The official at the barrier knew Junnar and waved him through. Sun poured in through the glass-alloy dome far above his head and the artificially scented air was refreshing after the untainted stuff of the middle levels and the impure air of the lowest.
He walked across the turf-covered plaza, listening to the splashing fountains that at intervals glinted among beds of exotic flowers. He was struck by the contrast between the hot excitement, the smell of sweat and the surge of bodies he had just left, and this cool, well-controlled expanse, artificially maintained yet as beautiful as anything nature could produce.
But he did not pause to savor the view. His pace was hurried compared with the movement of the few other people who sauntered with dignity along the paths. At a distance, the tall white, blue and silver buildings of the ambiguously named Private Level reflected the sun and enhanced the atmosphere of calm and assurance of the Top.
Junnar crossed the plaza and walked up a clean, graveled path towards the wide stone arch that opened on to a shady court. Around this court many windows looked down upon the cool pool in its center. Goldfish glinted in the pool. At the archway, a porter left his lodge and planted himself on the path until Junnar reached him. He was a sour-faced man, dressed in a dark grey blouse and pantaloons; he looked at Junnar with vague disapproval as the flamboyant Negro stopped and produced his pass, sighing: "Here you are, Drew. You're very conscientious today."
"My job is to check all passes, sir."
Junnar smiled at him. "You don't recognize me, is that it."
"I recognize you very well, sir, but it would be more than my job's worth to..
."
"Let me in without checking my pass," Junnar finished for him. "You're an annoying man, Drew."
The porter didn't reply. He was not afraid of incurring Junnar's disapproval since he had a strong union that would be only too ready to take up cudgels on his behalf if he was fired without adequate grounds.
So temporarily disoriented was Junnar that he allowed this tiny conflict to carry him further, and as he went into the court he shrugged and said: "It's better to have friends than enemies, though Drew…"
Immediately he felt foolish.
He took out a pack of proprietary brand marijuanas and lit one as he went through a glass-panelled door into the quiet, deserted hall of the building. The hall was lined with mirrors. He stood staring at himself in one of them, drawing deeply on the sweet smoke, collecting his thoughts and pulling himself together.
This was the third time he had aliened one of the Fireclown's "audiences" and each lime the Clown's magnetism had drawn him closer and the atmosphere of the great cavern had affected him more profoundly. He didn't want his employer to notice that.
After a moment’s contemplation Junnar went to the central glass panel which was on the right and withdrew a small oblong box from his pocket. He put it close to his mouth.
"Junnar," he said.
The panel slid back to reveal a black, empty shaft. There was a peculiar dancing quality about the blackness. Junnar stepped into it and, instantaneously, was opening the inner door of a cabinet. He walked out and the door closed behind him. He was in a corridor lighted by windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and showed in the distance the thick banks of summer cloud far below.
Immediately opposite him was a great door of red-timed chrome. It now opened slightly.
In the big, beautiful room, two men awaited him. One was young, one was old; both showed physical similarities, both appeared impatient.
Junnar entered the room and dropped his cigarette into a disposal column.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said to the old man, and nodded to the young man.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Powys."
The old man spoke, his voice rich and resonant. "Well, Junnar, what’s happening down there now?"
CHAPTER TWO
ALAN POWYS fingered the case of papers under his arm, studying his grandfather and the painted Negro as they confronted one another. They made a strange pair.
Minister Simon Powys was tall and heavy without much obvious fat, but his face was as grim and disturbing as an Easter Island god's. The leonine set of his head was further enhanced by the flowing mane of white hair which reached almost to his shoulders, hanging straight as if carved. He wore the standard purple suit of a high-ranking cabinet minister-he was Minister for Space Transport, an important office-pleated jacket, padded pantaloons, red stockings and white pumps. His white shirt was open at the neck to reveal old but firm flesh, and on his breast was a golden star, symbol of his rank.
Junnar was sighing and spreading his hands. "If you, Minister Powys, want to stop him you should act now. His power increases daily. People are flocking to him. He seems harmless, insofar as he doesn't appear to have any great political ambitions, but his power could be used to threaten society's stability."
"Could be? I'm sure it will be." Minister Powys spoke heavily. "But can we convince parliament of the danger? There's the irony."
"Probably not." Alan Powys spoke distantly, conscious of an outsider's presence.
He thought he glimpsed, momentarily, a strange expression on the Negro's face.
"Helen and that mob of rabble-rousers she calls a political party are only too pleased to encourage him," Minister Powys grumbled. "Not to mention certain members of the government who seem as fascinated by him as schoolgirls on their first dates." He straightened his shoulders which were beginning to stoop with old age. "There must be some way of showing them their mistake."
Alan Powys chose not to argue with his grandfather in Junnar’s presence.
Personally, however, he thought the old man over-emphasized the Fireclown's importance. Perhaps Junnar sensed this, for he said softly:
"The Fireclown has a certain ability to attract and hold interest. The most unlikely people seem to have come under his spell. His magnetism is intense and almost irresistible. Have you been to one of his 'audiences,' Mr. Powys?"
Alan shook his head.
"Then go to one-before you judge. Believe me, he has something. He's more than a crank."
Alan wondered why the normally self-possessed and taciturn Negro should choose to speak in this way. Perhaps one day he would attend a meeting. He certainly was curious.
"Who is he, anyway?" Alan asked as his grandfather paced towards the window comprising the outer wall of the room.
"No one knows," Junnar said. "His origins, like his theories, are obscure. He will not tell anyone his real name. There are no records of his fingerprints at Identity Center; he seems demented, but no mental hospital has heard of him.
Perhaps, as he says, he came down from the sun to save the world?"
"Don't be facetious, Junnar." Minister Powys pursed his lips, paused, then took a long breath and said: "Who was down there today?"
"Vernitz, Chief of the China Police-he is in the city on a vacation and to attend the Police Conference next Sixday. Martha Gheld, Professor of Electrobiology at Tel Aviv. All the Persian representatives currently elected to parliament…"
"Including Isfahan?" Minister Powys was too well bred to shout, but there was astonishment in his voice. Isfahan was the leader of the Solref faction in the Solar House.
"Including all the Persian Solrefs, I'm afraid." Junnar nodded. "Not to mention a number of Dutch, Swedish and Mexican party members."
"We had advised our members not to take part in the Fireclown's farcical 'audiences' P' "Doubtless they were all there on fact-finding missions," Alan interrupted, a faint gleam in his eyes.
"Doubtless," Powys said grimly, choosing to ignore his grandson's irony.
"Your niece was there, too," Junnar said quietly.