Edmund Cooper - Kronk

Sir Joshua, the sweat forming on his forehead, turned to the door and made his retreat before the woman could break down. He need not have hurried. Dr. Slink continued to stand there, almost catatonic, without any expression on her face, like a mesmerized rabbit.

Dr. Perrywit was in his own office, idly drawing a series of extravagant female torsos that made the page in his notebook seem like a promising design for club bathroom wallpaper. He did not have a freezair pencil handy, nor had he electro-locked the door. Which omissions, as he later had time to reflect, were grievous ones.

He had been greatly tempted to try to make his pace with Dr. Slink; but discretion had triumphed over temptation. The woman was clearly unbalanced; and though Dr. Perrywit was utterly mortified by his treatment of her he believed that the blame did not entirely lie upon him. In the first instance she should never have provoked him with those deliciously palpitating mountains of flesh; in the second instance she should never have been so stupid as to fall flat on her black; and in the third instance she should not have made those nonsensical accusations in the first instance.

Nevertheless, he was relieved that she had accused him of multiple rape. It was, at least, better than being accused of failing to rape. Despite the inevitable high price, one still had one’s image and one’s self-respect to consider.

But there were more important matters on Dr. Perrywit’s mind than the recent fiasco with Dr. Slink. There was the protection of MicroWar’s activities in the cause of peace. Dr.

Perrywit felt moderately proud that he had had the courage and the integrity to tell Sir Joshua all he knew of the Greylaw matter. Perhaps his honesty — even at the cost of his career — would be taken into account when the Slink thing came to be settled. Perhaps, if in some way he could be instrumental in recovering the stolen evidence of Professor Greylaw’s success on the Tranquillity project, it might even still be possible for him to remain in MicroWar.

Downgraded, of course.

Sir Joshua had promised to send for Dr. Perrywit as soon as the head of MicroWar had consulted the Minister. Dr. Perrywit waited anxiously for the summons. Apart from natural anxiety about his own fate, he wanted to give Sir Joshua a significant item of information that had filled the joke spot in a recent newsflash. The significant item was that a tiger had been killed by a spaniel in North Yorkshire. Clearly, it was one of the missing animals, and had somehow escaped from its abductors. Clearly, their temporary hide-out would be nearby.

Clearly, if Security set up a massive hunt in North Yorkshire…

There was a knock at the door, and Sir Joshua Quartz came into the office. He was followed by three men in white — meds, no doubt. Dr. Perrywit was puzzled. Sir Joshua said nothing and remained in the background. The meds approached the desk.

“You Dr. Peregrine Perrywit?” asked one.

“Yes.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Certainly, I’m Dr. Peregrine Perrywit.” He looked helplessly at the head of MicroWar. “Sir Joshua will confirm that I am me. What does this mean?”

The med did not answer. He produced a large sheet of paper and turned to his colleagues.

“We have now examined him. Are we agreed on our conclusions, gentlemen?”

“We are indeed,” said the second med.

“Unanimously,” said the third.

The first fumbled in his pockets. “Damn! Anybody got a ball-point?”

“Allow me,” said Dr. Perrywit, offering his own.

“Thanks, buster.”

One after another, the meds signed the paper. Dr. Perrywit looked at Sir Joshua. Sir Joshua stroked his nose and stared through the window.

Then the first med began to read the paper aloud.

“From Charles, Defender of Romaprot, Governor of NaTel and liege sovereign of this realm,” said the med, “to Peregrine Perrywit, citizen — Greetings. Whereas it has been brought to our notice that you, Peregrine Perrywit, are a person lately engaged in most secret and confidential work at an establishment sanctioned and authorized by our loyal Government; and whereas it has been further brought to our notice that you have lately conducted yourself in a manner indicating diminished responsibility; and whereas said diminished responsibility constitutes a threat to the King’s Peace and the welfare of our peoples; and whereas on this account we have required three qualified medical and psychiatric practitioners to examine your mental condition; and whereas said medical and psychiatric practitioners have appended their signatures to this document certifying that you are unsound of mind; we now therefore direct and command you to go peaceably to a designated House of Restraint, there to remain during our royal pleasure. This command and committal to be effected under the direction of Theodore Flower, Minister of the Crown and our loyal servant, whose signature is appended herewith. God Save The King. Charles Rex.”

Dr. Perrywit was momentarily petrified. Then his mouth opened and closed convulsively several times. He gurgled somewhat.

The med folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “That’s it, buster. Now you know you’ve flipped.”

“But — but — but…” Dr. Perrywit found his voice. He looked at Sir Joshua. Sir Joshua continued to look out of the window as if he were unaware of Dr. Perrywit’s presence.

“No buts, buster,” said one of the meds. “The order said peaceably. Do you come that way or our way?”

“But, Sir Joshua, Sir Joshua, Sir Joshua!” shrieked Dr. Perrywit. “I have something important to tell you. One of my tigers has been killed by a spaniel!”

At that point a med dexterously squirted freezair. Dr. Perrywit froze. For the first time, Sir Joshua looked at him.

“Sad,” observed the first med. “Sad how they always go to pieces.”

“Sad,” agreed Sir Joshua Quartz, inspecting a rigid Dr. Perrywit. “Very sad.”

Peter Karamazov sat in the departure lounge at Geneva Airport, moodily sipping his sixth large Japanese whisky and contemplating his newly discovered and terrifyingly beautiful gospel of Perfect Universal Love. He had already paid Dr. Moreau and had now cleared the Swiss Account. His baggage lay by the side of the chair on which he sat. It contained four million Swiss francs in high denomination notes and a toothbrush.

Dennis Progg and the A crew of This Is Your World were also in the departure lounge at Geneva Airport. They were at the bar, making a serious attempt to dispose of its entire stock of champagne and Guinness. They had been shooting a mass-suicide at the International Pet Lovers’ Convention, where seventeen bereaved pet lovers had made a pre-death sale of their organs in order to finance research into cat and dog geriatrics. The crew was now waiting for the special NaTel jet to lift them back to London.

Peter ordered another whisky and surveyed the airport lounge. He felt very sad. All these people going from nowhere to nowhere, journeying from the dark into the dark. Their eyes looked empty. They did not understand yet that spiritual fulfilment was the greatest and simplest thing in the world. All you had to do was love everybody, be a brother to all men -

and, of course, all women. But these people coming and going in the departure lounge, they did not know about this thing. They did not know that love is life and life is love. They did not know that this was all they needed to know.

The trouble was, thought Peter, downing his whisky and absently getting another, that the world was too materialistic. People valued the wrong things — wealth, rank, possessions, power. Just as he had done before Ilyich had died so that his brother’s eyes could be opened…