“Ja…”
“Losing—lost—gone… Now it makes sense.”
There was a knock at the front door. They heard ‘de Vossenberg’ shuffle to answer it. They heard voices.
“Koutrouboussis,” said Jerry as the Greek, sour-faced, entered the room and glanced disdainfully at the food. “A bite?”
“A fish, eh?”
“No, a mistress. Doktor von Krupp and I are together now.”
“I’m getting suspicious of you, Cornelius.”
“No need, Mr Koutrouboussis. I’ll be off to the States shortly.”
“You heard about the converted Concorde, then? All we got from Beesley was the bang. We’ve a responsibility to those poor bloaters, Cornelius. You must get them back. They’re neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red herring as they are.”
“We’ll leave in an hour or two.”
“Immediately.”
“We’ve got to book seats, Mr Koutrouboussis. That’s a civilised country. You can’t just go sailing in there in one of your own planes. It would cause a scene. We’ll have to take a scheduled flight.”
Koutrouboussis accepted this. “There’s a Pan Am airbus leaving in the morning or a VC 10 charter taking off at midnight front Gatwick. It’s one of those refugee flights, but we could get you on it.”
“Karen will be with me.”
Koutrouboussis darted Jerry a tortured look. “Okay. I’ll arrange the booking for both of you. You’ll have to travel as a monk and a nun.”
“Naturally. I’ve got the necessary gear upstairs.”
“Things are becoming crucial, Jerry, I think. You know how crucial? If only you could get back that machine.”
“It means going into the Shifter, almost certainly.”
“You haven’t any other way of contacting him?”
“He’s a hard man to get hold of. For God’s sake—he doesn’t even exist. It takes time to contact people like that.”
“I know. Keep trying. With that machine, we could achieve everything…”
“Beesley’s aware of that. He tried to get it off me in Paris. He’s sure I have it.”
“You haven’t…?”
“Oh, fuck…”
“He thinks, then, that we’re much more powerful than we actually are?”
“Sure.”
“I thought this bloody raid had a note of desperation! Oi moi! Oi moi!”
“Chin up, Mr Koutrouboussis. Keep fishing.”
“Look at the state of the nets!”
INFECTION EXPOSED
But many other changes are beginning to affect your life and mine! These new trends concern us all! Student revolt in 20 countries—VIOLENCE exploding on college campuses (but not on our Ambassador College campuses). It’s shocking, but some universities are beginning to allow unmarried men and women students to sleep together in college dormitories! Then look at this NEW phenomenon—rebellious Hippies lolling aimlessly about, taking to drugs and unbridled sex.
Look at the unhappy marriages, the increasing divorce rate, the tragedy of juvenile delinquents. All about us racial strife, mass demonstrations, riots, VIOLENCE—MURDER! Men in the public eye assassinated! Add to all this the population explosion—the deterioration of our cities—the fear of nuclear WAR that could erase all humanity from the earth!
These things are now striking close to YOUR life, and mine! You read of them in newspapers and magazines—you hear of them on radio, and see them on television. BUT WHERE DO YOU FIND THE ANSWERS! Where the SOLUTIONS?
Not only news stories and magazine articles—but whole books have pictured and described these NEW problems of humanity. But The PLAIN TRUTH gives YOU UNDERSTANDING—makes plain the ANSWERS! Many see and describe WHAT is WRONG in the world—The PLAIN TRUTH gives you the CAUSES, explains the REAL MEANING, reveals the ANSWERS, tells HOW these problems will be solved!
To KNOW what’s happening in the world is important. OTHERS report the news. But it’s FAR MORE IMPORTANT to understand what these happenings and changing conditions all around you REALLY MEAN! And WHERE they are taking us! And WHAT are the ANSWERS AND SOLUTIONS! That’s why The PLAIN TRUTH is so different.
The PLAIN TRUTH is UNIQUE among publications.
To bring you a true perspective, sound understanding, and the right answers, The PLAIN TRUTH draws on sources and worldwide resources unique to it alone.
—Herbert W. Armstrong, Editor,
The PLAIN TRUTH
1. I DIED ON THE OPERATING TABLE
As the old VC 10 landed at long last at Kennedy, Jerry yawned and put down his champagne glass. They had been queuing for a landing space for two hours and it was dark again.
The red, blue and orange neon of the airport had all the richness of a late Walt Disney and everything was defined very sharply in the manner of Burne Hogarth. It was just right.
They disembarked with the Poor Clares and the Benedictines. Karen von Krupp looked lovely as a cool Mother Superior and Jerry was a slick abbot from a fashionable monastery.
Their passports showed Karen’s occupation as Dental Surgeon and Jerry’s as Heart Specialist, but then all clergy had been re-categorised.
The passport control officer flipped through Jerry’s papers. “It says here you’re Caucasian, mister.”
“That’s right.”
The officer pushed back his cap and held the passport out in front of his eyes in a theatrical manner. “Well, your picture’s okay…”
“I’ve been out East a long time.”
“Israel?”
“The Caucasus.”
“All right. I guess you refugees have got special priorities. I hope they know what they’re doing.”
Jerry and Karen collected their baggage off the conveyor. They had identical expensive suitcases of black leather with gold clasps.
Customs men in smoothly styled uniforms waved them through. They joined the other nuns and monks who had gathered around a group of shallow-eyed men and women in grey woollen suits and gaberdine coats who shook their hands and welcomed them to America. The leader of the welcomers, a Mr Silver, had a tanned, tight face and all his buttons were done up. He spoke grimly.
“I’m sure you’re all mighty tired, friends, and want to get some shut-eye. We have reservations for you at a nearby hotel. Tomorrow we’ll meet you and tell you where you’re being assigned and how you’re going to get there. Might I say how much we admire our British cousins. Follow me, please.”
They trooped after Mr Silver and his committee, crossed a metal bridge over the road that ran beside the air terminal and saw an eight-storey building advertised in gold neon as the Hotel Nixon.
“It hardly seems fair,” murmured Karen. “Kennedy got an airport and a bloody launching site.”
“They weren’t expecting a run,” said Jerry reasonably.
They went through the swing doors and into the featureless lobby. Mr Silver stepped over to the checking-in desk and spoke to the clerk who handed him a sheet of paper and a bunch of keys.
“This way, friends.” Mr Silver led them to the elevators. “We’re all on the sixth floor. Keep together, please.”
Mr Silver entered the first elevator with eight of his charges. A middle-aged woman, Mrs Bronson, wearing a belted suit and no make-up save her very red lipstick, herded Jerry, Karen and six monks into the second elevator. Peering at her sheet she started to hand out the keys.
“You’re 604, Father Abbot. 605, Brother Simon. 606, Brother Peter. 607, Brother Matthew. 608, Brother John. 609, Brother Thomas. You’re in 610, Holy Mother.”
When it stopped, they rushed out of the elevator and looked at the signs telling them where to find their rooms. “I’ll abandon you here if you don’t mind,” said Mrs Bronson, “and we’ll meet again at breakfast. Sleep well. It must have been awful…” She descended.
“This way, brothers,” said the abbot.
Led by Jerry Cornelius and Karen von Krupp the monks trudged off down the corridor. They turned right, turned left and found the rooms. All the do
ors were painted turquoise with yellow numbers.
Jerry stopped outside his door.
Karen stopped outside her door.
The monks put their keys into their locks and opened their doors and went inside, closing the doors.
“See you later,” said Jerry.
She shrugged.
* * *
Jerry entered his room and turned on the light.
It was a small, narrow room with a couch that converted to a bed, a single window at the far end with turquoise drapes. He switched on the set and got the time, the temperature and the humidity. He adjusted his watches, pulled off his cassock and checked his blue silk suit for wrinkles. It had survived pretty well.
The bathroom was near the door. It had a shower, a sink and a lavatory. The towels were turquoise edged with gold. The shower curtains were yellow. The soap was turquoise. The tiles were green and orange. Jerry turned on the shower.
He went back into the room and took off his clothes, carrying his holstered vibragun with him to the bathroom and hanging it on the towel rail. He stepped under the boiling shower, soaping himself all over and humming Jimi Hendrix’s ‘May This be Love’ to himself.
As he dried, Jerry called room service and ordered the quart of Jack Daniel’s Black Label, the Onion Soup au Gratin Mouquin, the Sautéed Calf’s Liver with Smothered Onion, Hickory Smoked Bacon and Home Fried Potatoes, the piece of Old New York Cheese Cake, the Two Flavour Jello with whipped cream and the Pot of Steaming Freshly Brewed Coffee. He gave his room number and his name as Father Jeremiah Cornelius.
He called the main desk.
“This is Father Cornelius. Has Bishop Beesley checked in, do you know?”
“I’m sorry, sir. No Bishop Beesley.”
“Thank you. God bless you.”
Room service arrived. There was something to be said for civilisation, really. Jerry set to eating.
When he had finished the food, he poured himself a large glass of bourbon and drank it down.
One thing was certain; America was the last decent country to eat in.
Now he was ready for almost anything.
He unwrapped the towel from his waist and pulled the cassock over his head.
The sign on his door warned him to lock it carefully in case of prowlers. He ignored the sign and crossed to Karen’s door.
He turned the handle. The door wasn’t locked. He opened it a crack. The light was on. He slipped inside.
At first all he noticed were Karen’s legs tightly wrapped around the heaving buttocks of Brother Thomas. She looked over the monk’s white shoulder and raised her eyebrows.
“You can go off people, you know,” she said.
“Oh, fuck,” said Jerry miserably.
2. HE WON’T HAVE TO BEG ME—TONIGHT
Jerry pulled up the blind, yearning for music, and stared out at the American morning.
It wasn’t all beer and skittles. Even the educational channel was playing Gilbert and Sullivan. He had been sick twice in the night and had finally turned the television off.
Abandoning the cassock, he clad himself in yellow silk with a wide red tie knotted under the flowing collar of his white shirt. His soft calf boots, by Raviana, enclosed his feet and the vibragun cheered him up a little. Perhaps it was time to kill someone.
He combed his milk-white hair in front of the mirror, sweeping it down and then up to form two wings framing his graceful black face.
“Astatic,” he murmured cheerfully before his thoughts returned to Karen.
As he entered the corridor, he glanced across at her door, hesitated and then continued towards the elevators.
He wasn’t often in love, after all. Not that sort of love. Could it be that that was giving him the identity trouble? It was worse than he’d expected. There had been a certain difficulty in focusing ever since he and Karen had left London. A certain mistiness, a feeling of fragmentation.
He patted his vibragun under his jacket as he reached the elevator. It was his only link with reality, with the machine in the cellars at Ladbroke Grove.
Koutrouboussis…
The name came and went.
Memories of Soho faded.
He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a postcard. On it was a slightly blurred picture of a Tompion clock in an engraved steel case. On the other side was an address, JERRY CORNELIUS, AMERICA, and a message: HANG ON.
He thought of Baptist Charbonneau and Kit Carson, of Humphrey Bogart and Kirk Douglas, of George Washington and Franklin D. Roosevelt, of Herman Melville and Dashiell Hammett, and he thought particularly of Charles Ives, Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie and Jimi Hendrix.
Tears came to his eyes and he leaned heavily against the wall until the elevator arrived. America, the shattered dream, the broken promise…
At breakfast he couldn’t eat his scrambled eggs, and his English Muffin also went untasted. He drank a lot of coffee and for an hour read Jack Trevor Story’s Hitler Needs You which cheered him up, as he had known it would.
The monks and nuns were all seated at another table, staring at him incredulously. Karen was nowhere in sight, but Jerry saw a face he recognised.
It was Protz. A Russian agent and almost certainly a double agent for the Israelis. Could the archaically dressed man be interested in him?
Protz tripped from the crowded restaurant almost as soon as Jerry had spotted him. Remembering his encounter with Pyat the Chekist, Jerry began to feel nervous.
Mr Silver appeared behind him. “Father Abbot? The arrangements…”
It wasn’t like Jerry to lie. It surprised him as he said shiftily, “Not ‘abbot’ if you don’t mind, my dear Mr Silver—Chuzzlewit—I’m afraid there are enemies who have succeeded in following me to this—even this—sanctuary…”
“The police?”
“What could they prove? No, no. I thank you for your concern, but do not worry. I have friends, you see, in New York. They’ll pick me up later. Bishop Beesley…”
“Oh, Bishop Beesley! Good hands. God bless you.” Mr Silver backed secretively away.
“God bless you, Mr Silver…”
“No, God… Nice of you, Father—Chuzzlewit—thanks again…” Mr Silver dropped his eyes. “God… thank you, Mr…”
Jerry whirled on his heel and went softly away from the restaurant, bought some Shermans in the lobby and returned to his room.
* * *
He turned on the television and changed channels until he got the hotel’s own closed circuit channel. It showed a broad view of the road outside the main exit. The road led across the plain to Manhattan. There was surprisingly little traffic. The channel was vision only and the room itself was soundproofed. A sense of isolation overwhelmed him.
He went to the window and saw a Pan Am 727 shimmer into the sky.
If Protz were in the States, then Pyat could be here, too. Pyat would tip off Beesley. Beesley would come to the hotel.
Why was he waiting for Beesley to come to him? Impulsively he went to the mirror. His skin had turned a deep brown, his eyes were uncomfortable.
If he hired a car he could be in New York in half an hour. He would be all right in New York. But Karen wouldn’t come with him.
In the distance, the sun beat on the towers of the shining city.
There was no escape.
He took off his jacket, switched channels, watched five minutes of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly before the quality of the colour upset him, poured himself a glass of Jack Daniel’s, sipped it, put his jacket back on, went out of his room and opened Karen’s door.
She had gone. Her suitcase was gone.
Jerry took his lighter from his pocket and tried to set fire to the messy bed. But the sheets were too sweaty. They wouldn’t burn.
3. A PSYCHOLOGIST REVEALS THE SEXUAL OVERTONES OF THE MONSTER MOVIES
For three days Jerry stared at the television and the view of the street. On the highway there were increasing numbers of motorcycle cops in unfamiliar bl
ack uniforms and helmets. Frequently, during the day or night they would arrest a driver for no evident offence.
Once he switched to a news programme. Someone referred to the European disease that was sweeping the country. “The only answer to it is the European cure…”
His meals were now brought to his room, but he had lost his taste for hotel living. When he had last appeared in the restaurant it was to see Karen with Protz. She had looked bored. On her way out he tried to trip her up but failed.
He had watched her bottom for a sign, but got nothing.
The lack of music was beginning to disturb him much more than Karen. A flutter of brushes on a skin, a whine or two from a Martin, a thud from a Fender bass; anything would have helped. But there wasn’t a note in the entire hotel. Nothing, anyway, that wasn’t offensive quasi-music, such as the Gilbert and Sullivan.
His vague feelings of discomfort had grown by the fourth day. The police arrests seemed increasingly arbitrary.
He turned on the television to a news broadcast for the second time.
President Paolozzi had disappeared and had been replaced by his Vice President, Konnie Agonosto, who was promising to restore order as quickly as possible.
A little while later President Ronald Boyle, elected by emergency vote, announced that his special militia were already getting the country back on a safe, sane, orderly footing, ready to honour her commitments anywhere at home or in the world.
Jerry packed his case and put it near the door. He hurried into Karen’s empty room and picked up the phone. “Can you give me Mr Protz’s room number?”
Protz was in 805. Jerry went up by the service stairs, found 805 and knocked on the door.
“Was is das?”
“Karen. It’s Jerry. We’re in trouble I think. You’d better pack.”
“Please go away, Jerry. I’m not going to be tricked…”
“Okay.”
He walked down the corridor. Everywhere there were open doors and he could see people hastily pushing their possessions into their luggage. He went back to 805, kicking fiercely at the door.
“Karen. Everyone’s getting out.”
A Cure for Cancer Page 7
