Michael Moorcock - A Cure for Cancer

He thought of Baptiste Charbonneau and Kit Carson, of Humphrey Bogart and Kirk Douglas, of George Washington and Franklin D. Roosevelt, of Herman Melville and Dashiell Ham-mett, and he thought particularly of Charles Ives, Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie and Nina Simone.

Tears came to his eyes and he leaned heavily against the wall until the elevator arrived. America, the shattered dream, the broken promise...

At breakfast he couldn't eat his scrambled eggs, and his English Muffin also went untasted. He drank a lot of coffee and for an hour read Jack Trevor Story's Hitler Needs You which cheered him up, as he had known it would.

The monks and nuns were all seated at another table, staring at him incredulously. Karen was nowhere in sight, but Jerry saw a face he recognized.

It was Protz. A Russian agent and almost certainly a double agent for the Israelis. Could the archaically dressed man be interested in him?

Protz tripped from the crowded restaurant almost as soon as Jerry had spotted him. Remembering his encounter with Zhazhda of Okharna, Jerry began to feel nervous.

Mr Silver appeared behind him. 'Father Abbot? The arrangements It wasn't like Jerry to lie. It surprised him as he said shiftily, 'Not 'abbot' if you don't mind, my dear Mr Silver — Chuzzlewit — I'm afraid there are enemies who have succeeded in following me to this — even this — sanctuary...'

The police?'

'What could they prove? No, no. I thank you for your concern, but do not worry. I have friends, you see, in New York. They'll pick me up later. Bishop Beesley...'

'Oh, Bishop Beesley! Good hands. God bless you.' Mr Silver backed secretively away.

'God bless you, Mr Silver...'

'No, God... Nice of you, father — Chuzzlewit — thanks again...' Mr Silver dropped his eyes. 'God... thank you, Mr...' Jerry whirled on his heel and went softly away from the restaurant, bought some Marlboros in the lobby and returned to his room.

He turned on the television and changed channels until he got the hotel's own closed circuit channel. It showed a broad view of the road outside the main exit. The road led across the plain to Manhattan. There was surprisingly little traffic. The channel was vision only and the room itself was sound-proofed. A sense of isolation overwhelmed him.

He went to the window and saw a Pan Am 727 shimmer into the sky.

If Protz were in the States, then Zhazhda could be here, too. Zhazhda would tip off Beesley. Beesley would come to the hotel.

Why was he waiting for Beesley to come to him? Impulsively he went to the mirror. His skin had turned a deep brown, his eyes were uncomfortable.

If he hired a car he could be in New York in a half hour. He would be all right in New York. But Karen wouldn't come with him.

In the distance, the sun beat on the towers of the shining city.

There was no escape.

He took off his jacket, switched channels, watched five minutes of The Good, the Sad and the Ugly before the quality of the colour upset him, poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels, sipped it, put his jacket back on and went out of his room and opened Karen's door.

She had gone. Her suitcase was gone.

Jerry took his lighter from his pocket and tried to set fire to the messy bed. But the sheets were too sweaty. They wouldn't burn.

For three days Jerry stared at the television and the view of the street. On the highway there were increasing numbers of motorcycle cops in unfamiliar black uniforms and helmets. Frequently, during the day or night they would arrest a driver.

Once he switched to a news programme. Someone referred to the European disease that was sweeping the country. The only answer to it is the European cure...'

His meals were now brought to his room, but he had lost his taste for hotel living. When he had last appeared in the restaurant it was to see Karen with Protz. She had looked bored. On her way out he tried to trip her up but failed.

He had watched her bottom for a sign, but got nothing.

The lack of music was beginning to disturb him much more than Karen. A flutter of brushes on a skin, a whine or two from a Martin, a thud from a Fender bass; anything would have helped. But there wasn't a note in the entire hotel. Nothing, anyway, that wasn't offensive quasi-music, such as the Gilbert and Sullivan.

His vague feelings of discomfort had grown by the fourth day. The police arrests seemed increasingly arbitrary.

He turned on the television to a news broadcast for the second time.

President Paolozzi had disappeared and had been replaced by his Vice President, Konnie Agonosto, who was promising to restore order as quickly as possible.

A little while later President Ronald Boyle, elected by emergency vote, announced that his special militia were already getting the country back on a safe, sane, orderly footing, ready to honour her commitments anywhere at home or in the world.

Jerry packed his case and put it near the door. He hurried into Karen's empty room and picked up the phone. 'Can you give me Mr Protz's room number?'

Protz was in 805. Jerry went up by the service stairs, found 805 and knocked on the door.

'Was; s das?'

'Karen. It's Jerry. We're in trouble I think. You'd better pack.'

'Please go away, Jerry. I'm not going to be tricked...'

'Okay.'

He walked down the corridor. Everywhere there were open doors and he could see people hastily pushing their possessions into their luggage. He went back to 805, kicking fiercely at the door.

'Karen. Everyone's getting out.'

'Go away. Why?'

'Something's up. A change of government.' Down the hall came a few bars of Chuck Berry that were rapidly cut off.

Jerry began to pant. Karen knew what she was doing. Kou-trouboussis... How elaborate was the plot? There had never been so much pressure before. He was out of his element. Everything was threatened.

George Catlin — Mark Twain — Henry Ford. It was no good. The postcard in his pocket was thin and wrinkled. As he touched it, it crumbled.

The door opened. Zhazhda stood there. His eyes were sardonic. 'What sort of thing, Comrade Cornelius, is up?'

'The poor sods,' said Jerry. The poor bloody sods. Is this your doing? You traitor...'

Think of Frank, Comrade Cornelius. Your brother. What would he have done?'

'Uncle Frank...' Jerry's brain misted over again. 'Where's...?'

'You look out of sorts, comrade.'

'You were the one, weren't you? You set the trap?'

'Nonsense. I'm merely an adviser over here.'

Tell Doktor von Krupp I'll wait in my room for her.'

Jerry walked as steadily as he could to the stairs and began to climb down them. His teeth were aching.

On the TV Jerry watched the people hurry from the hotel and be scooped up by formations of Boyle's militia. It was rather like watching a ballet.

Three black Cadillacs, their windows gleaming black oneway glass, came down the road towards the hotel. Things looked sticky for the visitors.

'Jerry.'

He turned.

Karen had her case with her. Jerry picked up his own. 'Got your passport? We're going back.'

'So soon?'

'I know it's disappointing...'

The corridors were empty. They took the elevator to the main lobby where a few people with anxious, bewildered faces, stood about.

A small man in a brown leather trench coat bent his swarthy, severe face over people's passports. It was Mr Silver or someone very much like him. He was obviously in charge now.

Jerry strolled to the desk. 'I'll pay if I may.'

'Of course, sir .604 and 610, is that right?' The brunette leafed through a desk file.