Free The Condition of Muzak by Michael Moorcock Page B

parked here and there, their crews lazily giving his Phantom the once-over as it went by. He turned into Kensington High Street and parked outside Derry & Toms which he had acquired only recently in the deal granting Koutrouboussis full control of European exploitation rights on his father’s original patents. Jerry disembarked and entered.
    Within, the department store was hushed as usual: middle-aged women moved slowly from counter to counter; murmuring assistants in dove-grey uniforms addressed them respectfully. When reopening the store Jerry had made it clear to his staff that only a certain sort of customer was to be encouraged. He had always been very strong on tradition.
    He took the lift to the sunny tranquillity of the roof garden and crossed a few feet of crazy paving to enter the restaurant whose wall, facing the gardens, was completely of glass. He was keeping an illicit rendezvous with Captain Hargreaves. He sat at his usual table, completely alone, for the restaurant had not begun to serve lunch, watching the pink flamingoes wading about in the tiny rivers and fountains, listening to the whistlings and chirrupings of the less flamboyant birds in the foliage.
    Any intimations of trouble which he might have had during his drive here were now dispersed. He relaxed and looked over his shoulder to see Captain Hargreaves, very smart in tailored olive fatigues, come through the plate-glass doors. He stood up, smiling. He pulled back a chair and Captain Hargreaves sat down.
    “Thanks. I got that stuff for you. Gnatbeelson’s alive and in London.”
    Jerry resumed his chair. He frowned. “What about his memory?”
    “It’s a typical case of amnesia—of the sort you described to me. He believes his name to be Beale. And, as you guessed, he’s taken a job in a library.”
    “The books are there?”
    “At least one copy of
Time Search
.”
    “Then it’s conclusive.” Jerry leaned forward and slid a friendly fingernail along the inside of Captain Hargreaves’s thigh. “Do you want lunch now?”
    Captain Hargreaves’s hand fell on Jerry’s. “Afterwards, I think.”
    “There might not be time. They know where I am—or should do.”
    “I’m not too hungry.” The captain reached into a large satchel and drew out a piece of paper. “The address.”
    Jerry tucked the paper down inside his holster, rising slowly. “Give me a moment. I’ve got to change my clothes. I’ll join you in the Dutch garden, if you like.”
    “Okay.” Captain Hargreaves stood up, kissing him on the cheek. “You’ll be quick?”
    “Don’t worry.”
    But he was frowning as he went through the back of the restaurant into the cloakroom and began slipping into the costume he kept there.
    There was no doubt about it, he thought. Things were looking black for the English assassin.

EARLY REPORTS
    Editors: Hitler stopped too soon! He should have gotten rid of the Ginzburgs and the Borosons and a lot more like you. Indeed we should have a Hitler in America to rid the country of the merchants of filth, pervertors and corruptors of morals, and muckrakers!
    —Mrs John W. Red,
Memphis, Tennessee;
letter to
Fact
, Jan/Feb 1965
    Contrary to the national trend, crime decreased in the Notting Hill area last year.
    Kensington Post
, 8 January, 1965
    The one thing you can say about Hitler is that he was a damned sight more pro-British than M. Pompidou.
    —Kingsley Amis,
Speakeasy
(BBC Radio), 18 July, 1971
    Even in these enlightened days cancer continues to be a disease evoking dread and horror in the general public. Perhaps because of this peculiar emotional response to cancer, quite unlike that seen with other diseases, there has always been a fringe of unorthodox practitioners specialising in unusual treatments to lead to dramatic “cures”.
    —M.A. Epstein,
Times Literary Supplement
, 16 January, 1976

TUNING UP (3)
    “I feel like a right ponce.” Jerry climbed gingerly into the large rowing boat, seating himself in the stern,