A Cure for Cancer

'I didn't say it was. But it's different, isn't it, I mean?'

A squadron of low-flying Northrop F-jA Freedom Fighters made the glass buzz in the frames. Flash looked up and shook his head. There's been a lot of parachuting going on,' he said. 'Over Barnes way mostly. You should see what they've done to the grass and the trees on the common.'

'They've got our interests at heart,' said Jerry.

'But what about the little saplings and that!'

'You have to make some sacrifices, Flash.'

Warm tears dropped from Gordon's eyes. 'Well, I used to like Barnes Common. Sorry, Mr Cornelius, but I did. That's where I first met you, wasn't it?'

That info you were on about,' said Jerry.

'Oh yes. Yes. Just a minute.' Flash's hand moved in his raincoat pocket and eventually emerged with a scrap of paper. The swine.'

He handed Jerry the piece of paper. 'It is a deal, isn't it, Mr Cornelius?'

Jerry looked at the paper. 'It's a deal. Where did you get this?'

'Off the bloke that wrote it.'

That bugger,' said Jerry. 'Would you believe it?'

'It's all go, isn't it?' said Flash.

Jerry looked at the piece of paper again: 'He said he'd made an appointment for you. Buckingham Palace. This afternoon.' Flash stroked a eucalyptus leaf. 'Is that all right?'

'It'll have to do.'

Cut One

Frightened mothers welcome the avenging police Police in Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo were tired of seeing criminals get away scot free. So a few of them organised 'death squads' — which operate only during the coppers' off-duty hours.

So far the deaths of more than 100 criminals have been attributed to the Rio squad. The bodies were stamped with a skull-and-cross-bones, which is the trade mark of the killer cops.

The Sao Paulo squad is believed to consist of nine officers, five of them universityeducated. Their grudge is the abolition of the death penalty in Brazil and the lack of adequate police facilities.

One squad member, who preferred to be nameless, said: 'We were fed up with going around with our hands tied. We decided to use unconventional methods.'

Honest people among the ten million who live in the two cities welcome the unorthodox justice.

One frightened mother wrote to a local newspaper: 'It is good to know we are being protected.'

The men marked for death are those considered habitual criminals by the squads.

Many are drug traffickers. The squads seek maximum publicity, feeling that this will be a deterrent to crime.

The official police stations receive regular calls from a squad 'public relations officer', who reveals where the latest body can be found.

Titbits, 1 February 1969

I Ecological effects of the Vietnam War

Jerry pulled his Phantom VI up outside the gates of Buckingham Palace and lowered the window as two sergeants of the jth Marine Division in the modified uniforms of the Grenadiers, compete with helmets and horsehair plumes, came to check him over.

'I've an appointment with Frank Cornelius,' Jerry told them.

He was wearing his wide-brimmed lilac hat, with his hair knotted under it. His midnight blue shirt was trimmed in matching lace and his toreador trousers were in an even deeper blue. Around his waist was a wide patent leather belt with a huge brass buckle and a holster holding his vibragun. A flowing yellow bandanna had been tied around his throat.

The sergeants tried to keep their faces expressionless as they inspected his papers, but their lips trembled.

'Wait here, sir.' One of the sergeants brushed at his new moustache and went and spoke to a man who stood in the shadows of the main entrance to the palace building.

The other sergeant rested his hand on the roof of Jerry's car and watched his companion intently until he emerged from the shadows and waved. The sergeant slammed the flat of his hand on the roof and Jerry drove through into the courtyard.

The first sergeant ran up to the car, his sword and forty-five slapping against his white buckskins.

'I'll park your car, sir.'

'Don't bother.' Jerry got out and locked the Phantom VI. 'I'll leave it here, I think.'

'We can't do that. Cars outside headquarters are forbidden. They ruin the view. Sir.'

Jerry pointed up at the flagstaff on the roof of the palace. 'I see General Cumberland's in residence.'

'Yes, sir.'

'It's a proud banner.'

Jerry walked into the hall and gave his card to a dapper lieutenant who placed it on a silver tray and bore it up the staircase, passing the portraits of Elizabeth I, James I, Charles I, Charles II, James II, William III, Mary II, Anne, George I, George II, George III, George IV, William IV, Victoria, Edward VII, George V, Edward VIII, George VI, Elizabeth II, Helen, and Ulysses Washington Cumberland (C-in-C, U. S. Defense Forces, Western Europe) who had occupied the building after Helen had left to run a small riding school in Guildford, Surrey. The most recent of the portraits were by Aldridge, the last true Court Painter, in the mouth-and-foot manner that he had made so markedly his own.

Jerry admired the old-fashioned luxury, the archaic splendour of the guards who stood to attention with drawn sabres at every door.

'They certainly have dash.' He nodded at the guards as the lieutenant returned.

The lieutenant eyed him up and down. 'Major Cornelius is ready to see you. This way.'

They climbed the plush and gold staircase until they reached the second floor and walked between the panelled walls and bad Romneys until they came to a white door with panel decorations picked out in black; the name MAJOR FRANK CORNELIUS, Special Aide, C-in-C, inscribed in red, and two splendid Royal U. S. Marine Grenadiers on either side. Their swords clashed as they ceremoniously barred the portal then returned their weapons to the slope.

The lieutenant knocked on the door.

A faint but unmistakable Afrikaaner accent answered: 'Come.'

The lieutenant saluted and marched off. Jerry opened the door and walked into a room decorated and furnished entirely in a style as ugly as anything by the Adam Bros.

Frank stood by the fussy fireplace looking at a little lyre clock that was of the German fake Directoire variety but quite pretty. He was dressed in the sharply cut uniform of a major in the U. S.

8th Airborne, one hand in his pocket, one arm on the mantelpiece. He looked very pale and his black hair was clipped close to his shoulders. He smiled at Jerry.

'Long time no see, old chap.'

'You've been out in South Afrika, then.'

'Good for the constitution, Jerry.'

'Or reconstitution.'

Frank laughed loudly. 'Good old Jerry!'

'I wish you wouldn't keep using that word. You seem to be doing well for yourself.'

'It's a mission.'

'I saw Mr Gavin. I gather you have some idea of the whereabouts of a piece of property I own.'

'Your invention, you mean.'

'You could put it that way.'

'Well, I haven't got it here, you realize.'

'Where would it be?'

'Let's discuss it later. Time for refreshment first?' Frank touched a bell and a ravaged girl with long chestnut hair came through a side door. This is my secretary. Do you know her? Rose Barrie, my brother Jerry. Rose is a civilian auxiliary.' Frank smiled. 'They call you Bombhead Rose, don't they, Rose?' He winked at Jerry. 'Rose knows...'

Rose smoothed her cherry dress and raised a hand to her garish face. 'Wh...'

'Something to cheer us up, Rose. Good gal, eh?'

Rose went away again.