“Go away. Why?”
“Something’s up. A change of government.” Down the hall came a few bars of Chuck Berry which were rapidly cut off.
Jerry began to pant. Karen knew what she was doing. Koutrouboussis… How elaborate was the plot? There had never been so much pressure before. He was out of his element. Everything was threatened.
George Catlin—Mark Twain—Henry Ford. It was no good. The postcard in his pocket was thin and wrinkled. As he touched it, it crumbled.
The door opened. Pyat stood there. His eyes were sardonic. “What sort of thing, Comrade Cornelius, is up?”
“The poor sods,” said Jerry. “The poor bloody sods. Is this your doing? You traitor…”
“Think of Frank, Comrade Cornelius. Your brother. What would he have done?”
“Uncle Frank…” Jerry’s brain misted over again. “Where’s…?”
“You look out of sorts, comrade.”
“You were the one, weren’t you? You set the trap?”
“Nonsense. I’m merely an advisor over here.”
“Tell Doktor von Krupp I’ll wait in my room for her.”
Jerry walked as steadily as he could to the stairs and began to climb down them. His teeth were aching.
4. THE BEAUTY THE REDS CAN’T FORGET
On the TV Jerry watched the people hurry from the hotel and be scooped up by formations of Boyle’s militia. It was rather like watching a ballet.
Three black Cadillacs, their windows gleaming dark one-way glass, came down the road towards the hotel. Things looked sticky for the visitors.
“Jerry.”
He turned.
Karen had her case with her. Jerry picked up his own. “Got your passport? We’re going back.”
“So soon?”
“I know it’s disappointing…”
The corridors were empty. They took the elevator to the main lobby where a few people, with anxious, bewildered faces, stood about.
A small man in a brown leather trench coat bent his swarthy, severe face over people’s passports. It was Mr Silver or someone very much like him. He was obviously in charge now.
Jerry strolled to the desk. “I’ll pay if I may.”
“Of course, sir. 604 and 610, is that right?” The brunette leafed through a desk file.
“That’s right.”
“There you are, sir.” She handed him the bills. “Two hundred and fifty dollars, please.”
“I can give you American Express traveller’s cheques.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Carte Blanche…?”
“Cash only, sir. It’s the new rule.”
Jerry slipped his hand into his back pocket and saw that the man in the trench coat was approaching Karen, a triumphant look in his eyes. Jerry gave the girl his last three hundred-dollar bills.
“Keep the change.”
“I can’t do that, sir.” She gave a prim gasp.
“It’s all shifting backwards, pilgrim.” Jerry got to Karen before the man who looked like Mr Silver. If it was Mr Silver he pretended he didn’t remember Jerry.
“Let me see your passports.”
“We’re foreign nationals…” Jerry realised that this was no longer protection. They were on their own. But then, hadn’t he always been on his own? He frowned.
“You don’t look well,” said Mr Silver. “Anything worrying you?”
“How should I know?”
“What are you calling yourself?” A look of disdain crossed Mr Silver’s face.
“Jeremiah Cornelius. Jeremiah Cornelius.”
“Okay. You’re suspected of aiding agents of forces hostile to the United States government. We’ll have to search your luggage.”
“Go ahead.” Then Jerry noted the expression on Karen’s face.
Silver signalled to two tall men in plastileather trench coats. “Taylor. Dunlop.” They picked up the expensive bags.
“The keys?” Mr Silver held out his damp hand.
“They’re unlocked.”
Taylor opened Jerry’s case first and pawed disgustedly through the coloured silks. When he looked back up Jerry knew he didn’t have a chance.
“What about her?” Jerry indicated Karen. “Let her on the plane, won’t you? She’s just a girl who came along. A secretary…”
“You employ her, do you?” Dunlop laughed.
“She’s not your wife, is she?” Mr Silver curled his lip. “You aliens! Check her case.”
Jerry hung loose. He lit a Romeo y Julieta.
“That’s a nice cigar,” said Silver sniffing. He nodded as his men brought something out of Karen’s bag. “You’ve got it. I like the smell of a good cigar.” It was a small gold model of an Apollo rocket. “Okay. Now let’s see those passports.”
Karen glanced at Jerry as she gave her passport to Silver. Had she been conned by Protz and Pyat? How elaborate was the set-up? Silver knew there were ambiguities but wasn’t admitting it. He was going after them merely because he didn’t like them. That was how things were.
“German,” said Silver. “And British, eh? Where you from, bwah?”
“Britain.”
“Before that?”
“Heaven?”
“That in the West Indies?”
“My father didn’t say.”
“I’ll keep the passports. They look like crude forgeries to me. Your picture’s in negative, even.”
“Check it.”
“We will. Taylor. Dunlop. Get them on the bus with the rest.”
The two tall men took Jerry and Karen by the arm and guided them through the lobby, then through the swing doors to where a big airport bus waited. There were a lot of people already inside.
As they came out on the sidewalk Jerry saw people run and cars swerve as a Boeing 707 swung off the runway and, jets screaming, taxied between the airport buildings to cross the highway at an angle and slither across a field.
“You boys certainly have everything working for you.” Jerry threw his cigar in the gutter.
“On the bus,” said Taylor.
Jerry and Karen climbed aboard. The bus was decorated in chrome and light blue. All the seats were full of nervous people, mostly middle-aged and middle-class. That was something, thought Jerry.
One well set-up man in a grey topcoat and hat held an expensive briefcase against his chest. He wore brown leather gloves. “I’m Feldman,” he said. “Feldman. I’m Feldman.”
“That’s it,” Dunlop told the driver. “You can close the doors.”
Feldman dashed forward as the doors began to shut. Taylor hit him in the face. Feldman staggered back, his nose bleeding.
The bus moved out with Jerry and Karen clinging to the slippery central pole. From the hotel came the sound of Thompson sub-machine guns.
The bus reached an intersection and turned inland, away from New York. Soon they were on Interstate 80.
Jerry felt a tugging at his jacket and he looked down into the heavily made-up face of an old woman with a blue rinse who sat in the nearest seat. “Young man,” she whispered, “is this the Ithaca bus?”
“You’d better ask the driver, ma’am,” Jerry told her. “I’m not sure we’re going that far.”
EXTENT ESTIMATED
The Lance battlefield missile can go anywhere the Army needs to go.
It’s rugged, it’s accurate. It’s easy to operate.
And… it’s mobile.
It can be moved into action by helicopter, airdropped by parachute or carried by ground vehicles over rough terrain under all weather conditions.
The Lance light-weight launcher can be towed by some of the smallest vehicles in the inventory, down to the ¼-ton size. The basic launcher frame and missile frame and missile fit into a full-tracked carrier for land or water surface mobility.
And, it only takes a six-man crew to operate each Lance system.
It is propelled by a storable, pre-packaged liquid propulsion system—the first Army missile so powered.
&n
bsp; Lance is almost as portable as its ancient namesake, the basic weapon of the warrior since time began.
‘Lance mobility’, LTV ad
1. MAIL ORDER BRIDE FROM PENNSYLVANIA
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, in thickly wooded hills overlooking the Delaware, the bus stopped by a tall barbed-wire fence bearing a wooden notice board that said KEEP OUT—GOVT. PROTECTED EXPERIMENTAL NATURE RESERVE.
“Okay, everybody.” The driver took a Swiss M11 Carbine from under his seat. “Here’s where you spend your vacation.”
Taylor and Dunlop glanced at him disapprovingly. The blue doors hissed open and the passengers piled out into the narrow dirt road that ran beside the wire.
Jerry’s spirits were rising. As he left the bus, he tipped the driver a dollar.
“This way,” said Dunlop.
Struggling with their heavy suitcases, the passengers followed Taylor and Dunlop until they reached a decorative wrought-iron gate in front of a small Bavarian-style lodge from which three armed militiamen, in the black uniforms, the mirror sunglasses and the motorcycle helmets, emerged.
A fourth militiaman poked his head out of the whimsically carved doorway. “Wait there. I’ll call the camp.”
Jerry gripped two curling bits of black metal and peered through the gate, breathing in the gentle scent of pines. A wide track led between the trees on the other side of the wire and disappeared over a rise. Beyond the rise a diesel engine whined and a big Ford articulated freight truck came bumping into sight and, sounding the twin golden horns on its roof, swung round in the clearing near the ledge. The driver jumped down from his cab and ran to open the sliding doors of the truck.
One of the militiamen unlocked the wrought-iron gate. “Okay. Come on through.”
The passengers trudged up to the freight wagon and got awkwardly aboard.
Jerry helped the old lady clamber in.
“It stinks of meat.” She leaned on his shoulder. “Of animals. What the hell is the company doing to us?”
“It’s only a short ride, ma’am.” Jerry assisted Karen, relishing the texture of the rough tweed on his palm. “We’ll soon be there.”
As the doors of the car slid shut and the engine started up, Jerry crouched in a corner in the semi-darkness and they bumped through the woods. Five minutes later the truck braked and the outside air rang with cheerful shouts until it moved on a few yards, stopped again, and cut off its engine.
They blinked as the doors slid open to reveal a surly sergeant who waved them out with his rifle.
Mr Feldman had recovered slightly. He stood in the yard dusting himself down as his fellow passengers disembarked and looked incuriously round at the long wooden huts and the triple fence of barbed wire that had armed observation towers every thirty feet. “Who’s in charge here?” demanded Mr Feldman, “I have some questions to ask.”
“You want the camp governor,” the surly sergeant told him. “He’ll be talking to you in a few minutes.”
Jerry began to whistle. Karen looked at him with a mixture of contempt, suspicion and panic.
There was a chance of a break, after all.
2. HOW SOON LEGAL POLYGAMY?
The new arrivals stood in a long line facing the main hut and there was only the sound of the pine cones cracking in the heat until the door marked CAMP GOVERNOR creaked open and a tall, elegant man came out and saluted them.
The camp governor wore a uniform cut from fine, black needlecord and his cap was at just the right angle above his mirror sunglasses which were as black and as bright as his highly polished jackboots.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I am Captain Brunner, your governor. It is my duty and pleasure to ensure that you are properly looked after during your stay here. As you are no doubt aware, under the present emergency conditions laid down by our president, Mr Boyle, an in-depth and far-thinking piece of social experimentation is taking place and you are privileged to be part of the experiment which touches, to a degree, on the problems of over-population in this nation. You will, of course, be well treated and all your basic needs will be catered to. Western…” He reached languidly for the clipboard which the sergeant handed him. “We can assure you, however, that your internment will be as short as possible. We aim for a quick release.” He turned his attention to the clipboard. “Now, could all professional men and wives of professional men over forty please raise their hands?”
Only Jerry and Karen von Krupp did not raise their hands.
“Excellent,” said Captain Brunner. “You are all—or almost—” he glanced disapprovingly at Jerry and Karen—“entitled to priority service. Are there any questions I can answer for you?”
Mr Feldman raised his hand. “My name is Feldman. Can I call my wife and tell her where I am?”
“Even better, Mr Feldman—we are tracing your wife and she should be joining you soon. Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Mrs Meriel McCarthy.”
“Yes?”
“I want to know what I am doing here.”
“Your maiden name?”
“Sullivan.”
“I see. Well, it’s hard to explain in a word, Mrs McCarthy. It’s all part of President Boyle’s Law and Order Campaign. You believe in Law and Order, I hope?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’m sure you will be prepared to suffer a little inconvenience for a short time so that the president can make sure there’s plenty of Law and Order in the future?”
“I guess so.”
“Fine. Well, I suppose you’re all tired and dusty after your journey and want to wash up. Leave your bags here and they will be taken to your accommodation. The sergeant will show you to the ablutions hut.”
The new arrivals followed the sergeant towards the hut with the tall chimney. Jerry and Karen were left standing among the abandoned suitcases.
“I’ll deal with you two in my office.” Captain Brunner hung the clipboard on a hook by the door. “Step inside, please.” He sauntered through the door which swung shut behind him.
Karen looked towards the disappearing line of people and then at Jerry. “You seem in better shape,” she said.
“Not part of the plan, eh?” Jerry pushed open Captain Brunner’s door. “Come on in.”
Hesitantly, Karen followed him in. The office was beautifully furnished, with leather panelling and matching furniture. The view through the window showed a schoolyard in which happy children in little white smocks were playing.
Captain Brunner sat at his desk lighting a cigarette in a long, ivory holder. He had a sensitive face and long-fingered, almost delicate, hands. He removed his sunglasses and regarded Jerry through sardonic crimson eyes.
“Well, well, well… And what brings you to Camp Resurrection?”
“A series of circumstances, Captain Brunner. This is Doktor von Krupp.”
“Your mistress?”
“My ex-mistress.”
“How could that be possible? It seems, at this moment, Mr Cornelius, to be a question of accretion more than anything else.”
“It does indeed.”
“We’ll see what we can do about it. Soon. Why are you in the US? Looking for me, I hope.”
“I thought I was looking for a Bishop Beesley, but it’s possible that I came to lose myself, as it were. Not anticipated, of course.”
“You can’t run away from yourself, Mr Cornelius.”
“I hope you’re right, captain. I feel better already.”
“So you should. You’re in the shit, really, if you don’t mind me telling you…”
“That was my impression.” Jerry tapped his skull. “I was a bit out of sorts. When this Beesley pinched a batch of our best transmogs…”
“Still fishing, eh? Well, I know how it is. The last I heard of Beesley was at a party a week ago. He was in San Francisco, I gather, with his yacht.”
“With my patients?”
“Almost certainly. His main headquarters are nearby—in Los Angeles.”
&nbs
p; “Is he working for your boss? This Boyle?”
“Good heavens, no. Beesley may be crude, but he’s not that crude. He has nothing to do with the creation of Greater America. Is the name Nye familiar?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s vaguely connected with that name in some way. A Faustian character, your Bishop Beesley, really.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Karen von Krupp.
“Doubtless you know him better than I.” Captain Brunner removed his cap and placed it neatly on the desk. His short hair was as white as Jerry’s. He undid his tunic collar.
Karen von Krupp was frowning. “Are you responsible for this situation, Captain Brunner?”
“Indirectly, yes. Now, Jerry, we’ll have to think of getting you out of here, won’t we?”
“I suppose so.”
“It’s obvious you can’t stay. You’ll have to escape and perhaps you’d better kill me at the same time. I presume you’ve a needle gun with you.”
“Vibragun.”
“So it’s vibraguns now, is it? Well, well. That’ll do, anyhow. It will be a relief.”
“To both of us.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“I was wondering if there was a Shifter Tunnel handy.”
“In America? You must be joking. This is a stable country, Mr Cornelius. Even I can’t produce miracles!”
Jerry laughed. “A helicopter, then? Or a light plane?”
“The best I can offer is that diesel truck. Unless…” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “We’re in the sticks, here, Mr Cornelius.”
“Okay. What shall we do now?”
“Wait in my office until I return. There are very few books, I’m afraid. Watch the children playing. Aren’t they sweet? Do you love children as much as me?”
“Naturally.”
3. THE OLD HOLLYWOOD SPIRIT NEVER DIES
Captain Brunner soon came back. “I’d forgotten I wouldn’t be needing the Duesenberg. You can take that, if you like.”
Jerry nodded. “Why had you forgotten?”
“It was returned just this morning. My chauffeur borrowed it and got caught on a carefree driving rap. He was shot yesterday. Even I couldn’t get him off that one.”
A Cure for Cancer Page 8
