So far, apart from the policeman he had questioned, they had had no indication of his target. He would now be taking his biggest chance to date: approaching the moguls’ flying platform. If he could once step aboard that floating palace to…
And there it was ahead.
The silver sheen dazzled. Tower after tower, pinnacle after spire and dome and raking many-windowed block. The whole vast edifice was contained in his field of vision like a flawless gem. As he approached, the size of it began to make itself felt; the edges crept away, the tips of the spires and the lowest landing stages lining the skirt, expanded out. This single enormous platform was a complete floating city, half a mile up in the sky.
He’d have to land aboard a stage and go through into some sort of lock; air problems had at this height cropped up. He put the car straight at a yellow-painted lock above which a green light cycled on one-second intervals. Two or three other cars were waiting. Caradine had studied the car controls and when the radio called harshly for his identification, he merely flipped the right switch and his robot broadcaster sent out his car registration and his name.
On his turn the radio said: “Come in, please, P.A. Swarfh-out.”
So they were polite to a Personal Assistant. Useful. He was growing worried over the lack of confusion he had been creating. Slugging a few inoffensive civilians counted for nothing up here. He remembered the familiar package Napier had slipped into his jacket, and felt comforted.
The car touched down on the pad and robots seized it and drew it through the valves. Inside the vaulted lock brilliant lights blazed, white paint was everywhere, and noises boomed magnified as though in a drum. There was also a reception committee.
They were no surprise to Caradine. Good luck did not necessarily extend to his picking the right airlock for Swarth-out’s car out of all the locks available. The big question mark now hanging over his head was: Would they shoot first and not bother about the questions?
Up here he was dealing with a different order of authority from that sprawling on the planetary surface. There were uniformed men with guns everywhere. They merely waved his car to a lay-by and closed in on it. Caradine took Napier’s little toy out, opened the door, and tossed one of the grenades. Then he fell flat on the floor of the car, shut his eyes and stuffed arms and hands over head and ears.
The fire, the concussion and the nerve-flash were excruciating.
Even with the protection afforded his nerves by Napier’s pack, from which he had thrown one grenade, he felt that torturing jolt of agony. What those poor devils out there were going through—well, that was no business of his now.
He jumped briskly out of the car, ran through the swathes of unconscious bodies, all smartly uniformed, to the exit. Their nerves would be a jangling hell for twelve hours. After that they could report for duty perfectly fit. Caradine put a hand down to the nerve-protection pack and the remaining grenades. They would have to be used sparingly.
So far he hadn’t run across the use of nerve-grenades since leaving Earth; but anything could be hidden away up here in a floating palace half a mile high. And in that stilt-supported wonderland he had to do just a little more damage and create just a little more mayhem, before the moguls would take notice of him as his merits deserved. Ahead stretched white-painted, brilliantly lit corridors. He ran fleetly down the first to hand.
At the end he debouched from an ornate archway into a wide phantasmagoric plaza. Broad cool lawns stretched on either hand, their borders banked and surrounded by immense tiers of exotic flowers. A single crystal sweep of dome covered everything and contained within its artificial environment air and light, water and heat. Caradine thought he could see the plants growing as he raced along.
Enormous statues of every age reared in clumps, lines and avenues. Bright birds flitted, and furry, long-legged animals with jeweled chains paced among the blooms. The scent of flowers was heady and betraying.
Perhaps, one of those weakening and betraying thoughts struck wickedly at Caradine’s ego, perhaps he thought too much of himself? Was he putting too high a premium on his life and abilities? Would the moguls care at all?
He had to find people. Crowds were safety. The plaza was deserted.
His heart was thumping and his breath came faster by now. So near, so terribly near. He must keep cool. Keep his wits and courage steady, find a crowd, and everything could go on from there. He ran on, swerving to avoid a wandering herd of camels, almost collided with a solemnly pacing pair of elephants, and so came, hot and sticky, into a paved road and the miraculous sight of masses of men and women, all brightly clothed, passing and repassing tall-windowed white buildings lining a boulevard. He slipped in among the crowd, slowed down, and got his breath back.
Two scarlet-uniformed policemen closed in, one on each side. They were very polite, smooth, supercilious and yet perfectly civil. Caradine smiled.
“You do not appear dressed correctly for today,” the taller said. “This is comedy day, as ordained by the high mogul. Will you please come with us, sir.”
No asking for passes. No brandishing of guns. Just a couple of quiet men in uniform, the breaking of a law, and the polite request. Caradine went.
Word could not yet have been passed through. He still had to hurry, but he had the saving grace of five minutes.
At the first intersection Caradine stopped and said: “My comedy clothes are down here. I just didn’t have time to change.”
They looked. It was natural. Caradine casually began to walk down the intersection. After a slight pause, the two policemen followed. The nearest doorway just had to do. Caradine found it, turned in as though he owned the place, gave the large cool lobby a single swift glance—empty-turned and struck the leading policeman on the jaw. He caught the second as the riot-call button almost went down under a frantic finger. Whew! A near one.
The chance now was whether to don the scarlet uniform or to carry on in Swarthout’s clothes—ordinary clothes on a day ordained as comedy day. Hmm. The uniform seemed to be the better bet. Caradine humped the likelier of the two men into the robotically controlled elevator and went back for the other. On the way up to a randomly selected floor, he changed. On the way down he dealt with the policemen, binding and gagging them and then pushing them into an air-conditioning room off the main passage. One good thing about comedy day: everybody was on the streets.
The next half hour was rather amusing.
No sooner had he stepped out onto the streets than a large scarlet car swooped down, an imperious voice ordered him aboard, and he was sitting with twenty other scarlet-clad policemen, going hell-for-Ieather to arrest himself.
He quite enjoyed following orders, going here, standing guard there, gruffly asking people for passes—the gloves were off now and the politeness gone—at last being called with very many others to report to a central point. The car took them there en masse. He guessed that by this time Horakah police administration was in a chaotic state, divisions and authorities hopelessly entangled so that he could pass as just another man from another section, mixed up with many other sections’ detachments. The car landed on a covered roof and sliding doors closed.
Well, he’d managed it at last. He quickly found from the men around him that this was the kingpin building, the lair of the moguls. His opinion of them had been steadily sinking all during his smoke and dazzle operations. Even a badly organized planet should have caught him by now. That these people hadn’t had caused him troubles, so that in this instance it seemed he had to go to them himself.