Ilyich did not try to enter. Neither did Peter. The Professor disappeared into one of the huts.
Then he came out and went into another hut. There were vague animal noises from various small compounds. Presently, the Professor began to feed his pets.
It was while Eustace was fondling a lion that Ilyich realized the Professor was also talking to the creature. One never knew.
Ilyich aimed the directional carnation, estimated range, adjusted volume and put the plug in his ear.
His head rattled with the thunderous sound of the lion purring. He adjusted the volume control and consequently lost what the Professor was saying. Presently, he caught something of the rhythm of the operation and managed to get snatches of professional soliloquy without suffering too greatly.
What he heard convinced him that he was not wasting his time.
“We’ll show them, won’t we, pussy cat? PURR PURR. We’ll show them that Eustace Greylaw is a PURR PURR to be reckoned with. We’ll PURR PURR the greatest synthetic disease in the PURR PURR until every man, woman and beast is PURR PURR SHLURDASHERVEROOVEROO!”
The lion had sneezed.
Ilyich tore the plug from his ear — too late. The train in pain stayed mainly in his brain until it finally disappeared down a long tunnel of de-escalating anguish. His hands trembled. Sweat formed on his forehead.
The Professor was still talking to pussy cat; but the Karamazov courage was no longer equal to the Karamazov curiosity.
Eventually, Professor Greylaw, having concluded his speech to the lion, seemed also to have concluded his business at the zoo. Presently three autocabs — discreetly spaced — returned to Bognor Regis.
Professor Greylaw, followed by Ilyich followed by Peter, then took the next hovertrain back to London Victoria.
It was while the Professor was standing near the edge of the platform at Victoria tube station, waiting for a Circle Line train, that he began to talk once more. To himself, this time, since there were no lions present and, apart from the brothers Karamazov, no one else seemed to be interested in what he was saying.
Ilyich had recovered his nerve sufficiently to try the white-carnation microphone once more. But there were others present on the platform, and several people passed between him and the Professor.
“So I said to this student (a girl’s voice) if you put it in like that again, I’ll… and then we used the freezair (a male prepube) and then we rolled this granny down the steps and then…”
It was hopeless. Ilyich took the plug out of his ear.
He decided to take a chance. He edged his way closer and closer to Professor Greylaw, while looking casually in the opposite direction. It was just as he reached the Professor’s side that he saw Peter momentarily and carelessly raise his head above the top of a colour tri-di girliezine. Ilyich stumbled slightly with surprise. He put out his hand to steady himself. The hand touched the Professor’s shoulder.
The Professor stopped muttering to himself and turned round.
If there was one thing in life that Eustace Greylaw hated, it was plastic flowers. It went back to childhood. Mummy had always liked lots of gay plastic flowers in her gay suburban home. Daddy had shot her. Eustace had gone to a State Retreat for Maladjused Prepubes.
Professor Greylaw and Ilyich Karamazov confronted each other. Briefly.
The Professor registered a vaguely unlikeable face and a quite terrifying button hole.
Appalled, he stepped back. The train came in.
Professor Greylaw’s lips were moving even as he fell off the platform.
Ilyich tried desperately to lip read. He failed.
It would not have informed him greatly if he had succeeded.
Eustace Greylaw’s last words were: “My God! A plastic carnation!”
Ilyich faded into the crowd. Peter faded into the crowd. They met outside the station, found the nearest Dial-’n’-Drink and ordered large Japanese whiskies.
“Why did you kill him, brother?”
“I didn’t kill him. Why did you follow me, brother?”
“I didn’t follow you.”
“Liar!”
“Liar!”
“Peter?”
“Ilyich?”
“You must believe me. I didn’t kill him.”
“You must believe me. I didn’t follow you. But I know that you have something, and you
“It was too early. I intended to share it. I will share it now.”
“Good. Then all will be as it was before. Brothers and comrades, Ilyich.” Peter raised his
“Yes, brothers and comrades, Peter.” Ilyich raised his glass. “All will be as it was before.”
are not sharing it.”
glass.
But even when he had told everything he knew, all was not as it was before. Something fine had gone out of their lives.
“And he said nothing to you when he fell?”
“Nothing, brother.”
“I saw his lips move.”
“So did I. But I heard nothing.”
Peter Karamazov sighed. One Swiss numbered account was no longer enough. Presently, there would have to be two.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Although St. Paul’s Cathedral was dwarfed somewhat by the forty-storey Winston Churchill Retreat for Alcoholics and the fifty-storey Bertrand Russell Twilight Tower (Voluntary Euthanasia Ltd.), its dome still retained the proud patina and bird droppings of time, the dignity and flaked masonry of the centuries. Since Romaprot had put the guts back into religion — on a sound seven-per-cent annual growth basis — there had been changes.
Inevitable changes. But they had been carried out tastefully, with foresight, and as good investments.
The choir and high altar had had to go, naturally, to make way for a fragment of Comptroller’s Department and Computer Engineering Division; but Sir James Thornhill’s paintings still retained their lofty eminence, and there were plastic replicas of original Grinling Gibbons carvings adorning the discreetly styled executive cells.
In the centre of the nave a perpetual fountain of irridescent holy water gave movement and vitality to the very heart of the cathedral. The mineralogical content of the water met the exact specifications of the spring at Lourdes; and in the extended crypt one thousand bathing cubicles were available on a ten-minute or twenty-minute rental basis. On either side of the nave were the ranks of auto-confession booths, wired up to four God Machines appropriately located in the Whispering Gallery, and programmed to accept all major currencies. Due to the recent invention of Depthorama, the booths were also equipped to supply Instant Full Cathedral Services in American, Russian, Europarl, Afritawk and Chinese and (also by dial selection) in modern Romaprot style as well as ancient Greek Orthodox, Anglican and Catholic. The services were divided into First Class, Economy Class and Mini-shot, according to the means and time available to the worshipper. For ten pounds, up to six people could be uplifted for two hours by Depthorama recordings of Cardinal Archbishop Cyril Cantuar, the NaTel Black and White Choir, and musical dramatization of a choice of parables, miracles and assorted preachings — all shot on location with authorized Equity actors and nudes. With Nativity, Crucifixion and Resurrection, all seasonably popular items, there was a ten per cent surcharge.
Outside the cathedral, Romaprot had provided for the requirements of all intending worshippers. Cathedral Reception surrounded the ancient building like a vast steel and hiduminium torus. It contained a subterranean coffee-bar in the form of a creatively improved replica of a torture-chamber of the Spanish Inquisition; a compact Sistine Chapel restaurant; and the Holy Sepulchre intimate all-nite-spot for late and early visitors.