Edmund Cooper - Kronk

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.

Gabriel had decided that he must pay a visit to his studio. There were some things he wanted, and some things he had to do. There ought not to be any problem, he told himself, because thus far there was really no reason why he should be officially connected with the P 939 frolic. Camilla would be the only lead MicroWar had — if, indeed, MicroWar had yet woken up to the fact that it had developed and lost the greatest microbiological weapon of all time.

The studio was on top of one of the oldest towers in Queensway Village. Originally it had been a small penthouse built as an afterthought on top of the ancient apartment block. As it was an afterthought, the only approaches to it were the fire escape and a narrow metal staircase leading from the top storey up through the roof of the block.

As he climbed the staircase, Gabriel tried to work out how long it was since he had last been home. Only a few days, but it felt like weeks. Life with Camilla, he reflected, had a sort of concentrated quality about it. More interesting events had happened in the last few days than in the preceding year.

There was no id ring on the door of the studio, only a simple lock. Gabriel had his key. He He went inside. No one was there.

But there was evidence of recent occupation in addition to the empty vodka bottles, wine bottles, peanut packets and food cans that Gabriel himself had left. Various items of female underwear hung on a string in the small and decrepit bathroom. Cosmetics seemed to be everywhere. A half-eaten chicken, some cooked meats and two or three bottles of German wine were in the fridge.