Kronk

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Where am I?”

“…thousand pounds?”

For a long, long time Peter Karamazov was not sure when he was conscious and when he was dreaming. This time he thought he was conscious. He was unlucky. He was right.

He was swathed in bandages, and sinister fluids from suspended bottles were drip-feeding through thin transparent pipes into various parts of his anatomy. So this was interrogation, he thought dully. So the gentleman’s agreement between East and West had come unstuck, and now the rough stuff was starting. He wondered how long he had been undergoing torture.

Well, he could surely take a little more. He would show them what the Karamazov breed was like. In the end, they could only kill him. He would give them nothing of value. Unless the price was right.

Then suddenly fantasy faded, and he remembered it all. He felt like hell. He felt all bust up.

He felt as if he had been in a high-speed crash on a trunk transit.

With difficulty he focussed on the man in white standing by the side of the bed.

“Hello, buddy boy,” said the stranger genially. “Back from fairyland?”

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Moreau. Chassis-builder, artist, plumber, sculptor, tailor and restorer of life to the grateful. You owe me twelve thousand pounds.”

“Intensive Care. North Yorkshire Reconstruction Company and Body Bank. I said you owe me — that is, the company — twelve thousand pounds.”

Peter tried to concentrate. “Twelve thousand pounds?”

“Twelve thousand pounds. Cash, scrip, certified cheque, stones, bullion, evaluated property, approved foreign currencies, etcetera. We are flexible. Payment on delivery. In a few days you will be available for delivery. U.K. free. Foreign countries, normal air rates plus personnel allowance plus ten per cent service compris.”

Peter tried to sit up. A hidden hand seemed to be slicing his abdomen in two. He relaxed, conditioned himself not to scream, and waited for the internal agony to subside.

Observing the effort, Dr. Moreau smiled and bet himself the client would faint. He lost.

Presently, Peter Karamazov was able to speak once more. “For what do I owe you twelve Dr. Moreau consulted a small card. “For one heart, one eye, one kidney, two metres of lower intestine, four hundred square centimetres of facial and body skin, three fingers, one foot and ankle, three litres of blood, six bone re-sets, various minor accessories, installation, care and servicing.”

“But — but this is preposterous!”

Dr. Moreau beamed jovially at him. “Nonsense. Small time. We once rigged a NaTel exec with one heart, both legs, both eyes, both kidneys, entire stomach and—”

A sudden thought had struck Peter. “Ilyich,” he interrupted. “My brother. Where is he?

What happened to him?”

“The joker who was wrapped around you in the wreckage?”

“Yes, that would be Ilyich.”

“He was the donor.” Again Dr. Moreau smiled. “You were lucky, friend. Someone in orbit must have a slight affection for you. It is not often we get the perfect match laid on instanter at normal body temperature. You were very lucky. Without Sinkovitch or whatever, you would now be occupying about nine different fridges.”

Peter shuddered. What a judgement this was! What a terrible, grotesque, perverted piece of retribution. If he had not mistrusted Ilyich so much none of this need ever have happened.

And now, even in death, Ilyich had given all — or at least generously — to save the life of his unworthy brother.

Crazy thoughts began to rattle around inside the aching head of Peter Karamazov. Could it be that, despite Romaprot, God was not yet wholly dead? Could this be His way of bringing the message of love to a professional sinner? Suddenly, Peter was filled with great emotion.

Suddenly, he was so overwhelmed by the knowledge of the power of love that he wanted to die. Sadly, he knew that it was his duty to live. So that Ilyich would not have died in vain. So that others would understand…

Back to practicalities. With an effort, he disciplined the strange love that surged inside him so that he could deal more efficiently with the ghoulish Dr. Moreau. The time to indulge in universal love was when was one no longer hampered by drip feeds.

He treated Dr. Moreau to a weak but triumphant smile. “As you say, the parts you transplanted belonged to my twin brother, Ilyich. Therefore I do not have to pay for them. I have only to pay for installation which, since I understand the process is chiefly automated, should not amount to a great deal of money.”

Dr. Moreau sighed. He hoped this was not going to be one of the difficult ones.

“I hope you are not going to be difficult,” he said.

“Dr. Moreau, I am a reasonable man, but twelve thousand pounds is a great deal of money.

Since Ilyich provided the parts, surely you are only entitled to installation costs?”

“Listen, joker. I’ll short-circuit the clever stuff. Who owns Stinkovitch’s offal — do you?”

“The name is Ilyich,” corrected Peter coldly.

“Don’t finesse. I asked you: who owns Stinkovitch’s offal — do you?”

“No… But Ilyich does.”

“He doesn’t exist; and if he doesn’t exist how can he own anything? Hell, we checked for tattoo, medallion or certificate. The body didn’t have any. So — first come, first served. That was us — and you.”

“What is this about tattoos, medallions and certificates?” enquired Peter plaintively. A few moments ago he had felt confident that Dr. Moreau was in a weak position. But the man seemed sure that he was in a strong position. It was all very disturbing.

“The N.D. tattoo. The N.D. medallion. The N.D. certificate,” announced Dr. Moreau triumphantly. “With any one, we are not allowed to touch the meat. That’s the law. So your little brother was free turkey.”

“Please. I do not understand. What does N.D. mean?”

Dr. Moreau sighed once more and gazed upwards. “Why do I always have to lift more than my share of fucking foreign nationals?” he demanded of the ceiling. There was no answer. He turned to Peter Karamazov once more. “Listen, Charlie. N.D. stands for No Donation. What do you do when jokers’ clocks stop these days? You don’t bury them because that’s illegal because land is valuable. So you donate and then cremate. Unless the joker is one of the quaint ones. If he wants immunity, he pays the standard N.D. tax. Then when he dies, let us say in a transit pile-up the procs collect the meat, cool it for the statutary seven days, run the id through MinMort and sit back. If nobody collects, they then pop him in the hot box, since the departed has already paid his own cremation fee… Does the flash connect?”

“Partly,” said Peter with some despondence. “But please amplify about id and MinMort. It is confusing.”

“The identity is checked with the Ministry of Mortality computer, which has coded instructions for the disposal of all N.D. meat. No squawk from MinMort and the departed is shot into the nearest hot box. O.K.?”

“O.K…. No. I meant not O.K. Not about Ilyich’s parts.”

“Finders keepers. That’s the law.”

“Nevertheless,” said Peter, “I shall not pay for organs taken from my own brother.”

Dr. Moreau beamed. “Good. Glad you see it our way.”

Peter was suddenly alarmed at what seemed to be a complete change of attitude. “What do you mean?”

“Have to get the refusal legal and in writing, of course,” went on Dr. Moreau smoothly.

“No worry. We draw it up. You just sign. Finito.”

Peter was even more alarmed. “What do you mean?”

“Simple. You refuse payment, we reclaim our goods. One heart, one eye, one kidney, etcetera, etcetera. Then you die. Then we got another eye, another kidney, the entire plumbing system, limbs and a complete skin. Total value to North Yorkshire Reconstruction Company and Body Bank about twenty thousand plus, I’d say. Good business.”

In his anxiety, Peter tried to sit up once more. And regretted it bitterly. By the time the band saw of pain had stopped slicing him once more, he was covered in sweat. Dr. Moreau observed the sequence with patience and some satisfaction.

“Please,” gasped Peter weakly. “I have reconsidered. I will pay the fee. There is a numbered account in Geneva and—”

“Pity,” interrupted Dr. Moreau. “Pity. Nothing personal, but we were naturally hoping for insolvency. So now you give us name of bank, number of account, and authority to enquire if said account contains in excess of, say, fifteen thousand. Confirmation comes, delivery date comes, all systems go… We have had these Swiss accounts before. Troublesome. Cautious.

Discreet. They rarely wire the boodle. So we have to take the body to point of payment. That’s why fifteen thousand. Material, installation, freight charges, attendance en route and ten per cent service compris… You happy?”

“Yes,” murmured Peter, with tears pouring down his face, “I am happy.”

“Fine… Fine. No more problems. Relax. We take care of everything… See you at the airport.” With a cheery wave, Dr. Moreau left the room.

Peter Karamazov lay on his pillow and stared at the ceiling. He thought of Ilyich and his final sacrifice, and knew it could not be tarnished even by the sordid commercialism of Dr. Moreau. He thought it was the most moving situation he had ever known.

“Brother,” he murmured, “even in death we are not divided. And was it not ordained? Was it not all ordained so that I should understand the message of Perfect Love?”

Presently, Peter felt better. Presently, he felt almost happy. Presently he slept.