Read Online The English Assassin by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Moorcock
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“They think we are barbarians,” said Pyat, filling Jerry’s glass with whisky and letting Jerry add his own Malvern water, “but they do not mind selling us weapons and war machines. Where would their economy be without us?”
Jerry reached his hand halfway to his drink. “They’d like us to get it over with, though. We disturb them by our continued existence. We’ve been staving off the apocalypse for so long. Suppose we turned on them? They have no army.”
“Then they are fools. How long can this
Traumrepublik
last? A few more years?”
“Months, more likely. Keep your voice down. They don’t have to know…”
Pyat’s ironic glance gave way to a look of introspection. “You speak like a priest. Not a soldier.” It was a statement which hoped for a reply, but Jerry merely smiled and picked up his glass.
“To which regiment do you belong, colonel?” Pyat decided on a direct approach.
Jerry looked curiously at his uniform as if he himself hoped to find some clue to the answer there. “The 30th Deccan Horse, I think.”
“You have been seconded, then?”
“Quite likely. No.”
“You are a civilian!”
Jerry laughed. “Well, I’m not sure, you know.” He shook his head. There were tears in his eyes now as his whole body trembled with mirth. “I’m simply not sure.”
Pyat laughed too, because he enjoyed laughing. “Let’s get a bottle each, shall we? I have a suite upstairs. And perhaps someone can find us a couple of girls? Or perhaps two girls will volunteer their services! Everyone is emancipated in Guatemala City!”
“Fine!”
When they had risen, Pyat flung his arm around Jerry’s slender shoulders. “Do you feel like a girl, Colonel Cornelius?”
THE PERFORMERS
Dressed as a gentleman, Una Persson stalked the stage behind the green velvet curtain.
From the other side of the curtain came the noise of the crowd: shouts, laughter, screams, ironic cheers, groans, the clink of glasses and bottles, the rustle of heavy clothing. In the pit the orchestra was tuning up for the overture.
His paleness emphasised by the astrakhan collar of his chesterfield, Sebastian Auchinek raised a gold-tipped Unfiadis to his curved lips and coughed. He sat on a prop—an imitation rock—and looked through hooded eyes at the ballet girls in their frothy costumes as they took their places for the opening divertissement. Behind the girls was a backdrop showing Windsor Castle. The girls were dressed to represent
Rose
,
Shamrock
,
Thistle
, and
Wales
(in a tall black hat and a pinafore because a leek had been thought too indelicate a plant). The divertissement was entitled ‘Under One Flag’. In the wings, waiting to go on, stood Sailors, Highlanders and Beefeaters. Una Persson was not appearing in the first of the two tableaux. She would feature in the second, ‘Honour to the Queen’, and lead the chorus in the closing cantata.
“You will be a success, Una!” Auchinek got up and caught her by the arm. “You are bound to be! Come, the curtain!” The gas flared brightly above the stage, the electrical spotlights began to come on. “It is going up!”
She walked swiftly into the wings. Auchinek hurried behind her. She pushed her way nervously past Mr Clement Scott, author of the opening Patriotic Ode. The orchestra began to play a rousing chorus of the satirical ‘Oh, What a Happy Land is England’:
We shall soon be buying Consols, at the rate of
half-a-crown
,
For like the Russian battleships, they’re always
going down!
We have lately built an Airship and the only
thing it lacks
Is the power to go on rising like the British
Income Tax!
Hip-hip-hooray!
Oh! what a happy land is England!
Envied by all Nations near and far!
Where the wretched Alien
Robs the British working men!
Oh! what a lucky race we are!
Oh! what a happy land is England!
Envied by all Nations near and far!
All Foreigners have found
This a happy dumping ground!
Oh! what a lucky race we
“They think we are barbarians,” said Pyat, filling Jerry’s glass with whisky and letting Jerry add his own Malvern water, “but they do not mind selling us weapons and war machines. Where would their economy be without us?”
Jerry reached his hand halfway to his drink. “They’d like us to get it over with, though. We disturb them by our continued existence. We’ve been staving off the apocalypse for so long. Suppose we turned on them? They have no army.”
“Then they are fools. How long can this
Traumrepublik
last? A few more years?”
“Months, more likely. Keep your voice down. They don’t have to know…”
Pyat’s ironic glance gave way to a look of introspection. “You speak like a priest. Not a soldier.” It was a statement which hoped for a reply, but Jerry merely smiled and picked up his glass.
“To which regiment do you belong, colonel?” Pyat decided on a direct approach.
Jerry looked curiously at his uniform as if he himself hoped to find some clue to the answer there. “The 30th Deccan Horse, I think.”
“You have been seconded, then?”
“Quite likely. No.”
“You are a civilian!”
Jerry laughed. “Well, I’m not sure, you know.” He shook his head. There were tears in his eyes now as his whole body trembled with mirth. “I’m simply not sure.”
Pyat laughed too, because he enjoyed laughing. “Let’s get a bottle each, shall we? I have a suite upstairs. And perhaps someone can find us a couple of girls? Or perhaps two girls will volunteer their services! Everyone is emancipated in Guatemala City!”
“Fine!”
When they had risen, Pyat flung his arm around Jerry’s slender shoulders. “Do you feel like a girl, Colonel Cornelius?”
THE PERFORMERS
Dressed as a gentleman, Una Persson stalked the stage behind the green velvet curtain.
From the other side of the curtain came the noise of the crowd: shouts, laughter, screams, ironic cheers, groans, the clink of glasses and bottles, the rustle of heavy clothing. In the pit the orchestra was tuning up for the overture.
His paleness emphasised by the astrakhan collar of his chesterfield, Sebastian Auchinek raised a gold-tipped Unfiadis to his curved lips and coughed. He sat on a prop—an imitation rock—and looked through hooded eyes at the ballet girls in their frothy costumes as they took their places for the opening divertissement. Behind the girls was a backdrop showing Windsor Castle. The girls were dressed to represent
Rose
,
Shamrock
,
Thistle
, and
Wales
(in a tall black hat and a pinafore because a leek had been thought too indelicate a plant). The divertissement was entitled ‘Under One Flag’. In the wings, waiting to go on, stood Sailors, Highlanders and Beefeaters. Una Persson was not appearing in the first of the two tableaux. She would feature in the second, ‘Honour to the Queen’, and lead the chorus in the closing cantata.
“You will be a success, Una!” Auchinek got up and caught her by the arm. “You are bound to be! Come, the curtain!” The gas flared brightly above the stage, the electrical spotlights began to come on. “It is going up!”
She walked swiftly into the wings. Auchinek hurried behind her. She pushed her way nervously past Mr Clement Scott, author of the opening Patriotic Ode. The orchestra began to play a rousing chorus of the satirical ‘Oh, What a Happy Land is England’:
We shall soon be buying Consols, at the rate of
half-a-crown
,
For like the Russian battleships, they’re always
going down!
We have lately built an Airship and the only
thing it lacks
Is the power to go on rising like the British
Income Tax!
Hip-hip-hooray!
Oh! what a happy land is England!
Envied by all Nations near and far!
Where the wretched Alien
Robs the British working men!
Oh! what a lucky race we are!
Oh! what a happy land is England!
Envied by all Nations near and far!
All Foreigners have found
This a happy dumping ground!
Oh! what a lucky race we
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