A Cure for Cancer

I Ashamed—when he saw the marks on my body

When Jerry woke up it was late afternoon and the car was still moving down the wide, deserted highway. He saw a sign. They were heading for London.

'Is that where we're going?' Jerry asked Mitzi. She didn't reply.

'Don't disturb the driver, Mr Cornelius. You should know better than that.' Bishop Beesley tapped Jerry on the shoulder with a Mars Bar. 'No. We shan't be stopping at London. We've a long way to go yet.'

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.

2 I'll make him pay for what he did to me

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.

'You look like a dream of Jamaica. Did I say I felt cheerless?'

'Well, you are our prisoner. What did happen to Karen von Krupp, by the way?'

'To the best of my knowledge she went into the catering trade. In Pennsylvania somewhere. It was all a bit complicated. We both had problems.'

'I can understand that. I expect she's too embarrassed to look us up.' Mitzi turned her face towards the pale blue sky and sniffed the wind. 'I don't bear her any grudge. Who could?'

'Who?'

'The planes have stopped.'

'You noticed that two nights ago.'

'Did I? Which planes? Do you have a personality problem, Herr Cornelius?'

'From time to time.'

'You would say that.' She laughed.

'I wish there was some bloody sustenance around here.' Jerry looked over the rail at the foaming algae. 'It's hard going, Mitzi, I don't mind telling you.'

'What's your favourite food? Liver?'

'Not since they killed all the buffalo. It's not for me to say.'

'Are you really Jerry Cornelius?'

'Ah.' Jerry took a pace along the rail and gave her a wary wink.

'Aren't you an impostor?'

'Oho.'

'We're going through the new St Croix Canal, you know.'

'And then?'

'Along the Mississippi down to New Orleans.'

'You're very forthcoming.'

'Into the Gulf of Mexico. Through the Panama Canal and into the Pacific until we berth in San Francisco.'

'I get it.'

'Why don't you stop fighting us, Herr Cornelius? You know in your heart that we're right.'

'When does the next jolly boat leave?'

'The Teddy Bear has no jolly boats.'

'I am in a pickle, aren't I?'

'How do you feel?'

'Sleepy.'

'The long voyage will do you good.'

'I wish I could have stopped off in New York.'

'New York's rather hectic.'

'I have quite a lot of urgent business, you know.'

'It won't seem so urgent by the time we get to San Francisco.'

Jerry shook his head. 'I could do with a change of scenery.'

'You won't get it. You'll grow to like this scenery.'

'Christ!'

'Really, Mr Cornelius!' Bishop Beesley came waddling down the deck.

'What the fuck do you know about it?'

That's a nice thing to say!'

Jerry looked at the algae again.

'It's a long way, Mr Cornelius.'

'Yeah.'

'I don't think you'd make it.'

'No.'

Mitzi folded her arms. 'You're not much of a catch.'

'I'm not the catch I'm worrying about. My patients...'

'I've almost lost mine, Mr Cornelius.' Bishop Beesley smacked his lips over a Walnut Whip.

'I wish that was true. I'm going back to bed.'

'You'll have to wake up sooner or later.'

'Says who?' Jerry went down the companionway, opened the door of his neat, white cabin and fell on his bunk.

He was in a spot.

He'd have to try and bide his time. St Paul was his only hope.

3 My sleep-talking shocked my husband

Abbott; Abbey; Abell; Abercrombie; Abernethy; Ablett; Abraham; Abram; Absalom; Acheson; Acker; Acklam; Acres; Acton; Adair; Adam; Adcock; Adkins; Adlam; Ad-lard; Adlum; Adney; Adrain; Aga; Agate; Aiken; Alan; Alban; Albert; Aldeh; Alexander; Alfred; Alison; Allard; Allibon; Alsop; Ambler; Ambrose; Amos; Ampleford; Ander-son; Angel; Anstey; Applegarth; Arkle; Armistead; Armstrong; Arrowsmith; Ashe; Aspinal; Attwood; Auger; Austin; Aylmer; Aysh; Babbitt; Bailey; Bairnsfeather; Baker; Bancroft; Bank; Barbary; Barclay; Bardell; Barker; Barlowe; Barnes; Barnett; Bartholomew; Barton; Barwick; Bateman; Batt; Baxter; Beach; Beauchamp; Beavis; Beckett; Bedwell; Belcher; Bell; Bellhanger; Bennett; Berrington; Beverley; Beynon; Biddulph; Bigg; Bingley; Birtwhistle; Bishop; Blackadder; Blackmore; Blackshaw; Blackwell; Blackwood; Blagrave; Blake; Blanchard; Blanchflower; Blandamore; Blen-kinsop; Blennerhassett; Blight; Blood; Bloomer; Blunt; Blythe; Boatswain; Bolinbroke; Bond; Booth; Bouverie; Bowen; Bowie; Brabazon; Bradbourne; Bradbury; Brand; Brannan; Breakspear; Brereton; Brewer; Bridger; Brigham; Bristowe; Broadbent; Brockless; Brown; Bruce; Buchan; Buckmaster; Budd; Burgess; Burnes; Burstall; Burton; Bury; Butler; Buxton; Byford; Byron; Bywood; Caborne; Caesar; Caffin; Caldecott; Calder; Caldwell; Calver; Cambridge; Campbell; Cannan; Capstack; Carter; Gary; Caswell; Catch-pole; Catmur; Catton; Chamberlain; Chandler; Charlton; Charteris; Chatterley; Cheetham; Chenevix; Childe; Chivers; Cholmondeley; Christey; Christian; Christin; Christmas; Christopher; Chrystal; Church; Churchill; Clachar; Clapham; Clarewood: Clarke; Clayton; Cleave; Clement; Clifford; Cock; Coffin; Cole; Coleman; Coleridge; Combe; Constan-tine; Cooke; Copperthwaite; Cordiner; Corfe; Corley; Cornelius...

Aaron; Abel; Abigail; Abraham; Absalom; Ada; Adalbert; Adam; Adela; Adelaide; Adeline; Adolphus; Adrian; Aeneas; Afra; Agatha; Agnes; Alexis; Alice; Almeric; Aloys; Al-phonsus; Amyas; Andrew; Angus; Ann; Anthony; Archibald; Arthur; Audrey; Augustus; Aylmer; Baldwin; Basil; Belle; Benedict; Bernard; Brian; Camilla; Candida; Caspar; Catherine; Chloe; Christabel; Christopher; Clara; Clovis; Constance; Cosmo; Cyriac; Cyrus; Daisy; Daphne; David; Deirdre; Denis; Dinah; Dolores; Dominic; Doreen; Dorothy; Douglas; Duncan; Ebenezer; Edgar; Edwin; Eileen; Elias; Elizabeth; Elric; Emily; Emmanuel; Ena; Enoch; Eric; Ermentrude; Eustace; Ezra; Fabian; Faith; Fanny; Felix; Fergus; Freda; Fulke; Gabriel; Gareth; Gavin; George; Gertrude; Gervase; Gladys; Grizel; Gustavus; Gwyneth; Hadrian; Hamish; Harriet; Heloise; Henry; Herbert; Hercules; Hester; Hezekiah; Hilary; Hope; Hubert; Humphrey; Hyacinth; lan; Ida; Igor; Ingeborg; Ingram; Isabella; Isaiah; Israel; Ivan; Ivy; Jabez; Jack; Jacob; James; Jane; Jasper; Jean; Jedidiah; Jenny; Jeremiah...

JEREMIAH (Yah is high, or heals, or founds) CORNELIUS (probably related to L. cornu, horn. — Dims. Corney, Corny. — Fern. Cornelia)

JEREMIAH CORNELIUS.

His mouth was dry and his eyes were dim.

Environment trouble.

Identity trouble.

Registration number: 1.

Parents: Dead or whereabouts unknown.

Relatives: Dead or whereabouts unknown.

Residence: No fixed address.

Physical characteristics: Mutable.

Associates: Variable.

Psychological situation: Weak. Position: Threatened. Emotional situation: Desperate. Recommendations: Hang on. JEREMIAH CORNELIUS. The ship rolled.

JEREMIAH CORNELIUS.

He was sick. JEREMIAH CORNELIUS.

Inside and out. JEREMIAH CORNELIUS.

Hang on. JEREMIAH CORNELIUS.

Get out.

4 The rape-goon who took a nap with a corpse!

Jerry opened up his eyes. He had lost all track of time, but there was daylight coming through the porthole. Lying alongside him was Mitzi's soft, warm body. She was pressing his hand to her privates.

'Do you mind?' said Jerry.

'Not if you don't.' He pulled himself together. He still had some strength left, but it couldn't last much longer.

He saw her clothes were strewn across the cabin floor and there was her little handbag.

'Where are we?' he murmured, stroking her parted lips with his dark finger.

'Minneapolis is in sight.'

'In a pig's eye!'

'Oh! I saw it!'

'Okay. What's the time?'

'Eight p. m.'

He twisted in the bunk and wound first his right watch and then his left. 'Did Beesley send you?'

'I came because I have fallen in love with you — or, at any rate, with what you might become...' .

'Does that hurt?'

'Yes.'

'And that?'

'Yes.'

'Well, let's get at it, then.'

It was dark when Jerry peeled back the encrusted sheets. Moonlight now came through the porthole. She murmured sleepily and held out her arms to him.

Jerry gave it to her on the point of the chin and fell forward to lie on top of her, breathing hard. He rested for a moment and then slid over her and fell to the floor, rolled and reached out for a rail, pulled himself up and staggered towards the middle of the cabin and kneeled down to pick up her heavy handbag. He opened it with an effort and closed his fingers over the butt of the vibragun. It was his only link with the cellar in Ladbroke Grove.

As his strength returned he sighed. With pleasure, he stood up and looked down at Mitzi. She was stirring.

He glanced at his gun, then at his right watch.

Somewhere a piano began to play.

He slipped into his silks, buckled on his shoulder holster, put the gun into it, and then began to tear up her clothes until he had several long strips of cloth. As he tightened the gag her eyes opened so he turned her over and trussed her up, patting her bottom affectionately.

'So long, Mitzi.' Was it a set-up? he wondered.

He opened the cabin door and went up on deck. The lights of St Paul were on the larboard as the ship moved slowly past the city. On the starboard Minneapolis was in darkness.

'Mr Cornelius, sir!' The whisper came from the bridge. He looked. The ex-chairman of the Arts Council, his worried face pale in the reflected light from the water, hissed at him. 'You shouldn't be on deck alone, sir.'

More in sorrow than in anger, Jerry drew his gun and shook the steward down. He turned at a sound.

Moving towards him from the stern came a fat silhouette. A Remington banged.

'Stop!'

Jerry holstered his gun and leapt for the rail.

Another bang.

'Mr Cornelius! Really! How did you get your gun back?'

'You'll find out. Your bum trouble makes you forget some details, bishop. Cheerio!'

He plunged down into the cold water and began to strike for the bank.

There were a few more bangs but they soon stopped.

Jerry swam as fast as he could because he disliked dark rivers and this tasted particularly foul, so much so that he feared for his suit. He swam along the wharf until he reached some iron steps and climbed out.

A couple of longshoremen ran towards him but he stopped them in their tracks by waving his gun at them. He looked around.

He was in front of a line of low sheds. Beyond the sheds came the sounds of a busy road. He backed along an alley between two sheds until he came to a high fence. He shook a hole in the fence and stepped down a grassy embankment until he got to the road.

Speeding cars filled all the lanes.

Jerry waved to a cruising police car and it slowed. The car had two cops in it. The one who wasn't driving leaned out of the window. 'What's your trouble, sir?' He grinned at his companion.

'Fell off a boat,' Jerry gasped. 'You gotta help me, boss.'

'Calm down, sonny. How'd you come to fall off a boat?'

'Yes, sir.'

The cop opened the door and climbed with studied slowness out, pulling a notebook from his tunic pocket. 'You wouldn't be running away from anyone, would you?'

'No, sir.' Jerry rolled his eyes as best he could. 'No, sir!'

'Because we've been having a lot of trouble with runaways of one sort or another just recently.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You got an identity card?'

'A what, boss?'

'An identity card, boy. Everybody's got an identity card unless he's an outlaw or escaper or injun or something.'

'Identity. Nope, sir. I guess I ain't.'

'Uh huh. Then I think Jerry lined him up and watched him shake. Then, as his companion began to drag his pistol from its holster, Jerry turned the gun on him and he shook, too.

He stowed them in the back seat as a curious Cadillac slowed down, then he got in, started the car, turned on the siren and got rapidly up to a hundred, heading out of town along Interstate 35E.

By morning his suit had dried nicely and the dirt had fallen off it. He had switched cars twice. Now he was driving a handsome golden Chevrolet Caprice and was on Interstate 90, making for the badlands of South Dakota, having crossed the Missouri at Chamberlain. There weren't many cops about. The explanation, for what it was worth, was in the two-day old edition of The Pioneer Press he had found in the Caprice. There had been a massive draft of all able-bodied men and women over the age of eighteen. Even those who had previously been designated as performing necessary public offices had been drafted.

At the Totanka Yotanka Motel he stole some gas and was soon in the badlands on a lonely, dusty highway where, at about seven in the evening, he saw the first Sioux.

The war chief was mounted on a black and white pony that had elaborately beaded and painted buckskin trappings. It stood stock still on the rise while its rider gave Jerry's car the once-over.

The warrior was probably an Oglala. He carried a bow-lance decorated with red, white and yellow feathers; on his left arm the round buffalo hide shield had a picture of an eagle surrounded by stars. His bleached, fringed buckskin jacket and leggings were embroidered with coloured beads and shiny red and yellow porcupine quills and his neck was heavy with beads and medallions. His head-dress of curving stag antlers had a feathered train that spread over his pony's rump. There was a knife and a tomahawk at his belt. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, prominent nose and long, thin mouth was the distinctive modern American face. It was in full warpaint, with yellow, orange, blue and white bands, circles and triangles.

Raising his bow-lance the war chief summoned his war party to join him on the rise. They appeared to be a mixture of Oglalas and Hunkpapas, most of them wearing a great many feathers.

Jerry kept going when he saw the short bows and the bark quivers crammed with arrows, but he knew they'd get him at the next bend.

When he reached the next bend they were waiting for him.

Arrows thudded into the convertible's roof and he heard their howls as they hurled their mounts towards him at an angle to the highway. The car hit a pony and the war chief fell forward on to the hood, glaring through the windscreen at Jerry who skidded and went off the highway, hit a rock, stepped on the brake, bounced the Indian off the hood on to the ground, wound down the window and drew his vibragun.

The other Sioux lined up along the highway, bows ready, watching to see what he would do as their leader picked himself up and tried to pull his tomahawk from his belt. 'You killed my fucking pony.'

'You put it in front of my fucking car. I had the right of way.'

'Watch your language, schvartze.'

'What are you going to do about it?'

The Indian rubbed his nose and looked around. He straightened the polished bones of his breastplate and slapped the dust off his leggings. 'Besides, we didn't know you was a schvartze. We got no fight with you.'

'I'm not a schvartze.'

'Sure, and I'm not a fucking Oglala.'

Jerry opened the door and got out. 'Are you trying to prove something?'

'Maybe.' The war chief at last got his tomahawk free and went into a crouch, his eyes narrowing.

Jerry kicked him in the face. He fell over and Jerry picked up the tomahawk. It was very ornamental.

The war chief looked up with an expression of puzzled resignation. 'I wasn't expecting that. You win. What now?'

'I think we should become blood brothers or something.' Jerry helped him up. 'Isn't that the custom?'

'What the hell if it isn't. It sounds okay to me. We'll have a ceremony at the big council. That's where we're going to now. Iron Mountain.'

'Sounds fine. It's on my way.'

'Great. Baby, we're in this together. We already got a few schvartzes riding with us. Honorary members, I guess. We got to pick up what we can where we can.' He held out his hand. 'I'm Flaming Lance.' He blushed.

Jerry said generously: 'Call me Buffalo Nose.'

Flaming Lance shouted to the others. 'He rides with the Sioux!'

'Hoka hai,' said Jerry.

5 The game's the same, the players change, but the stakes are still your guns

During the next couple of weeks their numbers grew and they raided several farmhouses on their way through Wyoming, Colorado and Utah. Jerry wore a sparsely feathered war bonnet, blue and yellow paint, bone bow, quiver of arrows, hunting knife and a tomahawk, but he hadn't given up his silk suit. He rode a pinto pony and was beginning to regret it.

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.

7 Cops who are hell on pillheads

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.

That was just a warning.' Jerry smiled apologetically. 'I seem to be in and out of water all the time.' He waved them towards the rail over which he'd climbed. 'It's your turn for a dip now.'

'Good heavens, Mr Cornelius! This is piracy!'

'Well, I see it another way, bishop. After all, it's my crew.'

'That's a moot point, sir!'

'Jerry.' Mitzi's eyes were full of adoration. 'Let me come with you. I'll be...'

'I'd like that, Mitzi, but I have to remain impartial at the moment. You've used up so much of my time, do you see. You know how it is.'

She tripped to the side, pulled her tight, white skirt over her creamy thighs and straddled the gleaming brass rail.

With a wave she disappeared.

'Now you, bishop.'

'A boat, at very least...'

'Come along, now.'

The bishop moved reluctantly and looked down at the sparkling water. 'When I asked you for a lift...'

'Don't make me feel guilty.'

'I shouldn't think it would take me...'

'Bishop.' 'A bag of provender. A Bounty bar?'

'Not even a coffee cream.'

'I don't like coffee creams.' Blowing like a great white whale, Bishop Beesley heaved himself over the rail. Somewhere a building toppled and crashed.

Jerry walked up and pushed him on his way. With a yell the bishop whirled his corpulent arms and fell on the water. He lay there, bobbing up and down in the yacht's wake, his arms and legs waving gently, his red mouth opening and closing, his bulging eyes staring at Jerry in pained outrage. Mitzi appeared, shaking water from her hair, and began to tow the bishop shore-wards.

'Bye, bye, bishop. It's like a game of dominoes in many ways.'

The bishop honked pathetically.

Jerry climbed up the companionway to the bridge and checked his charts and instruments, plotting his course.

Within half an hour they were bound for Sumatra where the organization had an emergency Reclamation Centre, and Greater America had disappeared below the horizon.