The Winds of Limbo

CHAPTER THREE

HE WAS unreasoningly annoyed that the liveried operator should recognize him and stare at him curiously as he was taken down to the forty-ninth level. In the back of his mind he was thrilling to the experience, unremembered since boyhood, of exploration. He had chosen nondescript clothes so that he might move about incognito.

He was alone in the unmanned elevator as it dropped swiftly to the ninth level, causing him the added excitement of being alone and virtually helpless against danger. He stepped boldly into the ill-lit corridor named-incongruously-Orangeblossom Road, and then advanced cautiously until he saw a sign which read: Escalators (down) five levels.

He rode the escalators into the chilly depths of the City of Switzerland, feeling as if he were descending into some frozen Hell and at the same time making a mental note that if people were, indeed, inhabiting the lower levels, then City Administration should, out of humanity, do something about the heating arrangements.

He wished he had some warmer clothing, but that would have meant applying to Garment Center, since he rarely went outside save on vacation, and then all necessary apparel was supplied.

But as he advanced deeper he became aware of a growing warmth and a thick, unpleasant smell that he gradually recognized as being, predominantly, the smell of human perspiration. In spite of his revulsion he sniffed it curiously.

As he walked slowly down the ramp leading to the notorious first level, reputed to be the haunt of undesirables well before the Fireclown first made his appearance, he saw with a slight shock that the light, was dancing and had an unusual quality about it. As he drew closer his excitement increased. Naked flame! The light came from a great, burning torch which also gave off uncontrolled heat!

He approached it as close as he dared and stared at it, marveling. He had seen recordings of the phenomenon, but this was the first time… He withdrew hastily as the heat produced sweat from his forehead, walking along a corridor that reminded him, with its dancing, naked light, of the fairyland of his childhood fantasies. On reflection, he decided it was more like the ogre's castle, but so delighted was he by this wholly new experience that he forgot caution for a while. It only returned as he rounded another corner and saw that the roof was actually composed of living rock, so moist that it dripped condensed water!

Alan Powys was not an unsophisticated young man, yet this was so remote from his everyday experience that he could not immediately absorb it on any intellectual level.

From ahead came sounds-the sounds of excited human voices. He had expected a vast conclave of some description, but he heard only a few people, and they were conversing. Occasionally, as he drew nearer, he heard a reverberating laugh which seemed to him so full of delighted and profound humor that he wished he knew the joke so that he could join in. If this was the Fireclown's famous laughter, then it did not strike him as at all insane.

Still, he told himself, keeping in the shadows, there were many forms of madness.

A cave came into view on his right. He hugged the left-hand wall and inched forward, his heart pounding.

The cave appeared to turn at a right-angle so that he could only see the light coming from it, but now he could make out fragments of words and phrases. At intervals there came a spluttering eruption of green light and each time he was caught in the flare.

"… shape it into something we can control…"

"… no good, if s only a hint of what we might…"

"… your eyeshield back. I’m going to…"

A hissing eruption and a tongue of green flame seemed to turn the bend in the cave and come flickering like an angry cobra towards Alan. He gasped and stepped back as the roaring laughter followed the eruption. Had he been seen?

No. The conversation was continuing, the pitch of the voices now high with excitement.

He crossed the corridor swiftly and stood in the mouth of the cave, straining his ears to make out what they were talking about.

Then he felt a delicate touch on his arm and heard a whispering voice say: "I'm afraid you can't go in there. Private, you know."

He turned slowly and was horrified at the apparition that still touched his arm.

He withdrew, nauseated.

The horrible figure- laughed softly. "Serves you right. They could keep me just to stop people nosing around!"

"I didn't know you had any kind of secrecy," Alan babbled. "I really do apologize if…"

"We welcome visitors, but we prefer to invite them. You don't mind?" The skinless man nodded towards the corridor. Alan backed into it, forcing himself to ignore the bile in his throat, forcing himself to look at the creature without obvious revulsion-but it was difficult.

Flesh, veins and sinews shone on his body as if the whole outer covering had been peeled off. How could he move? How could he appear so calm?

"My skin's synthetic-but transparent. Something in it takes the place of pigment. They haven't worked out a way of giving the stuff pigmentation yet-I was lucky enough to be the guinea-pig. I could use cosmetics, but I don't. My name's Corso. I'm the Fireclown's^ trusty henchman and deal with anyone interested in corning to his audiences. You arrived at the wrong time. We had one this afternoon."

Obviously Corso was used to random explorers, particularly those curious about" the Fireclown. Deciding to play his part in the role Corso had mistakenly given him, Alan looked down at the floor.

"Oh, I’m sorry. When's the next one?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"I can come then?"

"Very welcome."

Alan turned to retrace his way.

"See you then," said the skinless man.

When Alan turned the corner of the corridor he had to lean against the wall for some moments before he could continue. Too many unexpected shocks this evening, he told himself.

As he began to recover his composure his curiosity started to operate again.

What was going on? From what he had seen and heard, the Fireclown and a group of his friends were conducting some sort of laboratory experiment-and Corso, the skinless man, had been left on guard to turn pryers away.

Well, everyone had a right to their privacy. But his curiosity came close to overwhelming him. He began to return towards the cave when a soft voice that he recognized said:

"It wouldn't be wise. If you went back a second time Corso would know you were no innocent would-be initiate."

"Junnar!" he hissed. "What are you doing here?"

But he heard only a faint scuffling and received no reply.

Perhaps, however, the Negro's advice was good. There was no point in making anyone suspicious since he would, if discovered, be excluded from any future chance of seeing the Fireclown.

He began to return toward the ramp. What on earth had Junnar been doing in the lower levels? Was he there on his own business or on Simon Powys'? Perhaps the Negro would tell him tomorrow, if he could find an excuse for leaving the C.A. building and visiting his grandfather's apartment.

Vaguely irritated, that he had seen so little of the Fire-clown's domain and nothing at all of the Fireclown himself, he finally arrived on the sixty-fourth level, took the fastway to his flat and went to bed with something of his earlier sudden mood eliminated.

The day after tomorrow he would definitely attend the Fireclown's "audience".

Very deliberately, the next morning, Alan concentrated his thoughts entirely on his job. By the time he arrived at his office in City Administration on North Top, he had turned his thoughts to the matter of elevator installation which the City Council had decided was necessary to speed up pedestrian flow between levels.

His Assistant Directorship was well earned, but he had to admit that having it was partly due to his family connections and the education which his grandfather had insisted on him having. But he was a hard and conscientious worker who got on well with his staff, and the Director seemed pleased with him. He had been doing the job for two years since he had left the university.

He spent the morning catching up on lost time until just before lunch when Carson, the Director, called him into his office.

Carson was a thin man with an unsavory appearance. He was much respected by those working under him. His chin, however, always looked as if he needed a shave and his swarthy face always appeared to need a wash. But this wasn't his fault. After a little time in his company the first impression of his unsavoriness vanished swiftly.

Carson said mildly: "Sit down, Alan. I wonder if you could leave the elevator matter for a while and turn it over to Sevlin to get on with. Something else has cropped up."

Powys sat down and watched Carson leaf through the papers on his desk. The Director finally selected one and handed it to him.

It was headed Low Level Project, and a glance told Alan it was the proposed plan to seal off the lower levels from the upper ones.

So Helen had been right in her thinking. Simon Powys did hold sufficient sway with the City Council to have his "suggestions" put into action.

Carson was staring at 'his own right thumb. He did not look up. "It will involve temporarily re-routing pedestrian traffic, of course, though to save trouble we could work at night. It would be worth paying the men double overtime to get it done as quickly as possible."

"With a minimum of fuss?" Alan said with an edge to his voice.

"Exactly."

"The Council hasn't announced this publicly, I presume?"

"There's no need to-no one lives in the lower levels any more. There will be emergency doors constructed, naturally, but these will be kept locked. It shouldn't bother anyone…"

"Except the Fireclown!" Alan was so furious that he found difficulty in controlling himself.

"Ah, yes. The Fireclown. I expect he'll find somewhere else to go. Probably he'll leave the City altogether. I suspect he's no real right to live there in the first place."

"But the newspapers, the laservid, the RLM-and therefore the main weight of public opinion-all regard the Fireclown in a favorable way. He has a good part of the world on his side. This isn't political dynamite-it's a political megabang!"

"Quite." Carson nodded, still regarding his thumb. "But we aren't concerned with politics, are we, Alan? This is just another job for us-a simple one. Let's get it over with."

Alan took the papers Carson handed him and got up. The director was right, but he could not help feeling personally involved.

"I'll get started after lunch," he promised. He went back to his office, put the papers in his confidential drawer, went to the roof of the C.A. building and took a cab across the spacious artificial countryside to the Top towards his grandfather's apartments, which lay close to the Solar House at South Top.

But when he got there he found only Junnar and another of his cousins-Helen's brother, Denholm Curtis.

Curtis dressed with challenging bad taste. His clothes were a deliberate attack, a weapon which he flaunted. They proclaimed him an iconoclast impatient of any accepted dogma whether reasonable or not. Above the striped and polka-dotted trappings draping his lean body was a firm, sensitive head-the heavy Powys head with calm eyes, hopeful, seeming to be aware of detail and yet disdainful of it.

Curds' eyes were fixed on the future.

"Hello, Denholm, how are you?" He and his cousin shook hands.

"Fine-and you?"

"Not bad. And how's the Thirty Five Group? Still bent on gingering up the mother party?"

Curtis led the radical wing of the Solref party. His group was small but vociferous and carried a certain amount of weight in the Solar House. Yet, though they stuck to the traditional party of the Powys family, he would have been much more at home in his sister's movement. But his interest was in changing the party to change the policy rather than splitting away from it and forming a fresh one.

Curtis hadn't replied to Alan's question. He glanced at the big wall-clock just as his grandfather came hurrying in through the side door.

"Grandfather." Alan stepped quickly forward but old Simon Powys shook his head.

"Sorry, Alan. I have to get to the Solar House immediately. Coming, Denholm?"

Curtis nodded and the two of them left the room almost at a run.

Something was in the air, Alan guessed, and it wasn't the closing down of the lower levels. This seemed much more important.

"What's going on, Junnar?"

The Negro looked slightly embarrassed as their eyes met, but he spoke coolly.

"They're calling on old Benjosef to resign."

Benjosef, a dedicated member of the Solrefs, was Solar President. His two terms of office had been popular but not particularly enlightened. He had not had much public support over the last year, partly because he was slow to agree on a policy of expansion and colonization involving Mars and Ganymede.

"On what issue?"

"The planets. Ganymede and Mars are ready for settlers. There are businessmen willing to invest in them, ships ready to take them-but Benjosef is reluctant to pursue a policy of expansion because he says we haven't a sufficiently good organization for controlling it yet. He wants to wait another ten years to build up such an organization, but everyone else is impatient to get started. You know the story…"

"I know it," Alan agreed.

The projects to make the two planets inhabitable and fertile had been started over a hundred years previously and it had been hard enough holding private enterprise and would-be settlers back before they were ready. Benjosef had been foolish to take a stand on the issue, but he had done what he thought was right and his conviction now seemed likely to topple him.

"What are his chances of staying in power for the rest of his term?" Alan asked curiously.

"Bad. Minister Powys and the majority of Solrefs have to stand by him, of course, but Mr. Curtis and his group have sided with the RLMs. The other parties are fairly equally divided between both sides, but Mr. Curtis' support should give the vote against the President."

Once again Alan was glad he had decided to have no part of politics. Even his just and stern old grandfather was going to behave like a hypocrite, giving a vote of confidence for Benjosef while encouraging Curtis to vote against him.

He decided that there wasn't much he could do, since everyone would be at the Solar House, including, of course, Helen. The current session ended in two weeks and the next President would have to be elected during the recession. Probably, he thought ironically, both the main runners had their machines all geared for action.

"You'll be kept pretty busy from now on, I should think," he said to Junnar. The Negro nodded, and Alan continued: "What were you doing in the lower levels last night?"

"Keeping an eye on the Fireclown," Junnar said shortly.

"For Grandfather?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why is he so malevolent toward the Fireclown? He seems harmless to me. Has grandfather any special knowledge that the public doesn't have?" Alan was only partly interested in what he himself was saying. The other half of his mind was wondering about the elections-and Helen.

Junnar shook his head. "I don't think so. It's a question of your point of view.

Minister Powys sees the Fireclown as a threat to society and its progress.

Others simply see him as a romantic figure who wants a return to a simpler life.

That's why he's such a popular cause with so many people. We all wish life were simpler-we're suckers for the kind of simple answer to our problems that a man like the Fire-clown supplies."

"Simple answers, sure enough," Alan nodded, "but hardly realistic."

"Who knows?" Junnar said tersely.

"Is Grandfather going to use the Fireclown as a platform?"

"I expect so. It will be taken for granted that whoever wins will encourage the expansion bill. So the other main dispute will be the Fireclown."

"But if s out of all proportion. Why should the Fireclown become a major issue?"

Junnar smiled cynically. "Probably because the politicians want him to be."

That answer satisfied Alan and he added:

"Hitler, as I remember, used the Jews. Before him, Nero used the Christians.

Minority groups are always useful- they turn people's attention away from real issues which the politicians have no control over. So Miss Curtis and Minister Powys are using the Fireclown, is that it? One in support, one against. People will take an interest in a battle over such a colorful figure and forget to question other policies. It sounds almost unbelievable, yet it happens. History proves that. What does Grandfather plan to do about the Fireclown if Re gets to power?"

"Maybe nothing," Junnar said. "Maybe nothing at all- once he's in power." Then he smiled brightly. "No, it's not fair. After all, I am Simon Powys' private secretary. He really is deeply concerned about what the Fireclown represents rather than the man' himself."

The apparent return of-loyalty in Junnar brought an awakening echo in Alan. He nodded.

"Perhaps we don't do either of them justice. I was forgetting they are both Powyses with a strong sense of family honor."

Junnar coughed. "I think I'd better go over to the Solar House myself. Can I arrange an appointment for you to see your grandfather?"

"No, don't bother."

"Are you going to the Fireclown's audience tomorrow?"

"Probably."

"I may see you there."

"Yes," said Alan. He glanced at his watch and noted that he would arrive back to his office late. He and Junnar walked into the corridor and went their separate ways.

Alan sighed as he studied the Low Level project. Basically it was a simple job to organize the sealing off of all entrances, stopping elevators and escalators and cutting off light and heating where they existed. Ten levels were to be shut down, involving the moving of less than a thousand people to accommodation higher up. The residents of levels nine and ten would welcome the change, he knew. They, at least, could be relied upon to support the operation.

No, it wasn't the project itself but the way the newspapers and entertainment media would treat it, what Helen Curtis would say about it. It was going to cause City Administration and the City Council as much trouble as if they told the populace they had decided to torture and kill all pet dogs in the City. And this move would have world-wide repercussions-the Fireclown had been the subject of innumerable popular features treating him in a sympathetic manner.

Already he was convinced that his grandfather had committed political suicide by this move. But, for- the moment, he wasn't worried so much about that as about the trouble he and the Director would come in for.

He, in particular, would be slandered-the grandson of the man who wanted to victimize the innocent Fireclown. He would be talked of as a puppet in the hands of the old man. Doubtless he would even be shouted at in the public corridors.

He contacted City Works, waited for the manager to be located.

Tristan B'Ula was, like Junnar, a Zimbabwean from what had once been Rhodesia.

The State of Zimbabwe had grown to great power in the African Federation and many of the Solar System's best administrators came from there.

"Good afternoon, Tristan." Alan was on friendly terms with the manager. "New project I'd like to have a word with you about."

B'Ula pretended to groan. "Is it important? All my available manpower is taken up at the moment."

"The City Council wants us to give this priority. It's also highly confidential.

Is there anyone else in the room with you?"

B'Ula turned, looked behind him and said: "Would you mind leaving the room for a minute or two, Miss Nagib?"

His pretty Egyptian secretary crossed the screen.

"Okay, Alan. What is it?"

"City Council wants us to seal off ten levels-numbers one to ten, to be precise.

Concrete in the entrances, lighting, heat and water supply cut off, elevators and escalators to stop operation."

It took B'Ula a moment to absorb all this. His face showed incredulity. "But that's where the Fireclown is! What are we expected to do? Wall him up-entomb him?"

"Of course not. All residents will be moved before the project goes ahead. I'd thought of housing them in those spare corridors in Section Six of the Fifteenth Level and Sections Twelve and Thirteen of the Seventeenth Level. They'll need to be checked to make sure they're perfectly habitable. The Chemical Research Institute was going to take them over since they're getting a bit cramped, but they'll have to…"

"Just a minute. Alan. What's going to happen to the Fireclown?"

"Presumably, he'll take the alternative accommodation we're offering to everyone else," Alan said grimly.

"You know he wouldn't do that!"

"I don't know the Fireclown!"

"Well, I'm having no part of it," B'Ula said rebelliously, then he switched out.

Completely taken aback, Alan sat at his desk breathing heavily. This, he decided, was only a hint of how the news would be received by the public. His colleague had always struck him as a solid, practical man who did his job well-a good civil servant, like himself. If Tristan B'Ula could be so affected by the news as to risk his position by refusing to obey the City Council, then how would others take it?

The word Riot popped into Alan's head. There had been no public disorder in a hundred years!

This was even bigger than he'd expected.

Another thing-B'Ula felt so strongly about it that he wasn't likely to keep the project secret. Someone had to convince the Zimbabwean that the closing off of the levels was not a threat against the Fireclown. Reluctantly, he would have to tell Carson of his little scene with the manager.

Slowly he got up from his desk. Slowly he walked into Carson's office.