They reached the elevator cone and entered it with a dozen others.
As they descended a man stared hard at Helen.
"Aren't you Helen Curtis?" he said roughly.
"I am."
The man spat in her face.
Alan jumped at him, punching savagely. The attendant shouted for them to stop.
Hands grabbed Alan. The man punched him in the stomach and then in the head.
"Stinking fire-bug!"
Alan felt bile in his throat. Then he passed out.
He came to in a few seconds. The lift was still going down. Helen was bending over him. The lift stopped. "You'd better get out, both of you," the attendant said.
Alan got to his feet.
"Why?" he grunted.
"You're making trouble, that's why."
"We didn't start it."
"Come on, Alan," Helen said, taking his arm. "We'll walk."
He was weak with pain as they stumbled into the corridor. Also he was insensately angry.
She helped him on to the fastway and supported his weight until his strength returned.
"That shows you how much anything we say is worth," she said quietly. "Hatred and violence are everywhere. What harm would a little more do? The good would outweigh the bad, Alan."
"No," he gasped. "No, Helen. Simon Powys sold his principles. I'm not selling mine."
"So," she said when they were back in her apartment, "what do we do? Just wait here and watch the world collapse?"
"Switch on the set so we've got a good view," he said. She went over and turned on the laservid.
They watched glumly as the announcer reported another explosion in the Pacific, two more in Central Africa, killing a large number of people who lived in small communities in the blast area. Work was under way on the defense project. Simon Powys was directing the preparations.
"They don't need to bother with the farce of electing him," Helen said. "He's as good as President now!"
"You mean Bias is," Alan told her. "He's the one pulling the strings."
Helen reached over to the laser and pressed out a number.
"Who are you calling?"
"My brother," she said. "Denholm's about the only person who can help us now."
Her brother's face came on the screen. "Hello, Helen, I'm rather busy-is it important?"
"Very important, Denholm. Could you come over?"
"If ifs another defense of the Fireclown…"
"It is not."
Her brother's expression changed as he stared at her image. "Very well. Give me an hour-all right?"
"Okay," she said.
"How can Denholm help us?" Alan said. "What's the point?"
"We'll tell him all we know. The more people of importance who are told about it, the better chance we have."
Denholm came in, placed his gaudy hat on a chair arm and sat down.
"Alan," Helen said, "tell Denholm everything-from the time we went to see the Fireclown until our interview with Sandai."
He told Denholm Curtis everything.
When he had finished, Curtis frowned at him. "Alan," he said, "I think I believe you. Uncle Simon's been behaving a trifle mysteriously in some ways. The alacrity with which he managed to contact the dealers when the government finally decided to buy the arms was astonishing. It could mean that he's abused his position as chairman of the One Hundred Committee f "What do you mean?"
"Supposing in some way he had got hold of a list of the dealers and the location of their caches? Supposing he held on to it without letting the other committee members know, contacted Bias and concocted this scheme? Suppose then they worked out a plan to take advantage of the Fireclown, get Simon Powys elected as President, and then run the world as they wanted to run it? Powys might have got in touch with Bias originally with a view to smashing the syndicate. But Bias might have proposed the whole idea. We all know how much Uncle Simon hates the Fireclown. It would have been the perfect means of getting rid of him.
"Maybe he intended to capture the Fireclown. Maybe the original deal was simply over a few bombs. But Bias has provided the Fireclown with the means of producing a super-ship, and he was fairly certain that the Fireclown would escape when the chips were down. He did. The war scare started, aided by the police tampering with the flame-machines. Simon Powys couldn't back out-and Bias had him where he wanted him."
"That sounds logical," Alan agreed.
"But all this needs proof to back it up." Denholm Curtis pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"It comes back to that every time." Helen sighed.
"There'd be only one way. To find the man who was Powys' original contact with Bias, and get him to confess."
"But how?" Alan asked. "Where do we look?"
"We check the files of the One Hundred Committee-that was probably how Powys found his contact. You're still secretary, Helen. Where are the files?"
"Right here. In the safe."
"Get them."
She got them-dozens of spools of microfilm. They fitted them into the projector.
It was more than six hours before they found what they were looking for. A reference to one Nils Benedict, suspected of trying to sell arms to a super-reactionary Crespignite splinter group. They had turned him over to the police. The police had been unable to find any evidence against him. Simon Powys had interviewed him while in custody and reported that, in his opinion, the man was innocent. Simon Powys had been, apart from the police, the only man to question Benedict. Benedict had a Brussels address.
"Do you think that's him?" Alan said, rubbing his eyes.
"It's the only one it could possibly be. What do we do now?"
"Pay Nils Benedict a visit, I suppose," Helen suggested.
A smaller, less complex version of the City of Switzerland, Brussels had an altogether different character. Every inch of stonework was.embellished with red lacquer, and over this bright designs had been laid. Gilt predominated.
The structure rose fourteen levels above the ground, five below, covering an area of five square miles. The roof landing space was limited so that they were forced to land outside the city and take a mono-rocket which let them off on the tenth level. Benedict lived on level eight.
They reached his apartment. They had already decided that Denholm would do the talking, since he was less likely to be suspect than the other two.
"Nils Benedict," he said to the blank "door, "this is Denholm Curtis. I've got some good news for you."
The door opened. A tall, rangy man in a dressing gown of green silk stared curiously at Curtis.
"Are you from Powys?" he asked as the door closed behind them.
Alan took the lead. "We want to contact Bias in a hurry. Can you arrange it?"
"Sure. But why? I thought he was in direct contact nowadays."
That was enough. Now they knew for certain.
"Oh, he is," Alan said. "But we thought it would be nice for you and Simon Powys to meet again after all this time."
Benedict had been uncommonly slow, he thought, for a man who was supposed to live by his wits. The man seemed gradually to realize that something was wrong.
He backed into his living room. They followed.
The answer was there. Benedict was an addict. The stink of mescaline was in the room; nightmarish murals covered the walls. He was a mescamas who got his kicks from descending into his own psychological hell.
Helen said in a strained voice: "I'll wait outside."
"Come on, Benedict," Denholm said roughly.
"I have rights, you know," Benedict said thickly. "Why does Powys want to see me?",
"Are you scared of Powys?"
"He told me I'd be killed if I ever got in touch with him again."
"There's not a chance of that, I promise," Alan said.
Benedict was still wary. Alan suddenly hit him under the jaw. He collapsed.
"Let's get him dressed," Denholm said. "It wouldn't be proper for him to go out without his correct clothes on."
They had surprisingly little difficulty getting Benedict to Helen's apartment.