The Mobius Murders

by Brian Lumley

  “But…d’ye think there’s a chance he’ll talk about it?”

  Harry shrugged. With his thoughts temporarily elsewhere, he nevertheless managed a reply. “I imagine he’ll be taking questions toward the end of his talk. Maybe you should ask him about it then?”

  “Why, Ah just might at that!” said the other. “But look ye, the doors are openin’ the noo!”

  Aye, thought Harry, as the double doors swung open. So they are. And in we go—the noo! Which could be his last chance to have a small silent chuckle at himself for quite a wee while to come…

  Inside, beyond the foyer, inner doors opened into what had been the drill hall from which the place had taken its name: a large hall where would-be boy soldiers had learned the basic elements of military drill. Now, before a small stage, it was decked out with four rows of stacking chairs twelve to a row, and the rest of the wide expanse of polished oak floorboards was empty. Even under the not too bright ceiling lights the place looked unashamedly naked, making it glaringly obvious that advance bookings had been few and far between.

  So, would Gordon J. Hemmings be disappointed? Harry thought not, for the forthcoming lecture was only one reason why he was here, and by no means the main reason. It was just another hunting trip where he was concerned: the monster’s way of spreading his Möbius murders abroad, of making his snail trail more difficult to follow.

  But now it was just a few minutes after seven, and suddenly from behind drab curtains in the left wing of the stage…who but the man in question—who but the Möbius murderer in person—had suddenly made his entrance? None other than the fat man, Harry’s quarry, Gordon J. Hemmings himself.

  Being one of the last in the queue, the Necroscope had only just paid for his seat, his tenner going to a down-at-heel person who was probably the drill hall’s caretaker, collecting the money on Hemmings’ behalf. Now, as Harry chose an aisle seat in the back row, the collector hastened up onto the stage where he shook hands with the impatiently waiting Hemmings, adjusted the microphone on the center-stage lectern, coughed loudly, and introduced the “guest speaker.”

  “And now if ye’ll be so kind, a big hand for the guid Professor Hemmins’ himself, and mah most sincere apologies that Ah had tae hold up the proceedin’s with the takin’s and all. Professor Hemmins’…” With which he nodded to the fat man, accepted his overcoat, and invited him to the lectern before leaving the stage.

  Harry joined in the applause which wasn’t much, and unwilling to be noticed just yet turned up his collar, shrank down in his chair and made himself as inconspicuous as possible. At the same time, however, even while trying to mask his own presence, the Necroscope was very much aware of Hemmings’—more specifically of his undeniable magnetism—and couldn’t take his eyes off him.

  As for “fat man:” that description of Hemmings was entirely fitting. At some six foot three inches in height and verging on obese, the monster was huge: flabby in his body, jowly, and (but what was this?) pale-faced under his combed-forward straggle of receding red hair? But “the red devil”?—as Harry had often as not thought of him—what, pale-faced? At first surprised, however, Harry quickly realized that his expectations, his preconception of Hemmings’ features, had for some time now been based on that unforgettably nightmarish transformation he’d witnessed at the Möbius interface in the alley off Princes Street, as Wee Angus’ life-force was sucked out of him; based on that, and also on Latimer Calloway’s narrative. But now the facts of the matter were fully established…that the malevolent reddening only occurred when this monstrous creature was feeding.

  And having started upright in his chair in reaction to Hemmings’ pallid complexion, now Harry was as quick to shrink down again, unnoticed; but still his attention was rapt upon the fat man; upon (but what else to call it?) his magnetism. The Necroscope, psychically gifted, could sense it: this palpable sphere of force surrounding Hemmings like an invisible bubble, sending out writhing tendrils of cold energy into his unsuspecting audience. Some kind of sixth sense or soul-seeking mechanism? Harry was uncertain; perhaps it was simply Hemmings’ mutant nature—his repressed hunger—reaching out and salivating, as it were, in anticipation of whatever the night had yet to offer.

  Well perhaps, and perhaps not; there was no way of knowing. So that when Harry sensed the strange psychic chill of one such wisp hovering close by, wary and unwilling to let it touch him, he leaned well away and felt relieved when it moved on.

  A glance at the others in the audience sufficed to tell him that no one else had been affected by Hemmings’ weird aura, and it appeared that this was all it was: an emanation of which the great leech himself might not be entirely aware, his otherness. And satisfied that such was probably the case, Harry refocused his attention upon his quarry and what he was saying.

  He had missed only a little of Hemmings’ self-introduction, yet the monster was already well into one of his specialist subjects: mathematics and, according to him, the all-important but misunderstood secrets of abstruse and esoteric numbers.

  In this regard, nothing of what the fat man said from where his bulk overflowed the oblong outlines of the lectern was virgin knowledge to the Necroscope; most of it was readily available in text books, and a lot more in Harry’s metaphysical mind. But still it was obvious that compared with any normally numerate person—to any layman—Hemmings was a past master of his subject.

  Momentarily losing interest at one point, Harry was quickly drawn back to Hemmings’ discourse when he heard mention of Pythagoras of Samos. The reason for this was that he was well aware of sixth century B.C.’s Pythagoras’ abounding interest not only in mathematics but also the Laws of Nature (in fact the universal laws of physics, which Pythagoras believed could be deduced by pure thought); also in a fifth element other than fire, air, earth and water—which could only be the substance of heavenly bodies, the stars themselves and the spaces between them;—the transmigration of souls; and, of course, mysticism in general.

  “Naturally, his were seminal beliefs,” Hemmings’ phlegmy yet oddly gutteral voice reached out to an apparently rapt audience. “Twenty-six centuries ago, Pythagoras and his disciples did not have the benefit of slide rules, computers, quantum physics, or any of today’s scientific marvels. And yet, despite their paranoia over irrational numbers and their determination to obscure or deny various mathematical truths they developed a ‘religion’—which is to say their science—to an amazing degree…”

  And after a brief pause, a drawing of breath: “I am a Pythagorean! I firmly believe in several Pythagorean…let’s call them ‘theories.’ But unlike Pythagoras I do have the benefit of today’s modern scientific marvels, and of the all too frequently limited ‘advances’ that we are alleged to have made. But, in a statement such as that, am I decrying science and scientists? No, I am simply lamenting their inadequacies; I am admitting my belief in an astonishing power of numbers that lies far beyond addition, subtraction and division; beyond the ‘fabulous’ formulae of the physicists: beyond any curious quantum calculations or computer devised simulations, and even beyond—far beyond—the beyond itself! And this is a belief to which few contemporaries, if any, give even the slightest degree of credence!

  “More fools them…

  “Thought, pure thought…the power of thought! Science is dominated, it relies upon observation and experimentation, methodology—but Pythagoras taught that the laws of nature and the universe were accessible to pure thought! And in that was he so very different to certain of our greatest thinkers? I think not. Einstein himself was very fond of his so-called Gedanken Experiments, which formed much of his theory of relativity. But away with your blackboards full of risible scribble and bloated calculi; the most important of all Einstein’s equations was indeed as brief as a thought, a scrawl on a scrap of paper, a Gedacht: E = mc2—without which there would be no atom bomb and no nuclear energy. Which, we may suppose, many would consider a good thing!

  “But I tell you, thought experiments such a
s those are only the beginning, and if Pythagoras had lived in our time, in Einstein’s time, ahhh! What marvels then? Well, he didn’t—but I do or did, for Einstein died as recently as 1955. And I despair that I never met him, despite his limitations…”

  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 uncommon 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.