Michael Moorcock: A Cure for Cancer

The rubble began to quiver and shiver. Then there was nothing left at all but a cloud of dust. Jerry stepped forward and looked into the smooth clearing.

The steel trapdoor was still there. It shone as if burnished. He kneeled on it, pressed his palm against it and murmured a couple of words. The door hissed and took him down twenty feet. He got off and looked up the shaft at the sky. He could see the sun. It had hardly moved.

The steel door ascended and shut off the light.

Jerry depressed a switch. A little illumination flickered for an instant around the room and then died. He moved cautiously through the darkness towards one wall, felt for a shelf above his head and found what he was hoping to find, took out his lighter and by its flame managed to ignite the wick.

He saw that the paraffin level was low. He hoped it would last.

The lamp was of blue glass, decorated with gold and scarlet flowers. It cast shadows around a room full of dusty, alchemical equipment; part of an earlier era. Jerry crossed to a wooden door and pulled it open.

It creaked.

He entered a tunnel and the light shone on the semi-luminous white coats of half-dead rats. As he pushed his feet through them, they barely moved.

The tunnel was damp and cold and still. By the light of the lamp he saw that his own hands had gone a pale golden colour. He needed sustenance. Beesley must have increased the machine's power. He trod on a rat and it squeaked faintly.

After half a mile the tunnel began to slope upwards until it ended at another steel door. He pressed his hand on it. It didn't move. He murmured the words. The door stayed shut.

With a sigh, Jerry took out his vibragun. His bones ached.

It took much longer than usual for the gun to disintegrate the steel. Gradually daylight filtered in and there was a hole large enough for Jerry to crawl through. He was in Holland Park, close to the Belvedere Restaurant which had once been part of Holland House and had included the orangery.

He had left in the afternoon. Now it was morning. Did Beesley realize how senseless his plan was? A big waste of power.

He thought of Catherine and began to run.

As he reached the Elizabethan façade of Holland House, Jerry paused and looked up.

The American jets were dancing in the frozen sky. For several minutes they performed complicated formations then regrouped into conventional flights and flew away from London towards the Atlantic. Either they had been recalled or events had got on top of them.

With mixed feelings Jerry watched them leave.

He was on his own now.

Pushing open the mansion's heavy doors he entered a large, gloomy hall. A Shifter gateway had once been here, but he knew it must have dispersed by now. Beesley had buggered the phasing completely.

He drew his gun and started up the Tudor staircase.

Mitzi was waiting, unarmed, at the top. She wore an ankle-length dress in Regency stripes of dark and light pink. There were pink slippers on her feet and her blonde hair was combed to frame her face. Her large blue eyes regarded him.

'Herr Cornelius. You are not looking well.'

'I'm as well as could be expected.' He motioned with the vibragun. 'Is Beesley here?'

'My father? Yes. He's waiting for you. He thinks you're probably ready to join us at last.'

She smiled and Jerry saw that her teeth seemed to have grown to points, like a fox's. 'It will soon be summer again, and we can be together...' She turned, walking back along the landing. This way.'

Jerry hesitated.

'What's the matter?' She paused by the door of the main bedroom.

'Death.' His nostrils quivered. 'A lot of death.'

There's nothing wrong with death. Nothing to be afraid of. A sleep...'

'It depends on the kind.' He gripped the gun desperately.

'Don't you like the idea of life after death?'

'It depends on the kind.'

'Herr Cornelius, you have no trust.' Her eyes widened with sympathy. 'You are so wild.'

'I...' He felt very tired.

'You are a fierce beast.'

'No...'

'You must be more tame. In time.'

' I want...' He gasped as the tears flooded from his face. 'I want...'

'Peace. We want nothing more.'

'Peace?'

He rocked on his heels. His grip was still tight on his gun, though all his energy seemed concentrated in his right hand.

She came towards him. He tried to raise his gun. She stretched out her palm. He shook his head.

'Don't you want to rest? We can help you rest.'

'Not that kind.'

She frowned, her eyes concerned. 'Why do you split hairs so? Does it matter about the kind?'

'Yes.'

'We all grow older, you know. More mature.'

'No.'

'Love,' said Mitzi. 'Do you love nothing but your Cause? It is hopeless, you know.'

'Love.' The tears chilled his cheeks. He trembled as he thought of Oxford and Catherine and the Science of Innocence.

'You know,' Mitzi murmured, 'that what you have done is wrong. But we forgive you.'

He snarled and laughed through his teeth. The energy left his right hand and blazed from his eyes. 'I am Jerry Cornelius.' The gun dropped. He bent but she swept forward and kicked the gun through the banisters and he watched it fall slowly to the floor of the hall below.

'It's a turning world, darling.' Mitzi helped him straighten up, wincing as she saw his eyes. 'There are many kinds of beauty.'

Jerry staggered back from her with a growl.

The cardinal came out of the master bedroom. 'Misericordia! The poor chap looks completely beaten. He needs help.'

Jerry tried to descend the stairs. It was dawn outside. He gasped as the cardinal seized him around the waist.

'Could you bring him in here, please. Cardinal Orelli.' Mitzi's voice was vibrant with sympathy. 'He'll soon feel a new man.'

Jerry shut everything down.

He let them get on with it.

He was awakened by a cold caress.

Mitzi's hand was on his brow. He felt the heat leave his head and he tried to jerk away.

She removed her hand.

He lay on a hard mattress in a wide four-poster with grey curtains that were drawn back so that he could see Bishop Beesley standing by the Jacobean dresser and bending over the box which stored Jerry's machine.

Ash-coloured light came through the window. Jerry took stock of his reserves. They were low.

'Good — um — hello, there, Mr Cornelius. I see my daughter's been looking after you. She's an angel. A ministering angel.'

Jerry sat up. He was still dressed in his red suit and he was unbound. He frowned suspiciously at Mitzi.

'I'm sick,' he said, 'of...'

'Cancer?'said Mitzi.

'Crabs.'

'It's a complicated state of affairs, I'm afraid,' said the bishop, chewing a Crunchie bar. The artificial honeycomb coursed down his chins. 'I've got so far, but I now need your help. I want to find out where the rest of your 'converts' are, for a start. Some are hanging on, you know, against all common sense.'