Necroscope

trying to even up the score. Already it promised to be a severe winter.

Boris Dragosani and Max Batu were coming to England from a place far colder, however, and in any case climate had no part in their scheme of things. It was not a consideration. If anything the cold suited them: it matched precisely the emotionless iciness of their hearts, the sub-zero nature of their mission. Which was murder, pure and simple.

All through the flight, not too comfortable in the rather stiff, unyielding seats of the Aeroflot jet, Dragosani had sat and thought morbid thoughts: some of them angry and some fearful or at best apprehensive, but all uniformly morbid. The angry thoughts had concerned Gregor Borowitz, for sending him on this mission in the first place, and the fearful ones were about Thibor Ferenczy, the Thing in the ground.

Now lulled by the jet's subdued but all-pervading engine noise, and by the hiss of its air-conditioning, he sank down a little farther into his seat and again turned over in his mind the details of his last visit to the cruciform hills…

He thought of Thibor's story: of the symbiotic or lamprey-like nature of the true vampire, and he thought of his agony and his panic-flight before merciful oblivion had claimed him half-way down the wooded slope. That was where he had found himself upon regaining consciousness in the dawn light: sprawled under the trees at the edge of the overgrown fire-break. And yet again he had cut short a visit to his homeland, returning at once to Moscow and putting himself directly into the hands of the best doctor he could find. It had been a complete waste of time; it appeared he was perfectly healthy.

X-ray photographs disclosed nothing; blood and urine samples were one hundred per cent normal; blood- pressure, pulse and respiration were exactly what they should be. Was there any condition that Dragosani was aware of? There was not. Had he ever suffered from migraine or asthma? No. Then perhaps it had been the altitude. Had his sinuses been causing him any concern? No. Had he perhaps been overworking himself? Hardly that! Did he himself have any idea as to the source of the trouble? No.

Yes, but it didn't bear thinking about and couldn't be mentioned under any circumstances.

The doctor had given him a pain-killing prescription, against the possibility of a recurrence, and that had been that. Dragosani should have been satisfied but was not. Far from it…

He had attempted to contact Thibor at long range. Perhaps the old devil knew the answer; even a lie might contain some sort of clue; but — nothing. If Thibor could hear him, he wasn't answering.

He had gone over for the hundredth time the events leading up to his terrible pain, his flight, his collapse. Something had splashed on his neck from above. Rain? No: it had been a fine night, bone dry. A leaf, a piece of bark? No, for it had felt wet. Some filthy bird's dropping, then? No, for his hand had come away clean.

Something had landed on the top of his spine, and moments later both spine and brain had been gripped

and squeezed! By something unknown. But… what? Dragosani believed he knew, and still hardly dared to give it conscious thought. Certainly it had invaded his sleep, bringing him endless nights filled with bad dreams — recurrent nightmares he could never remember in his waking moments, but which he knew were terrible when he dreamed them.

The whole thing had become a sort of obsession with him and there were times when he thought of little else. It had to do not only with what had happened, but also with what the vampire had been telling him when it happened. And it also had to do with certain changes he'd noticed in himself since it happened…

Physiological changes, inexplicable changes. Or if there was an explanation, still Dragosani was not yet ready to face up to it.

'Dragosani, my boy,' Borowitz had told him not a week ago, 'you're getting old before your time! Am I working you too hard or something? Maybe I'm not working you hard enough! Yes, that's probably it: not enough to keep you occupied. When did you last bloody your oh so delicate fingers, eh? A month ago, wasn't it? That French double-agent? But look at you, man! Your hair's receding — your gums, too, by their look! And with that pallid complexion of yours and your sunken cheeks, why, you could almost be anaemic! Maybe this jaunt to England will do you good…'

Borowitz had been trying to get a rise out of him, Dragosani knew, but for once he had not dared rise to the bait. That would only serve to draw more attention to himself, which was the last thing he wanted. No, for in fact Borowitz was more nearly correct than he could possibly guess.

His hair did seem to be receding, true, but it was not. A small birthmark on Dragosani's scalp, close to the hairline, told him that much. Its position relative to his hair had not changed in ten years at least; ergo, his hair was not receding. The change was in the skull itself, which if anything seemed to have lengthened at the rear. The same was true of his gums: they were not receding, as Borowitz had suggested, but his teeth were growing longer! Particularly the incisors, top and bottom.

As for anaemia: that was purely ridiculous. Pale he might be but not weak; indeed he felt stronger, more vital in himself, than ever before in his life. Physically, anyway. His pallor probably resulted from a fast-developing photophobia, for now he literally shunned the daylight and would not go out even in dim light without wearing dark glasses.

Physically fit, yes — but his dreams, his nameless fears and obsessions — his neuroses…

Quite simply, he was neurotic!

It shocked Dragosani to have to admit it, even though he only admitted it to himself.

One thing at least was certain: no matter the outcome of this British mission, when it was finished Dragosani intended to return to Romania at his earliest opportunity. There were matters, questions, which must be resolved. And the sooner the better. Thibor Ferenczy had had things his own way for far too long.

Beside Dragosani in the cramped three-abreast seats, but with a dividing arm up to accommodate his girth, Max Batu chuckled. 'Comrade Dragosani,' the squat little Mongol whispered, 'I am supposed to be the one with the evil eye. Had you perhaps forgotten our roles?'

'What's that?' said Dragosani, starting up in his seat as Batu commenced speaking. He glared at his grinning companion. 'What do you mean?'

'I don't know what you were thinking about just then,

t

my friend, but I'm certain it bodes no good for someone,' Batu explained. 'The look on your face was very fierce!'

'Oh!' said Dragosani, relaxing a little. 'Well, my thoughts are my own, Max, and none of your business.'

'You are a cold one, Comrade,' said Batu. 'Both of us are cold ones, I suppose, but even I can feel your chill. It seeps right into me as I sit here.' The grin slowly faded from his face. 'Have I perhaps offended you?'

'Only with your chatter,' Dragosani grunted.

'That's as may be,' the other shrugged, 'but 'chatter' we must. You were supposed to brief me, tie up those loose ends which Gregor Borowitz left dangling. It would be a good idea if you did it now. We are alone here — even the KGB have not yet bugged Aeroflot! Also, we have only one hour before we arrive in London. In the embassy such a conversation might prove difficult.'

'I suppose you're right,' said Dragosani grudgingly. 'Very well, then, let me put the pieces together for you. It is perhaps preferable that you're fully in the picture.

'Borowitz first conceived of E-Branch about twenty-five years ago. At that time a large Russian group of so- called 'fringe-scientists' were starting to take a real interest in parapsychology, still largely frowned upon in the USSR. Borowitz was interested — had always been interested in ESP — despite his very much down-to-earth military background and otherwise mundane persuasions. Strangely talented people had always fascinated and attracted him: in fact he was himself a 'spotter' but hadn't realised it. When finally he did realise that he had this peculiar talent, he at once applied for a position as head of our ESPionage school. It was initially a school, you see, with no real application in the field. The KGB weren't interested: all brawn and bullet-proof vests, ESP was far too esoteric for them.

'Anyway, since his Army service was coming to a close,

and because he had good connections — not to mention his own not inconsiderable talent — he got the job.