A Cure for Cancer

  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 headdress 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 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 the Indians’ 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 onto 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 onto 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’s 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 Flathead, 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, Cornplanter, 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 Navajos, 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.

  6. LIVE, WORK, FISH AND HUNT IN NATURE’S WONDERLAND!

  Las Vegas was quiet in the afternoon glare. The signs flashed to a steady, soothing rh
ythm 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 civilisation?”

  “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-turned-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 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-150A 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. 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 Johnson’s 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 fires 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, not 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 LA, but then the truck broke down. Thought I’d do some fruit-picking instead.”

  Jerry stopped and peered through the bars. He recognised 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 shorewards.

  “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 h
our they were bound for Sumatra where the organisation had an emergency Reclamation Centre, and Greater America had disappeared below the horizon.

  3. SECOND OPERATION

  COMING EVENTS

  The Dream

  Four years ago I dreamed that I stood in a room behind, and to the left of, a young man I did not know. He was younger than me. On his left, but in front of us, my brother, and beside him stood an old man whom I did not recognise. On our right, two large cream-painted doors were closing. I thought that my brother and this other man were in some way assessing this younger man, who I felt was either my husband or my intended husband. Since then, I have without any doubt met this young man. The dream is troubling me, as I fail to understand its meaning. Never before have I dreamed so clearly of something so far in the future.

  The Meaning

  We may accept the above as a good example of what is called precognitive dreaming. Instances of dreaming ahead of time crop up fairly often and some of them get on to this page. As to what the brother and the old man are doing, that comes under a different head altogether. The earliest objects of a girl child’s physical affection are her father and her brother. Any later male attachment is a result of these early, though unlocalized, sex objects. The question the reader is asking in her dream is how far the later object of affection stands up to the early ideal of childhood. The result rests with the dreamer’s own nature. The old man is a father symbol; the closing doors represent the flight of time.

  Dream Meanings, Prediction, March 1969

  LIGHTS

  OUTER SPACE: IN THE BEGINNING,

  A BIG BANG

  Fantastic things are being discovered in outer space. Some astronomers believe they have located cosmic bodies of cataclysmic force that might indicate a primeval Big Bang. And a hiss located in outer space may be an echo of this explosive Creation, coming from thousands of millions of light years ago. Next week, in an exciting new series, we explore the new ideas which may lead to a complete overhaul of our thinking about the universe and our place in it.