A Cure for Cancer

by Michael Moorcock

  “You told our Mr Koutrouboussis you had some information about some stolen property,” Jerry said as they paused to admire the purple flowers of a rhododendron.

  “Perfectly correct.”

  “Hard or soft information?”

  Flash gave him a startled look. “Er, hard, er.”

  “And you want a transplant job in return?”

  “Ah, well, that’s it, isn’t it? No. You see, I’m happy here. I like the plants and they like me. And I can move about in them, can’t I, waiting for the visitors?”

  “So you can.”

  “Therefore, Mr Cornelius, by and large, that problem’s settled. Over and done with. It’s a different problem. I’d give you the info for nothing, you know that. For old times’ sake. But I’ve got to have the oil, you see.”

  “Well, we could guarantee you a regular supply. Oil’s one thing we had a bit of foresight on.”

  “That’s what I understand.”

  “And, of course, we’d have a guarantee that way, wouldn’t we?”

  “That’s right. If my info’s duff, you stop the supply. I hope it isn’t duff, though.” Flash looked anxiously at his Kangaroo Paw. “I wish you hadn’t done that to my lawn.”

  “I wasn’t to know, Flash.”

  “Fair enough. It’ll grow over. That’s something I’ve got to face, sooner or later. There’ll be a good deal of growing over.”

  “It won’t be a bad thing.”

  “I didn’t say it was. But it’s different, isn’t it, I mean?”

  A squadron of low-flying Northrop F-5A Freedom Fighters made the glass buzz in the frames. Flash looked up and shook his head. “There’s been a lot of parachuting going on,” he said. “Over Barnes way mostly. You should see what they’ve done to the grass and the trees on the common.”

  “They’ve got our interests at heart,” said Jerry.

  “But what about the little saplings and that!”

  “You’ll have to make some sacrifices, Flash.”

  Warm tears dropped from Gordon’s eyes. “Well, I used to like Barnes Common. Sorry, Mr Cornelius, but I did. That’s where I first met you, wasn’t it?”

  “That info you were on about,” said Jerry.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Just a minute.” Flash’s hand moved in his raincoat pocket and eventually emerged with a scrap of paper. “The swine.”

  He handed Jerry the piece of paper. “It is a deal, isn’t it, Mr Cornelius?”

  Jerry looked at the paper. “It’s a deal. Where did you get this?”

  “Off the bloke that wrote it.”

  “That bugger,” said Jerry. “Would you believe it?”

  “It’s all go, isn’t it?” said Flash.

  Jerry looked at the piece of paper again:

  * * *

  “He said he’d made an appointment for you. Buckingham Palace. This afternoon.” Flash stroked a eucalyptus leaf. “Is that all right?”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  CUT ONE

  Frightened mothers welcome the avenging police

  Police in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo were tired of seeing criminals get away scot free. So a few of them organised ‘death squads’—which operate only during the coppers’ off-duty hours.

  So far the deaths of more than 100 criminals have been attributed to the Rio squad. The bodies were stamped with a skull-and-cross-bones, which is the trade mark of the killer cops.

  The São Paulo squad is believed to consist of nine officers, five of them university-educated. Their grudge is the abolition of the death penalty in Brazil and the lack of adequate police facilities.

  One squad member, who preferred to be nameless, said: “We were fed up with going around with our hands tied. We decided to use unconventional methods.”

  Honest people among the ten million who live in the two cities welcome the unorthodox justice.

  One frightened mother wrote to a local newspaper: “It is good to know we are being protected.”

  The men marked for death are those considered habitual criminals by the squads.

  Many are drug traffickers. The squads seek maximum publicity, feeling that this will be a deterrent to crime.

  The official police stations receive regular calls from a squad ‘public relations officer,’ who reveals where the latest body can be found.

  Titbits, 1 February, 1969

  1. ECOLOGICAL EFFECTS OF THE VIET NAM WAR

  Jerry pulled his Phantom VI up outside the gates of Buckingham Palace and lowered the window as two sergeants of the 5th Marine Division in the modified uniforms of the Grenadiers, complete with helmets and horsehair plumes, came to check him over.

  “I’ve an appointment with Frank Cornelius,” Jerry told them.

  He was wearing his wide-brimmed lilac hat, with his hair knotted under it. His midnight-blue shirt was trimmed in matching lace and his toreador trousers were in an even deeper blue. Around his waist was a wide patent leather belt with a huge brass buckle and a holster holding his vibragun. A flowing yellow bandanna had been tied around his throat.

  The sergeants tried to keep their faces expressionless as they inspected his papers, but their lips trembled.

  “Wait here, sir.” One of the sergeants brushed at his new moustache and went and spoke to a man who stood in the shadows of the main entrance to the palace building.

  The other sergeant rested his hand on the roof of Jerry’s car and watched his companion intently until he emerged from the shadows and waved. The sergeant slammed the flat of his hand on the roof and Jerry drove through into the courtyard.

  The first sergeant ran up to the car, his sword and .45 slapping against his white buckskins.

  “I’ll park your car, sir.”

  “Don’t bother.” Jerry got out and locked the Phantom VI. “I’ll leave it here, I think.”

  “We can’t do that. Cars outside headquarters are forbidden. They ruin the view. Sir.”

  Jerry pointed up at the flagstaff on the roof of the palace. “I see General Cumberland’s in residence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s a proud banner.”

  Jerry walked into the hall and gave his card to a dapper lieutenant who placed it on a silver tray and bore it up the staircase, passing the portraits of Elizabeth I, James I, Charles I, Charles II, James II, William III, Mary II, Anne, George I, George II, George III, George IV, William IV, Victoria, Edward VII, George V, Edward VIII, George VI, Elizabeth II, Eva, and Ulysses Washington Cumberland (C-in-C; US Defense Forces, Western Europe) who had occupied the building after Eva had left to run a small riding school in Guildford, Surrey. The most recent of the portraits were by Aldridge, the last true Court Painter, in the mouth-and-foot manner that he had made so markedly his own.

  Jerry admired the old-fashioned luxury, the archaic splendour of the guards who had stood at attention with drawn sabres at every door.

  “They certainly have dash.” He nodded at the guards as the lieutenant returned.

  The lieutenant eyed him up and down. “Major Cornelius is ready to see you. This way.”

  They climbed the plush-and-gold staircase until they reached the second floor and walked between the panelled walls and bad Romneys until they came to a white door with panel decorations picked out in black; the name MAJOR FRANK CORNELIUS, Special Aide, C-in-C, inscribed in red, and two splendid Royal US Marine Grenadiers on either side. Their swords clashed as they ceremoniously barred the portal then returned their weapons to the slope.

  The lieutenant knocked on the door.

  A faint but unmistakeable Afrikander accent answered: “Come.”

  The lieutenant saluted and marched off. Jerry opened the door and walked into a room decorated and furnished entirely in a style as ugly as anything by the Adam Bros.

  Frank stood by the fussy fireplace looking at a little lyre clock that was of the German fake Directoire variety but quite pretty. He was dressed in the sharply cut uniform of a major in the US 8th Airborne, one hand in his pocket, o
ne arm on the mantelpiece. He looked very pale and his black hair was clipped close to his shoulders. He smiled at Jerry.

  “Long time no see, old chap.”

  “You’ve been out in South Afrika, then.”

  “Good for the constitution, Jerry.”

  “Or reconstitution.”

  Frank laughed loudly. “Good old Jerry!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep using that word. You seem to be doing well for yourself. How’s Mum?”

  “It’s a mission. I heard she was fine.”

  “I saw Mr Gavin. I gather you have some idea of the whereabouts of a piece of property I own.”

  “Your invention, you mean.”

  “You could put it that way.”

  “Well, I haven’t got it here, you realise.”

  “Where would it be?”

  “Let’s discuss it later. Time for refreshment first?” Frank touched a bell and a ravaged girl with long chestnut hair came through a side door. “This is my secretary. Do you know her? Rose Barrie, my brother Jerry. Rose is a civilian auxiliary.” Frank smiled. “They call you Bombhead Rose, don’t they, Rose?” He winked at Jerry. “Rose knows…”

  Rose smoothed her cherry dress and raised a hand to her garish face. “Wh…?”

  “Something to cheer us up, Rose. Good gal, eh?”

  Rose went away again.

  “She got smacked for speeding,” Frank said. “But she’s my type. You know. I couldn’t let her down.”

  “You’re too good.”

  “It’s too sweet.”

  Rose returned with a white tray on which various bottles, ampoules and instruments were laid.

  “Now—let’s see,” said Frank. His hand hovered over the tray. “Anything you fancy, old boy?”

  “You go ahead. Unless you’ve got anything in blue.”

  “Rose had the last of the rozzers last night, didn’t you, Rose?”

  “Y…”

  “She’ll tell you. Nothing in blue.”

  “Then I’ll let it go.”

  “As long as you’re sure.” Frank picked up an ampoule with the fingertips of his left hand, a needle with the fingertips of his right. “I’ve been experimenting too, you know, in my own field. Something that might even interest you, though I know you haven’t my obsession with chemistry. A synthesised DNA, with something added.” Frank rolled back his well-cut sleeve and applied the needle. He smacked his lips. “Tasty. The trouble is, I found, that it’s virtually impossible to manufacture in large doses. With your physics and technical know-how, we could be in business.”

  “You shouldn’t diversify too much, Frank.”

  “That’s rich advice from you, old man!”

  “Besides, it’s not a lot to do with my work. Not if you mean transfusions.”

  “Transfusions are what I had in mind. A little from that source, a little from this, mix ’em together and see what happens.”

  “Schitzy!”

  “Quite.”

  “But it still isn’t my scene. Now, if you could hand over the machine. Or maybe let me know where…”

  “Ah. Well, you see, it’s Rose that knows where it is. She told me all about it the other day, didn’t you, Rose?”

  “I…”

  “It was a vision of some kind, I believe.”

  “I… wish…”

  “Anyway, I checked her out.”

  “I… wish… I…”

  “And she was right.”

  “I… wish… I… was…

  “So I got in touch with you.”

  “I… wish… I… was… pretty…”

  “So it’s around here somewhere, is it?” Jerry frowned at Rose. “In London, I mean?”

  “I… wish… I… was… pretty… again.”

  “Oh, it’s in London, old sport.” Frank smiled, turned Rose round and pushed her towards the door. “That’s why I contacted you. I mean, there wouldn’t be much time, would there? The way things are working out.”

  “You mean…”

  “The Op, old son. The rationalisation programme. That’s why my boss and I are here, naturally. There’s a conference of all European commanders…” he checked one of his watches… “in about ten minutes. General Cumberland has taken emergency measures already, but I don’t think they’ll contain anything for very long. Berlin, Geneva, Luxembourg are now negative threats and I expect reports on Helsinki and Milan any moment.”

  “Bombed?”

  “Out of their minds, old bean!”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come.”

  The lieutenant entered and drew himself up in a salute. “Sir. The native commanders are in the conference room. The general hoped you’d entertain them until he can make it.”

  “Of course. Well, Jerry, if you’ll ask Rose for anything you need… I’ll be back in a little while. Take it easy. You look beside yourself!”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Chin up.” Frank, one hand on the butt of his own neatly stashed needle gun, struck off towards the door. “Wise yourself up to the situation, if you like.”

  He pulled a cord as he left and the wall over the fireplace glowed and became a map. “I never forget, you see. You taught me how to do that.”

  Jerry glanced at the bright relief map on which little spots of light flickered where cities had been. It was a bit of a bore. He wondered if you could change the channel.

  2. GALLAGHER TO FORM LABEL IN THRUST OVERSEAS BY MCA

  Jerry found a button and pushed it.

  The map gave way to a scene somewhere in the palace; evidently the conference room. At the long table sat the generals and the field marshals of every European country (with the exception of the Three Republics and the one or two who were still having trouble with the Israelis). They chatted cheerfully among themselves, looking up when Frank, his seamed face set in a smile, came in.

  “Gentlemen. I am Major Frank Cornelius, the general’s special aide in the European Theater. Please call me Frank.”

  He put down a slim file on the table and took his place near the top. “General Cumberland regrets he has been delayed, but will join us shortly. In the meantime,” he spread his hands, “I’m here to answer any minor questions you might like to put.”

  The Bohemian field marshal cleared his thin throat.

  “Field Marshal Lobkowitz?” said Frank.

  “I was wondering if you could give us a brief run-down on which areas have been—um—”

  “Depersonnelized.”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “Capitals—Helsinki, Berlin, Geneva, Luxembourg, Vienna. Major conurbations—Milan, Munich, Strasbourg…” Frank’s pencil paused over his file.

  The commanders politely accepted the information.

  “Of course, news is coming in all the time. We’ll keep you up to date.”

  “Thank you.” General von Chemnitz nodded his burly head. “We realise we are not up to date…”

  “These are rapidly changing times, general. Who can hope to cope with so many events?”

  “Indeed, so…” The red fat at the back of General von Chemnitz’s neck trembled a little. “And what will you be needing our forces to do?”

  “Work with the boys, I should expect, general.” Frank laughed and glanced at all their faces. “Seriously—we’ll be needing your men to clean up any pockets of subversive activity after our first wave has gone over your particular areas. The details of that are what we’re here to discuss just as soon as General Cumberland gets here.”

  “There’s the question of looting.” General de Jong of the Netherlands raised his elegant pen.

  “Reclamation of goods. We have two basic categories here, gentlemen. Perishable commodities and nonperishable commodities. Most perishable commodities may be used by the divisions that come across them. Nonperishable commodities should be stored safely until a committee of senior officers has conferred as to their use and distribution. We have had the leaflets prepared which tell you how to cope wi
th that problem. There are also leaflets available on Sexual Intercourse By Force, Sexual Intercourse By Consent, Sexual Intercourse By Unnatural Methods, Sexual Intercourse Between Members Of The Same Sex, Sexual Intercourse With Animals, Sexual Intercourse With Minors, Sexual Intercourse With Enemies Or Those Likely To Be Potential Enemies Or Enemy Sympathizers, Sexual Intercourse While On Active Military Duty, Conditions Under Which The Use Of Torture May Become Necessary, Conditions Under Which The Orders Of A Commanding Officer May Be Disobeyed, Conditions Under Which Allies May Be Killed Or Confined, and so on and so forth. General Cumberland and his staff have thrashed all these matters out to save you time and trouble. General Cumberland wrote most of the leaflets himself, in fact. He is a man of immense energy and thrust. An inspiration.”

  Field Marshal Fry glanced at his wizened wrist. “Good Lord! Look at the time! I say, do you mind if I bow out on this one? I promised a fellow a game of golf in a quarter of an hour. You’ll keep my staff up to date, I take it.”

  “Of course, field marshal.”

  Fry shook hands with some of the other generals, saluted and hurried off the scene. Two or three others got up and made their apologies.

  “I’m sure we can leave it with you.” General Groente of Belgium lifted his belly over the edge of the table. “The wife…”

  “The children…” said the youthful Field Marshal Denoël of Switzerland.

  “The car…” said pale General Ingrid-Maria Stafstrom of Sweden.

  “Well, I guess this is cosier anyway.” Frank’s eyes hardened.

  “But you are so capable of ‘running the show’. It is a compliment.” General von Chemnitz clicked his heels. “Ah, here is…”

  They stood up as General Cumberland came in. He wore light battledress, his tunic open all the way down and his shirt unbuttoned to show his chest and medallion. Dark combat goggles were pushed up over his cap and his light blue eyes were steady in his weather-beaten face. He looked younger than fifty and he did not seem at all anxious about his immense responsibilities. As he shook hands with the other commanders he shuddered every time his flesh touched theirs.