UNDER Alan's direction, Junnar brought the car down on the roof of the Powys' apartment block.
"Climb out, both of you," Alan ordered. They obeyed him.
They descended to Simon Powys' apartment and Junnar made the door open. They went through.
"Is that you, Junnar?" Powys called from his study.
Alan herded them in.
He saw a terrible expression of sheer fear cloud his grandfather's face as they entered.
Hollowly, Alan said: "I know everything, Grandfather."
Simon Powys remained seated at his desk. Slowly he put down his stylus and pushed the papers from him.
"What are you going to do then, Alan?"
"Denounce us, I expect," Bias said cheerfully. "May I sit down, Powys?" He turned to Alan.
"Both of you sit," Alan ordered, his hand still on his pocketed gun.
"You'd have to prove it," Simon Powys said slowly, in an old man's voice. "It's the word of an emotional young man against that of a respected minister. I could say you were raving. Neither Junnar nor Bias would testify against me."
"Why?" Alan demanded. "Why, grandfather?"
"There are a number of reasons, Alan. It was my last chance to become President.
A Powys of every generation has been President at least once. I couldn't let family tradition die-it would have been a disgrace."
"Isn't what you did a disgrace? Isn't it a crime?"
"You don't understand. Politicians can't always use clean methods. I was right.
The Fireclown's no good, Alan. It was the only way to show the public…"
"That was only a matter of 'opinion. The fact is you framed the Fireclown in order to prove your own theory about him-and because Helen was bound to win the election if you didn't do something desperate. It was the only way to change public opinion radically. Because of that, Sandai's police tampered with the Fireclown's flame machines-and three hundred people were killed."
"I didn't want that to happen."
"But it happened-you were responsible for their deaths.!"
"I feel guilty…"
"You are guilty! And you fell neatly into Bias's plan, didn't you? He supplied you with the bombs with which you framed the Fireclown. And now, because you dare not admit the whole thing was manufactured by you, he's holding the government up to blackmail. There is a possibility of mass destruction if this hysteria builds up-but even if that doesn't happen the money that Bias will demand will impoverish Sol for years. And he's got you neatly in his trap-he can dictate any terms he wants. If you were elected President you would be his puppet. Bias would run Sol. And he nearly succeeded, didn't he?"
"As your grandfather pointed out," Bias said equably, "you still have to prove all this, young man."
"I intend to, Bias. Grandfather-you're going to confess, before it's too late.
You're a Powys! You must!"
Simon Powys wet his lips and stared down at the desk.
"Are you going to confess, Grandfather?"
"No," said Simon Powys. "No, I am not."
It had been Alan's only chance, and it had failed. As his grandfather and Bias had said, it was his word against theirs. Already he had the reputation as a die-hard supporter of the Fireclown. Who would believe him now that Simon Powys had turned the Solar System against the Fireclown? What could he do now?
His idealism, his belief that his grandfather would act in accordance with the principles he had so plainly shed was shattered. He was drained of emotion and could only stand staring down at the old man.
"Stalemate, Powys." Bias cross his legs.
There must be proof, Alan thought. There must be proof somewhere.
He knew that if he could prove his grandfather's guilt he could stop Bias's plan for controlling the Solar System, avert the threat of a war almost bound to come about with so much hysteria in the air, prove the Fireclown innocent and allow Helen to become President.
Everything hinged on what was, in fact, a means of betraying his grandfather.
He gave Bias a disgusted glare.
"Yes, stalemate. But if I walk out of here now, you dare not do anything for fear that I'll say too much. You can't rig evidence against me the same way as you did to the Fireclown." As an afterthought, he added: "You could kill me, of course."
"No!" Simon Powys rose from his chair. "Alan, come in with us. In a few weeks the world will be ours!"
Alan went towards the door. "You accused me once of having none of the noble Powys blood, remember? If that's what flows in your veins, thank God I haven't got any!"
He flung down the gun and left.
Outside, he walked slowly towards the elevator cone, brooding and unable to think coherently. All he had was definite knowledge of his grandfather's perfidy, knowledge that he was unable yet to prove. Still, the knowledge itself was something.
He went down to the thirtieth level and made his way to the RLM Headquarters.
He entered the front office, still stacked with posters. Jordan Kalpis was there, his bony face full of worry.
"Powys! What did you find out?"
"Where's Helen? I’ll tell you later."
"At a meeting in the Divisional Hall on forty. There's some pretty bad heckling going on. The crowd has turned nasty."
"Right. I'm going over there."
Alan went out into the corridor and took the fastway to the elevator, rose ten levels and took the fastway again to the Divisional Hall. Every ten levels had a Divisional Hall, comprising a meeting hall and the offices of the local sub-council officials. Outside, the posters of Helen had been torn down.
There was a fantastic noise coming from inside. Alan entered the crowded hall and glimpsed Helen at the far end on the platform. A man beside him threw back an arm. Alan saw it held a piece of raw meat. As the man's hand came up to hurl the meat, Alan grabbed it and wrenched it savagely back. He didn't give the man time to see who had stopped him but pushed his way down the aisle. All kinds of refuse was flying on to the platform as he hauled himself up.
Helen's face was bleeding and her clothes were torn. She stood rigidly, defiantly shouting at the mob.
"Helen!"
She saw him. "Alan! What-?"
"Get out of here-they're not listening to you!"
She seemed to pull herself together.
Now the mob surged forward, faces twisted, hands grasping. He heard someone shout: "She wants us burned to death."
She-wants-us-burned-to-death!
A gem of a phrase, Alan thought as he kicked the first man who tried to climb the stage. It fed the hysteria which spawned it. He found himself hating humanity and his kicks were savage.
Andy Curry's freckled face appeared from the side exit. "Quick! Here!"
They ran in and Curry ordered the door locked.
"I can only say I told you so," Curry said dourly. "You shouldn't have made the speech in the first place, Miss Curtis."
"I avoided all mention of the Fireclown," she said furiously, "and they didn't give me a chance!"
Curry picked up the phone in the passage. He pressed two studs.
The word Police flashed on the screen and an operator's face followed it.
"I'm speaking from Divisional Hall, level ten," Curry said swiftly. "There's a riot going on down here. We're besieged. We need help."
The operator looked at him. "Helen Curtis meeting-is that right?"
"That's right."
"We'll have a squad there right away," the operator told him in a voice that indicated he should have known better than to start trouble.
The police dispersed the crowd and the captain told Alan, Helen and Curry that an escort was ready to see them home. He sounded unsympathetic, as if he was helping them unwillingly.
When they reached Helen's door the leader of the escort said: "If I were you, Miss Curtis, I should stay inside. You're liable to be attacked otherwise."
"I've got an election to fight," she pointed out.