The Winds of Limbo

CHAPTER FOUR

BENJOSEF had resigned.

After a meeting in the Solar House lasting well into the night as Benjosef tried to put his arguments to the Solar representatives, the old President had been shouted down.

Denholm Curtis had asked for a vote of no confidence in Benjosef. The ballot had been secret, and though Simon Powys had seemed to support Benjosef it had been a masterly deception. He had managed to convey the image of a strong man standing beside his leader put of nothing but loyalty. In spite of favoring-or appearing to favor- Benjosef s cautious policies, Simon Powys had risen in public esteem.

Doubtless the heavy Solref vote would be his in the election. Alan was sure that his grandfather had actually voted again Benjosef. Principles the old man might have-and plenty of them-but they seemed at that moment to carry little weight against Simon Powys' actions. This strange duality which seemed to come upon even the best politicians was not new to Alan, yet it constantly shocked him.

At 0200 Benjosef, baffled by what he considered mad recklessness on the part of the Solar House, reluctantly resigned as President, his term of office, which should have continued for another eighteen months, to finish with the current session.

Alan read and saw all this as he breakfasted, glancing from news-sheet to laservid and constructing all the details of the dramatic, and in some ways tragic, session. He rather sympathized with Benjosef. Perhaps he was old and wise, perhaps he was just old. Simon Powys was only five years younger, but he possessed a forceful vitality that belied his age. Alan observed, judiciously, that Helen Curtis had not actually demanded the President" s resignation, though other members of her party had been vociferous in attacking him. It would not have been diplomatic or polite for a would-be President to ask the current head to step down.

He sighed and finished his coffee-a new brand from which the caffeine had been removed and replaced by a stimulant described as "less harmful." The strange thing was it tasted better, though he would have liked to have denied this.

So now the fight was between his grandfather and his cousin. Would Simon Powys see the light of day at last and ignore the Fireclown issue? As yet, of course, it had not really become an issue. It would take a political battle to make it one. Or would he plug on? Alan had a sad feeling that he would-particularly if Helen drew the Fireclown into her platform.

When he got to the office Carson was looking pale and even less savory than usual. People were not chosen as directors of City Administration for their looks; but at this moment Alan rather wished they had a smiling, pleasant-faced he-man who could cozen the public into realizing the truth of the situation.

"What did B'Ula have to say, sir?" Alan asked.

"I was unable to contact him, Alan. I tried the Works but he must have left as soon as he switched out on you. I tried his private number but his wife said he had not come back. When I tried again later he still wasn't there."

"What was he doing, I wonder?"

"I can tell you. He was broadcasting the news everywhere. Not only broadcasting but elaborating on it.-You can imagine what he said."

"I can imagine what would be said by some. But B'Ula…"

"I've just had Chairman Fou on the line. He says the Council is most disturbed, thinks we should have been able to judge B'Ula better. I pointed out, somewhat obscurely, that they appointed B'Ula. But it seems we're the scapegoats-from the public's point of view and evidently from the Council's."

"The news this morning was so full of 'stormy scenes in the Solar House' that they probably haven't gotten round to us yet," Alan said with mock cheerfulness.

"But doubtless we'll be getting it in an hour or two."

"I expect so. Well, we've still got work to do. I'm going over to Works myself, to see what the men think of the project. If they oppose it as strongly as B'Ula we're going to have trouble with the unions before long."

"What will we do if that happens?"

"Brick up the bloody levels ourselves, I suppose." Carson swore.

"Black labor! " Alan said, shocked. "We'd have a system-wide strike on our hands then.!" It was true.

"I'm hoping the City Council will realize the implications and back down gracefully." Carson walked towards the door. "But they didn't seem as if they were going to, judging by Chairman Fou's tone. Goodbye, Alan. Better stick to something routine until I find out what's happening."

When Alan buzzed for his filing clerk his secretary came in.

He raised an eyebrow. "Where's Levy?"

"He didn't come in this morning, Mr. Powys."

"Is he sick?"

"I don't think so. I heard a rumor he'd asked for his back pay from the cashiers and said something about resigning."

"I see. Then will you bring me the Pedestrian Transport file? Number PV12, I think it is."

As he ploughed through the monotonous work, Alan learned from his secretary that about a quarter of the staff in the C.A. building had not turned up for work that morning. That represented over three hundred people. Where were they all?

It was evident why they had left.

The whole business was growing into a monster. If three hundred people from one building alone could feel so strongly about the Fireclown, how many millions were there supporting him?

To Alan it was incredible. He knew, intuitively, that so many people could not be roused merely because of the proposed closing down of ten virtually unused levels-or, for that matter, give up their jobs in support of the Fire-clown. It must be that the Fireclown represented something, some need in modern mankind which, perhaps, the sociologists would know about. He decided not to ask a sociologist and risk being plied with so many explanatory theories that his mind would be still further confused.

But what was this tenuous Zeitgeist?

Perhaps the world would be in flames before he ever found out. Perhaps, whatever happened, no one would ever really know. He decided he was being too melodramatic. On the other hand, he was extremely disturbed. He had a liking for peace and quiet-one of the reasons why he had rejected the idea of entering politics-and the world's mood was distinctly unpeaceful.

Facing facts, he realized that this was not a localized outbreak, that it would have to grow in magnitude before it died down or ' was controlled. What had his grandfather started? Nothing, really, of course. His move had merely served to bring it out into the open, whatever it was.

But the people's hysteria was increasing, becoming evident everywhere. A hysteria that had not entered the human race since the war scares two centuries earlier. It seemed to have blown up overnight, though perhaps he had seen its beginnings in the worship of the Fireclown, the demand for Benjosef's resignation and other, smaller, incidents that he had not recognized for what they were.

The morning dragged. In the back of his mind something else nagged him until he realized that this was the night when the Fireclown was to hold his "audience."

He felt slightly perturbed at attending it now that public anger seemed to be building to such a pitch, but he had said he would go, promised himself that he would go-and he would.

Carson came back just as Alan's secretary brought him some lunch.

"Any luck?" Alan said, offering his boss a slice of bread impregnated with beef extract. Carson refused it with an irritable wave of his hand, apologizing for his brusque gesture with a slight smile.

"None. Most of the workmen didn't turn up this morning, anyway. The union leaders deny influencing them, but someone has…"

"B'Ula?"

"Yes. He spoke to a public meeting last night, attended by most of the men who work for him. Told them that this victimization of the simple Fireclown was a threat also to their liberty. The usual stuff. And once the news, got round, he wasn't the only one talking and rabble-rousing. At least a dozen others have used the same theme in speeches to incredibly big crowds. They didn't have to do much convincing, either. The crowds were already on their side."

"It's all happened so suddenly." Alan repeated his earlier thoughts aloud. "You wouldn't think a thing like this could grow so fast. People aren't even bothering to speak to their political representatives or beam the City Council."

"That's what's so peculiar. We might have expected angry letters demanding that we call a halt to the project-and if we'd had enough of them we should have had to. That's democracy, after all. I'd really thought the idea of law and order had finally sunk into the human race. Looks as if I was wrong."

"Disproves the Fireclown's cant about 'artificial living' producing 'artificial' men and ideas. The public's chock-a-block with human nature this morning. They seem as hysterical and as bloodthirsty as they ever were."

"Mass neurosis and all that." Carson stared at his thumb, inspecting the nail.

It was dirty. However much he cleaned them, his nails always seemed to get dirty a few moments afterwards.

By mid-afternoon, Carson and Alan were staring in blank incredulity at one another. At least two hundred more people had not come back after lunch. It was useless to attempt continuing work.

Another disturbing point was that they had been unable to contact the City Council. The beam had been jammed continuously. Obviously some people had decided to ask the City Council about the matter.

"I think we'd better go quietly to our homes," Carson said with a worried attempt at jocularity. "I'll keep a skeleton staff on and give the rest the afternoon off. I might as well, they'll probably be walking out soon, anyway."

Glad of this for his own reasons, Alan agreed.

He returned to his flat and changed into the nondescript suit he had worn earlier. He had had some trouble getting there, for the corridors were packed.

Angry and excited conversations were going on all over the place. Ordered discipline had given way to disorganized hysteria and it rather frightened him to see ordinary human beings behaving in a manner which, to him, was a rejection of their better selves.

Outside in the jostling corridor he was carried by the crowd to the elevators and had to wait for nearly a quarter of an hour as the mob's impatience grew.

There just weren't enough elevators to take them all at once.

Down, down, down the levels. Into level nine and they milled down the escalators and ramps, Alan unable to go back now even if he had wanted to.

The smoke from the torches of the first level, the smell of sweat, the atmosphere of tension, the ululating roar of the crowd all attacked his senses and threatened to drug his brain as the crowd entered a huge cavern which, he knew, had once been part of an underground airstrip during the years when the City had first been planned.

And at last he saw the Fireclown, standing upon the tall column that served him as a dais, seeming to balance his huge bulk precariously on the platform.

There above him, Alan saw the spluttering mass of the artificial sun. He remembered having heard of it. The Fireclown had made it-or had it made-and somehow controlled it.

"What's this? What's this?" The Fireclown was shouting. "Why so many? Has the whole world suddenly seen the error of its ways?"

There were affirmative shouts from all around him as the crowd answered, somewhat presumptuously, for the rest of the planet's millions.

The Fireclown laughed, his gross bulk wobbling on the dais.

Thousands upon thousands of people were packing into the cavern, threatening to crush those already at the center. Alan found himself borne towards the dais as the Fireclown's reverberating laugh swept over them.

"No more!" the Fireclown cried suddenly. "Corso-tell them they can't come in… .Tell them to come back later. We'll be suffocated!"

The Fireclown seemed baffled by the crowd's size-bewildered, perhaps, by his own power.

Yet was it his own power? Alan wondered. Was not the mob identifying the Fireclown with something else, some deep-rooted need in them which was finding expression through the Clown?

But it was immaterial to speculate. The fact remained that the Fireclown had become the mob's symbol and its leader. Whatever he told them they would do-unless, perhaps, he told them to do nothing at all.

The mob was beginning to chant:

"Fireclown! Fireclown! Fireclown! Speak to us!"

"How shall the world end?" he cried.

"In fire! In fire!"

"How shall it be born again?"

"In fire!"

"And the fire shall be the fire of man's spirit!" The Fireclown roared. "The fire in his brain and his belly. Too long has the world lived on artificial nourishment. The nourishment of processed food, the nourishment of ideas that exist in a vacuum. We are losing our birthright! Our heritage faces extinction!"

He paused as the mob moved like a mighty, restless tide. Then he continued:

"I am your phoenix, awash with the flames of life! I am your salvation! You see flames above." He raised an orange-painted hand to the spluttering orb near the ceiling of the cavern. "You see flames around you." He indicated the torches.

"But these fires only represent the real flames, the unseen flames which exist within you, and the Mother of Life which sweeps the heavens above you-the Sun!"

"The Sun!" the mob shrieked.

"Yes, the Sun! Billions of years ago our planet was formed from the stuff of the Sun. The Sun nurtured life, and it finally nurtured the life of our earliest ancestors. It has nurtured us since. But does modern man honor his mother?"

"No! No!"

"No! Our ancestors worshipped the Sun for millennia! Why? Because they recognized it as the Mother of Life. Without the Sun man could never have been born on Earth! The Earth itself could not have been formed!"

Some of the mob, obviously old hands at this, shouted' "Fire is Life!"

"Yes," the Fireclown roared. "Fire is Life. And how many of you here have ever seen the Sun? How many of you have ever been warmed directly by its rays? How many of you have ever seen a naked flame?"

A wordless bellow greeted each question.

Alan had to fight the infectious hysteria of the crowd. Though it was true that many of the City's populace had never been outside, they had led better and fuller lives within the walls. And there was nothing forbidding them to take a vacation beyond the City. It was a kind of agoraphobia, not the State, which held them back. They had, at any rate, reaped the benefits of the Sun in less direct ways-from the great solar batteries which supplied power to the City.

As if he anticipated these unspoken thoughts, the Fireclown carried on:

"We are misusing the Sun. We are perverting the stuff of life and changing it to the stuff of death! We use the Sun to power our machines and keep us alive in plastic, metal and concrete coffins. We use the Sun to push our spaceships to the planets-planets where we are forced to live in wholly artificial conditions, or planets which we warp and change from what they naturally are into planets that copy Earth. That is wrong! Who are we to change the natural order? We are literally playing with fire-and that fire will soon turn and shrivel us!"

"Yes! Yes!"

In an effort to remain out of the Fireclown's spell, Alan encouraged himself to feel dubiously towards the logic of what he was saying. The Fireclown continued in that vein for some time, drumming the words into the ready ears of the mob, again and again.

The Fireclown's argument wasn't new. It had been said, in milder ways, by philosophers and politicians of a certain bent for centuries-possibly since the birth of the industrial revolution. But, for all this, the argument wasn't necessarily right. It came back to the question of whether it was better for man to be an unenlightened savage in the caves, or whether he should use the reasoning powers and the powers of invention which were his in order to gain knowledge.

Feeling as if he had hit upon an inkling of the trouble, Alan realized that the Fireclown and those, like his grandfather, who opposed him were both only supporting opinions. Any forthcoming dispute was likely to be a battle between ignorance of one sort and ignorance of another.

Yet the fact remained-trouble was brewing. Big trouble unless something could be done about it.

"All religions have seen the Sun as a representation of God…" the Fireclown was saying now.

Perhaps he was sincere, Alan thought; perhaps he was innocent of personal ambition, unaware of the furor he was likely to create, thoughtless of the conflict that was likely to ensue.

And yet Alan was attracted to the Fireclown. He liked him and took a delight in the man's vitality and spontaneity. It was merely unfortunate that he should have come at a time when public neurosis had reached such a peak.

Now a voice was shouting something about the City Council. Fragmented phrases reached Alan about the closing of the levels, an attack against the Fireclown, a threat to free speech. It was marvelous how they accepted the principles of democracy and rejected them at the same time by talk of mob action!

Marvelous-and deeply frightening. He turned to see if he could get back and out.

He could not. The mob pressed closer, packed itself tighter. A horrifying vision of thousands of mouthing faces surrounded him. He panicked momentarily and then suppressed his panic. It could not help him. Little could.

The Fireclown's voice bellowed for silence, swore at the mob, reviled it.

Abashed, the crowd quieted.

"You see! You see! This is what you do. So the City Council is to close off the levels. Perhaps it is because of me, perhaps it isn't! But does it matter?"

Certain elements shouted that it did matter.

"What kind of threat am I to the City Council? What threat am I to anyone? I tell you-none!"

Alan was mystified by these words, just as the mob was.

"None! I want no part of your demonstrations, your petty fears and puny conflicts! I do not expect action from you. I do not want action. I want you only to become aware! You can change your mental attitude. Study the words you are using today. Study them and you will find them meaningless. You have emotions-you have words. But the words you have do not describe your emotions.

Try to think of words that will! Then you will be strong. Then you will have no need for your stupid, overvaunted so-called 'intelligence.' Then you will have no need to march against the Council Building!"

Alan himself sought for words to describe the Fireclown's state at that moment.

What had been said had impressed him in spite of his decision to observe as objectively as possible. They meant nothing much, really. They had been said before. But they hinted at something-gave him a clue…

Noble bewilderment. The elephant attacked by small boys. And yet concerned for them. Alan was impressed by what he felt to be the Fireclown's intrinsic innocence. But such an innocence, it could topple the world! Placards now began to appear in the crowd: NO TO BURYING THE FIRECLOWN! HANDS OFF THE LOWER LEVELS!

COUNCIL CAN'T QUENCH THE FIRE OF MAN! Amused by the ludicrous messages, Alan made out others. SONS OF THE SUN REJECT COUNCIL PLAN! was, perhaps, the best.

His mind began to skip, taking in first a fragmented scene-faces, placards, turbulent movement, a woman's ecstatic face; then a clipping of sound, a sudden idea that he could easily follow the Fireclown if he could hear the man convince him in cooler, more intellectual phrases; the flaring gash of light that quickly bubbled from the tiny sun and then seemed to be drawn back into it.

"Fools! " The Fireclown was shouting, incredulity and anger mixed on his painted face.

It seemed to Alan that the paint had been stripped away and, for the first time, he became aware of the man who stood there. An individual, complex and enigmatic.

But the glimpse did not last, for he felt the pressure from behind decreasing.

At least half the mob had turned away and were surging towards the cavern's exit.

And the Fireclown? Alan looked up. The Fireclown was appealing to them to stay, but his words were drowned by the babble of hysteria.

Now Alan was borne back with the crowd, was forced to turn and move with it or risk being trampled. He looked up at the dais and saw that the fat body of the Fireclown had developed a slump that hardly seemed in keeping with his earlier vitality.

As the mob boiled up to the third level, Alan saw Helen Curtis only a few yards ahead of him and to his left. He kept her in sight and managed, gradually, to inch through the stabbing elbows and hard shoulders.

On the ninth level he was just able to get into the same elevator with her. He shouted over the heads of the others: "Helen! What the hell are you doing here?"

He saw a placard, FIRECLOWN FIRST VICTIM OF DICTATORSHIP, bob up and down and realized she was holding it.

"Do you think this will win you votes?" he demanded.

She made no reply but smiled at him. "I'm glad to see you came. Are you with us?"

"No, I'm not. And I don't think the Fireclown is either! He doesn't want you to fight for his 'rights'-I’m sure he's perfectly able to look after himself!"

"It's the principle!"

"Rubbish!"

The doors of the giant elevator slid up and they crossed the corridor to the row of elevators opposite. The liveried attendants attempted to hold the crowd away but were pushed back into their own elevators by the force of the rush. He managed to catch up with her and stood with his body tight against her side, unable to shift his position.

"This sort of thing may win you immediate popularity with the rabble, but what are the responsible voters going to think?"

"I’m fighting for what I think right," she said defiantly, grimly.

"You're fighting…" He shook his head. "Look, when we reach Sixty-Five make your way home. Speak for the Fireclown in the Solar House if you must, but don't make a fool of yourself. When this.hysteria dies down you'll look ridiculous."

"So you think this is going to die down?" she said sweetly.

The doors opened, the elevators disgorged their contents and they were on the move again, streaming across the quiet gardens towards the distant Civic Buildings.

It was night. The sky beyond the dome was dark. The crowd exhibited a moment's nervous and calm, its pace slowed and then, as Helen shouted: "There! That's where they are!" and flung her hand theatrically towards the Council Building, they moved on again, spreading out and running.

Laservid cameramen and still-photographers were waiting for them, taking pictures as they surged past.

Helen began to run awkwardly, her placard waving in her hands.

Let her go, Alan thought, old emotions returning to heighten his confusion. He turned back.

No! She mustn't do it! He hated her political ambitions, but they meant much to her. She could throw everything away with this ill-considered action of hers.

Or would she? Perhaps the day of ordered government was already over. - "Helen!" He ran after her, tripped and fell heavily on a bed of trampled blue roses, got up. "Helen!"

He couldn't see her. Ahead of the crowd lights were going on in the Civic Buildings. Fortuitously, and perhaps happily for the City Council-all of whom had private apartments in the Council Building-the headquarters of the City Police were only a block away. And that building was lit up also.

He hoped the police would use restraint in dealing with the crowd.

When he finally saw Helen again she was leading the van of the mob who now chanted the unoriginal phrase: "We want the Council!"

Unarmed policemen in their blue smocks and broad belts began to muscle their way through the crowd. Laservid cameras tracked them.

Alan grasped Helen's arm, trying to make himself heard above the chant. "Helen!

For God's sake get out-you're liable to be arrested. The police are here!"

"So what?" Her face was flushed, her eyes over-bright, her voice high.

He reached up and tore the placard from her hands, flinging it to the ground. "I don't want to see you ruined!"

She stood there, her body taut with anger, staring into his face. "You always were jealous of my political success P' "Can't you see what's happening to you? If you must play follow-my-leader, do it in a more orderly way. You could be President soon."

"And I still will be. Go away!"

He shook her shoulders. "Open your eyes! Open your eyes!"

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic. Leave me alone. My eyes are wide open!"

But he could see she had softened slightly, perhaps simply because of the interest he was taking in her.

Then a voice blared: "Go back to your homes! If you have any complaints, lodge them in the proper manner. The Council provides facilities for hearing complaints. This demonstration will get you nowhere! The police are authorized to stop anyone attempting to enter the Council Building!"

Helen listened until the broadcast finished. Then she shouted: "Don't let them put you off! They'll do nothing until they see we mean business."

Two hundred years "of peace had taught Helen Curtis nothing about peaceful demonstration.

It was such a small issue, Alan told himself bewilderedly, such a small issue that could have been settled by a hundred angry letters instead of a mob of thousands.

The crowd was attempting to press past the police barrier.

Finally the barrier broke and fights between the police and the demonstrators broke out. Several times Alan saw a policeman lose his temper and strike a demonstrator.

He was disgusted and perturbed, but there was nothing he could do.

Wearily, he walked away from the scene. For the time being all emotion had been driven from him.