These were the oldest suns in the galaxy. They had lived and died and lived again for billions of years. Here was the source of life, the beginning of everything.
Though the Fireclown would probably have denied it, the vision was-profound. It had significance of such magnitude that Alan was unable to grasp it.
Philosophically, he resigned himself to never knowing what the experience implied. He felt that the Fireclown's belief of existence without significance beyond itself was preposterous, yet he could see how one could arrive at such a conclusion. He himself was forced to cling to his shredding personality. The whirling stars dwarfed him, dwarfed his ideas, dwarfed the aspirations of humanity.
"Now," chuckled the Fireclown in his joyous insanity, "what is Earth and all its works compared with the blazing simplicity of-this!"
Helen spoke with difficulty. "They are-different," she said. "They are linked, because they all exist together, but they are different. This is the order of created matter. We seek an order of cognizant matter and the stars, however mighty, however beautiful, have no cognizance. They might perish at some stage.
Man, because he thinks, may one day make himself immortal-not personally, perhaps, but through the continuance of his race. I think that is the- difference."
The Fireclown shrugged.
"You have wondered what is real, have you not? You have wondered that we have lost touch with the realities, we human beings; that our language is decadent and that it has produced a double-thinking mentality which no longer al-lows us contact with the natural facts?" He waved his hands to take in the circling suns. "Intelligence! It is nothing, it is unimportant, a freak thrown up by a chance combination of components. Why is intelligence so esteemed? There is no need for it. It cannot change the structure of the universe-it can only meddle and spoil it. Awareness-now, that's different. Nature is aware of itself, but that is all-it is content. Are we content?
No! When I go to Earth and try to convey what I know to the people, I am conscious of entering a dream world. They cannot understand me because they are unaware! All I do, sadly, is awaken archetypal responses in them which throws them further out, so they run around like randy pigs, destroying. Destroying, building, both acts are equally unimportant. We are at the center of the galaxy.
Here things exist. They are beautiful but their beauty has no purpose. It is beauty-it is enough. They are full of natural force but the force has no expression; it is force alone, and that is all it needs to be.
"Why ascribe meaning to all this? The further away from the fundamentals of life we go, the more we quest for their meaning. There is no meaning. It is here. It has always been here in some state. It will always be here. That is all we can ever truly know. It is all we should want to know."
Alan shook his head, speaking vaguely at first. "A short time ago," he said, "I was struck by the pettiness of political disputes, horrified by the ends to which people would go to get power-or 'responsibility* as they call it-feeling that the politicians in the Solar House were expending breath on meaningless words…"
"So they were!" the Fireclown bellowed back at him approvingly.
"No." Alan plugged on, certain he was near the truth. "If you wished to convince me of this when you took us on this voyage, you have achieved the opposite.
Admittedly, as one observes them at the time, the politicians seem to be getting nowhere, society detaches itself further and further from the kind of life its ancestors lived. Yet, seeing these suns, entering the heart of our own sun, has shown me that this stumbling progress-unaware gropings in the dark immensity of the universe, if you like-is as much a natural function as any other."
Gustily, the Fireclown sighed.
"I felt I could help you, Alan Powys. I see you have fled further back into your fortress of prejudice." He closed the port covers. "Sit down-sleep if you wish.
I am returning to the monastery."
They berthed and entered the monastery in silence. The Fireclown seemed depressed, even worried. Had he seen that, for all his discoveries, for all his vision and vitality, he was not necessarily right? Alan wondered. There was no knowing. The Fireclown remained still the enigmatic, intellectual madman-the naive, ingenuous, endearing figure he had been when Alan first saw him.
Auditor Kurt greeted them. "We are looking at our, weekly lasercast. Would you like to come and watch? It might interest you."
He took them to a small room where several monks were already seated. Corso was there, too, and Cornelia Fisher. At the door the Fireclown seemed to rouse himself from his mood.
"I have things to consider," he told them, walking away down the corridor.
They went in and sat down. The laserscreen was blank. Evidently the amount of laser-viewing allowed the monks was limited.
Corso came and sat next to them. Alan was getting used to his apparently skinless face.
"Well," he said good-naturedly, "did your voyage enlighten you?"
"In a way," Alan admitted.
"But not in the way intended, I think." Helen smiled a trifle wistfully, as if she wished the Fireclown had convinced them.
"How did he hit on the discovery that enables him to travel so easily and to such dangerous parts?" Alan said.
"Call it inspiration," Corso answered. "I’m not up to understanding him, either, you know. We were co-pilots on an experimental ship years ago. Something went wrong with the ship-the steering devices locked and pushed us towards the sun.
We managed, narrowly, to avoid plunging into the sun's heart and went into orbit. But we were fried. Refrigeration collapsed slowly. I suffered worse in some ways. It took my skin off, as you can see. My fellow pilot-the Fireclown to you, these days-didn't suffer so badly physically, but something happened to his mind. You'd say he was mad. I’d say he was sane in a different way from you and me. Whatever happened, he worked out the principle for the Pi-meson in the Martian hospital-we were rescued, quite by chance, by a very brave crew of a freighter which had gone slightly off course itself. If that hadn't happened, we'd both be dead now. We were in hospital for years. The Clown pretended amnesia and I did the same. For some reason we were never contacted by Spaceflight Research."
"How did you get the money to build the Pi-meson?"
"We got it from Bias, the man you accused of being an arms dealer. He thinks the ship is a super-fast vessel but otherwise ordinary enough. He supplied us with computer parts this time."
"Where is Bias now?"
"The last I heard he had a suite at the London Dorchester."
"The Dorchester? That's reasonable-a man could hide in the Mayfair slums and nobody would know."
"I think you don't do Bias justice. He's an idealist. He wants progress more than anyone. He wouldn't have any part in blowing the world up. At least…"
Corso paused. "He's a funny character, but I don't think so."
Alan was quiet for a while. Then he said:
"After that trip, I think I do believe you when you say you're not implicated in the arms dealers' plans-not knowingly, anyway. At least the Fireclown has satisfied me on that score, even if he didn't achieve his main object." He turned to Helen. "What about you?"
"I agree." She nodded. "But I'd give a lot to know Bias's motives in helping you." She looked at Corso. "Are you telling us everything?"
"Everything I can," he said ambiguously.
The laserscreen came to life. A news broadcast.
The newscaster bent eagerly towards the camera.
"It's fairly sure who the next President will be, folks. Simon Powys, the one man to recognize the peril that the world is in from the infamous Fireclown's insane plot to destroy the world, is top of this station's public opinion poll.
His niece, the only strong opponent in the elections which begin next week, has dropped right down. Her violent support of the Fireclown hasn't helped a bit.