A Cure for Cancer

I I died on the operating table

As the VC 10 landed at long last at Kennedy, Jerry yawned and put down his champagne glass. They had been queuing for a landing space for two hours and it was dark again.

The red, blue and orange neon of the airport had all the richness of a late Walt Disney and everything was defined very sharply in the manner of Burne Hogarth. It was just right.

They disembarked with the the Poor Clares and the Benedictines. Karen von Krupp looked lovely as a cool Mother Superior and Jerry was a slick abbot from a fashionable monastery.

Their passports showed Karen's occupation as Dental Surgeon and Jerry's as Heart Specialist, but then all clergy had been recategorized.

The passport control officer flipped through Jerry's papers. 'It says here you're a Caucasian, mister.'

That's right.'

The officer pushed back his cap and held the passport out in front of his eyes in a theatrical manner. 'Well, your picture's okay...'

'I've been out East a long time.'

'Israel?'

'India.'

'All right. I guess you refugees have got special priorities. I hope they know what they're doing.'

Jerry and Karen collected their baggage off the conveyor. They had identical expensive suitcases of black leather with gold clasps.

Customs men in smoothly styled uniforms waved them through. They joined the other nuns and monks who had gathered around a group of shallow-eyed men and women in grey woollen suits and gaberdine coats who shook their hands and welcomed them to America. The leader of the welcomers, a Mr Silver, had a tanned, tight face and all his buttons were done up. He spoke grimly.

'I'm sure you're all mighty tired, friends, and want to get some shuteye. We have reservations for, you at a nearby hotel. Tomorrow we'll meet you and tell you where you're being assigned and how you're going to get there. Might I say how much we admire our British cousins. Follow me, please.'

They trooped after Mr Silver and his committee, crossed a metal bridge over the road that ran beside the air terminal and saw an eight-storey building advertised in gold neon as the Hotel Nixon.

'It hardly seems fair,' murmured Karen. 'Kennedy got an airport and a bloody launching site.'

'They weren't expecting a run,' said Jerry reasonably.

They went through the swing doors and into the featureless lobby. Mr Silver stepped over to the checking-in desk and spoke to the clerk who handed him a sheet of paper and a bunch of keys.

This way, friends.' Mr Silver led them to the elevators. 'We're all on the sixth floor. Keep together, please.'

Mr Silver entered the first elevator with eight of his charges. A middle-aged woman, Mrs Bronson, wearing a belted suit and no make-up save her very red lipstick, herded Jerry, Karen and six monks into the second elevator. Peering at her sheet she started to hand out the keys.

'You're 604, Father Abbot .605, Brother Simon .606, Brother Peter .607, Brother Mathew .608, Brother John .609, Brother Thomas. You're in 610, Holy Mother.'

When it stopped, they rustled out of the elevator and looked at the signs telling them where to find their rooms. 'I'll abandon you here if you don't mind,' said Mrs Bronson, 'and we'll meet again at breakfast. Sleep well. It must have been awful...' She descended.

'This way, brothers,' said the abbot.

Led by Jerry Cornelius and Karen von Krupp the monks trudged off down the corridor. They turned right, turned left and found the rooms. All the doors were painted turquoise with yellow numbers.

Jerry stopped outside his door.

Karen stopped outside her door.

The monks put their keys into their locks and opened their doors and went inside, closing the doors.

'See you later,' said Jerry.

She shrugged.

Jerry entered his room and turned on the light.

It was a small, narrow room with a couch that converted to a bed, a single window at the far end with turquoise drapes. He switched on the set and got the time, the temperature and the humidity. He adjusted his watches, pulled off his cassock and checked his blue silk suit for wrinkles. It had survived pretty well.

The bathroom was near the door. It had a shower, a sink and a lavatory. The towels were turquoise edged with gold. The shower curtains were yellow. The soap was turquoise. The tiles were green and orange. Jerry turned on the shower.

He went back into the room and took off his clothes, carrying his holstered vibragun with him to the bathroom and hanging it on the towel rail. He stepped under the boiling shower, soaping himself all over and humming Jimi Hendrix's May This Be Love to himself.

As he dried, Jerry called room service and ordered the quart of Jack Daniel's Black Label, the Onion Soup au Gratin Mouquin, the Sautéed Calf's Liver with Smothered Onions, Hickory Smoked Bacon and Home Fried Potatoes, the piece of Old New York Cheese Cake, the Two Flavor Jello with whipped cream and the Pot of Steaming Freshly Brewed Coffee. He gave his room number and his name as Father Jeremiah Cornelius.

He called the main desk.

'This is Father Cornelius. Has Bishop Beesley checked in, do you know?'

'I'm sorry, sir. No Bishop Beesley.'

Thank you. God bless you.'

Room service arrived. There was something to be said for civilization, really. Jerry set to eating.

When he had finished the food, he poured himself a large glass of bourbon and drank it down.

There was no doubt about it; America was the last decent country to eat in. Now he was ready for almost anything.

He unwrapped the towel from his waist and pulled the cassock over his head.

The sign on his door warned him to lock it carefully in case of prowlers. He ignored the sign and crossed to Karen's door.

He turned the handle. The door wasn't locked. He opened it a crack. The light was on. He slipped inside.

At first all he noticed were Karen's legs tightly wrapped around the heaving buttocks of Brother Thomas. She looked over the monk's white shoulder and raised her eyebrows.

'You can go off people, you know,' she said.

'Oh fuck,' said Jerry miserably.

2 He won't have to beg me—tonight

Jerry pulled up the blind, yearning for music, and stared out at the American morning.

It wasn't all beer and skittles. Even the educational channel was playing Gilbert and Sullivan. He had been sick twice in the night and had finally turned the television off.

Abandoning the cassock, he clad himself in yellow silk with a wide red tie knotted under the flowing collar of his white shirt. His soft calf boots, by Raviana, enclosed his feet and the vibragun cheered him up a little. Perhaps it was time to kill someone.

He combed his milk-white hair in front of the mirror, sweeping it down and then up to form two wings framing his graceful black face.

'Astatic,' he murmured cheerfully before his thoughts returned to Karen.

As he entered the corridor, he glanced across at her door, hesitated and then continued towards the elevators.

He wasn't often in love, after all. Not that sort of love. Could it be that that was giving him the identity trouble? It was worse than he'd expected. There had been a certain difficulty in focusing ever since he and Karen had left London. A certain mistiness, a feeling of fragmentation.

He patted his vibragun under his jacket as he reached the elevator. It was his only link with reality, with the machine in the cellars at Ladbroke Grove.

Koutrouboussis...

The name came and went.

Memories of Soho faded.

He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a postcard. On it was a slightly out of focus picture of a Tompion clock in an engraved steel case. On the other side was an address, JERRY CORNELIUS, AMERICA, and a message: HANG ON.

He thought of Baptiste Charbonneau and Kit Carson, of Humphrey Bogart and Kirk Douglas, of George Washington and Franklin D. Roosevelt, of Herman Melville and Dashiell Ham-mett, and he thought particularly of Charles Ives, Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie and Nina Simone.

Tears came to his eyes and he leaned heavily against the wall until the elevator arrived. America, the shattered dream, the broken promise...

At breakfast he couldn't eat his scrambled eggs, and his English Muffin also went untasted. He drank a lot of coffee and for an hour read Jack Trevor Story's Hitler Needs You which cheered him up, as he had known it would.

The monks and nuns were all seated at another table, staring at him incredulously. Karen was nowhere in sight, but Jerry saw a face he recognized.

It was Protz. A Russian agent and almost certainly a double agent for the Israelis. Could the archaically dressed man be interested in him?

Protz tripped from the crowded restaurant almost as soon as Jerry had spotted him. Remembering his encounter with Zhazhda of Okharna, Jerry began to feel nervous.

Mr Silver appeared behind him. 'Father Abbot? The arrangements It wasn't like Jerry to lie. It surprised him as he said shiftily, 'Not 'abbot' if you don't mind, my dear Mr Silver — Chuzzlewit — I'm afraid there are enemies who have succeeded in following me to this — even this — sanctuary...'

The police?'

'What could they prove? No, no. I thank you for your concern, but do not worry. I have friends, you see, in New York. They'll pick me up later. Bishop Beesley...'

'Oh, Bishop Beesley! Good hands. God bless you.' Mr Silver backed secretively away.

'God bless you, Mr Silver...'

'No, God... Nice of you, father — Chuzzlewit — thanks again...' Mr Silver dropped his eyes. 'God... thank you, Mr...' Jerry whirled on his heel and went softly away from the restaurant, bought some Marlboros in the lobby and returned to his room.

He turned on the television and changed channels until he got the hotel's own closed circuit channel. It showed a broad view of the road outside the main exit. The road led across the plain to Manhattan. There was surprisingly little traffic. The channel was vision only and the room itself was sound-proofed. A sense of isolation overwhelmed him.

He went to the window and saw a Pan Am 727 shimmer into the sky.

If Protz were in the States, then Zhazhda could be here, too. Zhazhda would tip off Beesley. Beesley would come to the hotel.

Why was he waiting for Beesley to come to him? Impulsively he went to the mirror. His skin had turned a deep brown, his eyes were uncomfortable.

If he hired a car he could be in New York in a half hour. He would be all right in New York. But Karen wouldn't come with him.

In the distance, the sun beat on the towers of the shining city.

There was no escape.

He took off his jacket, switched channels, watched five minutes of The Good, the Sad and the Ugly before the quality of the colour upset him, poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels, sipped it, put his jacket back on and went out of his room and opened Karen's door.

She had gone. Her suitcase was gone.

Jerry took his lighter from his pocket and tried to set fire to the messy bed. But the sheets were too sweaty. They wouldn't burn.

3 A psychologist reveals the sexual overtones of the monster movies

For three days Jerry stared at the television and the view of the street. On the highway there were increasing numbers of motorcycle cops in unfamiliar black uniforms and helmets. Frequently, during the day or night they would arrest a driver.

Once he switched to a news programme. Someone referred to the European disease that was sweeping the country. The only answer to it is the European cure...'

His meals were now brought to his room, but he had lost his taste for hotel living. When he had last appeared in the restaurant it was to see Karen with Protz. She had looked bored. On her way out he tried to trip her up but failed.

He had watched her bottom for a sign, but got nothing.

The lack of music was beginning to disturb him much more than Karen. A flutter of brushes on a skin, a whine or two from a Martin, a thud from a Fender bass; anything would have helped. But there wasn't a note in the entire hotel. Nothing, anyway, that wasn't offensive quasi-music, such as the Gilbert and Sullivan.

His vague feelings of discomfort had grown by the fourth day. The police arrests seemed increasingly arbitrary.

He turned on the television to a news broadcast for the second time.

President Paolozzi had disappeared and had been replaced by his Vice President, Konnie Agonosto, who was promising to restore order as quickly as possible.

A little while later President Ronald Boyle, elected by emergency vote, announced that his special militia were already getting the country back on a safe, sane, orderly footing, ready to honour her commitments anywhere at home or in the world.

Jerry packed his case and put it near the door. He hurried into Karen's empty room and picked up the phone. 'Can you give me Mr Protz's room number?'

Protz was in 805. Jerry went up by the service stairs, found 805 and knocked on the door.

'Was; s das?'

'Karen. It's Jerry. We're in trouble I think. You'd better pack.'

'Please go away, Jerry. I'm not going to be tricked...'

'Okay.'

He walked down the corridor. Everywhere there were open doors and he could see people hastily pushing their possessions into their luggage. He went back to 805, kicking fiercely at the door.

'Karen. Everyone's getting out.'

'Go away. Why?'

'Something's up. A change of government.' Down the hall came a few bars of Chuck Berry that were rapidly cut off.

Jerry began to pant. Karen knew what she was doing. Kou-trouboussis... How elaborate was the plot? There had never been so much pressure before. He was out of his element. Everything was threatened.

George Catlin — Mark Twain — Henry Ford. It was no good. The postcard in his pocket was thin and wrinkled. As he touched it, it crumbled.

The door opened. Zhazhda stood there. His eyes were sardonic. 'What sort of thing, Comrade Cornelius, is up?'

'The poor sods,' said Jerry. The poor bloody sods. Is this your doing? You traitor...'

Think of Frank, Comrade Cornelius. Your brother. What would he have done?'

'Uncle Frank...' Jerry's brain misted over again. 'Where's...?'

'You look out of sorts, comrade.'

'You were the one, weren't you? You set the trap?'

'Nonsense. I'm merely an adviser over here.'

Tell Doktor von Krupp I'll wait in my room for her.'

Jerry walked as steadily as he could to the stairs and began to climb down them. His teeth were aching.

4 The beauty the Reds can't forget

On the TV Jerry watched the people hurry from the hotel and be scooped up by formations of Boyle's militia. It was rather like watching a ballet.

Three black Cadillacs, their windows gleaming black oneway glass, came down the road towards the hotel. Things looked sticky for the visitors.

'Jerry.'

He turned.

Karen had her case with her. Jerry picked up his own. 'Got your passport? We're going back.'

'So soon?'

'I know it's disappointing...'

The corridors were empty. They took the elevator to the main lobby where a few people with anxious, bewildered faces, stood about.

A small man in a brown leather trench coat bent his swarthy, severe face over people's passports. It was Mr Silver or someone very much like him. He was obviously in charge now.

Jerry strolled to the desk. 'I'll pay if I may.'

'Of course, sir .604 and 610, is that right?' The brunette leafed through a desk file.

'That's right.'

'There you are, sir.' She handed him the bills. Two hundred fifty dollars, please.'

'I can give you American Express traveler's checks.'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

'Carte Blanche...?'

'Cash only, sir. It's the new rule.'

Jerry slipped his hand into his back pocket and saw that the man in the trench coat was approaching Karen, a triumphant look in his eyes.

Jerry gave the girl his last three hundred-dollar bills.

'Keep the change.' _

'I can't do that, sir.' She gave a prim gasp.

'It's all shifting backwards, pilgrim.' Jerry got to Karen before the man who looked like Mr Silver. If it was Mr Silver he pretended he didn't remember Jerry.

'Let me see your passports.'

'We're foreign nationals...' Jerry realized that this was no longer protection. They were on their own. But then, hadn't he always been on his own? He frowned.

'You don't look well,' said Mr Silver. 'Anything worrying you?'

'How should I know?'

'What are you calling yourself?' A look of disdain crossed Mr Silver's face.

'Jeremiah Cornelius. Jeremiah Cornelius.'

'Okay. You're suspected of aiding agents of forces hostile to the United States government. We'll have to search your luggage.'

'Go ahead.' Then Jerry noted the expression on Karen's face.

Silver signalled to two tall men in plastileather trench coats. Taylor. Dunlop.' They picked up the expensive bags.

The keys?' Mr Silver held out his damp hand.

'They're unlocked.'

Taylor opened Jerry's case first and pawed disgustedly through the coloured silks. When he looked back up Jerry knew he didn't have a chance.

'What about her?' Jerry indicated Karen. 'Let her on the plane, won't you? She's just a girl who came along. A secretary...'

'You employ her, do you?' Dunlop laughed.

'She's not your wife, is she?' Mr Silver curled his lip. 'You aliens! Check her case.'

Jerry hung loose. He lit a Romeo y Julieta.

'That's a nice cigar,' said Silver sniffing. He nodded as his men brought something out of Karen's bag. 'You've got it. I like the smell of a good cigar.' It was a small gold model of an Apollo rocket. 'Okay. Now let's see those passports.'

Karen glanced at Jerry as she gave her passport to Silver. Had she been conned by Protz and Zhazhda? How elaborate was the set-up? Silver knew there were ambiguities but wasn't admitting it. He was going after them merely because he didn't like them. That was how things were.

'German,' said Silver. 'And British, eh? Where you from, bwah?'

'Britain.'

'Before that?'

'Heaven?'

'That in the West Indies?'

'My father didn't say.'

Til keep the passports. They look like crude forgeries to me. Your picture's in negative, even.'

'Check it.'

'We will. Taylor. Dunlop. Get them on the bus with the rest.'

The two tall men took Jerry and Karen by the arm and guided them through the lobby, then through the swing doors to where a big airport bus waited. There were a lot of people already inside.

As they came out on the sidewalk Jerry saw people run and cars swerve as a Boeing 707 swung off the runway and, jets screaming, taxied between the airport buildings to cross the highway at an angle and slither across a field.

'You boys certainly have everything working for you.' Jerry threw his cigar in the gutter.

'On the bus,' said Taylor.

Jerry and Karen climbed aboard. The bus was decorated in chrome and light blue. All the seats were full of nervous people, mostly middle-aged and middle-class. That was something, thought Jerry.

One well-set-up man in a grey topcoat and hat held an expensive briefcase against his chest. He wore brown leather gloves. 'I'm Feldman,' he said. Teldman. I'm Feldman.'

'That's it,' Dunlop told the driver. 'You can close the doors.'

Feldman dashed forward as the doors began to shut. Taylor hit him in the face. Feldman staggered back, his nose bleeding.

The bus moved out with Jerry and Karen clinging to the slippery central pole. From the hotel came the sound of Thompson sub-machine guns.

The bus reached an intersection and turned inland, away from New York.

Soon they were on Interstate 80.

Jerry felt a tugging at his jacket and he looked down into the heavily made-up face of an old woman with a blue rinse who sat in the nearest seat. 'Young man,' she whispered, 'is this the Ithaca bus?'

'You'd better ask the driver, ma'am,' Jerry told her. 'I'm not sure we're going that far.'