Michael Moorcock - A Cure for Cancer

Jerry looked at Mitzi's perfect features. 'She's got a lot of stamina,' he said admiringly.

'MrCornelius...'

Jerry noticed that they were almost out of fuel.

London came in sight. Part of the city was burning and a strange wailing noise filled the air. The car began to slow.

'Pogrom,' said Bishop Beesley. 'It's so close to the border, you see. We'd better transfer. Over there, Mitzi.' He pointed to the roadside which was now lined with low buildings. Most of them were stores. The neon signs were dead.

A Plymouth Barracuda, its nearside wheels on the sidewalk, its doors open, was what the bishop had his eye on. Mitzi stopped the Lincoln. 'Have a look at the fuel gauge,' Bishop Beesley said.

Mitzi got out and peered in at the Plymouth's dashboard. She looked back and nodded; then she glanced at her dress. It clashed with the bright red Plymouth. She shook her head.

Try the next one, then.'

Mitzi opened the door of a white Dodge Polara. 'Full up,' she said.

'Out you get, Mr Cornelius.'

Jerry opened the door and swung his legs from the car. He got up and stretched. It was almost dark. The flames lit the city and the wailing was louder.

'Civil disturbance is nothing to worry about.' Bishop Beesley pushed him forward with the tip of the Remington. 'But Europe's in real trouble. No thanks to you.'

There was the noise of pistol fire and the bishop ducked. 'Hurry along, please, Mr Cornelius. Mitzi, will you get our stuff.'

After Bishop Beesley had climbed into the back Jerry sat in the front seat. More shots came from somewhere on the roofs above them, possibly from the liquor store with the half-lit neon sign, LNNISLN NLQ R BEST.

Mitzi got the Dodge's trunk open and crammed the gear in. Jerry saw her weigh his vibragun in her hand and then put it in her handbag.

She climbed hurriedly into the driving seat and her skirt rose up showing Lurex thighs. Jerry took a deep breath. She tossed a white paper bag to the bishop.

Mitzi turned the key in the ignition. Jerry placed the tips of the fingers of his right hand on his knee and trembled. The car started. Mitzi spun the wheel. Jerry felt a tightness about his ribs and undid the buttons of his jacket.

Soon they had left the wailing city behind and the headlights glared on the wide, white road. Jerry clenched his hands together. 'You share the same faith, I take it?' He winked at Mitzi.

'More than that, Mr Cornelius.' Bishop Beesley's voice was slurred.

There were a lot of planes,' Mitzi said quietly. 'But they seem to have disappeared.'

They were going somewhere, my dear.'

'And tanks and so on...'

Those, too.' Beesley laughed. 'You'd think there was an invasion or something!'

'A general mobilization?' Jerry lit a Punch Manuel Lopez, his last.

'You could say that. We must hand it to the Americans. When they set out to do a thing, they don't waste any time. President Boyle'and his Greater American Party will soon have the planes landing on schedule.'

'Don't you feel something of a hypocrite?' Jerry glanced back at the bishop. 'I mean, you should hand me over to the authorities, by rights. I can't help feeling a bit guilty.'

Things will take a while to settle down, Mr Cornelius. I am doing what is best for everyone. America will soon be on her feet again. And she will be cleaner.'

'I thought they were doing okay before.'

'You would. Not that I don't understand your views, of course. I do not mean to criticize. I believe in everybody having a say. Free will, Mr Cornelius. That's what the good God gave us, heaven help us.'

'Amen.'

'But there is a difference between free will, I would point out, and insane nihilism.'

'Naturally.'

'And anarchy. We are put on this earth to order it. The rhythm of the spheres, you know.'

'I could do with any bloody sort right now.'

'Wait till we get to San Francisco.'

'Buenos noches.' Jerry fell asleep again.

'Everywhere seems red tonight.' Mitzi spoke with faint disapproval and woke Jerry up as she put the handbrake on.

'Where are we?' Jerry sat up.

. Tort Huron. If you wouldn't mind, Mr Cornelius, I should like to leave the car.' Bishop Beesley moved and there was a crackle of paper wrappings. The back seat was a mass of litter.

Jerry opened the door and got slowly from the car, pulling back the seat to allow Bishop Beesley to heave himself out.

The car was parked on a wharf. Tied up at the wharf was an elegant steam yacht of about 700 tons and about 180 feet long. Jerry made out the name.

'Teddy Bear,' he said. That's a nice name.'

There were no lights on the wharf. Water lapped against the ship.

'Shall we go aboard, Mr Cornelius? Mitzi?'

Mitzi took the bags from the trunk and carried them towards the gangway. Jerry followed her. Bishop Beesley came last.

On deck Mitzi put down the bags and went forward to the bridge. From the shadows a tall, emaciated sailor appeared. He was dressed in a yellow uniform with a yellow cap and a flat, sallow face. He made a hasty salute that was half a bow. 'Evening, captain,' he whispered.

'Evening, steward. I believe you know Mr Cornelius.'

'Pleased to meet you, sir.' The steward looked shiftily at Jerry.

'You're one of ours, aren't you?' Jerry glanced chidingly at Beesley. 'The ex-chairman of the Arts Council, as I live and breathe. Jesus, Beesley, is this the best you can do?'

'He's not queer any more, at any rate!'

The steward gave a guilty grunt.

'He's not rich, either.' Jerry rubbed his nose. 'At least he was rich.'

'The meek, Mr Cornelius...'

'You're a bit inept in my opinion, Bishop Beesley.'

'We've had to use inferior equipment, thanks to you.'

'You're not kidding.'

'Well, don't blame me, Mr Cornelius. Who started it, after all? It's you people who meddle. Transmogrification. It's a farce!'

'Excuse me, sir,' whispered the ex-chairman of the Arts Council, 'but shall we slip out of port now, as you instructed?'

'Quietly, steward. Yes, yes.'

'People are happier,' said Jerry.

'Happiness? What's that? Happiness should come from a sense of self-fulfilment!'

'I'd have thought so.' .

'Are you happy?'

'Am I complaining?'

'Well, we're going to help you.'

*Not that drag again?'

That wasn't my idea. I agree it was crude. It was an emergency. A cruise is what you need.'

'Where's my cabin?'

The steward knows.'

'Aren't you going to tell me?'

'Why should I?'

'Lead on, steward.'

'You're not in Europe now, Mr Cornelius. We're in control here, you know!'

'I'm famished.' Jerry followed the ex-chairman of the Arts Council along the deck.

'You'll get something to eat in a moment,' Beesley called He had gone red.

'Not that kind of famished.' Jerry felt sleepy again. It was his only comfort.

They were on Lake Superior by the time Jerry, somewhat revitalized, but by no means himself, went up on deck and breathed in the stink.

'Why don't you stop righting us, Herr Cornelius?' Mitzi leaned on the rail and stared out at the distant Michigan shore. The yacht was making good speed through the slime.

Mitzi wore an embroidered night-sky blue cotton waistcoat tied with tiny black threads, dark and light blue flower-printed harem hipster trousers, sea blue necklace, braided necklace with yellow tassels, blue Giselle silk scarves bound into a bandanna around her head, golden diamanté belt, turquoise and gold pin and armlets by Cadoro, with silver block-heeled sandals on her lovely little feet.

Her only make-up was her lipstick: Guerlain's Grenoble if Jerry wasn't mistaken. She smiled. 'Cheer up.' She handed him a set of filters for his nose.