Necroscope: The Mobius Murders (20 page)

At which Harry felt obliged to shake his head and hope that no one had noticed. And he thought—
What, a “doctrinaire,” the fat man? Something of an understatement, that!
But Hemmings was moving on:

“Pythagoras was a mathematician; but he also wondered about the nature of space and the stars, and postulated his invisible ‘fifth element’ of which they were made. Alas that he could not demonstrate the existence of the element; so for all that there was no proof of such, his Pythagorean disciples were obliged to simply accept that it was so—because the master said so! But
still
I tell you he was close to the truth…not close enough, but close. An expert on geometry as it was in his era and as he further developed it, perhaps he should have given more thought—more
pure
thought—to Riemannian and non-Euclidean theories of spaces which exist
between
the three-dimensional spaces that we accept as reality: the topology of space-time! But of course he couldn’t; Euclid’s era lay three hundred years in the future, while Riemann and Einstein and others such as Möbius, they were entire millennia ahead! But even if Pythagoras had been able to think as they thought—and who can say he didn’t?—he still would not have had the mathematics to explore such notions.”

At which the focus of the Necroscope’s attention became yet more pinpoint, for this was the closest the great leech had come so far to revealing his own knowledge in respect of such supposedly conjectural “spaces between spaces”, and in particular the Möbius Continuum! And so, unwilling to miss any further revelations, Harry leaned forward and peered over the shoulder of the man in front, while still managing to keep his collar turned up and his face at least half hidden.

And meanwhile Hemmings had continued:

“Now, what spaces ‘between’ spaces am I talking about? What on earth can I possibly mean by such a statement? Well,
nothing on Earth
, let me assure you! I am talking about parallel dimensions: weird regions outside of space and time, where space and time may not even exist!—and likewise all our so-called ‘laws of physics!’”

At which point, pausing abruptly, Hemmings looked momentarily startled. But then, drawing his bulk more fully upright and lifting his piggy eyes from his notes on the lectern, he glared steeply down and to one side into his audience, and queried:

“Eh? What…?”

For someone in the front row had lurched to his feet, beating Harry to it before his backside had risen even half an inch from the seat of his chair. Just what Harry had intended—what comment he had been about to make—was somewhat vague even to himself; but probably superficial and indiscreet, and therefore precipitate, it would certainly have attracted Hemmings’ attention. Instead of the Necroscope, however, it was the bespectacled UFO freak who had placed himself in the spotlight. And once again from the fat man:

“Eh? What…?” At first stalled and losing track, actually having
wobbled
a little behind the lectern, Hemmings had quickly regained control and now growled: “I may well be taking some questions later, young man…but, since you’re already on your feet, what is it?”

“Dimensions!” the other sputtered the word out. “It’s about they other dimensions!” He waved aloft his copy of
UFO Monthly
. “Ye said in the magazine here that they lights out over the sea near Stonehaven might well hae been some sort o’ incursion frae a parallel world. Indeed, ye said there wasnae any other explanation.”

“No,” Hemmings answered. “I remarked that since no one else had offered any
viable
explanation, perhaps we should look further afield. An extra-dimensional source—or ‘parallel world,’ if you insist—would be one such solution. Oh yes, definitely; for where commonsense fails to supply an answer, we must surely look elsewhere. Even to
un
common sense…wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, ye’re damn right Ah do!” the other replied. “Except—” And there he paused, squirming and agitated.

“Yes, except?”

“Well, Ah dinnae wish tae offend, but can ye no offer a wee bit o’ proof? Ah mean, d’ye hae no other evidence o’ yere alien incursion? Maybe it’s like the ’papers said: some clowns out in a boat, shootin’ off Very lights—o’ all things!”

“But no evidence of that was discovered either,” said Hemmings reasonably. “Two nights in a row: no ‘clowns’ and no boat, despite the coast guard’s extensive searches…and not forgetting the powerful searchlights of that nearby oil-drilling rig, the, er—”

“—The
Seagasso
!” the fat man’s questioner helped him out.

“Indeed!” Hemmings rewarded the other with a nod and a pale smile. “Yes of course: the
Seagasso
. And despite that the rig’s lights swept that vast watery expanse, never a single glimpse of the alleged culprits! But now let me ask
you
a question:

“If you were entering into an unknown place in the dark—venturing into a forest by night, or a subterranean labyrinth, or indeed an unexplored alien world—would not
you
make provision? Would not
you
take a torch or some sort of illumination with you? But of course you would! So then, are you suggesting that intelligent beings from other spheres or other dimensions—beings capable of visiting us—would be any less cautious? What if they came only to fathom the labyrinth, as it were, or to explore the forest…to
investigate
and nothing more? Why arrive in a vast blaze of blinding light and risk alarming the local creatures under the trees, or the bats in their cave, or
the people in their towns and cities
? Why, it seems to me that Very lights, or some alien equivalent, would provide the ideal solution! Lights out of darkness, but nothing terribly frightening.”

“Ahhh!”
sighed the other, flopping back into his chair. “O’ course! Ah think Ah see it the noo! Aye, Ah really
can
see it!” At which a handful of others in the audience, apparently swayed by Hemmings’ dubious explanation, actually applauded!

As for the Necroscope: he remained firmly in his seat. Whatever he might have said if he had risen to his feet—some deliberately provocative question, perhaps about Möbius, or space-time homeomorphisms—had for the moment fled his mind. Probably just as well, and anyway there was plenty of time yet.

And meanwhile, clearing his throat noisily, the fat man was ready to start speaking again.

“So then,” he began, and at once paused.… “But before we continue—” he looked pointedly at the UFO fancier in his front row chair, “—let me say just one more thing. Like Pythagoras, I can supply no proof of this, but I for one am absolutely certain, I repeat,
absolutely certain
, that those so-called ‘Very lights’ floating high over the sea did indeed appear out of an alien region!”

Having spoken those few extra words, Hemmings’ pallid smile was such that it seemed to encompass his entire face, even setting his loathsome aura, that obscene envelope of which the fat man hardly seemed aware and which only the Necroscope could see—the swirling ectoplasm that enclosed Hemmings’ gross body and issued those wispy tendrils—quivering like a monstrous jelly!

Why of course you’re certain
, thought Harry, clinging tight to his chair so as to hold himself in reserve,
because you
sent
those flares there! You were simply testing your device, that’s all! And now that you believe you’re making fools of us, you’re actually
laughing
at us, you evil mutant thing!

Time had sped by. A clock over the stage was busy ticking away the seconds, clicking off the minutes toward seven-forty almost before Harry was aware of it, he’d been that engrossed with what the man at the lectern was saying; some of which he accepted or agreed with, along with much that he found laughable—or would have had its source been anyone else.

The great leech had spoken of the souls of men, naming them as such so that his audience might better comprehend his topic; but he had also acknowledged a personal preference to call them “life-forces” or “essential essences.”

“Their substance is immaterial” he declared, “but much like gravity or pure thought, it is all important. Take away a man’s life-force, he is lessened to the point of death; his body will actually suffer some shrinkage, despite that the essence itself is weightless. Yet still it has a certain texture and a colour; why, at the point of death, metempsychosis, it is red as blood! And as for its
texture
: souls are the favoured pabulum of demigods and demons, the perfect nourishment for the mind and body of…well, of any vastly superior being.”

While Hemmings appeared to check himself here, offering no further explanation of that last remark, Harry wondered:
Is it possible that in some crazed, megalomaniac fashion—for he’s definitely certifiable—he considers himself some sort of demigod?
But in any case, whether he did or didn’t, the Necroscope was far more inclined toward thinking of him as a demon, or at the very least a red devil…

With an occasional glance at his watch, the great leech had also skimmed over numerology and magic, making brief mention of Paracelsus, Aleister Crowley, Cagliostro and others of the kind, not forgetting Pythagoras and his followers. And finally he had progressed to dreams, oneiromancy, precognition, before returning to and commixing the parapsychology of these concepts with such previously mentioned notions as the power of pure thought both awake and sleeping.

“Our dreams,” he declared, “are the clearing houses of our waking world problems. The subconscious minds of men—of certain men—continue to work unabated, discovering solutions to complex issues that appeared beyond comprehension in their conscious lives. Now this is not some mere theory but an accepted fact with which laymen and scientists, intellectuals and mystics alike often tend to concur. Indeed, from the very earliest of times certain talented men have dreamed the answers to what seemed unfathomable enigmas that they had struggled to resolve during waking hours.

“But we can go much further, deeper than that. Oneiro-mancy is the interpretation of dreams: the science which attempts to explain the very meaning of dreams. Alas that it so frequently fails due to the ephemeral and tenebrous nature of the subject. Similarly we have precognition, where expert dreamers may even glimpse the future! And there, in connection with matters I’ve already spoken of, with regard to extra or parallel dimensions—also with regard to pure thought, mathematics, and equations that govern the universe we
think
we know and regions we can’t as yet even
begin
to know—from personal experience I myself can guarantee the irrefutable truth and existence of precognitive dreaming!”

Following which he smiled his awful smile again; and
again
the drifting wisps of Hemmings’ aura quaked loathsomely, until the extrasensory storm of his ego gradually subsided.

Then, as that smile became a grimace, slipping slowly from his face, so his pale features took on an almost spiritual look as he continued: “Oh yes, indeed! For I have dreamed such numbers—such
incredible
numbers—that I know they can be nothing less than the keys to portals on alien regions and even to past and future times!”

That, as far as the Necroscope was concerned, said it all; he knew exactly what to do and how to set his trap. Straightening up in his chair, he stopped shielding himself behind those in front, turned down his collar and prepared to rise.

But now Hemmings was glancing once again at his watch, and saying, “There, time flies! My hour is almost up; we have only a few minutes for questions and answers, four or five at most.  Who can say? Perhaps next time if there is one, we may delve a little deeper. But for now…?”

Looking down with only a small measure of anticipation into the faces of his audience, Hemmings’ gaze immediately fell upon at least one such mainly credulous idiot; someone, no doubt, in need of just a few more specious “words of wisdom.”

For finally the Necroscope was on his feet…