A Cure for Cancer

I One too many mornings

He was awakened by a cold caress.

Mitzi's hand was on his brow. He felt the heat leave his head and he tried to jerk away.

She removed her hand.

He lay on a hard mattress in a wide four-poster with grey curtains that were drawn back so that he could see Bishop Beesley standing by the Jacobean dresser and bending over the box which stored Jerry's machine.

Ash-coloured light came through the window. Jerry took stock of his reserves. They were low.

'Good — um — hello, there, Mr Cornelius. I see my daughter's been looking after you. She's an angel. A ministering angel.'

Jerry sat up. He was still dressed in his red suit and he was unbound. He frowned suspiciously at Mitzi.

'I'm sick,' he said, 'of...'

'Cancer?'said Mitzi.

'Crabs.'

'It's a complicated state of affairs, I'm afraid,' said the bishop, chewing a Crunchie bar. The artificial honeycomb coursed down his chins. 'I've got so far, but I now need your help. I want to find out where the rest of your 'converts' are, for a start. Some are hanging on, you know, against all common sense.'

'I promised them nothing less than the Millennium.' Jerry drew a sluggish breath. 'What do you expect?'

'I'm afraid we'll have to put back the Millennium for a while.' Beesley smacked his lips. 'I know it's disappointing. They were all prepared for it, weren't they? Well, that's over. If you can help me locate them, I'll get in touch with them and arrange a deconversion. Could I say fairer?'

Jerry took a lock of his hair in his hand. It was stringy and off-white. He sniffed.

'You knew the apocalypse wasn't due for several million years yet, Mr Cornelius,' Bishop Beesley continued, 'and yet you wished to bring it about for purely selfish reasons. Reasons, I regret, that I simply fail to understand. It may be all right for you — but consider your dupes!'

'What do you think my crash programme was for?' Jerry glanced out of the window. A wind was blowing the ash northward.

'You can't save the whole human race, Mr Cornelius. Besides, I insist that your motives were still suspect, let alone your goals!'

Jerry got off the bed and walked weakly to the box but Mitzi barred his way, looking questioningly at her father. Bishop Beesley shrugged. 'We've reached something of an impasse, I'm afraid. The power seems to be weakening.'

'You can say that again.' Jerry smiled. 'What else did you expect?'

Bishop Beesley cast down his eyes in embarrassment and unwrapped a toffee. 'I never claimed to be a scientist, Mr Cornelius.'

'Naturally.' Jerry stroked the box. 'You'll have to find a power source, won't you? Whether transmission of any kind's possible now, I just don't know. Things are fixed, Bishop Beesley. They are solid.'

'The sun hasn't moved for an — for some t -' Mitzi gave up. 'It isn't moving.'

That's merely an indication,' Jerry said. 'An image, if you like.'

'What sort of power does the machine take?' Beesley asked, chewing. 'Electricity?'

Jerry laughed as best he could. 'I'm afraid not. It runs on primitive energy. It's all very basic, when you get down to it.'

'Where do we get this energy?'

'Is Cardinal Orelli still on the premises?'

'I think he went to the lavatory.'

'Never mind. Ask him in when he's finished, will you?'

'Herr Cornelius,' Mitzi whispered, 'you must explain to us everything. You must not make mysteries. It is a time for frankness. You will admit that you have no choice now.'

'Frankness.' Jerry drew a deep breath. 'You said it. Bring Cardinal Orelli in as soon as you can. I'm very tired. Time's slipping by.'

'I think I heard him on the landing.' Bishop Beesley opened the door. 'Ah, cardinal. Would you step in here a moment, please?'

Cardinal Orelli smiled at Jerry. 'How are you, my son?'

'How do you feel, cardinal?' Jerry asked.

'Very well.'

'Good.' Jerry opened the lid of the box and moved a plate set in the bottom left comer. It was about four inches wide and six inches long and eight inches deep, lined with a rubbery substance. 'Would you place your hands together, cardinal? Palm against palm.'

The cardinal smiled and assumed a praying position.

That's fine. Now put the hands into the slot there. Don't worry, it won't hurt you.'

The cardinal glanced at the bishop who nodded. Mitzi's lips parted, her eyes shone. The cardinal dipped his hands into the slot up to the wrists, the box hummed briefly, the cardinal's lifeless body crumpled to the floor.

'It's fueled again,' said Beesley, bending over the gauge. 'Good heavens!'

'It won't last long,' said Jerry. He turned a knob and gripped a metal bar positioned in the centre.

A shock raced through him and he felt a little sick, but he kicked Beesley in the crutch so that he fell back into Mitzi's arms, picked up the box and made for the door.

They yelled at him as he raced down the stairs, paused in the hall to recover his vibragun and dashed out into the grey day.

He was using up energy very quickly, in spite, of everything. He stumbled down the steps, through the gates, out over the cricket pitch, his boots sinking in ash, and behind him came Bishop Beesley and Mitzi who had paused only to get their Remingtons.

In the middle of the cricket pitch he fell and the box flew from his arms. He choked on the ash.

He tried to get up but collapsed, rolled over on his back to get his vibragun out, but already Mitzi and Bishop Beesley were standing over him, their rifles pointing at his heart.

'We'll have to try to manage on our own now that we know how to keep the machine's strength up.'

Apologetically, Bishop Beesley squeezed the trigger.

There was a pop and a slithering noise and a bullet fell out of the barrel. Mitzi pulled her trigger and the same thing happened. Her bullet fell in Jerry's lap. He felt a mild shock in his right ball.

Mitzi raised her head at the sound of barking. Bishop Beesley followed her gaze.

Coming across the ash, his head and body swathed in white furs, driving a sled pulled by a teami of a dozen dogs, including two St Bernards, a borzoi and three salukis, was a tall man armed with a steel bow and a quiver of alloy arrows. Close by he stopped the dogs and they flung themselves down panting. He fitted an arrow to his bow.

'I wonder if you'd let Mr Cornelius rise?' said the man in the white fur.

They stepped back and Jerry got up, dusting ash off his suit.

The new arrival motioned with his bow. 'What I'd like to know, bishop — I take it you are a bishop — is what you think you're accomplishing, fucking about with the sun and so forth,' said the tall figure.

'I'm trying to put things right,' Beesley said sullenly. 'I'm a journalist by trade.' He studied the other man's weapons, obviously attempting to decide if the bow and arrow were as ineffective as his rifle.

'A bow has more power, at short range, than an ordinary rifle,' said the tall figure.

'How much more power?' asked Mitzi.

'Quite a bit.'

Mitzi sucked at her lower lip.

Jerry went down on his knees beside the box and began to drag it through the grey dust towards the sled. It took him a while to load it aboard. 'I hope I'm not overburdening you,' he said to the newcomer.

'I'd allowed for the extra. They're good dogs.'

'I suppose you haven't...'

'Do you want it now?'

'I think I'd better.'

'Look under the skin nearest you.'

Jerry pulled back the wolfskin and there was a little replica of one of his webs. He switched it on and it began to pipe. He buried his head in it. That's more like it.'

'It was the best I could do,' said the man in the white furs.

Jerry straightened up.

The sun had started to move again.

2 I'm so glad

The sled slid away across the cricket pitch.

Behind it Mitzi and Bishop Beesley sat slumped in the ash. Mitzi had pulled up her skirt and seemed to be inspecting her inner thigh. Her father was unwrapping a Milky Way.

'You seem very fit,' Jerry said to his companion as the man whipped up the dogs.

Titter than ever.' They gathered speed. 'I took the opportunity of diverting some of the energy to myself while that chap was trying to do whatever it was he was trying to do.'

'So that's what happened to it. I couldn't understand...'

'It turned out for the best, I think you'll agree.'

'You can say that again.'

'Where to now?'

'Oxford, I think.'

'Okay. I suppose it was wise, was it, to leave that pair where they are?'

'Oh, I don't think they'll be much trouble now. Poor things -if we succeed, they'll hardly survive the transformation.'

'Quite.'

The runners scraped the ash and they rode in silence for a few miles until they reached the outskirts of London and the ash gave way to the asphalt of the M4o. The dogs were cut from their traces and lay down panting.

Captain Brunner pushed back his hood and pointed to an intersection and a hotel called The Jolly Englishman which stood beside a garage. 'That's where I left the car.'

Pulling the sled behind them, they made for The Jolly Englishman, followed by the pack of dogs.

Jerry checked his watches. They were ticking perfectly. He was relieved, though there were still a great many uncertainties.

It was difficult to work out in his head just what side-effects Beesley's attempts had initiated.

A counter-revolution, after all, was a counter-revolution.

They carried the equipment to the big Duesenberg and stowed it down by the back seats. Captain Brunner got into the car and started the engine. Jerry sat beside him and slammed the door.

The dogs began to howl.

'Faithful buggers,' said Captain Brunner, 'but there's nothing else for it, I'm afraid.' He turned the car on to the M4o and drove towards Oxford.

'It does you good to get out of London occasionally,' said Jerry as the evening sunlight touched the red leaves of the elms lining the road..

'Especially at this time of the year,' agreed Captain Brunner.

'Have all the Americans gone home now?'

'I think so. Beesley's messing about didn't help matters, of course. A general panic over there, by the sound of it. Just as things were settling down nicely, too.' Captain Brunner turned on the tape machine and got John, George, Paul and Ringo doing She's Leaving Home.

Jerry relaxed.

3 I don't live today

Captain Brunner pulled off his furs and stretched himself out on the yellow silks of the bed in the Oxford underground pied-a-terre.

This is a bit more like it. Hasn't changed much, has it?'

'Some things don't. Not very often, at any rate.' Jerry poured two glasses of Pernod. 'You're still fond of this, I hope.'

Captain Brunner extended an arm that glowed with energy. 'You can bet your life. Thanks.' He sipped the Pernod. 'I'm not particularly thirsty, of course, but it's nice just to taste.'

'I know what you mean.'

'Could I have a last look at Catherine, Jerry? Would you mind?'

Jerry felt a pang of jealousy. 'Of course not.'

They walked down the corridor together, entered the morgue, opened Catherine's drawer and looked down at her lovely face. 'As beautiful as ever,' murmured Captain Brunner. 'It's been a long time.'

Jerry patted his shoulder.

'I wish...' Captain Brunner turned away. 'Still, I shouldn't be here at all. Maybe it wasn't wise...' He walked swiftly from the morgue, leaving Jerry to put the drawer back and close the door.

When Jerry returned to the room, Captain Brunner had taken off all his clothes and was sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the console and tapping his knees.

'Can we get it over with now?' said Captain Brunner.

Jerry lifted the box and put it between them. He slid back the slot covering and with his red silk handkerchief he wiped it carefully. Then he stared straight into Captain Brunner's crimson eyes. 'Cheerio. Thanks for everything.'

'Cheerio, Jerry.'

Brunner put his hands together and shoved them quickly into the slot. His lips parted over clenched teeth, his body began to sag, his complexion to dull, his hair to lose its lustre. He breathed more and more slowly until he stopped, but his hands still remained in the slot until his flesh shrank and his skin turned yellow and there was little more than a skeleton lying beside the machine.

Jerry picked the corpse up and carried it in one hand to the morgue, filing it in the spare drawer farthest from Catherine's. Then he went back and inspected the machine.

Brunner had been carrying a huge supply of energy and the machine was charged to capacity, but the energy in itself wouldn't be enough to bring Catherine back for more than a few minutes. Much more energy had to be released and then channelled to give Catherine the few days of life Jerry wanted her to have.

It would require a massive build up and release of energy and this meant speeding up the time cycle (or what was left of it). Only those with their identities firmly established would survive the spin.

He felt lonely as he prepared the machine. But then he forgot his loneliness in his anticipation.

He brought Catherine in and laid her on the bed. He bolted the box to the bench he had assembled. He ran a thin pipe from the box to Catherine's throat and secured it with a piece of surgical tape.

He checked his instruments carefully.

Then he turned on.