Michael Moorcock - A Cure for Cancer

Near Iron Mountain they waited. Then from the West came the Bannock, the Shoshoni, the Paviosto, the Pyute. From the East came the Osage, the Pawnee and the Omaha. From the North came the Cree, the Blackfoot, the Gros Ventre, the Flat-head, the Assinboine. And from the South came the Cheyenne, the Kiowa and the Comanche.

The councils began. All night there were dances and drumming, pipe-smoking and wampum-passing, and the medicine men cast their bones or necromantically raised up the ghosts of the great dead braves who appeared in the red smoke of the fires — Geronimo, Red Sleeve, Chief Joseph, Osceola, Corn-planter, Red Jacket, Rain-in-the-Face, Red Cloud, Sitting Bull, Crow, Black Kettle, Crazy Horse, Roman Nose, Little Wolf, White Antelope — all the heroes of the High Plains, the forests, the valleys and the mountains. And during the day there was the Sun Dance, or the dances of the warrior societies, or the women's dances, like the White Buffalo Dance. And they would listen to their Paramount Chiefs as they spoke of the glory that would soon be theirs as all the Indian Nations united and claimed the land that was theirs by right.

Jerry caught up with his sleep as best he could. He had mingled blood with Flaming Lance and felt he had done his bit. The council grounds were becoming a bit crowded and smelly as thousands more Navahos, Chiricahuas, Mescaleros, Wichitas, Chickasaws, Shawnees, Kickapoos, Santees, Cayuses, Modocs and Nez Perces flooded in.

It was time to be off.

He left unostentatiously in an old Thunderbird that had brought the Paramount Chief of the Choctaws. He made it to St George by morning and drove through the rubble. Scalped corpses were everywhere.

Soon he was on Interstate 15, heading for Las Vegas where he hoped he might pick up a plane that would get him to San Francisco.

He was becoming extremely concerned for his patients.

Live, work, fish and hunt in nature's wonderland!

Las Vegas was quiet in the afternoon glare. The signs flashed to a steady, soothing rhythm that blended with the sounds of the one-armed bandits and the blackjack tables. Las Vegas was one of those sleepy towns where nobody bothered you much as long as you didn't make trouble. It had all the old virtues of rural American life. Jerry felt at peace here. He made for Circus Circus and wondered if Murphy still owned it.

He went inside and began to cross the vast hall filled with gaming tables. A few old people were playing, a few performers were on the high wire above the hall, but nobody noticed him as he located Murphy's office and went in.

Murphy seemed pleased to see him.

'Jerry! What brings you to civilization?' 'I thought you might like to know that the tribes are massing. It looks like war.'

'We don't need to worry about a few Indians, Jerry. The army'll look after them.'

The army seems to be busy elsewhere.'

'Why should they want to attack us?'

Eugene Murphy had known Jerry in London. Ex-president-turned-motion-picture-star-tumed-casino-owner, Murphy had a battered, cancerous face and a big cigar.

'They're attacking everything,' said Jerry.

'What are they riled about?'

'Most everything or nothing in particular. You know the Indians.'

Murphy nodded. 'Well, I'll bear it in mind. Is that why you came to Vegas?'

'I came to borrow a plane. I lost mine out there.'

'Sure. You can have your pick. I've got a lovely little LTV C-150A tiltwing turboprop that should suit you fine. Have something to eat and then we'll go and take a look at her. What d'you say?'

'Sounds fine.'

'Great! I bet you're glad to be somewhere you can take it easy, put your feet up. All that trouble. All that burning. Washington, Atlanta, Kansas City, Philadelphia, Salt Lake City, Houston. I sometimes wonder if it's worth it. Jerry.' Murphy poured them both large glasses of rye. 'And it's not good for business, either. I can tell you that for nothing. You must have come through the place. Not that I'm complaining. Not yet.'

Jerry peeled off his war-bonnet. 'I think they'll make for Carson City and take over the mint first. They were still in council when I left.'

'I'm part Indian myself, you know,' Murphy said proudly.

Jerry climbed into the cockpit of the LTV C-i150A and ran his fingers over the controls with a sigh of relief. He settled himself and switched on. Slowly the wings tilted upwards and the propellers sang.

Jerry sat back and took her up.

She rose neatly into the air and at five hundred feet he tilted the wings forward and headed, at a comfortable 350 mph, for California.

As he flew over the Sierra Nevadas he saw that they were black with riders. A Mayday message came in on the radio. It was Sacramento.

'This is General Partridge, Sacramento Control Tower.'

'Come in Partridge, Sacramento.'

'We're completely surrounded. I've hardly got a man left. We can't get a message through for reinforcements. Will you relay a message?'

'What's the problem?'

The problem! Indians is the problem. They're howling round and round and round. Fire arrows...'

'How long can you hang on?'

'Another hour. We need paratroopers. A regiment at least. Half the tower's on fire. Can you get through to Hollywood?'

'I don't think so.'

'Well, get through to someone. There must be a thousand of the devils out there at least. My head's spinning. Round and round. Nobody warned me.'

'It's a fast world, general,'

'No kidding.'

'I'm on my way to San Francisco. I'll inform the authorities when I arrive.'

'If we hadn't had guerrilla experience, we wouldn't be here now. It's Dien Bien Phu all over again.' \ 'That's the way it goes. Over and out, general.'

Jerry could see the blue Pacific. He began to hum.

Jerry brought the plane down over the mellow ruins of Berkeley and headed for the recently built Howard Johnsons where he had a large steak with all the trimmings and a Quadruple Pineapple Astonisher with hot fudge sauce topped with grated nuts. It set him up. He left one of Murphy's thousand-dollar bills under his plate and began the long walk to the bridge. The bay was blue, the bridge beautiful and the distant city had almost died down. A few buildings were still standing, a few reconnaissance copters hung about in the sky but most of them were heading back to the Hollywood base, now the Greater American operations centre.

An old man joined Jerry as he reached the bridge. 'Mind if I walk along with you a taste, son?' He wore a dingy brown fedora and dirty overalls and he had a cheroot between his wrinkled lips. 'Going in for a loved one?'

'Something like that.' The bridge swayed. Jerry looked down at the boats leaving the bay. Most of them were cruisers from the ruined port.

'I hail from Kansas. I was on my way to join up in L. A., but then the truck broke down. Thought I'd do some fruit-picking instead.'

Jerry stopped and peered through the bars. He recognized the Teddy Bear. She was going full steam and she was loaded with patients; he saw some of them staring up from the forward hold just before the hatches were battened. Beesley must have moved the yacht overland in a hurry. Now they were heading out.

'There's a lot of fruit to pick,' said the old man. 'So I hear.' .

Jerry sighed.

'I'll be seeing you,' he said, and he jumped, swung through the struts, poised, dived, hit the salty water not three feet from the yacht, sank, somersaulted, struck for the surface, saw above him the keel, the churning propellers and grabbed the rope that trailed in the foam, hauling himself up the side.

When he climbed aboard he had his vibragun in his hand and Bishop Beesley and Mitzi had a nasty shock when they saw him.