The Source by Brian Lumley

well. You can ask your questions later.” And when Jazz had relaxed again:
    â€œMyself, I’ve no interest in the ‘holes’ of advanced physics theory—I simply call it a monstrous threat! But that aside …
    â€œYou’ve seen Encounter Three and I’ve told you about it. As for Four: that was another anticlimax, but not quite so ordinary or acceptable as the wolf. It was a bat, order Chiroptera, genus Desmodus. Strangely, Vampyrum is the false vampire, while Desmodus and Diphylla are the true blood-suckers. This one had a wing-spread of point seven of a metre: quite a large one of its species, I’m told, but by no means a giant. It was seen coming well in advance, of course, and no chances were taken with it. As it emerged, in that self same moment, they shot it dead. But just as the wolf was a true wolf, so the bat was a true bat. Curiously, the vampire bat is a creature of South or Central America. Perhaps our grey hole was a gateway not only to other worlds but also to other parts of this world.
    â€œAnyway, I was here by this time; the rest of this account is first-hand. Oh, and I can show you film of the bat’s emergence, if you like. Not that you’ll learn anything more than I’ve already told you, for it is exactly as I’ve described it. Ah, but the Fifth Encounter … that was something entirely different.”
    At this juncture Jazz had noted how Vyotsky, behind his dark beard, had gone very pale again. He, too, had been present for that Fifth Encounter. “Get it over with,” the big KGB man had stood up, gulped down his drink, started to pace the floor. “Tell him about it, or show him the film, but get done with it.”
    â€œKarl doesn’t like it,” Khuv’s comment was entirely superfluous, his smile cold and grim. “But then, neither do I. Still, likes and dislikes change nothing. They can’t alter the facts. Come, I’ll show you the film.”

    In a second small room Khuv had something of a study. There were bookshelves, a tiny desk, steel chairs, a modern projector and small screen. Vyotsky made no attempt to join Jazz and his senior officer but poured himself another drink and stayed behind in Khuv’s living-room. Jazz knew, however, that that was the only way out of Khuv’s quarters, and that only a few scant paces and a bit of flimsy door panelling separated him from the huge KGB bully.
    Now, too, he had seen that his coming here had not been a spontaneous occurrence; Khuv had prepared himself in advance; all he had to do was dim the lights and roll the film. And whatever Jazz had expected, it certainly had not been what he saw.
    The film was in colour, had a sound track, was very professional in every way. At one side of the screen a dark, fuzzy, out of focus shadow proved to be the side of a Russian soldier, with a glinting Kalashnikov braced against his thigh. Centre screen was the sphere of white light, or “Gate” as Jazz now thought of it, and imposed on its dazzling surface—the bottom of the “picture” coming just inches higher than the boards of the walkway where it spanned the gap between the Saturn-rings platform and the sphere—was the image … of a man!
    The camera had then zoomed in, turning the entire screen white and therefore that much less dazzling, with the image of the man central. He “strode” straight ahead, looking directly into the camera. His movements were so painfully slow that each pace took long seconds, and Jazz had found himself wondering if he’d ever get here. But then Khuv had warned:
    â€œSee how the picture clears? A sure sign that he’s about to come through. But if I were you I wouldn’t wait for that. Study him now, while you can!” And obligingly, the camera had closed on the man’s face.
    The forehead was sloped, and the skull shaved except for a central lock of hair like a thick black stripe on