"Yes!" each man and woman responded.
"Now." Bias's masked face was cocked to one side as he suddenly regarded Alan.
"The newcomer is not yet a full Son of the Fireclown. He must prove himself to us."
Alan suddenly realized the menace in the words. He sensed, from the atmosphere in the room, that this was not normal procedure.
"Come here, my friend," Bias said quietly. "You must be initiated."
There was a strong chance that Bias recognized him. But what could he do? For the moment he would have to go through with it.
He got up slowly and walked towards the fiery heat of the brazier.
"Do you worship the Flame of the Sun?" Bias asked theatrically.
"Yes," he said, trying to keep his voice level.
"Do you see the fire as the Fire of Life?"
He nodded.
"Would you bring forth the fires of life in yourself?"
"Yes."
"Then"-Bias pointed at the brazier-"plunge your hand into the flames as proof that you are a brother to the Flame of the Sun!"
Ritual! If Alan needed confirmation that these people had nothing to do with the Fireclown in any real sense, he had it now. The Fireclown scorned ritual.
"No, Bias," he said scornfully, and turned to the masked gathering. "Don't listen to this man. I know the Fire-clown-he is my father-he would not want this! He would hate you to debase yourselves as you are doing now. The Fireclown only uses fire as a symbol. He speaks of the human spirit, not-" he gestured at the brazier "-natural fire!"
"Silence!" Bias commanded. "You seek to disrupt our gathering! Do not listen to him, brothers!"
The Sons of the Fireclown were glancing at one another uncertainly.
Bias's voice spoke almost good-humoredly in Alan's ear. "Really, Powys, this is nothing to you. Why do you interfere? Admit to these fools that you lied and I’ll let you go. Otherwise I can probably convince them, anyway, and you'll be roasted on that thing there."
Alan glanced at the blazing brazier, spouting flames. He shuddered. Then he leapt at it and kicked it over in Bias's direction. Bias jumped away from the burning coals, shouting something incoherent.
Alan pushed through the confused crowd and reached the door, wrenched the bar away and fled up the stairs. He ran through the darkened restaurant and out into the crumbling street a few seconds ahead of his closest pursuer. He dashed down towards Grosvenor Square, an overgrown tangle of trees and shrubs. In the last of the evening light he saw the monolithic tower of the old American Embassy, fallen into decay long since.
A flight of steps led up to the broken glass doors. He climbed them hurriedly, squeezed through an aperture and saw another flight of steps leading upwards.
By the time he had reached the second floor, let his feet lead him into a maze of corridors, he no longer heard the sounds of pursuit and realized, thankfully, that he had lost them. He cursed himself for not wearing a mask. He should have guessed that Bias and the suspicious Sons of the Fireclown had some connection.
And now it was almost certain that Bias, unknown to the Fireclown, was playing both ends against the middle. But he'd still have to find out more before he could prove the Fireclown's innocence.
He had only one course of action. To go to the Dorchester, where Bias had his hideout. He knew he wasn't far from Park Lane, since he had studied a map thoroughly before he left. He waited for two hours before groping his way down to a different exit from the one he'd left and stumbled through the jungle of Grosvenor Square, climbing over fallen masonry and keeping in the shadows as he walked down Grosvenor Street and into Park Lane.
He threw away his hat and reversed his jacket as an afterthought so that the reversible side showed mauve shot with yellow, hunched his shoulders to disguise his outline and hid his face as much as possible, then continued down towards the Dorchester.
Luckily, the street was almost deserted and he passed only a couple of drunks sitting against the wall of a bank, and a pretty young girl who hailed him with pretty old . words. She reviled him softly in language even older when he ignored her.
Reaching the side entrance of the Dorchester, he found the door firmly locked.
He continued round to the front. Lights were on in the lobby and two tough-looking men lounged outside. He couldn't get past them without them seeing him, so he walked boldly and said:
"I've come to see Mr. Bias-he's expecting me. Which suite?"
"First floor," said the guard unsuspiciously.
Alan found the lobby in surprisingly good repair. Even the elevators looked in working order, although there was a good deal of litter about. He took the stairs, reached the first floor, which was in semi-darkness, and saw a light coming from under a pair of big double doors. He paused outside and strained his ear to catch the mumble of voices from within. He was sure he recognized both of them-one was probably Bias's anyway.
The other, he realized after a moment, was the voice of Junnar, his grandfather's secretary!
He took from his pocket the squat laser pistol he had brought with him at Helen's request and walked into the room.
"The plot," he said with forced lightness, "thickens. Good evening, gentlemen."
Bias took the cigarette out of his mouth with an expression of surprise. "Good evening, Powys," he said amiably. "I didn't think we'd seen the last of you. If you're not going to be impetuous we can explain everything, I think."
"Mr. Powys," Junnar said sadly, "you should have stayed out of this from the start. What's the gun for?"
"Self-protection," Alan said curtly. "And I don't need much explanation. I've had an inkling of this for some time. Grandfather put you up to planting the bombs on the Fireclown-am I right?"
Junnar's silence was answer enough. Alan nodded. "He'd use any means to prove the Fireclown a criminal, even if it meant supplying the proof himself, in a very simple way. You got the bombs from Bias and planted them. But you bit off more than you could chew when you started this war scare. What are you up to now? Doing another deal with Bias over the arms he wants to supply the government with as a 'defense' against a non-existent plot?"
"That's about it," Bias admitted.
Alan felt physically sick. His own grandfather, head of the house of Powys, descendant of a line of strong, honest and fervently dedicated politicians, had descended to faking evidence to prove his own theory about the Fireclown. And, in consequence, he had started a wave of hysteria which he was virtually unable to control. He wondered if Simon Powys now regretted his infamy. He probably did, but it was too late.
And this was the man the public was almost bound to elect President.
"You bloody, treacherous pigs! " he said.
"You'd have to prove all this," Bias said softly, his self-assurance still apparently maintained.
Alan was still in a quandary. All his life the concept of clan loyalty to the Powys's had been drummed into him. It was hard to shake it off. Could he betray his own grandfather, who in a peculiar way he still loved, at the expense of the father responsible for his bastardy?
Slowly, standing there with the laser gun in his hand, its unfamiliar grip sticky with sweat, he came unwillingly to a decision.
He waved the gun towards the door. "After you," he said.
"Where are we going?" Junnar asked nervously.
"The City of Switzerland," Alan told them. "And just remember what a laser can do. I could slice you both in two in a moment. It's going in my pocket, and my hand's going to be on it all the way."
"You're rather a melodramatic young man," Bias said resignedly as he walked towards the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN