Michael Moorcock - The Winds of Limbo

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The Winds of LimboThe Winds of Limbo
By Michael Moorcock
When the Fireclown spoke, promising salvation and life to the dying planet, his
listeners trembled. What was the secret of his hypnotic power? Did he plan to
save Earth for all mankind-or to make it his slave-planet?
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS a vast cavern. Part of it was natural, part of it had been hollowed out
by the machines of men. Some parts were deep in dancing shadows and others were
brilliantly illuminated by a great blazing mass-a roaring, crackling miniature
replica of the sun itself, that hung, constantly quivering and erupting, near
the high roof.
Beneath this blazing orb a tall column rose up as if to meet it, and arms akimbo
upon a platform at the top stood a gross figure, clad in ragged, harlequin
costume. A soft, floppy, conical hat was jammed over his lank, yellow hair; his
fat-rounded face was painted white, his eyes and mouth adorned with smears of
red, yellow and black, and on the ragged red jerkin stretched taut upon his
great belly was a vivid yellow sunburst.
Below this gross harlequin the dense crowd surrounding the column ceased its
movement as he raised an orange hand that seemed to shoot from his torn sleeve
like fingers of flame.
He laughed. It was as if the sun had voiced unearthly humor.
"Speak to us!" the crowd pleaded. "Fireclown! Speak to us!"
He ceased his laughing and looked down at them with a peculiar expression moving
behind the paint. At length he bellowed:
"I am the Fireclown!"
"Speak to us!"
"I am the Fireclown, equipped for your salvation. I am the gift bearer, alive
with the Fire of Life, from which the Earth itself was formed! I am the Earth's
brother. .. ."
A woman in a padded dress representing the body of a lion cried shrilly: "And
what are we?"
"You are maggots feeding off your mother. When you mate it is like corpses
coupling. When you laugh it is the sound of the winds of limbo!"
"Why? Why?" shouted a young man with a lean, mean face and a pointed chin that
could pierce a throat. He leaped exuberantly while his eyes glinted and looked.
"You have shunned the natural life and worshipped the artificial. But you are
not lost-not yet!"
"What shall we do?" sobbed a government official, sweating in the purple jacket
and purple pantaloons of his rank, caught by the ritual enough to fidget and
forget to stay in the shadows. His cry was echoed by the crowd.
"What shall we do?"
"Follow me! I will reinstate you as Children of the Sun and Brothers of the
Earth. Spurn me-and you perish in your artificiality, renounced by Nature on
whom you have turned your proud backs."
And again the clown broke into a laugh. He breathed heavily and roared his
insane and enigmatic humor at the cavern roof. Flames from the suspended
miniature sun leaped, stretched and shot out, as if to kiss the Fireclown's
acolytes who laughed and shouted, surging about him, applauding him.
The Fireclown looked down as he laughed, drinking in their adoration.
In a shadow cast by the dais, detached from the milling crowd, a gaunt Negro
stood as if petrified, his eyelids painted in checks of red and white, his mouth
colored green. He wore an extravagant yellow cut-away coat and scarlet tights.
He looked up at the Fireclown and there were tears of hunger in his eyes. The
Negro's name was Junnar.
The faces of the crowd were lashed and slashed by the leaping fire, some eyes
dull, some bright, some eyes blind and some hot, overloaded with heat.
Many of the figures wore masks molded in plastic to caricature their own
faces-long noses, no noses, slit eyes, cow eyes, lipless mouths, gaping mouths.
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Some were painted in gaudy colors, others were naked and some wore padded
clothes representing animals or plants.
Here they gathered around the dais. Many hundreds of them, loving the man who
capered like a jester above them, lashing them with his wriggling rhetoric,
laughing, laughing. Scientists, pickpockets, spacemen, explorers, musicians,
confidence tricksters, blackmailers, poets, doctors, whores, murderers, clerks,
perverts, government officials, spies, policemen, social workers, beggars,
actors, politicians, riff-raff.
Here they all were. And they shouted. And as they shouted the gross Fool capered
yet more wildly and the flame responded frenetically to his dancing and his own
wordless cries.
"The Fireclown!" they sobbed.
"The Fireclown!" they bellowed.
"The Fireclown! The Fireclown!" they howled and laughed.
"The Fireclown!" He giggled and he danced like a madman's puppet upon his dais
and sang his mirth.
All this, in the lowest level of the multi-storied labyrinth that was the City
of Switzerland.
With a great effort the Negro Junnar turned his eyes away from the Fireclown,
stumbled backwards, wrenched his body round and ran for one of the back exits,
bent on leaving before he was completely trapped by the Fireclown's spell.
Behind him, the sound of the maddened crowd diminished as he ran along fusty,
ill-smelling corridors until he could no longer hear it. Then he began to walk
up ramps and stairs until he came to an escalator. He stepped on to the
escalator and let himself be taken up to the top, a hundred feet from the
bottom. This corridor was also deserted, but better lighted and cleaner that
those he had left. He looked up and found a sign at an intersection:
NINTH LEVEL (Mechanics) Hogarth Lane-Leading to Divebomber Street and
Orangeblossom Road (Elevators to Forty Levels)
He made for Orangeblossom Road, an old residential corridor but very sparsely
inhabited these days, found the elevators at the end, pressed a button and
waited impatiently for five minutes before one arrived. He entered it and rose
non-stop to the forty-ninth level. Outside he crossed the bright, bustling
corridor and got into a crowded lift bound for the sixty-fifth-the
topmost-level.
The liveried operator recognized him and said deferentially: "Any tips for when
the next election's going to be held, Mr. Junnar?"
Junnar, abstracted, tried to smile politely. He shook his head. "Tomorrow, if
the RLMs had their way," he said. "But we're not worried. People have faith in
the Solrefs." He frowned. He had caught himself using a party slogan again.
Apparently the operator hadn't noticed, but Junnar thought he saw a hint of
irony in the man's eyes. He ignored it, frowned again, this time for a different
reason. Obviously people were losing faith in the Solar Referendum Party. A sign
of the times, he thought.
At length the elevator reached the sixty-fifth level and the operator called out
conscientiously: "Sixty-five. Please show appointment cards as you go through
the barrier."
The people began to shuffle out, some towards the transport that would take them
right across the vast plateau of the Top Level, some towards the distant
buildings comprising the Seat of Government, various Ministries and the private
accommodations of important statesmen, politicians and civil servants.
Built with the money of frightened businessmen during the war scares of the
1970s, the city had grown upwards and outwards so that it now covered almost
two-thirds of what was once the country of Switzerland-one vast building. A
warren with mountains embedded in it, it had begun as a warren of super-shelters
below the mountains. The war scares had died down, but the city had remained
along with the businessmen and, when the World Government was formed in 2005, it
seemed the natural place for the capital. In 2031, in a bid to get full rights
of citizenship for out-world settlers, the Solar Referendum Party had been
formed. Four years later it had risen to power. Its first act had been to
declare that from henceforth they were a Solar Government running the affairs of
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the Federation of Solar Planets.
But since then more than sixty years had passed. The Solrefs had lost much of
their original dynamism, having become the most powerfully conservative party in
the Solar House.
The official at the barrier knew Junnar and waved him through. Sun poured in
through the glass-alloy dome far above his head and the artificially scented air
was refreshing after the untainted stuff of the middle levels and the impure air
of the lowest.
He walked across the turf-covered plaza, listening to the splashing fountains
that at intervals glinted among beds of exotic flowers. He was struck by the
contrast between the hot excitement, the smell of sweat and the surge of bodies
he had just left, and this cool, well-controlled expanse, artificially
maintained yet as beautiful as anything nature could produce.
But he did not pause to savor the view. His pace was hurried compared with the
movement of the few other people who sauntered with dignity along the paths. At
a distance, the tall white, blue and silver buildings of the ambiguously named
Private Level reflected the sun and enhanced the atmosphere of calm and
assurance of the Top.
Junnar crossed the plaza and walked up a clean, graveled path towards the wide
stone arch that opened on to a shady court. Around this court many windows
looked down upon the cool pool in its center. Goldfish glinted in the pool. At
the archway, a porter left his lodge and planted himself on the path until
Junnar reached him. He was a sour-faced man, dressed in a dark grey blouse and
pantaloons; he looked at Junnar with vague disapproval as the flamboyant Negro
stopped and produced his pass, sighing: "Here you are, Drew. You're very
conscientious today."
"My job is to check all passes, sir."
Junnar smiled at him. "You don't recognize me, is that it."
"I recognize you very well, sir, but it would be more than my job's worth to ..
."
"Let me in without checking my pass," Junnar finished for him. "You're an
annoying man, Drew."
The porter didn't reply. He was not afraid of incurring Junnar's disapproval
since he had a strong union that would be only too ready to take up cudgels on
his behalf if he was fired without adequate grounds.
So temporarily disoriented was Junnar that he allowed
this tiny conflict to carry him further, and as he went into the court he
shrugged and said: "It's better to have friends than enemies, though Drew . . ."
Immediately he felt foolish.
He took out a pack of proprietary brand marijuanas and lit one as he went
through a glass-panelled door into the quiet, deserted hall of the building. The
hall was lined with mirrors. He stood staring at himself in one of them, drawing
deeply on the sweet smoke, collecting his thoughts and pulling himself together.
This was the third time he had aliened one of the Fireclown's "audiences" and
each lime the Clown's magnetism had drawn him closer and the atmosphere of the
great cavern had affected him more profoundly. He didn't want his employer to
notice that.
After a moment’s contemplation Junnar went to the central glass panel which was
on the right and withdrew a small oblong box from his pocket. He put it close to
his mouth.
"Junnar," he said.
The panel slid back to reveal a black, empty shaft. There was a peculiar dancing
quality about the blackness. Junnar stepped into it and, instantaneously, was
opening the inner door of a cabinet. He walked out and the door closed behind
him. He was in a corridor lighted by windows that stretched from floor to
ceiling and showed in the distance the thick banks of summer cloud far below.
Immediately opposite him was a great door of red-timed chrome. It now opened
slightly.
In the big, beautiful room, two men awaited him. One was young, one was old;
both showed physical similarities, both appeared impatient.
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Junnar entered the room and dropped his cigarette into a disposal column.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said to the old man, and nodded to the young man.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Powys."
The old man spoke, his voice rich and resonant. "Well, Junnar, what’s happening
down there now?"
CHAPTER TWO
ALAN POWYS fingered the case of papers under his arm, studying his grandfather
and the painted Negro as they confronted one another. They made a strange pair.
Minister Simon Powys was tall and heavy without much obvious fat, but his face
was as grim and disturbing as an Easter Island god's. The leonine set of his
head was further enhanced by the flowing mane of white hair which reached almost
to his shoulders, hanging straight as if carved. He wore the standard purple
suit of a high-ranking cabinet minister-he was Minister for Space Transport, an
important office-pleated jacket, padded pantaloons, red stockings and white
pumps. His white shirt was open at the neck to reveal old but firm flesh, and on
his breast was a golden star, symbol of his rank.
Junnar was sighing and spreading his hands. "If you, Minister Powys, want to
stop him you should act now. His power increases daily. People are flocking to
him. He seems harmless, insofar as he doesn't appear to have any great political
ambitions, but his power could be used to threaten society's stability."
"Could be? I'm sure it will be." Minister Powys spoke heavily. "But can we
convince parliament of the danger? There's the irony."
"Probably not." Alan Powys spoke distantly, conscious of an outsider's presence.
He thought he glimpsed, momentarily, a strange expression on the Negro's face.
"Helen and that mob of rabble-rousers she calls a political party are only too
pleased to encourage him," Minister Powys grumbled. "Not to mention certain
members of the government who seem as fascinated by him as schoolgirls on their
first dates." He straightened his shoulders which were beginning to stoop with
old age. "There must be some way of showing them their mistake."
Alan Powys chose not to argue with his grandfather in Junnar’s presence.
Personally, however, he thought the old
man over-emphasized the Fireclown's importance. Perhaps Junnar sensed this, for
he said softly:
"The Fireclown has a certain ability to attract and hold interest. The most
unlikely people seem to have come under his spell. His magnetism is intense and
almost irresistible. Have you been to one of his 'audiences,' Mr. Powys?"
Alan shook his head.
"Then go to one-before you judge. Believe me, he has something. He's more than a
crank."
Alan wondered why the normally self-possessed and taciturn Negro should choose
to speak in this way. Perhaps one day he would attend a meeting. He certainly
was curious.
"Who is he, anyway?" Alan asked as his grandfather paced towards the window
comprising the outer wall of the room.
"No one knows," Junnar said. "His origins, like his theories, are obscure. He
will not tell anyone his real name. There are no records of his fingerprints at
Identity Center; he seems demented, but no mental hospital has heard of him.
Perhaps, as he says, he came down from the sun to save the world?"
"Don't be facetious, Junnar." Minister Powys pursed his lips, paused, then took
a long breath and said: "Who was down there today?"
"Vernitz, Chief of the China Police-he is in the city on a vacation and to
attend the Police Conference next Sixday. Martha Gheld, Professor of
Electrobiology at Tel Aviv. All the Persian representatives currently elected to
parliament ..."
"Including Isfahan?" Minister Powys was too well bred to shout, but there was
astonishment in his voice. Isfahan was the leader of the Solref faction in the
Solar House.
"Including all the Persian Solrefs, I'm afraid." Junnar nodded. "Not to mention
a number of Dutch, Swedish and Mexican party members."
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"We had advised our members not to take part in the Fireclown's farcical
'audiences' P'
"Doubtless they were all there on fact-finding missions," Alan interrupted, a
faint gleam in his eyes.
"Doubtless," Powys said grimly, choosing to ignore his grandson's irony.
"Your niece was there, too," Junnar said quietly.
"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
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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.
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"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."
"You've been to see Uncle Simon, then? Is he planning to use the information
against me in the election?"
"I don't think so-no."
She was evidently nervous. Her voice was shaking slightly. Probably his own was,
too. They had been very close-in love, even-and the break, when it had finally
come, had been made in anger. He had not been alone with her since.
"What do you think your chances are of winning it?"
She smiled. "Good."
"Yes, they seem to be."
"Will you be pleased?"
She knew very well that he wouldn't be. Her political ambitions had been the
main reason for their parting. Unlike all the rest of his family, including
remote cousins, he
had no interest in politics. Maybe, he thought with a return of his earlier
bitterness, Simon Powys had been right about his blood being inherited from his
unknown father. He shook his head, shrugging slightly, smiling vaguely.
"I-I don't know," he lied. Of course he would be disappointed if she won. He
hated the political side of her character. Whereas he had nothing against women
in politics-it would have been atavistic and unrealistic if he had ,an
objection-he felt that her talents lay elsewhere. Perhaps in the painting she no
longer had time for? She had been, : potentially, a very fine painter.
"It's time the Solar System had a shake-up," she said. "The Solrefs have been in
for too long."
"Probably," he said noncommittally. Then, desperate to get it over: "Why are you
here, Helen?"
"I wanted some help."
"What kind of help? Personal . . .?"
"No, of course not. Don't worry. When you said it was over I believed you. I’ve
still got the mark on my shoulder."
This had been on his conscience and her reference to it hurt him. He had struck
her on her shoulder, not really intending the blow to be hard, but it had been.
"I'm sorry about that..." he said stumblingly. "I didn't mean..." ;
"I know. I shouldn't have brought it up." She smiled and; said quickly:
"Actually, I want some information, Alan. I; know that you're politically
uncommitted, so I'm sure you won't mind giving it to me." . ;
"But I don't have any secrets, Helen. I'm not in that position-I'm only a civil
servant, you know that."
"It's not really a secret. All I want is some-what d'you call it?-advance
information."
"About what?"
"I heard a rumor that the City Council plans to close off the lower levels. Is
that true?" ;
"I really couldn't say, Helen." News was travelling fast.: Obviously an
indiscreet councilor had mentioned Simon Powys' letter to someone and this had
been the start of the rumor. On the other hand, his grandfather, when he told!
him of it, had understood that he would keep the old man's: confidence. He could
say nothing-though the truth would put paid to the rumor.
"But you're in City Administration. You must know. You'd be responsible for the
project, wouldn't you?"
"If such a project were to be carried out, yes. But I have: been told nothing
either by the City Council or my Director. I should ignore the rumor. Anyway,
why should it bother you?"
"Because if it's true it would be interesting to know which councilors backed
the motion, and who egged them on. The only man with sufficient power and a
great enough obsession is your grandfather-my uncle, Simon Powys!"
"How many Solar Referendum councilors are in the Council?" he asked vaguely. He
was smelling her perfume now. He remembered it with a sad nostalgia. This was
becoming too much to bear.
"There are five Solrefs, three RLMs, one independent Socialist and one
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Crespignite who slipped in somewhere on the pensioner's vote. Giving, if you are
so ignorant of simple politics, a majority to the Solrefs and virtual control of
the Council, since the Crespignite is bound to vote with them on nearly every
issue."
"So you want to tell the people that this hypothetical closing down of the lower
levels is a Solref plot-a blow to their liberty."
"My very words," she said with a kind of triumphant complacency.
He got up. "And you expect me to help you-to betray confidence, not to mention
giving my own grandfather's opponents extra ammunition-and let you know what the
City Council decides before it is made public? You're becoming foolish, Helen.
Politics must be addling your brains!"
"But it means nothing to you, anyway. You're .not interested in politics!"
"That's so. One of the reasons I’m not interested is because of the crookedness
that seems to get into the best of people-people who think any means to win
elections are fair! I’m not naive, Helen. I’m from the same family as you. I
grew up knowing politics. That's why I stay out of it!"
"Surely you don't support this victimization of the Fire-clown, Alan? He is a
simple, spontaneous .. ."
"I'm not interested in hearing a list of the Fireclown's virtues. And whether I
support any 'victimization,' as you call it, is of no importance. As a matter of
fact, I'm attracted to the Fireclown and consider him no danger at all. But it
seems to me that both you and Grandfather are using this man for your own
political ends, and I’ll have no part of it!" He paused, considering what he had
said, then added: "Finally, there has been no 'victimization,' and there isn't
likely to be!"
"That's what you think. I support the Fireclown for good reasons. His ambitions
and the ambitions of the RLM are linked. He wants to bring sanity and real life
back to this machine-ridden world. We want real values back again!"
"Oh, God!" He shook his head impatiently. "Helen, I've got a great deal of work
to do before I go to bed tonight."
"Very well. I have, too. If you reconsider . .."
"Even if there was a plot to arrest the Fireclown I wouldn't tell you so that
you could use it for political fuel, Helen." He suddenly found himself moving
towards her, gripping her arm. "Listen. Why get involved with this? You've got a
good chance of winning the election without indulging in dealings of this sort.
Wait until you're President, then you can make the Fireclown into a Solar Trust
if you like!"
"You can't understand," she said grimly, shaking herself free of his hand. "You
don't realize that you have to be comparatively ruthless when you know what
you're aiming for is right."
"Then I'm glad you know what's right," he said pityingly. "I'm bloody glad you
know. It's more than I do."
She left in silence and he went back to his chair, slumping down heavily and
feeling, with morose pleasure, that he had scored.
The mood didn't last long. By the time Stefanos came in to tell him his meal was
waiting for him he had sunk into a brooding, unconstructive melancholy.
Brusquely he told his manservant to eat the meal himself and then go out for the
rest of the evening.
"Thank you, sir," Stefanos said wonderingly, chewing his ridged underlip as he
left the room.
In this mood in which his confrontation of his ex-mistress had left him, Alan
felt incapable of work. The work was of little real importance anyway, routine
stuff which he had hoped to clear up before he took his vacation in two weeks'
time. He decided to go to bed, hoping that a good ten hours' sleep would help
him forget Helen.
He had reached the point where he felt he must see the mysterious figure for
himself, since so many matters seemed to be revolving around him all of a
sudden.
He walked into the darkened hall and ordered the light on. The light responded
to his voice and flooded the flat. The tiny escalator leading upstairs began to
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move, too, and he stepped on it, letting it carry him to the landing.
He went into his bedroom. It was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the flat-a
bed, a mellowlamp for reading, a small shelf of books, a wing on the headboard
of the bed for anything he cared to put there, and a concealed wardrobe. The air
was fresh from the ventilators, also hidden.
He took off his scarlet jacket and pants, told the wardrobe to open, told the
cleaning chute to open and dropped them
in. He selected a single-piece sleeping suit and moved
moodily to sit on the edge of the bed. Then he got up and went back to the
wardrobe, removed
an ordinary suit of street garments and put them on. Rapidly, feeling that he
should have taken something (with him-a weapon or a notebook or an alarm
signaller which would contact the police wherever he was-he left the flat and
took the fastway towards the elevators.
He was going to the lower levels. He was going to find the Fireclown.
CHAPTER THREE
HE WAS unreasoningly annoyed that the liveried operator should recognize him and
stare at him curiously as he was taken down to the forty-ninth level. In the
back of his mind he was thrilling to the experience, unremembered since boyhood,
of exploration. He had chosen nondescript clothes so that he might move about
incognito.
He was alone in the unmanned elevator as it dropped swiftly to the ninth level,
causing him the added excitement of being alone and virtually helpless against
danger. He stepped boldly into the ill-lit corridor
named-incongruously-Orangeblossom Road, and then advanced cautiously until he
saw a sign which read: Escalators (down) five levels.
He rode the escalators into the chilly depths of the City of Switzerland,
feeling as if he were descending into some frozen Hell and at the same time
making a mental note that if people were, indeed, inhabiting the lower levels,
then City Administration should, out of humanity, do something about the heating
arrangements.
He wished he had some warmer clothing, but that would have meant applying to
Garment Center, since he rarely went outside save on vacation, and then all
necessary apparel was supplied.
But as he advanced deeper he became aware of a growing warmth and a thick,
unpleasant smell that he gradually recognized as being, predominantly, the smell
of human perspiration. In spite of his revulsion he sniffed it curiously.
As he walked slowly down the ramp leading to the notorious first level, reputed
to be the haunt of undesirables well before the Fireclown first made his
appearance, he saw with a slight shock that the light, was dancing and had an
unusual quality about it. As he drew closer his excitement increased. Naked
flame! The light came from a great, burning torch which also gave off
uncontrolled heat!
He approached it as close as he dared and stared at it, marveling. He had seen
recordings of the phenomenon, but this was the first time ... He withdrew
hastily as the heat produced sweat from his forehead, walking along a corridor
that reminded him, with its dancing, naked light, of the fairyland of his
childhood fantasies. On reflection, he decided it was more like the ogre's
castle, but so delighted was he by this wholly new experience that he forgot
caution for a while. It only returned as he rounded another corner and saw that
the roof was actually composed of living rock, so moist that it dripped
condensed water!
Alan Powys was not an unsophisticated young man, yet this was so remote from his
everyday experience that he could not immediately absorb it on any intellectual
level.
From ahead came sounds-the sounds of excited human voices. He had expected a
vast conclave of some description, but he heard only a few people, and they were
conversing. Occasionally, as he drew nearer, he heard a reverberating laugh
which seemed to him so full of delighted and profound humor that he wished he
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knew the joke so that he could join in. If this was the Fireclown's famous
laughter, then it did not strike him as at all insane.
Still, he told himself, keeping in the shadows, there were many forms of
madness.
A cave came into view on his right. He hugged the left-hand wall and inched
forward, his heart pounding.
The cave appeared to turn at a right-angle so that he could only see the light
coming from it, but now he could make out fragments of words and phrases. At
intervals there came a spluttering eruption of green light and each time he was
caught in the flare.
"... shape it into something we can control..."
"... no good, if s only a hint of what we might..."
"... your eyeshield back. I’m going to ..."
A hissing eruption and a tongue of green flame seemed to turn the bend in the
cave and come flickering like an angry cobra towards Alan. He gasped and stepped
back as the roaring laughter followed the eruption. Had he been seen?
No. The conversation was continuing, the pitch of the voices now high with
excitement.
He crossed the corridor swiftly and stood in the mouth of the cave, straining
his ears to make out what they were talking about.
Then he felt a delicate touch on his arm and heard a whispering voice say: "I'm
afraid you can't go in there. Private, you know."
He turned slowly and was horrified at the apparition that still touched his arm.
He withdrew, nauseated.
The horrible figure- laughed softly. "Serves you right. They could keep me just
to stop people nosing around!"
"I didn't know you had any kind of secrecy," Alan babbled. "I really do
apologize if.. ."
"We welcome visitors, but we prefer to invite them. You don't mind?" The
skinless man nodded towards the corridor. Alan backed into it, forcing himself
to ignore the bile in his throat, forcing himself to look at the creature
without obvious revulsion-but it was difficult.
Flesh, veins and sinews shone on his body as if the whole outer covering had
been peeled off. How could he move? How could he appear so calm?
"My skin's synthetic-but transparent. Something in it takes the place of
pigment. They haven't worked out a way of giving the stuff pigmentation yet-I
was lucky enough to be the guinea-pig. I could use cosmetics, but I don't. My
name's Corso. I'm the Fireclown's^ trusty henchman and deal with anyone
interested in corning to his audiences. You arrived at the wrong time. We had
one this afternoon."
Obviously Corso was used to random explorers, particularly those curious about"
the Fireclown. Deciding to play his part in the role Corso had mistakenly given
him, Alan looked down at the floor.
"Oh, I’m sorry. When's the next one?"
"Day after tomorrow."
"I can come then?"
"Very welcome."
Alan turned to retrace his way.
"See you then," said the skinless man.
When Alan turned the corner of the corridor he had to lean against the wall for
some moments before he could continue. Too many unexpected shocks this evening,
he told himself.
As he began to recover his composure his curiosity started to operate again.
What was going on? From what he had seen and heard, the Fireclown and a group of
his friends were conducting some sort of laboratory experiment-and Corso, the
skinless man, had been left on guard to turn pryers away.
Well, everyone had a right to their privacy. But his curiosity came close to
overwhelming him. He began to return towards the cave when a soft voice that he
recognized said:
"It wouldn't be wise. If you went back a second time Corso would know you were
no innocent would-be initiate."
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file:///G|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Michael%20Moorcock%20-%20The%20Winds%2of%20Limbo.txtTheWindsofLimboTheWindsofLimboByMichaelMoorcockWhentheFireclownspoke,promisingsalvationandlifetothedyingplanet,hislistenerstrembled.Whatwasthesecretofhishypnoticpower?DidheplantosaveEarthforallmankind-ortomakei...

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