Edmund Cooper - Kronk

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t touch me. How can I be sure that you are not in league with Dostoievsky!”

Dr. Perrywit took another step. Dr. Slink retreated, still facing him, her breasts aching with anxiety, her limbs trembling as she tried not to think of unthinkable horrors.

“What is all this drivel about Mongol hordes and Dostoievsky?”

“You deny it?”

“What is there to deny?”

“So you don’t deny it!”

Dr. Perrywit began to feel as if all things reasonable were dissolving. Now, on top of the Greylaw fiasco, his assistant’s sanity seemed to be imploding.

“God save us all,” roared Dr. Perrywit, “you are talking in riddles, you stupid cow! Now try hard for a moment of coherence and tell me about this Mongol Dostoievsky thing. I have enough trouble without my assistant spiralling round the twist.”

Dr. Slink’s breasts heaved fit to burst through her cat-suit. Never had a man spoken to her like this before. It was — it was almost like being rough-handed physically. Now she was certain. An Englishman — a true Englishman — would not behave thus to a lady.

“Beast,” she breathed, “how does it feel to be a traitor to the Mother Country?”

Dr. Perrywit tried hopelessly to retain some grip upon a tenuous thread of sanity. “I say, Dorothea,” he expostulated, “whatever you are talking about — and I haven’t the faintest idea -

you have said quite enough. Now let us forget all this drivel and concentrate on practical aspects of the Greylaw affar.” He held out his hands, beseeching her to reassume the professional persona he had formerly known.

Dr. Slink misinterpreted his gesture. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! You will obtain nothing by force.” She retreated another couple of steps but, unfortunately, her left foot became entangled with the desk computer cable. She fell backwards, her head striking a glancing blow on the desk on the way down.

Dr. Slink, arms and legs spread out, breasts still heaving, lay flat on her back on the deep pile carpet. Her eyes closed, then opened and rolled, then closed and opened and rolled. One arm clutched briefly, limply and protectively at her bosom, then flopped. Her lips moved. She seemed to sigh deeply.

Thunderstruck, Dr. Perrywit looked at her, registering each delicious tremor in each delicious limb of her supine body. This was more than mortal man could bear. This was what he had always dreamed of.

With a wild cry, he flung himself upon her, tearing viciously at the cat-suit, exposing more and more of that superb ivory flesh. Briefly she seemed to return to full consciousness. Briefly and quite ineffectually she attempted to resist. Then, as Dr. Perrywit turned his attention to the flimsy material protecting those gorgeous thighs, she closed her eyes once more. Her mouth opened, and an irresistible tip of pink tongue protruded.

Dr. Perrywit ripped hastily at his own clothing, then he lay between Dr. Slink’s legs and thrust and thrust and thrust…

And nothing…

The sweat dripped off his forehead.

He kissed her, he fondled her, he gripped her, he pinched her. He thrust and thrust and thrust.

And nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Impotent!

Presently Dr. Perrywit detached himself sadly from Dr. Slink, who still lay motionless, breathing somewhat heavily. He was shaking and dripping with sweat. He felt terrible. He needed his pills. He sat on his haunches and began to cry.

Dr. Slink withdrew her tongue, opened her eyes, sat up, and screamed. And screamed. And SCREAMED.

Zipping himself up, Dr. Perrywit withdrew hastily from the office. After half an hour and two pink pills, he felt sufficiently in control of himself to seek an interview with Sir Joshua After half an hour Dr. Slink also felt sufficiently in control of herself to seek an interview Quartz, head of the Microbiological Warfare Division.

with the head of the Microbiological Warfare Division.

Dr. Perrywit revealed everything he knew, which was not a great deal, about Professor Greylaw and Project Tranquillity.

Dr. Slink charged Dr. Perrywit with multiple rape.

She also named a gentleman called Dostoievsky.

“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.