Brian Lumley
 Necroscope
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  The hotel was big and rather famous, ostentatious if not downright flamboyant, within 
easy walking distance of Whitehall, and... not entirely what it seemed to be. Its top 
floor was totally given over to a company of international entrepreneurs, which was the 
sum total of the hotel manager's knowledge about it. The occupants of that unknown upper 
region had their own elevator at the rear of the building, private stairs also at the 
rear and entirely closed off from the hotel itself, even their own fire escape. Indeed 
they-'they' being the only identification one might reasonably apply in such 
circumstances-owned the top floor, and so fell entirely outside the hotel's sphere of 
control and operation. Except that from the outside looking in, few would suspect that 
the building in total was anything other than what it purported to be; which was exactly 
the guise or aspect-or lack of such-which 'they' wished to convey.
  As for the 'international entrepreneurs'-whatever such creatures might be-'they' were 
not. In fact they were a branch of Government, or more properly a subsidiary body. 
Government supported them in the way a tree supports a small creeper, but their roots 
were wholly separate. And similarly, because they were a very tiny parasite, the vast 
bulk of the tree was totally unaware of their presence. As is the case with so many 
experimental, unproven projects, their funding was of a low priority, came out of 'petty 
cash'. The upkeep of their offices was therefore far and away top of the list where 
costing was concerned, but that was unavoidable.
  For unlike other projects, the nature of this one demanded a very low profile indeed. 
Its presence in the event of discovery would be an acute embarrassment; it would 
doubtless be viewed with suspicion and scorn, if not disbelief and downright hostility; 
it would be seen as a totally unnecessary expenditure, a needless burden on the taxpayer, 
a complete waste of public money. Nor would there be any justifying it; the benefits or 
fruits of its being remained as yet entirely conjectural and the mildest 'frost' would 
certainly put paid to them. The same principles apply to any such organisation or 
service: it must (a) be seen to be effective while paradoxically (b) maintaining its 
cloak of invisibility, its anonymity. Ergo: to expose such a body is to kill it...
  Another way to dispose of this sort of hybrid would be, quite simply, to tear up its 
roots and deny it had ever existed. Or wait for them to be torn up by some outside agency 
and then fail to replant them.
  Three days ago there had occurred just such an uprooting. A major tendril had been 
broken, whose principal function it had been to bind the vine to its host body, providing 
stability. In short, the head of the branch had suffered a heart attack and died on his 
way home. He had had a bad heart for years, so that wasn't strange in itself-but then 
something else had happened to throw a different light on the matter, something Alec Kyle 
didn't want to dwell on right now.
  For now, on this Monday morning of an especially chilly January, Kyle, the next in 
line, must assess the damage and feasibility of repairs; and if such repairs were at all 
possible, then he must make his first groping attempt to pull the thing back together. 
The project's foundations had always been a little shaky but now, lacking positive 
direction and leadership, the whole show might well fall apart in very short order. Like 
a sand-castle when the tide comes in.
  These were the thoughts in Kyle's head as he stepped from the slushy pavement through 
swinging glass doors into a tiny foyer, shook damp snow from his overcoat and turned the 
collar down. It was not that he personally had any doubt as to the validity of the 
project-in fact the opposite applied: Kyle believed the branch to be all-important-but 
how to defend his position in the face of all that scepticism from above? Scepticism, 
yes. Old Gormley had been able to pull it off, with all his friends in high places, his 
'old school tie' image, his authority and enthusiasm and sheer get-up-and-go, but men 
such as Keenan Gormley were few and far between. Even fewer now.
  And this afternoon at four o'clock Kyle would be called upon to defend his position, 
the validity of his branch's being, its very existence. Oh, they'd been quick off the 
mark, right enough, and Kyle believed he knew why. This was it, the crunch. With nothing 
to show for five years' work, the project was to be terminated. No matter what arguments 
he produced, he'd be shouted down. Old Gormley had been able to shout louder than all of 
them put together; he'd had the clout, the back-up; but Alec Kyle-who was he? In his 
mind's eye, he could picture the afternoon's inquisition right now:
  'Yes, Minister, I'm Alec Kyle. My function in the Branch? Well, apart from being second 
in command to Sir Keenan, I was-I mean I am-er, that is to say, I prognosticate... I beg 
your pardon? Ah, it means I foresee the future, sir. Er, no, I have to admit that I 
probably couldn't give you the winner of the 3:30 at Goodwood tomorrow. My awareness 
generally isn't that specific. But -'
  But it would be hopeless! A hundred years ago they wouldn't accept hypnotism. Only 
fifteen years ago they were still laughing at acupuncture. So how could Kyle hope to 
convince them in respect of the branch and its work? And yet, on the other hand, coming 
through all the despondency and sense of personal loss, there was this other thing. Kyle 
knew it for what it was: his 'talent', telling him that all was not lost, that somehow he 
would convince them, that the branch would go on. Which was why he was here: to go 
through Keenan Gormley's things, prepare some sort of case for the branch, continue 
fighting its cause. And again Kyle found himself wondering about his strange talent, his 
ability to glimpse the future.
  For the fact was that last night he had dreamed that the answer lay right here, in this 
building, amongst Gormley's papers. Or perhaps 'dreamed' was the wrong word for it. 
Kyle's revelations-his glimpses of things which had not yet happened, future 
occurrences-invariably came in those misty moments between true sleep and coming awake, 
immediately prior to full conscious awareness. The clamour of his alarm-clock could do 
it, set the process in motion, or even the first crack of sunlight through his bedroom 
window. That's what it had been this morning: the grey light of another grey day invading 
his room, getting under his eyelids, impressing upon his idly drifting mind the fact that 
another day was about to be born.
  And with it had been born a vision. But again, 'glimpse' might be a better word for it, 
for that was all Kyle's talent had ever permitted: the merest glimpse. Knowing this-and 
knowing that it would only occur once and then be gone forever-he had fastened upon it. 
absorbed it. He dared not miss a thing. Everything be had ever 'seen' in this way had 
always proved to be vitally important.
  And on this occasion:
  He had seen himself seated at Keenan Gormley's desk, going through his papers one by 
one. The top right-hand desk drawer was open; the papers and files on the desk in front 
of him had come from there. Gormley's massive security filing cabinet stood as yet 
undisturbed against the wall of his office; its three keys were lying on top of the desk 
where Kyle had tossed them. Each key would open a tiny drawer in the cabinet, and each 
drawer had its own combination lock. Kyle knew the combinations and yet had not bothered