Deathwish World

current issue, something they aren't doing right under this so-called welfare state.

'Take VD—various drugs have been developed up over the years to combat venereal diseases. First the sulfas. They were tremendously effective when first discovered, but in a few years, new strains of gonoccocci had developed that were immune to sulfa. Then the antibiotics like streptomycin came along, but the germs adapted to them and eventually thrived. Well, suppose we put our scientists to work on a whole series of new antibiotics. Then, on D-Day, everybody in the country would take the new antibiotic, whether or not they had ever had any venereal disease. Every man, woman, and child, including the president and Roman Catholic cardinals. Later, one of the other new antibiotics would be given everybody, to nail the germs missed that first time. And from then on, nobody would be allowed into the United States of the Americas until they'd had their antibiotics. This is a half- assed description of an idea some researcher wrote, and I may have some of it wrong. But I know smallpox was eradicated. I bet VDcowWbe.'

'Great,' Roy said, 'but it has nothing to do with fundamental social change. It could be done under any system.'

'But the thing is,' Ferd said patiently, 'to get to the people, you've got to participate, take a strong stand on everything from pollution and depletion of natural resources to ending war, women's rights, race problems, and all the rest. Your stand should sound more sensible than anybody else's, or else more Godly. And you've got to sound off about it, louder and more insistently than anybody else. If you're ever going to get a following, that'll be how.'

The identity screen on the door buzzed. Ron and Billy popped to their feet.

'That'll be the first load of food and guzzle,' Forry said. 'You boys supervise it. Roy and I'll go into our rooms so that nobody'll recognize us.'

'I'm going to bed anyway,' Roy said. 'I'm bushed to hell and gone and I've got a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow'll be a busy day.' He paused and added in deprecation, 'I've got a suspicion that the rest of my life is going to be a busy day.'

It was a half-hour later that a knock came at Roy Cos's bedroom door. He was lying on his back in bed in his pajamas, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, on the night table, was a drink he had brought from the living room. It was untouched.

He looked at the door and said, 'Come on in.'

Mary Ann was clad in a simple white nightgown and sturdy bedroom slippers. She carried a half-empty bottle of Scotch. Her hair had been combed out and her face glowed as if freshly washed—or freshly made up.

Roy said, his tired hazel eyes puzzled, 'Hello, Mary Ann. Something up?' He came to one elbow.

'That should be my question,' she smiled, and closed the door behind her. Her face had a flush which, Roy decided to his surprise, brought a wistful beauty to her ordinary plainness. Mary Ann Elwyn would never be thought of as a pretty girl but her femininity was there, now that she had discarded her brisk office efficiency.

She brought her eyes up and to his and the flush deepened. 'I thought you might be lonesome,' she said, her voice low.

Roy stared at her. Plain, Mary Ann might be, but even the dreary nightclothes she wore couldn't disguise the healthy womanly body. Her breasts were high, her waist taut, her legs surprisingly long. Roy hadn't noticed those legs before. It seldom occurred to men to scrutinize the Mary Ann equipment.

For a moment, he couldn't remember when last he had bedded a woman. It had probably been one of the Wobbly members.

Roy said, after running a hand through his faded brown hair, 'Sit down, Mary Ann.'

She sat on the edge of the bed and again avoided his eyes.

He said, 'Look, there's obviously no future in me. If we happen to get caught up emotionally—well, I won't be able to feel grief.''

She didn't say anything to that.

He said, an edge in his voice, 'I don't want charity, Mary Ann.'

She looked up at him. 'Then you're a fool. I do, Roy. I'm lonesome, too.'

He said quickly, 'I'm not exactly the romantic type. I know what I look like, what I am. Those four boys guarding me are more nearly your own age. And they're all good, healthy…'

'Oh, shut up,' she said. She threw back the bedclothes and squirmed herself in beside him, after tossing her bathrobe to the foot of the bed and kicking off her slippers. 'I'm not interested in boys. I'm interested in a loving man.' She flicked off the night table light. 'And you're the most loving man I've ever met, Roy Cos.'

Chapter Fourteen: Frank Pinell

Frank and Nat Fraser got off the metro at the Odeon Station and started up the street. As in practically all large cities these days, vehicular traffic in Paris was at a minimum though pedestrians and bicycles occupied the streets even at this time of night in Left Bank, still the home of artists and Sorbonne students.

Nat Fraser looked over at his younger companion approvingly. He said, 'Cobber, you look like a regular toff in those new duds. A little on the Frenchy side, gawdstrewth.'

Frank snorted at the tall, gawky Australian. 'They ought to look good, you ponied up enough credits to outfit me.'

'Nothing's too good for a cove working for the bloody Graf.' Nat looked up at a street sign. 'Rue Monsieur Le Prince,' he read. 'That's it.'

Frank said, 'Who's this Colonel Boris Rivas?'

'Old-time mercenary. Mostly Africa and Near East. Last time I saw him was in Yemen. He had a contract there with some fifty commandos and a few hundred ragheads. Too bloody-minded by far for my liking, cobber. I was done on the bone but I did a bunk instead of joining up.'

Frank frowned. 'Now I really need a translation.'

'I don't go for finishing off women, kids, and old folks. Fair dinkum, I don't. Rape, killing civilians, looting—old Boris gets his lollies out of it. Bad business. If the situation pickles, you might have to depend on those women and old coves. Hide you, feed you, if they're lucky enough as to have anything to eat. Maybe nurse you, if you've copped one.'

He looked up at a sign over the doorway of a dilapidated building that looked a good two centuries or more in age. Hotel Balcon.

'This is it, cobber. Just follow me bloody lead. Rivas is competition to the Graf. This is his last bloody chance. He comes in with the mucking organization, or the barstid's had it, and that's the dinkum oil.'

'You mean we, uh, shoot him?'

The other grinned cheerfully. 'More likely he'd shoot us first, cobber. But we're here under a bloody flag of bloody truce. Let's go.'

The hotel lobby was no more impressive than the outside of the building. It had the odor of long decay. Its lone occupant was a bent old man behind the desk, obviously the concierge.

'What room's Rivas in, cobber?' the Aussie said.

To Frank's surprise, the old man spoke English. 'Top floor. Room 505.'

'Too right,' Nat said, and made a gesture with his head. 'Get your arse out of here.' The old-timer studied the set of Nat's jaw, then scooted out a door behind his desk.

Frank looked at him in surprise.

'He's been paid,' Nat said, heading for the stairway. There was no elevator.

The building was five stories high and Nat Fraser had obviously been in third-class French hotels before. At each landing he pushed a button in the wall which turned on a low wattage bulb just long enough for them to reach the next landing. The management of the Hotel Balcon did not waste electrical power.

On the fifth floor, the pressing of the light button gave them just enough time to find room 505. Nat Fraser knocked on the door and the hall light flicked off before the portal opened.

A huge black was there, almost as tall as the Australian and, if anything, broader of shoulder, deeper of chest. He was the blackest man Frank Pinell had ever seen—actually ebony in complexion—yet his face was more nearly European than Bantu. He was a beautiful physical specimen and his movements belied his size; he moved like a black leopard.

Nat said, 'The colonel is expecting us.'

The black opened the door wide without change of expression. Room 505 turned out to be a small suite.