Michael Moorcock: A Cure for Cancer

'I promised them nothing less than the Millennium.' Jerry drew a sluggish breath. 'What do you expect?'

'I'm afraid we'll have to put back the Millennium for a while.' Beesley smacked his lips. 'I know it's disappointing. They were all prepared for it, weren't they? Well, that's over. If you can help me locate them, I'll get in touch with them and arrange a deconversion. Could I say fairer?'

Jerry took a lock of his hair in his hand. It was stringy and off-white. He sniffed.

'You knew the apocalypse wasn't due for several million years yet, Mr Cornelius,' Bishop Beesley continued, 'and yet you wished to bring it about for purely selfish reasons. Reasons, I regret, that I simply fail to understand. It may be all right for you — but consider your dupes!'

'What do you think my crash programme was for?' Jerry glanced out of the window. A wind was blowing the ash northward.

'You can't save the whole human race, Mr Cornelius. Besides, I insist that your motives were still suspect, let alone your goals!'

Jerry got off the bed and walked weakly to the box but Mitzi barred his way, looking questioningly at her father. Bishop Beesley shrugged. 'We've reached something of an impasse, I'm afraid. The power seems to be weakening.'

'You can say that again.' Jerry smiled. 'What else did you expect?'

Bishop Beesley cast down his eyes in embarrassment and unwrapped a toffee. 'I never claimed to be a scientist, Mr Cornelius.'

'Naturally.' Jerry stroked the box. 'You'll have to find a power source, won't you? Whether transmission of any kind's possible now, I just don't know. Things are fixed, Bishop Beesley. They are solid.'

'The sun hasn't moved for an — for some t -' Mitzi gave up. 'It isn't moving.'

That's merely an indication,' Jerry said. 'An image, if you like.'

'What sort of power does the machine take?' Beesley asked, chewing. 'Electricity?'

Jerry laughed as best he could. 'I'm afraid not. It runs on primitive energy. It's all very basic, when you get down to it.'

'Where do we get this energy?'

'Is Cardinal Orelli still on the premises?'

'I think he went to the lavatory.'

'Never mind. Ask him in when he's finished, will you?'

'Herr Cornelius,' Mitzi whispered, 'you must explain to us everything. You must not make mysteries. It is a time for frankness. You will admit that you have no choice now.'

'Frankness.' Jerry drew a deep breath. 'You said it. Bring Cardinal Orelli in as soon as you can. I'm very tired. Time's slipping by.'

'I think I heard him on the landing.' Bishop Beesley opened the door. 'Ah, cardinal. Would you step in here a moment, please?'

Cardinal Orelli smiled at Jerry. 'How are you, my son?'

'How do you feel, cardinal?' Jerry asked.

'Very well.'

'Good.' Jerry opened the lid of the box and moved a plate set in the bottom left comer. It was about four inches wide and six inches long and eight inches deep, lined with a rubbery substance. 'Would you place your hands together, cardinal? Palm against palm.'

The cardinal smiled and assumed a praying position.

That's fine. Now put the hands into the slot there. Don't worry, it won't hurt you.'

The cardinal glanced at the bishop who nodded. Mitzi's lips parted, her eyes shone. The cardinal dipped his hands into the slot up to the wrists, the box hummed briefly, the cardinal's lifeless body crumpled to the floor.

'It's fueled again,' said Beesley, bending over the gauge. 'Good heavens!'

'It won't last long,' said Jerry. He turned a knob and gripped a metal bar positioned in the centre.

A shock raced through him and he felt a little sick, but he kicked Beesley in the crutch so that he fell back into Mitzi's arms, picked up the box and made for the door.

They yelled at him as he raced down the stairs, paused in the hall to recover his vibragun and dashed out into the grey day.

He was using up energy very quickly, in spite, of everything. He stumbled down the steps, through the gates, out over the cricket pitch, his boots sinking in ash, and behind him came Bishop Beesley and Mitzi who had paused only to get their Remingtons.

In the middle of the cricket pitch he fell and the box flew from his arms. He choked on the ash.

He tried to get up but collapsed, rolled over on his back to get his vibragun out, but already Mitzi and Bishop Beesley were standing over him, their rifles pointing at his heart.

'We'll have to try to manage on our own now that we know how to keep the machine's strength up.'

Apologetically, Bishop Beesley squeezed the trigger.

There was a pop and a slithering noise and a bullet fell out of the barrel. Mitzi pulled her trigger and the same thing happened. Her bullet fell in Jerry's lap. He felt a mild shock in his right ball.

Mitzi raised her head at the sound of barking. Bishop Beesley followed her gaze.

Coming across the ash, his head and body swathed in white furs, driving a sled pulled by a teami of a dozen dogs, including two St Bernards, a borzoi and three salukis, was a tall man armed with a steel bow and a quiver of alloy arrows. Close by he stopped the dogs and they flung themselves down panting. He fitted an arrow to his bow.

'I wonder if you'd let Mr Cornelius rise?' said the man in the white fur.

They stepped back and Jerry got up, dusting ash off his suit.

The new arrival motioned with his bow. 'What I'd like to know, bishop — I take it you are a bishop — is what you think you're accomplishing, fucking about with the sun and so forth,' said the tall figure.

'I'm trying to put things right,' Beesley said sullenly. 'I'm a journalist by trade.' He studied the other man's weapons, obviously attempting to decide if the bow and arrow were as ineffective as his rifle.

'A bow has more power, at short range, than an ordinary rifle,' said the tall figure.

'How much more power?' asked Mitzi.

'Quite a bit.'

Mitzi sucked at her lower lip.

Jerry went down on his knees beside the box and began to drag it through the grey dust towards the sled. It took him a while to load it aboard. 'I hope I'm not overburdening you,' he said to the newcomer.

'I'd allowed for the extra. They're good dogs.'

'I suppose you haven't...'

'Do you want it now?'

'I think I'd better.'

'Look under the skin nearest you.'

Jerry pulled back the wolfskin and there was a little replica of one of his webs. He switched it on and it began to pipe. He buried his head in it. That's more like it.'

'It was the best I could do,' said the man in the white furs.

Jerry straightened up.

The sun had started to move again.

The sled slid away across the cricket pitch.

Behind it Mitzi and Bishop Beesley sat slumped in the ash. Mitzi had pulled up her skirt and seemed to be inspecting her inner thigh. Her father was unwrapping a Milky Way.

'You seem very fit,' Jerry said to his companion as the man whipped up the dogs.

Titter than ever.' They gathered speed. 'I took the opportunity of diverting some of the energy to myself while that chap was trying to do whatever it was he was trying to do.'

'So that's what happened to it. I couldn't understand...'

'It turned out for the best, I think you'll agree.'

'You can say that again.'

'Where to now?'

'Oxford, I think.'

'Okay. I suppose it was wise, was it, to leave that pair where they are?'

'Oh, I don't think they'll be much trouble now. Poor things -if we succeed, they'll hardly survive the transformation.'

'Quite.'

The runners scraped the ash and they rode in silence for a few miles until they reached the outskirts of London and the ash gave way to the asphalt of the M4o. The dogs were cut from their traces and lay down panting.