The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [17]
the situation; and by their clinging to the things they can’t give up, all the cravings and addictions; the repressions and the aversions.’
While he was speaking he repeated his actions. He seemed to be building an untidy cage around the beds, thought Jeremy, scrabbling underneath for the end of the wire.
‘Fear and despair; the anguish of loss; the cankers of envy, hate and greed; all the forms of inturning agony you can think of can cause a person to be stuck. But in the end, most do manage to see what they’re doing to themselves and then they can move on, into the light.’
‘But what about the fiends, Doctor?’
He stopped his work and looked gravely at the Brigadier.
‘The N-Forms. Yes. You know already, Lethbridge-Stewart, that the power generated by negative emotion can have enormous potential for evil.’
‘Do I?’ said the Brigadier.
‘It was the force used by the Master to raise the last of the Daemons.’
‘Ah. Yes. Devil’s End. Quite right.’
Still the Doctor had not started to work again. ‘What do you think must be the inevitable consequence of the amount 59
of negativity generated by all those selves who have managed to quit N-Space?’
‘Not – ah – not good?’
‘Not at all good. Just as the joy of the light is manifest in the shape of angels or devas or whatever, as Sarah was telling us earlier, so the power of the darkness is imaged in the form of fiends.’
Was he telling them that the fiends weren’t really, really real? thought Jeremy. Only images? Sort of projected, like at the pictures, sort of?
‘Ah,’ said the Brigadier, his face clearing. ‘Not real, then. Just the appearance of reality? Right?’
‘Wrong. They’re no less real than all other living beings in the world of appearances. No less an illusion, true, but that’s something else.’
As the Doctor turned away and picked up another coil of wire, Jeremy heard the patter of scurrying feet, ever and anon giving way to a hiccup of a skip, as though the runner was trying to overtake himself.
‘Alistair! My boy! He is acoming! I have him espied with my I-spy‐glass from the top of the tower! He is acoming up the hill; like the Jack and the Jill he is acoming!’
60
‘Calm down, Uncle,’ said the Brigadier to the little shock-headed figure. ‘I take it you mean the Vilmio fellow.
Leave it to me. I’ll deal with him.’
He put a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder and led him away, saying, ‘It might be as well if you kept out of the way. I suggest you go to your room. And don’t worry.’
As the Brigadier made his way via the hall to the entrance lobby below, he heard the jangling of the bell. So he’d arrived had he, he thought grimly, this – this gangster who’d scared the wits out of a helpless old man like a fifth form bully terrorizing a new bug in the playground. He was quite looking forward to meeting him.
He heard the door creak open and the murmur of Umberto’s voice, answered by the rumbling tones of an American: ‘Don’t mess with me, you old bum.’
The Brigadier’s lips tightened and he quickened his step. Again he heard Umberto’s polite murmur and arrived in time to see the giant figure, with an oath, roughly push the old butler aside and advance into the lobby.
‘Can I help you?’ said the Brigadier, his mind professionally busy categorizing the newcomer: Six foot seven in height (at least) and the breadth was muscle, not fat. Dark hair, tanned rugged face. Black leather glove on the right hand. Mohair suit – or vicuna? Cutaway shirt 61
collar, silk tie; soft leather moccasins, Gucci probably.
Moving on his toes like a boxer…
‘Can I help you?’ he repeated, when he received no answer. The big man had stopped, his arms slightly lifted as if ready for a punch-up. A surprised frown flicked across his brow.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Lethbridge-Stewart,’ replied the Brigadier.
‘I represent my uncle, Mario Verconti.’
‘Old Dopey here takes me for some sort of a mug. He’s been trying to tell me the Barone’s not in the castello.’ The stillness of the man was more menacing than any threatening