Edmund Cooper - Kronk

Camilla’s foam torso collapsed and she splashed about with her hands petulantly. Small blobs of foam floated about the bath, some settling on Gabriel’s hair and face.

“I think I know what you mean,” said Camilla. “It’s going to be hard work — but not uninteresting.”

Gabriel shrugged. “We ought not to waste any more time here. It’s too dangerous. Let’s get moving.”

Reluctantly, they both stood up and got out of the bath. Gabriel looked at Camilla, steaming and half covered in blobs of foam, and reached for a towel. Then a look of confusion came over his face, and he stared down at a somewhat sudden erection. He dropped the towel.

“Camilla,” he said thickly, “I’m sorry. I really am in the prommy phase! What a nuisance!”

He held her close, letting their wet foamy bodies shake and arch with a terrible urgency.

“I thought,” panted Camilla, “I thought you said we were not to waste any more time.”

He laid her gently down on the bathroom floor. Then he lay on top of her, savouring the first warm, strong, compulsive movements of coupling. It felt like the first time for days and days and days.

“This… isn’t… wasting time,” he managed to say almost reasonably. “It’s… it’s… simply…

keeping in training!”

He began to talk to Ilyich.

The Cirque Russe was still on the Great North Transit, about one hundred and fifty kilometres south of Edinburgh. It was a fine, clear evening; and there was surprisingly little traffic in either the traction or the hover lanes. But Peter Karamazov, though convinced that the risk of discovery was now low, remained unhappy for two reasons. The first was that he would have to do all the driving himself, and the second was that he was beginning to experience vague stirrings of guilt and remorse.

Occasionally, he gave Ilyich, who was lying on the floor of the control cab, booster shots of freezair. While Peter was experiencing a crisis of conscience, Ilyich remained rigid, conscious and full of hate. Each time he received a shot of freezair he tried not to breathe for several seconds, thus minimizing its effect. It was him ambition to get the muscles of one arm sufficiently de-frozen to hit the vehicle’s ultra-drive button. If he could do it at the right moment, there was a reasonable chance that he could take his treacherous brother with him.

Meanwhile, Peter drove along at a sedate hundred and twenty kilometres an hour, wondering if, by chance, he could possibly have been a trifle unjust; and if so, how a reconciliation could be effected. The trouble was that he had a genuine affection for his brother. The trouble also was that, whatever happened from now on, neither could ever trust the other again. Espionage, thought Peter bitterly, was hell.

“You see, brother, what a sorry condition we are in. Although I may have misjudged you, it is still your fault. You should have been completely honest with me. You should have told me about Professor Greylaw right at the beginning. Then, perhaps, he would not now be dead.

Then I would not have been able to suspect you of killing him or of concealing information…

It is a bad business, Ilyich, a bad business. For years we have been brothers and comrades. For years we have been, together, invincible. That such a relationship should be destroyed by a secret tranquillizer. It is ironic, it is tragic, it is bizarre.”

Ilyich, speechless, uncomfortable, his head throbbing because of its proximity to the transmission casing, lay on the floor of the cab and seethed. There was little else he could do.

Except keep systematically moving two fingers of his left hand, where the muscles were beginning to slacken. He could not look, but he suspected that the hand itself was also moving. In a few more minutes, with luck, there should be some movement in the arm.

Peter could not see the movement of the hand. In any case, though the traffic was slack, he had to keep his eyes on the Great North Transit. But he judged it was time for another squirt of freezair and administered it expertly without taking his gaze from the road ahead. Ilyich held his breath once more and waited patiently.

“Nevertheless, brother,” went on Peter, “there may be a solution to our problem. Suppose I keep you, let us say lightly restrained, in the castle while I conduct negotiations with Cominunder and Socinunder. Let us then suppose that a satisfactory bid is received and the payment made. Let us further suppose that I jet briefly to Switzerland, transfer half of the funds in the numbered account; and finally, as a gesture of good faith I—”

But Ilyich was never to learn what the gesture of good faith might be. Also he was past caring. Also, in his judgement, the muscles in his left arm were sufficiently flexible for the task he required of them.

With a tremendous effort, and helped by a slight unevenness in the surface of the Transit, he had managed to half roll towards the lower control panel. His left hand moved — it seemed agonizingly slow, but in the darkness of the cab Peter, still talking and doubtless trying to devise some further humiliation, did not appear to notice.

Ilyich pressed the ultra-drive button, praying that the vehicle was on a bend or a gradient.

His prayer was doubly answered. It was on both.

With a high, muted whine, the ultra-drive turbine cut in; and the great vehicle surged forward, rapidly accelerating past two hundred kilometres an hour. For four vital seconds, Peter did not know what had happened. And by the time he did, it was already too late.

The Cirque Russe left the Transit, passed at high speed over the narrow strip of soft, uneven earth, and attempted to plough through the low, thick ferrocrete crash barrier. The vehicle somersaulted twice and came to rest on its side with the sliding doors buckled outwards.

Miraculously, among the cargo, a panther, a tiger and a rabbit survived. After much whimpering, they emerged through the open doors. The panther panicked and streaked off across the Transit. Its freedom was short-lived, and it wrecked one hover sled and two ground cars. The tiger and the rabbit turned in the right direction and scampered away across open country.

Within minutes, a team of bounty hunters in a hover wagon, directed by a chopper-spotter with computer, radar, sonic and infra-red gear, arrived at the crash area.

It being an ill wind that blows the goods to nobody, the bounty hunters extracted three usable bodies and one prepube not yet clinically dead from the tangled mass of ground cars and hover sled. And in the cab of the large vehicle that had jumped the Transit, they found what was left of Peter and Ilyich Karamazov, enfolded touchingly in each other’s arms.

Gabriel and Camilla did not have to search for an apartment for long. They were lucky enough to find one in an excellent state of repair, furnished and only recently vacated; its previous tenant, a NaTel bit player, having leaped to his death after being written out of the ever-popular Carnation Street, the first NaTel serial to have reached its golden jubilee.

The apartment was on the twenty-fifth storey in Margot Fonteyn House, Shepherd’s Bush; and the fact that the previous tenant had taken the quick way down only five days before did not unduly disturb either Camilla or Gabriel. They had weighty problems to consider -

problems relating to strategy, obscurity and sheer survival.

Margot Fonteyn House was an unpretentious, respectably anonymous hive in an unpretentious, respectably anonymous district; and presumably occupied by unpretentious, respectably anonymous people. The nameplates on their neighbours’ apartments reinforced Gabriel in his conviction that the hive was as good a place as any in which to be discreetly lost. The neighbour on the left was Señor Manuel Labore, chargé d’affaires to the Republic of Tierra del Fuego, recently recognized by U.N. The neighbour on the right was simply a Dr. D.