"That doesn't surprise me. The woman's a fool. To think that she could be the next President! "
Alan knew that his cousin, Helen Curtis, leader of the Radical Liberal Movement, and his grandfather were both planning to run for President in the forthcoming Presidential elections. One of them was sure to win.
"All right, Junnar." Simon Powys dismissed his secretary. The Negro went out through a side door opening on an inner passage leading to his own office.
When the door had closed, Alan said: "I think you place too much importance on this character, Grandfather. He's harmless enough. Perhaps he could threaten society-but it's doubtful if he would. You seem to have an obsession about him.
No one else, in politics at least, seems so concerned. If the situation became serious people would soon leave him or act against him. Why not wait and see?"
"No. I seem to have an obsession, do I? Well, it may be that I'm the only man not blinded to what this Fireclown represents. I have already drafted a bill which, if it gets passed, could easily put a stop to the fool's posturing."
Alan laid his briefcase on the desk and sat down in one of the deep armchairs.
"But will it? Surely it isn't wise at this stage to back what could easily be an unpopular motion. The Fireclown is an attractive figure to most people-and as yet harmless. If you were to oppose him openly it might cost you votes in the Presidential election. You could lose it!"
Alan felt he had scored a point. He knew how important winning was to the old man. Since the formation of the Solar Referendum Party, a Powys of every generation had held the Presidential chair for at least one term of his life-a Powys had in fact formed the first Solref cabinet. Yet it was likely the Powys would not be voted in, for public opinion was gradually going against the Solrefs and tending to favor the more vociferous and dynamic RLM, which had grown rapidly in strength under Helen Curtis's fiery leadership. Throughout his life Simon Powys had aimed at the Presidency, and this would be his last chance to gain it.
"I have never sacrificed principles for mere vote-catching!" Simon Powys said scornfully. "It is unworthy of a Powys to suggest it, Alan. Your mother would have been horrified if she had heard such a remark coming from her own son.
Though you have the look of a Powys, the blood, whoever gave it you, is not Powys blood!"
For a second before he controlled himself, Alan felt pain at this remark. This was the first time his grandfather had referred to his obscure origins-he had been illegitimate, his mother dying soon after he was born. Though, in his grim way, Simon Powys had assured his grandson's education and position, he had always been withdrawn from Alan, caring for him but not encouraging friendship or love. His wife had died five years earlier and she and Alan had been close.
When Eleanor Powys died Simon had begun to see a little more of Alan, but had always remained slightly distant. However, this remark about his bastardy was the first spoken in anger. Obviously the matter of the Presidency was weighing on his mind.
Alan ignored the elder Powys' reference and smiled.
"City Administration-if I may return to the original topic-isn't worried by the Fireclown. He inhabits the disused lower levels and gives us no trouble, doesn't threaten to come upstairs at all. Leave him alone, Grandfather-at least until after the election."
Minister Powys went to the picture window and stared out into the twilight, his erect body silhouetted against the distant mountains.
"The Fireclown is a tangible threat, Alan. He has admitted that he is bent on the destruction of our whole society, on the rejection of all its principles of progress and democracy. With his babbling of fire-worship and nature-worship, the Fireclown threatens to throw us all back to disorganized and retrogressive savagery!"
"Grandfather-the man isn't that powerful! You place too much importance on him!"
Simon Powys shook his head, his heavy hands clasping behind him.
"I say I do not!"
"Then you are wrong P' Alan said angrily, half aware that his anger was not so much inspired by the old man's righteousness as by his earlier, wounding remark.
Simon Powys remained with his back to Alan, silent.
At least his grandfather's solid reputation for integrity and sticking to what he thought was well earned, Alan reflected. But that reputation might not save him if the Fireclown became a political issue in the elections.
His own view, shared with a great many people, was that the Fireclown's mysterious appearance a year ago was welcome as an agent to relieve the comparative monotony of running the smoothly ordered City of Switzerland.
"Goodbye, Grandfather," he said, picking up his briefcase. "I'm going home. I’ve got a lot of work to get through this evening."
Simon Powys turned-a considered and majestic movement.
"You may like to know that I have approached the City Council on this matter, suggesting that they completely seal off the lower levels. I hope they will adopt my suggestion. City Administration, of course, would be responsible for carrying it out. As Assistant Director, you would probably be in charge of the project."
"If the City Council has any sense they'll ignore your suggestion. They have no evidence of law-breaking on the Fireclown's part. They can take no legal steps against him. All he has done, so far as I can see, is to address a public meeting-and that isn't a crime in this democracy you've been boasting of. To make it one would invalidate your whole argument. Don't you agree?"
"One short step back could save us from a long slide down," Minister Powys said curtly as Alan left the room.
Entering the elevator that would take him home to the sixty-fourth level, Alan decided that he could have misjudged his grandfather over the matter of the Fireclown. He had heard a great deal about him and his "audiences" and, emotionally, was attracted by the romantic character of the man. But he had argued the Fireclown's case too strongly without really knowing it at first hand.
He left the elevator and crossed to the middle of the corridor, taking the fastway belt towards his flat. As he neared it, he crossed to the slowway with instinctive practice, produced a small box from his pocket and spoke his name into it. The door of the flat opened in the wall.
In the passage his manservant took his briefcase and carried it into the study.
"We were expecting you home earlier, sir. Madeleine apologizes, but she feels the polter may be overdone."
"My fault, Stefanos." He was not particularly fond of synthetic poultry, anyway.
"And Miss Curtis is waiting for you in the living room. I told her you hadn't dined…"
"That's all right." Outwardly decisive, he was inwardly confused. He even felt a slight trembling in his legs and cursed himself for an uncontrolled buffoon. He had only seen Helen once, briefly, since their affair 'had ended, at a party.
He entered the austere living room.
"Good evening, Helen. How are you?"
They did not shake hands.
"Hello, Alan."
He could not guess why she was here but he did not particularly want to know. He was afraid he might get involved emotionally with her again.
He sat down. She seated herself opposite him in the other padded, armless chair.
She was made up-which was unusual. Her lips were a light green and she had on some sort of ultra-white powder. Her eyebrows and eyelids were red. Her taste, he thought, had never been all it might. She had an almost triangular face; short, black hair and a small nose so that she looked rather like a cat-save for the make-up which made her look like a corpse.
"I hear you attended the Fireclown's 'audience' today?" he said casually.
"Where did you hear that? Bush telegraph? Have you been at a cocktail party?"
"No." He smiled half-heartedly. "But spies are everywhere these days."