A Cure for Cancer

I Blonde mistress of Nibelburg's tower of terror!

Jerry passed through Aachen listening to Olivier Messiaen's Turangalila Symphony on his headphones. He frowned self-critically as the seventh movement began. His Ondes Martenot playing was dreadful. He hardly noticed the F111A nose-dive into a nearby field until the sight of the flames made him stop the car and watch as the U.S. Marines arrived in three Shawnee whirlybirds and, automatic weapons at the ready, ringed the wreck. One of the advisors jerked his thumb at Jerry to continue down the road. He waved, wound back to the beginning of the movement and was once again on his way to Nibelburg with a couple of hours to go and by this time aware of the Cadillac on his tail. The bishop was apparently making no attempt to hide the fact that he was pursuing Jerry.

Cornelius waited until the marines were out of sight and then decided to give Bishop Beesley the slip.

At the touch of a button the Phantom VI sprouted stubby wings and tail section, the turbo-jet engine whirled into life and the car took off at great speed from the almost deserted autobahn. It circled the baffled bishop once and then climbed rapidly into the calm, cloudless sky of the autumn afternoon.

A little later Jerry dropped altitude as he made out the impressive steeples of Cologne Cathedral. He checked his map and then began to descend towards the road that would take him to Nibelburg. To the west he thought he could just see the tall, stone tower where Dr Karen von Krupp lived, worked and schemed for the destruction of the organization and all it stood for.

The car touched down on the highway, its wings and tail section were retracted and it whipped along the concrete road until Jerry saw the sign saying he was about to enter Nibelburg.

Nibelburg. was a few two or three storied houses and shops of grey and red brick, a little railway station, a larger police station with a great many motor-bikes parked outside it, and a church which had recently been converted into a dance hall.

Over the tops of the elms and poplars lining the fields be-yond Nibelbuirg. Cornelius made out the tower he had seen from the air. He decelerated, began to whistle the Chant d'amour from the recently finished symphony, and consulted his guide. The tower was readied by an unmade road about half a mile out of Nibelburg.

He stopped just before he came to the road, and he concentrated his attention on his mouth until he had a passable ache in one of his left molars. Feeling unhappy, he restarted the engine and turned into the side road, ignoring the Black Rat sign and bumping along for a quarter of a mile until he stopped outside the seventy-foot tower with its Gothic doorway, windows and battlements high above. The stone, which seemed to date from the earliest Gothic period, was extremely clean, with hardly a trace of a stain of any kind. It was pitted with age, and worn, especially around the lower parts of the wall, but nonetheless it was as well-scrubbed and looked after as a carefully kept tooth. Cornelius wondered if he climbed to the battlements he would find they had been filled with amalgam or even gold.

He parked the car neatly at the side of the tower. Only one other car was there, a Volkswagen sports, which, he gathered, belonged to the doctor.

He walked up the gravel path and raised the heavy iron door-knocker, letting it fall with a thump that fled away into the tower's interior.

The door was opened almost instantly by a beautiful blonde girl of about sixteen. She had blue eyes of a largeness that was accentuated by her use of mascara. There was a smile on her wide, full mouth; her hair was long and straight, covering the back and shoulders of a short-skirted dress of rich white brocade that was probably a Biba copy. She wore matching brocade tights and Granny shoes. Her arms were almost entirely bare and her skin was as sweet and soft as the silk of Jerry's suit, the colour of the first warm streaks of a spring sunrise.

']a,' she said, a depraved look appearing momentarily in her eyes.

'Do you speak English,' said Jerry lazily, 'Southern English?'

'Ja, of course.' She looked him over slowly and with a certain amount of awakening surprise, as if she had not at first been struck by his black skin and his turban. What had been her first impression? Jerry wondered.

Cornelius put his hand to his cheek. 'I was going through Nibelburg,' he told the girl, 'when I was overcome with toothache. I inquired at the police station and they told me that I would find a dentist here.'

'And more,' said the girl mysteriously, standing aside to let him enter and gesturing vaguely with the dildo in her left hand.

When he stood in the polished oak hall, she closed the door with a crash and popped the dildo into the umbrella stand, folding her hands under her breasts and looking down at the floor.

'You wish to see Doctor von Krupp?' she said at length.

'I believe that is the name I was given.'

The girl raised her perfect eyebrows. 'But your first name?'

'It's Michael,' he said. 'I call myself Mike.'

'This way.' She began to walk along the hall; paused at the stone, oak-banistered stairway until he had caught up with her, and then began to ascend.

On the fourth landing, the girl stopped and knocked gently at the only door. A voice came from the other side. Jerry couldn't hear the words. The girl turned the handle and they wandered in together, into a high-ceilinged surgery with a large window of rich, stained glass — a pastoral scene from the sixteenth century. The glass was exquisite and Jerry stared at it for several seconds before he saw the luxurious dentist's chair, the chrome-finished instrument stand, the dentist, at a desk in one corner, looking through a stack of index cards.

'Herr Michael von Krupp,' said the girl. 'A toothache.'

'Aserinsky,' said Jerry.

Doctor von Krupp smiled condescendingly and spoke in German: 'You must leave, liebchen.' The girl glanced through narrowed eyes at Jerry and then went out.

Dr Karen von Krupp was about thirty in a stiff, black and white paisley overall, black net stockings and purple charley boots. Her hair was a deep, dark red, very thick and wavy, worn at shoulder length. Her face was strong, with pronounced cheek-bones, intelligent and attractive. Her lipstick almost matched her shoes and her eyebrows were pencilled thin to match her hair. She spread back her overall to put her hands on her hips and revealed a dress of layered chiffon that was predominantly bottle-green, its hem six inches above the knees of her long, well-shaped legs. Her taste, thought Jerry, was dreadful, but splendid.

'It is Herr Michael Aserinsky?' the woman asked, smiling once.

'It is.' He admired her figure. 'A toothache.'

']a, ja.' She turned and began to pack the index cards into a box on the desk. Jerry took off his coat.

'Will you go and sit in the chair, please.'

'Well.' Jerry wondered why he was here.

'And remove your — hat,' she said firmly, then laughed.

'No,' he said.

'But you must.' She looked over her shoulder, staring hard, smiling again. 'Otherwise, you see, I cannot get a proper grip on you.'

'My political convictions...'

'You have some?'

'Forbid me, doctor, from removing my turban in the presence of a woman. I hadn't realized...'

'Ah,' she closed the lid of the box, 'so,' began buttoning up her overall. 'Still, Herr Aserinsky, you must decide whether you would feel in health in this world or suffer a moment or two somewhere else.'

Jerry's hand began to move towards his vibragun, but he stopped it with great self-control. 'Well, perhaps you could first look at the tooth and tell me what you think needs work. Then we can decide.'

'But you could be making me waste my time.' She shrugged. 'Very well, into the chair, sir.'

He clambered warily into the chair and rested his head back so that he was looking at the upper part of the stained glass window and a section of the drilling rig.

'You like my window?' She picked up a barbed tool from the tray of instruments. 'Open wide, please,' and she began to poke and scrape at his teeth. 'What do you think about cocaine?'

He blinked.

When she stepped back she was smiling. 'Black teeth. Like black marble. Curious.'

'You noticed?' He tried to rise. 'The pain's gone now. Psychosomatic, I suppose.'

'You're an expert at that, aren't you?'

'Um,' he said.

'Why have you got black teeth, then? Painted with white enamel by the look of it...'

'Bored with them...'

'I think not. Re-born, perhaps.'

Jerry's hand fled into his jacket and grasped the butt of the vibragun. 'Dancing was never more disgusting than when done by Kelly, eh?'

'I'm with you there.'

He felt sick. He poised himself to jump from the chair, noticing how beautiful she was. He fell in love with her.

'Why did you come here?' She replaced the hooked instrument on the tray and looked down into his eyes. She did something to the chair and he was tilted back even farther. His fingers fell limply from the gun-butt. Her face came closer, the lips opening to show large, even teeth (two of them gold) and a huge, curling tongue.

He dropped his hand away from the gun altogether. It went out, instead, to grasp her thigh, feeling the ridge of a suspender belt beneath the thin material of dress and overall.

She kissed him coarsely.

'Oh,' he said. He still felt sick. He was breathing heavily.

'Ah,' he said as she drew back. 'Who cares?'

An unpleasant whine from outside. The blonde girl came in. 'Rockets,' she said.

There was a crash from below.

'No warheads,' said Jerry, getting up, drawing his gun and putting his arm round Karen von Krupp's shoulders. 'Pack a bag, doctor.' He pulled on his coat.

'That's real Panda, isn't it?' she asked, fingering it. 'Where did it come from — Moscow or London?' Another rocket whined in and grazed the roof. 'Ouch,' she said. 'Perhaps my husband...'

'Pack a bag. We'll go to Paris.'

'Wait a moment, then.'

2 Presidents in parade scandal!

'Time flies,' said Jerry.

'And who, these days, knows his name?' smiled Karen von Krupp tenderly as the crystal city became distinct ahead.

Left fingertips on her knee, right on the wheel, Jerry cruised at ninety towards Paris. 'There is something,' he said, 'concerning Russia. But what about America?'

'I don't know what you mean, darling.' She drew on her long cigarette holder one last puff and threw the whole contraption from the window. 'Well, that over.'

'Something's going on,' he said.

'Always. And was it not you, anyway, who engineered the Moscow thing?'

'Possibly,' said Jerry frowning desperately, glancing behind him at the blonde girl who, pouting disinterestedly, lounged in the back seats. 'You'd better change into an ankle-length skirt. You know what they're like in the Three Republics about that sort of thing.' He touched a stud and the glass partion slid down, allowing her to crawl into the back of the car. The blonde girl moved over and looked out of the window.

While she changed he looked at his map for the best route into Paris.

In the rearview mirror he noticed that Bishop Beesley had caught up with him again for there was the silver Cadillac spinning along behind them, a fat, pasty figure at the wheel. Jerry blacked out the back windows.

'That's clever,' she said, struggling into a long, bottle-green skirt. He wondered if all her skirts were bottle-green and all her shoes purple. It indicated an interest in Ouspensky, at very least.

In Paris they were just in time to watch the presidents ride by, their white horses wading, sometimes swimming, through the watery street, sending up a fine, bright spray in the pale sunshine.

Along the Champs-Elysees the procession made its way, some of it on foot, some in barges, some in carriages, some on horseback.

As best they could the presidents waved to the few soaked spectators (survivors of the plague) who shivered on both sides of the wide street, knee-deep in water. The presidents led the Three Republics of France, Spain and Portugal (there had been four before the Israeli annexation of Greece) who had resisted offers from the U. S. wanting to send in some advisors.

Old age had made the presidents almost identical, with the same vacant eyes, drooling mouths, yellow, wrinkled skins and near-hairless heads. They were strapped firmly to horses almost as old as themselves. They were said to be very sentimentally attached to their horses.

A little behind them laboured the band; each musician up to his waist in water. The bass drums were muffled and every time the drummers struck a beat they sent a fountain of water into their own faces. There was water in all the brass, but they marched resolutely against the current, playing a burbling La Marseillaise.

'Touching,' said Karen von Krupp stroking his leg.

Jerry leaned back in the moored Phantom VI, his arm comfortably around Dr von Krupp's shoulders. She smiled and the car rocked gently in the wake of the presidential passing.

'Shall we go to the Assembly and hear the speeches?' She glanced back at the blonde girl. Jerry shook his head.

He cast off and began to turn the car into the current.

There was a tabac on his right and Jerry looked at it nervously as he went past. Someone was peering at him from the first floor window. He recognized the thin, intense nose.

It was Zhazhda, chief of the organization's Moscow agency and an Okharna operative. What was he doing in Paris? Jerry pretended he hadn't seen him and pulled the car's throttle full out, boiling down the Champs-Elysees as fast as he could go.

Behind him ploughed Bishop Beesley's silver Cadillac, hood barely above the water.

'Ubiquitous.' Jerry murmured and stopped outside the Hotel Aspiration. 'Hurry, my dear, before he turns the corner. Leap,' he said, opening the door, 'to the step there. I'll bring our bags in later.'

Dr von Krupp leapt. The blonde girl leapt after her. Jerry started the car up and thrummed away down the narrow street, his wash slapping against windows on both sides. But Beesley was in too deep water and had given up the chase. Soon Cornelius was able to return, moor the car in the hotel's garage, and join his love in the lobby.

'It's just a front,' he said, pressing a bell on the reception desk. The floor fell away with them, bearing them deep into the ground.

'Underground,' he told her, indicating the musty darkness. 'Safe and sound.'

'A trap,' she said.

'Not so.'

As the section of the floor rose back to join the rest, he switched on lights and green brilliance filled the room. She studied the lust in his face.

'I must be careful,' she said. 'My husband...' Then she yelled with excitement as he fell upon her.

'It has been too much for me,' he growled, 'today.'

And they rolled about all over the Dunlopillo flooring while the blonde girl sat in the corner looking on with boredom.

3 Transvestite orgy in Paris hotel

'Husbands and wives, sisters and brothers, mothers and sons,' said Bishop Beesley, adjusting his mitre and grinning at Jerry who was spread-eagled against the wall. Karen von Krupp, wearing an ermine-trimmed cape of red velvet and an elaborate crown, crossed her legs and leaned back moodily in her throne. Bishop Beesley reached out with his crook and pushed up Jerry's skirt, tickling the balls that bulged in the black lace knickers they had dressed him in while he was unconscious. 'White pubic hair. I hadn't expected that, Mr Aserinsky.'

'And I hadn't expected this, bishop.'

'Well, well — you can't just go around screwing another chap's wife like that and expect to get away with it, can you? There's some decency left in the world, I hope.'

'So, what's your plan?'

'A restoration job, Mr Aserinsky, on you. For your own good. Actually, I bear you no malice.'

'My name isn't—'

'Aserinsky. So you say.'

'It's Jerry Cornelius.'

'So you say.'

Someone moved in the shadows and began to wade across the Dunlopillo. It was Zhazhda, his thin face concerned.

'It's Alan Powys, isn't it?' said Zhazhda.

'So you say,' said Jerry.

'Mitzi!' Bishop Beesley snapped his fingers as best he could. 'Mitzi Flynn.'

This is getting to be a drag. Use the machines for heaven's sake,' murmured Karen von Krupp.

'I hate artificial methods,' said Jerry.

'Connie Nuttall.'

'Colvin,' said Jerry. 'Connie Colvin. Tragic wasn't it?'

'What's in a name?' The blonde girl appeared. She had hoisted up her dress and was strapping on a black dildo.

Tuck that,' said Bishop Beesley. 'I do apologize.' The blonde girl began to bugger him.

Jerry glanced at Karen von Krupp, but she looked away. He was dressed in the full set: curly red wig, make-up, white lace blouse, falsies, girdle, suspender-belt, fishnet stockings, high-heels, a tight, black skirt.

Bishop Beesley's head was close to the floor and his shout was muffled. 'Don't worry, sir. We'll soon have everything back to normal. You'll feel a new person once this is over!'

'How did you get down here?' Jerry asked Karen von Krupp.

'They followed you. Zhazhda pressed the button.'

'Somebody has to,' said Zhazhda.

'You got the dope while you slept.'

'I thought you were on my side,' Jerry said to Zhazhda.

'I am. You'll realize that one day.'

'I don't fancy this. It's like something out of the political age.'

'Not all of us have your faith in the future. Comrade Cornelius.'

'Well, there's no time like the present.'

Zhazhda pulled down his pants. That'll have to be dealt with.' He turned to Karen von Krupp. 'You're a surgeon, aren't you? Could you do it?'

She shrugged. 'I've done it before.'

The bishop rose from his hands and knees. 'Now, let me see.'

Jerry wondered if he were losing his patience. 'Bishop — I don't know whether you realize...'

'I understand. I understand. This is your home and we were not invited. But these are troubled times, my dear. Needs must, as it were.'

'Mitzi,' said Karen von Krupp.

The blonde girl stepped forward.

'Snap the staples off. Let our friend join us.'

Mitzi freed Jerry.

The bishop glanced curiously at Karen von Krupp. 'You want to...? A party?'

'Why not?'

A strobe began to flash and the room filled with sound. It was Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Child distorted because of the volume, but they couldn't be expected to know that, particularly since they were reeling about. Jerry strode through the strobe-light and took Karen von Krupp by the arm. She was vomiting spasmodically. He saw his clothes in a corner with his gun on top. There was only time to get the gun and aim it at the wall.

'Cheer up,' he told her. 'It's going to be worse before it's better. This is a bit of an emergency.'

'Where are we going?'

Through the Shift. I always keep one handy.' The wall fell away and Jerry hefted up his skirt and stuck the gun in his girdle. Somewhere a mammoth screamed.

4 Our night of horror

Around them the air was jewelled and faceted, glistening and alive with myriad colours, flashing, scintillating, swirling and beautiful. She clung to him. 'What is it?'

'The multiverse. All layers of existence seen at once. Get it?'

'Philosophy isn't my bent.'

This is physics, dear.'

'Where are we?'

'Ah, that's the chance you have to take. Keep walking.'

The air cleared. They stood on a green plain close to a clump of oaks. In the shade of the oaks stood a small man with a goatee and rimless glasses. He had a large black metal box under his arm.

'Would you believe it?' Jerry said with some excitement. The bugger's got it.'

That looks like...'

That's right. Good old comrade... Hey!' Jerry began to run towards him, hampered by Karen von Krupp, who refused to let go of his arm, and by the tight skirt and high heels.

A wave of jewels without substance washed over them. 'My machine!' shouted Jerry and his voice echoed for a long time. 'Oh well. Some other time. I thought it was too good to be true.'

'What machine?'

That'd be telling. Unless you already know. I suspect Bishop Beesley does know and that's what he's after — ultimately speaking, at any rate.'

They were now walking through the streets of St Petersburg in the early morning. It was very romantic. Jerry pointed out the little cluster of figures staring at them from the top of an office block in Bronstein Prospekt. 'Homo habilis by the look of them. Funny little sods, aren't they?'

Down the middle of the prospekt galloped a brontotherium herd.

'It's very quiet,' she said.

'Yes, it would be.'

'What's the time?'

'Not sure. Post-political, I'd say. But you can never be sure. This could be a complete mix-up. I wish I had a fix.'

Bishop Beesley confronted them, threatening them with some sort of insect spray.

'We know all about you, my dear Mr Cornelius,' he said. 'You and your women friends. Oh God, it's disgusting! This is 1970! You're so primitive!'

'You think I should feel guilty?' Jerry got a grip on his vibra-gun. You could never be sure.

'I think someone should, dear.'

'Where can we talk?'

The bishop bent down and picked up his attache case, tucking his equipment inside. Then he held the case to his chest with all the affection an old woman might give to her parrot.

'I've got a marvellous little latty here,' he said. Taste! You've never seen the like.'

'Sounds sweet. But this'll do.'

The three of them sat down at the sidewalk table, under the big umbrella. A surly waiter took their order.

'It's time to make up, Mr Cornelius,' said the bishop. 'I've such a horror of tension. I can't bear it.'

'Not yet, bishop.'

'But this is Denmark. So neutral.'

'I see I've caught you at a weak moment.' Jerry got up. 'Come on, Karen. I'll be seeing you, bishop.'

'Cruelty! The world is full of cruelty!' The bishop tucked into their strudels.

They strolled on through the multiverse. 'Where did he come from?' she said. 'What was the conversation about?'

'What are conversations ever about? He seemed to know.

Doubtless we'll meet again, either before or after, or not at all. Keep walking.'

The sooner we get back to the sane world, the better,' she said waspishly.

'You're just sore because you didn't get your coffee.' They were walking on concrete. Ahead of them was the huge silhouette of a Lockheed SR-72 Mach 3 two-seat interceptor and strategic reconnaissance aircraft framed against the dawn. 'Would you believe it? Maybe it's something you said.'

'I feel funny.'

'You probably do. It's all magic, really. We're out of the tunnel — or nearly. Run.'

They tripped on their high heels until they reached the aircraft. 'Hop in,' he said. 'I think you must have a talent, Fraulein Doktor.'

'Do you know how to fly these monsters?'

'Oh, come off it.'

5 Fly your eggs right down their stacks!

'I've had very little private life since all this started,' explained Jerry as they took off from Orly airport and were momentarily pursued by some Starfighters that fell to pieces behind them. He spoke through the intercom. 'You look beautiful in that helmet.' He guided the plane towards the Channel.

'Thank you.' She put her hand on the portion of his thigh that was bare between his stocking and suspender belt. He decelerated.

'I don't want to fly at maximum speed,' he explained, 'because I've got eight AIM-174s to get rid of and they're not really suitable for the job I've got in mind.'

She accepted his apology with a polite little smile.

The 95-ft aircraft soon reached the Channel and flak began to appear as the pirates tried to hit it. Jerry angled the plane towards them, hoping for the best, and released all the air-to-air missiles in rapid succession. There were a few explosions, then they had passed the ships and were circling off the coast. 'Stand by to eject,' he said and putting the plane into a steep dive yanked the ejector lever.

They drifted down towards the cliffs. He leaned over and kissed her. Water gouted as the plane hit the sea.

They landed gently and got out.

'You don't look too jolly, Herr C,' she remarked.

'Light or square, I suppose it's all the same to me, Doktor Krupp.' He smoothed his skirt. 'Well, that wasn't too bad, was it? Sure the velocity didn't bother you?'

'It's something you get used to.'

'Of course you do.' He squeezed her hand affectionately.