A Cure for Cancer

'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.'