The Winds of Limbo

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DIRECTOR Carson, head of City Administration, looked hard at Alan and nodded understandingly.

"It would be best if you resigned," he agreed. "Though, as far as it goes, you're the ablest assistant I've ever had, Alan. But with things as they are and with you outspoken against Simon Powys and for the Fireclown, I doubt if City Council would want you to stay on, anyway."

"Then we're both in agreement," Alan said. "I’ll leave right away, if that's all right with you, sir."

"We'll manage. Your leave is due soon, anyway. We'll settle up your back-pay and send it to you."

They shook hands. They liked one another and it was obvious that Carson regretted Alan's leaving C.A. But he'd been right.

"What are you going to do now?" Carson said as Alan picked up his briefcase.

"I've got another job. I’m Helen Curtis' personal assistant for the Presidential campaign."

"You're going to need a great deal of luck, then."

"A great deal," Alan agreed. "Goodbye, sir."

The Radical Liberal Movement Campaign Committee met at its headquarters. They sat round a long table in the large, well-lighted room. One of the walls comprised a huge laser screen-a usual feature of the windowless apartments in the City of Switzerland.

Helen sat at the head of the table with Alan on her right, Jordan Kalpis, her campaign organizer, on her left. The two heads of the RLM's Press and Information Department sat near her-Horace Wallace, handsome and blank-faced, Andy Curry, small, freckled, and shifty-eyed-both Scots who had hardly seen Scotland and were yet anachronisms in their pride for their country. National feeling hardly existed these days.

Also at the table were Publicity Chief Mildred Brecht, an angular woman;

Vernikoff, Head of Publications and Pamphlets; Sabah, Director of Research, both fat men with unremarkable faces.

Helen said: "Although you've all advised me against it, I intend to conduct my campaign on these lines. One,"-she read off a sheet of paper before her-"an insistence that other steps be taken to apprehend whoever was responsible for storing those bombs on the first level. Although we'll agree it's possible that the Fireclown was responsible, we must also pursue different lines of investigation, in case he was not. That covers us-the present policy of concentrating on the pre-judged Fireclown does not."

"That's reasonable," Sabah murmured. "Unless someone reveals that you personally believe the Fireclown innocent."

"Two,"-Helen ignored him-"that more money must be spent on interstellar space-flight research-we are becoming unadventurous in our outlook."

"That's a good one." Mildred Brecht nodded.

"It fits our 'forward-looking* image." Curry nodded, too.

"Three, tax concessions to Mars and Ganymede settlers. This will act as an incentive to colonizers. Fourth, price control on sea-farm produce. Fifth, steps must be taken to re-locate certain space-ports now occupying parts of the sea-bed suitable for cultivation…" The list was long and contained many other reforms of a minor nature. There were several short discussions on the exact terms to use for publicizing her proposed policy. Then the means of presenting them.

Mildred Brecht had some suggestions: "I suggest we can stick to old-fashioned handbills for the main policy outline. World-wide distribution to every home on Earth. Large size talkie posters for display purposes. Newspaper displays for Earth and the colonies…" She outlined several more means of publicizing the campaign.

Jordan Kalpis, a swarthy, black-haired man with prominent facial bones and pale blue eyes, interrupted Mildred Brecht.

"I think, on the whole, we're agreed already on the main points of Miss Curtis' policy as well as the means of publicizing them. We have a sound image, on the whole, and some nice, clear publicity material. The only troublesome issue is that of the Fireclown. I would like to suggest, again, that we drop it-ignore it. Already we have lost a lot of headway by the swing in public opinion from support to condemnation of the Fireclown. We can't afford to lose more."

"No," Helen said firmly. "I intend to make the Fireclown situation one of my main platform points. I am certain we shall soon find evidence of the Fireclown's innocence. If that happens, I shall be proved right. Powys proved the hysteric he seems to be, and public faith in me should be restored."

"It's too much of a gamble!"

"We've got to gamble now," Helen said. "We haven't a chance of winning otherwise."

Kalpis sighed. "Very well," and lapsed into silence.

Alan said: "When's the first public speech due to be made?"

"Tomorrow." Helen fidgeted with the papers before her. "It's at the City Hall and should be well-attended."

The huge area of City Hall was packed. Every seat was occupied, every inch of standing space crammed to capacity. On the wide platform sat Alan, Helen, Wallace and Curry, staring out at the rows of heads that gaped at them from three sides. Behind them on a great screen pictures were flashed-pictures of Helen talking to members of the public, pictures of Helen with her parents, pictures of Helen visiting hospitals, old people's homes, orphanages. A commentary accompanied the pictures, glowingly praising her virtues. As it finished, Alan got up and addressed the crowd.

"Fellow citizens of the Solar System, in just a few weeks from now you will have voted for the person you want to be President. What will you look for in your President? Intelligence, warmth of heart, capability. These are the basic essentials. But you will want more-you will want someone who is going to lead the Solar Nation towards greater freedom, greater prosperity-and a more adventurous life. Such a woman is Helen Curtis…" Unused to this sort of speech-making, Alan found he was quite enjoying himself. Enough of the Powys blood flowed in him, he decided, after all. He continued in this vein for a quarter of an hour and then presented Helen to the crowd. The applause was not as great as it might have been, but it was satisfactory.

Helen's platform manner was superb. At once alert and confident, she combined femininity with firmness, speaking calmly and with utmost assurance.

She outlined her policy. At this stage she ignored the Fireclown issue entirely, concentrating her attack on the sterile Solrefs and their Presidential candidate, Simon Powys. She ignored hecklers and spoke with wit and zest.

When she finished she was applauded and Alan Powys got up, raising his arms for silence.

"Now that you have heard Miss Curtis' precise and far-thinking policy," he said,

"are there any questions which you would like to ask her?"

Dotted around the auditorium were special stands where the questioner could go and be heard through the hall. Each stand had a large red beacon on it. Beacons began to flash everywhere. Alan selected the nearest.

"Number seven," he said, giving the number of the stand.

"I should like to ask Miss Curtis how she intends to work out the controlled price of sea-farm produce," said a woman.

Helen went back to the center of the platform.

"We shall decide to price by assessing cost of production, a fair profit margin, and so on."

"This will result in lower prices, will it?" the woman asked.

"Certainly."

The red light went out. Alan called another number.

"What steps does Miss Curtis intend to take towards the present ban on tobacco production?"

"None," Helen said firmly. "There are two reasons for keeping the ban. The first is that nicotine is harmful to health. The second is that land previously used for tobacco is now producing cereals and other food produce. Marijuana, on the other hand, is not nearly so habit-forming, has fewer smokers and can be produced with less wastage of land."

There were several more questions of the same nature, a little heckling, and then Alan called out again: "Number seven-nine."

"Miss Curtis was an ardent supporter of the Fireclown before it was discovered that he was a criminal. Now it's feared that the Fireclown intends to bombard Earth from space, or else detonate already planted bombs. What does she intend to do about this?"

Helen glanced at Alan. He smiled at her encouragingly.

"We are not certain that the Fireclown is guilty of the crimes he has been accused of," she said.

"He's guilty all right!" someone shouted. A hundred voices agreed.

"We cannot condemn him out of hand," she went on firmly. "We have no evidence of a plot to attack or destroy the planet."

"What would you do if he was guilty," shouted the original speaker-"sit back and wait?"

Helen had to shout to be heard over the rising noise of the crowd.

"I think that the Fireclown was framed by unscrupulous men who want a war scare," she insisted. "I believe we should follow other lines of investigation.

Catch the Fire-clown, by all means, and bring him to trial if necessary. But meanwhile we should be considering other possibilities as to how the bombs got on the first level!"

"My parents were killed on the eleventh level!" This was someone shouting from another speaking box. "I don't want the same thing to happen to my kids!"

"It's sure to unless we look at the situation logically," Helen retaliated.

"Fireclown-lover!" someone screamed. The phrase was taken up in other parts of the hall.

"This is madness, Alan." She looked at him as if asking for his advice. "I didn't expect quite so much hysteria."

"Keep plugging," he said. "It's all you can do. Answer them back!"

"Powys for President! Powys for President!" This from the very back of the hall.

"Powys for insanity!" she cried. "The insanity which some of you are exhibiting tonight. Blind fear of this kind will get you nowhere. I offer you sanity!"

"Madness, more likely!"

"If you listened to me like sensible adults instead of shouting and screaming, I'd tell you what I mean." Helen stood, her arms folded, waiting for the noise to die down.

Alan went and placed himself beside her.

"Give her a chance!" he roared. "Give Miss Curds a chance!"

When finally the noise had abated somewhat, Helen continued:

"I have seen the Fireclown since the holocaust. He told me that policemen tampered with his machines and caused the fire. He had nothing to do with it!"

"Then he was lying!"

"Calm down!" she begged. "Listen to me!"

"We listened to the Fireclown's lies for too long. Why listen to yours?"

"The Fireclown told you no lies. You interpreted what he said so that it meant what you wanted it to mean. Now you're doing the same to me! The Fireclown is innocent!"

Alan whispered. "Don't go too far, Helen. You've said enough."

She must have realized that she had overshot her mark. She had been carried away by the heat of the argument, had admitted she thought the Fireclown innocent.

Alan could imagine what the lasercasts and news-sheets would say in the morning.

"Are there any other questions?" he called. But his voice was drowned by the angry roar of the crowd.

"Not exactly a successful evening," he said as he took her home. They had had to wait for hours before the crowd dispersed.

She was depressed. She said nothing.

"What's the next stage in the campaign?" he asked.

"Next stage? Is it worth it, Alan? I'm getting nowhere. I've never known such wild hysteria. I thought we got rid of all that a century ago."

"It takes longer than a hundred years to educate people to listen to reason when someone tells them their lives are liable to be snuffed out in an instant."

"I suppose so. But what are we going to do? I didn't expect such a strong reaction. I didn't intend to say that I thought the Fireclown was innocent. I knew that was going too far, that they couldn't take direct opposition to what they now believe. But I got so angry."

"It's just unfortunate," he said comfortingly, though inwardly he was slightly annoyed that she had lost her self-control at the last minute. "And it's early days yet. Maybe, by the time the campaign's over, we'll have more people on our side."

"Maybe they'll just ignore us," she said tiredly as they entered her apartment.

"No, I don't think that. We're nothing if not controversial!"

Next day, the RLM Political Headquarters received a deputation.

Two men and two women. The men were both thin and of medium height. One of them, the first to advance into the front office and confront Alan, who had elected to deal with them, was sandy-haired, with a prominent Adam's apple and a nervous tic. The other was less remarkable, with brown hair and a mild face in which two fanatical eyes gleamed. The women might have been pretty if they had dressed less dowdily and paid more attention to their hair and make-up. In a word, they were frumps.

The taller woman carried a neat banner which read: THE END OF THE WORLD DRAWS SLOWLY NIGH. LATTER-DAY ADVENTISTS SAY 'NO' TO FALSE GODS. STOP THE FIRECLOWN.

Alan knew what they represented. And he knew of the leader, had seen his face in innumerable broadcasts.

"Good morning, Elder Smod," he said brightly. "What can we do for you?"

"We have come as the voice of the Latter-Day Adventists to denounce you," Elder Smod said sonorously. The Latter-Day Adventists were now the strongest and only influential religious body in existence today, and their ranks were comprised so obviously of bewildered half-wits and pious paranoiacs that public and politicians alike did not pay them the attention that such a large movement would otherwise merit in a democracy. However, they could be a nuisance. And the main nuisance was Elder Smod, second-in-command to senile Chief Elder Bevis, who was often observed to have fallen asleep during one of his own speeches.

"And why should you wish to denounce me?" Alan raised his eyebrows.

"We've come to denounce the Radical Liberal Movement for its outrageous support of this spawn of Satan, the Fireclown!" said one of the frumps in a surprisingly clear and musical voice.

"But what have the Latter-Day Adventists to do with the Fireclown?" Alan asked in surprise.

"Young man, we oppose the supporters of Satan."

"I'm sure you do. But I still don't see what connection…"

"Satan seeks to destroy the world by fire before the good Lord has his chance.

We cannot tolerate that!"

Alan remembered now that the original twentieth-century sect had announced that they were the only ones who would be saved when the world was destroyed by fire.

They had been a little chary of announcing the date but, egged on by slightly disenchanted supporters, they had finally given an exact date for the end of the world-2000 A.D., claiming the Third Millennium would contain only the faithful.

Sadly, when the Third Millennium dawned, it contained fewer of the faithful than before, since many had not wholly accepted the fact pointed out to them by the movement's elders, that the Bible had earlier been misread as to the date of Christ's birth. (A speedy and splendid juggling with the Christian, Jewish and Moslem calendars had taken place on January 1st, 2000 A.D.) But, in spite of the discredit, the movement had grown again with the invention of a slightly altered interpretation-i.e., that the world would not perish in a sudden holocaust but that it would begin-and had begun-to perish from the year 2000-giving an almost infinite amount of time for the process to take place. However, the coming of the Fireclown scare, with its talk of destruction, had evidently thrown them out again!

"But why, exactly, have you come to us?" Alan demanded.

"To ask you to side with the righteous against the Fire-clown. We were astonished to see that there were still foolish sinners on Earth who could believe him innocent! So we came-to show you the True Way."

"Thank you," said Alan, "but all I say-and I cannot speak for the RLM as a whole-is that the Fireclown is not likely to destroy the world by fire. We have no argument."

Elder Smod seemed a trifle nonplussed. Evidently he considered the Fireclown a sort of johnny-come-lately world-destroyer, whereas his movement had had, for some time, a monopolistic concession on the idea.

Alan decided to humor him and said gently: "The Fireclown could be an agent for your side, couldn't he?"

"No! He is Satan's spawn. Satan," said Smod with a morose satisfaction, "has come among us in the shape of the Fireclown."

"Satan? Yet the clown predicted a return of fire to the world unless, in your terms, the world turned its back on Mammon. And one cannot worship both…"

"A devil's trick. The Fireclown is Satan's answer to the True Word-our word! "

It was no good. Alan couldn't grasp his logic-if logic there was. He had to admit defeat.

"What if we don't cease our support of the Fireclown?" he asked.

"Then you will be destroyed in the flames from heaven!"

"We can't win, can we?" Alan said.

"You are like the rest of your kind," Elder Smod sneered. "They paid us no attention, either."

"Who do you mean?"

"You profess not to know! Ha! Are you not one of that band who call themselves the Secret Sons of the Fireclown?"

"I didn't know there was such a group. Where are they?"

"We have already tried to dissuade them from their false worship. A deputation of our English brothers went to them yesterday, but to no avail."

"They're in England? Where?"

"In the stinking slums of Mayfair, where they belong, of course!" Elder Smod turned to his followers. "Come-we have tried to save them, but they heed us not.

Let us leave this gateway to Hell!"

They marched primly out.

Mayfair. Wasn't that where Bias had his hideout? Perhaps the two were connected.

Perhaps this was the lead that would prove, once and for all, whether the Fireclown planned mammoth arson or whether the syndicate had framed him.

Alan hurriedly made his way into the back room where Helen and Jordan Kalpis were planning her tour.

"Helen, I think I've got a lead. I’m not sure what it is, but if I’m lucky I’ll be able to get evidence to prove that we're right about the Fireclown. He's still got some supporters, I just learned, in London. I’m going there."

"Shall I come with you?"

"No. You've got a lot of ground to make up if you're going to get near to winning this election. Stick at it-and don't lose your self-control over the Fireclown issue. I’ll get back as soon as I’ve got some definite information."

"Alan, it's probably dangerous. Bias and his like take pains to protect themselves."

"I’ll do the same, don't worry," he said. He turned to Kalpis. "Could we have a moment, Jordan?"

Jordan walked tactfully out of the room.

Alan took Helen in his arms, staring down at her face. She had a half-startled look, half-worried. "Alan…"

"Yes?"

She shook her head, smiling. "Look after yourself."

"I've got to," he said, and kissed her.