Michael Moorcock - A Cure for Cancer

'What about the patients?' Jerry asked Matron.

'All gone, Doctor Finlay. Kidnapped. Months of work! Och...'

'Calm yourself, woman,' said Jerry with gruff kindness. 'Was it the Westland Whirlwinds?'

'Aye, doctor. Eight Mark Tens. We didna have a chance tae activate the defences. We lased London. Mister Koutrouboussis is on his way. He said he'd try tae bring ye with him.'

'I'm ahead of him. Is the lase still working?'

'Noo...'

'Then you'd better get off to Soho as fast as you can, Janet. Tell them the choppers were heading for London when last seen.'

'Aye, doctor.' Matron ran for the one hangar still intact. Soon a small OH-6A turbine-powered copter moaned upwards, its pilot hastily pulling on her American uniform to conform with the machine's markings. It flew away over the fields of flowers.

The sun set and the fire went down.

The damage isn't too bad, considering,' said Plemmy, one of the male nurses, vainly trying to brush off the black patches on his smock with a limp hand. 'All the East wing is okay.'

They had these big bazookas and stuff,' said Mr Fowles, the Transplant Chief. Mr Fowles was a tall, pale man with unhealthy hands, a sweaty nature. 'We didn't stand a chance. We were rounded up, marked in this stuff,' he pointed to the blob of green paint on his forehead, 'and herded into the garden. Then they took away the patients.'

Their leader...?' Jerry raised a finger to his nose.

'Dressed in clerical gear. He stole the birthday cake Matron had made for the ex-chairman of the Arts Council, the poor cunt had lost so much weight!'

'You've had the cake, I'm afraid,' said Jerry, 'but I'll see if I can get the patients back. Miserable things. They must be in a state.'

To say the least, sir.' Mr Fowles tucked his hands under his arms. Timid little creatures at that stage, you know. Don't understand. Couldn't tell you their own names, half of them.'

'You'd better get this lot into the East wing.' Jerry indicated the new batch. Most of them had seated themselves on the ground and were staring moodily at the Centre's smoking skeleton. 'I'll be over at my place if you want me. Come on, Karen.'

He led her across the lawns to his little Dutch mansion and stopped under the carved portal.

'Open, als't u blieft!' The door swung open.

They stepped inside.

'Waar is de nooduitgang?' asked Karen absently as the door shut behind her. Jerry turned on the lights.

'You're getting very tense,' he said.

'Ik hank det wel...'

'Sad...'

']a, das is eben schade...'

They walked along the hall. All the wood was dark and shiny with polish. A clean old man rounded a corner and tottered towards them. 'Ah, sir! Ah, sir!'

'What have we got to eat, de Vossenberg?'

'Gekookte eieren, kaas, fazant...'

'Fine. We'll have it in the parlour, I think.'

The parlour had walls of the same dark, panelled wood. The armchairs were deep and old-fashioned, covered in loose folds of floral material. The room was full of clocks in painted wooden cases, each keeping perfect time.

They sat in the chairs and said nothing.

After a while de Vossenberg wheeled in the dumb waiter. 'Ah, sir.'

He gave them trays then he gave them plates then he served them with cold pheasant, cheese and boiled eggs. Then he opened a bottle of Niersteiner and poured it into two long-stemmed Czech hock glasses.

'What is going to happen now?' asked Karen von Krupp. 'You have lost most of your victims.'

'I suppose we should try to get them back.'

'Your duty?'

'Well...'

'But Beesley will take them to Amerika!'

'How do you know?'

'I just think he would.'

'He told you.'

'No.'

'You knew.'

']a...'

'Losing — lost — gone... Now it makes sense.'

There was a knock at the front door. They heard de Vossen-berg shuffle to answer it. They heard voices.

'Koutrouboussis,' said Jerry as the Greek, sour-faced, entered the room and glanced disdainfully at the food. 'A bite?'

'A fish, eh?'

'No, a mistress. Doktor von Krupp and I are together now.'

'I'm getting suspicious of you, Cornelius.'

'No need, Mr Koutrouboussis. I'll be off to the States shortly.'

'You heard about the converted Concorde, then? All we got from Beesley was the bang. We've a responsibility to those poor bloaters, Cornelius. You must get them back. They're neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red herring as they are.'

'We'll leave in an hour or two.'

'Immediately.'

'We've got to book seats, Mr Koutrouboussis. That's a civilized country. You can't just go sailing in there in one of your own planes. It would cause a scene. We'll have to take a scheduled flight.'

Koutrouboussis accepted this. 'There's a Pan Am airbus leaving in the morning or a VC 10 charter taking off at midnight from Gatwick. It's one of those refugee flights, but we could get you on it.'

'Karen will be with me.'

Koutrouboussis darted Jerry a tortured look. 'Okay. I'll arrange the booking for both of you. You'll have to travel as a monk and a nun.'

'Naturally. I've got the necessary gear upstairs.'

Things are becoming crucial, Jerry. I think. You know how crucial? If only you could get back that machine.'

'It means going into the Shift, almost certainly.'

'You haven't any other way of contacting him?'

'He's a hard man to get hold of. For God's sake — he doesn't even exist. It takes time to contact people like that.'

'I know. Keep trying. With that machine, we could achieve everything...'

'Beesley's aware of that. He tried to get it off me in Paris. He's sure I have it.'

'You haven't...?'

'Oh, fuck 'He thinks, then, that we're much more powerful than we actually are?'

'Sure.'

'I thought this bloody raid had a note of desperation! Oi moi! Oi moi!'

'Chin up, Mr Koutrouboussis. Keep fishing.'

'Look at the state of the nets!'