notes, yes…' Kyle scrabbled in the desk drawers, found paper and a pencil. 'Fine, I'm ready.'

The other slowly nodded. 'The story I have to tell is… strange. But working in an organisation such as yours, you shouldn't find it too unbelievable. If you do… there'll be plenty for you to do afterwards; the truth of the things I'm going to tell you will come out then. As to any doubts you may have about the future of your branch — put them aside. Your work will go on, and it will go from strength to strength. Gormley was the head, but he's dead. Now you will be head — for a little while. You'll be up to it, I assure you. Anyway, nothing that Gormley knew has been lost; indeed, much has been gained. As for the Opposition — they've suffered losses from which they may never recover. At least, they're about to.'

As the apparition spoke, so Kyle's eyes opened even wider and he sat up straighter and straighter. It (he, dammit!) knew about the branch. About Gormley. About 'the Opposition', which was branch parlance for the Russian outfit. And what was this about them suffering heavy losses? Kyle knew nothing of that! Where did this — being — get its information? And just how much did it know anyway?

'I know more than you can possibly imagine,' said the other, smiling wanly. 'And what I don't know I can get to know — almost anything.'

'See,' said Kyle defensively, 'it's not that I doubt any of this — or even my sanity, for that matter — it's just that I'm trying to adjust, and — '

'I understand,' the other cut him off. 'But, please, do your adjusting as we go, if you can. In what I'm about to tell you, time-zones may overlap a little, so you'll need to adjust to that, too. But I'll keep it as chronologically sound as I can. The important thing is the information itself. And its implications.'

'I'm not sure I quite under — '

'I know, I know. So just sit there and listen, and then maybe you will understand.'

Chapter One. Moscow, May 1971

Central in a densely wooded tract of land not far out of the city — where the Serpukhov road passed through a saddle between low hills and gazed for a moment across the tops of close-grown pines towards Podolsk, which showed as a hazy smudge on the southern horizon, brightly pricked here and. there with the first lights of evening — stood a house or mansion of debased heritage and mixed architectural antecedents. Several of its wings were of modern brick upon old stone foundations, while others were of cheap breeze blocks roughly painted over in green and grey, almost as if to camouflage their ill-matching construction. Bedded at their bases in steeply gabled end walls, twin towers or minarets decayed as rotten fangs and gaunt as watchtowers — whose sagging buttresses and