Lambert felt the need to shield his eyes, even though he stood behind a screen of tinted glass. The light inside the examination room was blinding, pouring down from four huge fluorescent banks.
Mackenzie was strapped to a trolley in the centre of the room and, as the policeman watched, two men dressed in white overalls undid the straps and lifted him onto a table. They hurriedly secured him again and one of them, a tall man with blond hair, pulled each of them to ensure they were tight enough. The man turned towards the glass partition behind which stood Lambert, Kirby and Dr Stephen Morgan. The man raised a thumb and Morgan nodded.
He was in his forties. What people like to refer to as 'well-preserved,' for he looked barely older than thirty. He had a carefully groomed moustache which seemed as though it had lost its growing strength when it reached the corners of his mouth and drooped downwards. His blue eyes were obscured somewhat by thin tinted glasses which he removed and began polishing with a handy tissue.
Lambert looked back into the examination room. Mackenzie was now lying, apparently unconscious, on a hinged couch which could be adjusted by a large screw on the side and, as he watched, the intern with the blond hair twisted it so that Mackenzie was propped up slightly. His mouth opened briefly, as if he were going to protest, then it closed tightly. A tiny dribble of yellowish saliva escaped and ran down his chin.
A nurse dressed in a white smock entered from a door which led off to the right. She paused beside the couch, looking briefly at Mackenzie, then she looked at Morgan. He jabbed a finger towards a trolley which stood beside the couch. The nurse reached for a swab and dipped it into a kidney dish full of clear liquid. She dabbed it carefully onto five places on the top of Mackenzie's head.
'What's that?' asked Lambert, fascinated by the ritual which was taking place before him.
'Conductant,' explained Morgan.
The Inspector nodded abstractedly and continued to watch the preparations. Next, the nurse attached five electrodes to the places where she had applied the swab. She looked at Morgan who swiftly checked his readout. The machine which he stood beside looked, to Lambert, rather like a computer. It had a long length of thin paper running through it and, across this, lay a metal arm which would translate into visual terms, by means of lines, the brain waves received from Mackenzie. Lambert almost laughed. It reminded him of a he detector he had once seen on an American crime film.
Morgan flicked a switch and a red light came on, signalling that the machine was ready for operation. He raised his hand and the nurse and both interns retreated from the room. A second later they joined Lambert and the others in the observation area.
Morgan flicked another switch.
'We'll test the motor impulses first,' he said.
'I thought the machine usually recorded all the waves at once,' said Kirby.
'Most of them do,' Morgan told him. 'This modification, testing each centre of the brain individually, makes it easier to pin down the trouble and it makes things a damn sight easier for me.'
He pressed the green button and the machine whirred into life.
'Here goes,' muttered Morgan.
Lambert didn't know where to look. His eyes flitted back and forth, from Mackenzie to the machine, from machine to Mackenzie. Morgan stood over the readout, a deep furrow creasing his brow. He readjusted his glasses, as if that act would somehow rectify what he was seeing.
'There's no movement at all,' he said, softly. The arm on the paper was immobile, the tiny piece of graphite it held was stationary. Just one continual black line drawn on the paper, unbroken and unwavering. No loops, no zigzags. Nothing.
'There's no brain impulses at all,' said Morgan, scarcely believing what he saw.
'Perhaps the machine is acting up,' said Lambert hopefully.
Morgan shook his head. He turned to the blond intern, Peter Brooks. 'Turn off the lights.' Brooks slapped a switch and, immediately, the examination room was plunged into darkness. Two huge shutters had been put up at the vast plate glass windows which looked into the room and not a single chink of light infiltrated the blackness.
'Christ,' whispered Morgan, watching as the needle swung back and forth with a ferocity which threatened to tear it loose. It drew parabolas, pyramids, all with vast savage strokes.
'Lights,' snapped Morgan and, once more, the examination room was filled with blinding white light.
The needle on the readout stopped swinging and settled back into its unerring parallel course, never deviating from the straight line it drew.
'That's incredible,' muttered Morgan.
'You see what we mean about the light?' said Kirby. 'In bright light he's dormant, but in darkness he goes crazy.'
Morgan stroked his chin thoughtfully. He looked down at the readout and then across at the still form of Mackenzie. He'd never seen anything like this before and the discovery sent a thrill of excitement through him. He told Brooks to turn off the lights once more.
It happened again. The needle swung crazily back and forth across the readout sheet, never settling into a pattern, just looping and tearing up and down.
Lambert looked worriedly at Kirby. He had noticed that Mackenzie had moved his right hand, was flexing the fingers.
'Put the lights back on,' he snapped.
Brooks hesitated.
'No, wait,' said Morgan, fascinated by the course the needle was taking. So intent on watching it was he, that he didn't notice Mackenzie raise his head and look up.
The nurse stifled a scream as she saw the twin red orbs which had once been eyes, staring at her through the darkness.
Lambert now crossed to the light switch, seeing that Mackenzie was straining against the straps. With a loud crack, one of them securing his arms broke and he began tearing at the broad one which covered his chest and pinned him to the couch.
Morgan looked into the examination room, horrified as he watched Mackenzie breaking free.
Lambert pressed the light switch.
Nothing happened.
Frantic, he pressed it again.
Mackenzie was sitting up now, tearing at the strap which was fastened across his thighs. Another few moments and he would be free.
Lambert slapped the switch frenziedly. For a brief second he thought they were going to work. All four powerful banks flashed with brilliant white light and Mackenzie screamed as the brightness scorched his blazing red eyes. But then, one by one, the tubes blew, exploding in a shower of hot glass, their ends glowing red as they died. Smoke rose from them in silvery wisps.
The darkness was total.
With a last desperate surge of strength, Mackenzie tore free of the final strap and swung himself off the couch. The nurse screamed.
Brooks reached for the door which connected the examination room with the observation booth.
'Get some light in there,' screamed Lambert, following him.
The Inspector stood no more than three feet from Mackenzie, staring into those bottomless red eyes, riveted by the obscene thing before him. Then Mackenzie leapt.
Lambert, with a speed born of fear, threw himself to one side and avoided the rush. Mackenzie crashed into a surgical trolley but was up in an instant and grabbing for the policeman once more.
'The shutters,' screamed Lambert, 'open the shutters!'
Mackenzie was upon him, powerful hands grasping for his throat, forcing him back over the couch. Lambert smelt the fetid breath in his face, disgusted as the yellow spittle dripped onto him. He struck out, his fist slamming into Mackenzie's forehead. The grip slackened momentarily and Lambert brought his knee up into the man's stomach.
Brooks, meantime, was struggling to tear down the shutters. A chink of light lanced through the blackness
