"Official business!"
"Really, Roy?" His brother's tone was venomous. "I happened to
be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was
curious--unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of
your conversation with the machine."
Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.
He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and
say, "That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek
computer outlet is confidential."
"Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,
Roy?"
"How much do you know?"
"You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,
would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of
this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton
doesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble--oh, no!"
"Thanks for small blessings," Roy said acidly.
"You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,
shall we?"
"Anything you like," Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though
the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen
cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. "I have some
work to do now." His voice was barely audible.
"I won't keep you any longer, then," Fred said.
The screen went dead.
Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He
nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass
cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.
_Idiot!_ he thought. _Fool!_
He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed
to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew--the old man could see
through Walton with ease--and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his
father-substitute.
FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,
but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for
Fred....
There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been
particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now
almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their
parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had
been sent to the public crèche.
After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an
education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's private
secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant
administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,
unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section
of Popeek, thanks to Roy.
_And now he has the upper hand for the first time_, Walton thought. _I
hope he's not thirsting for my scalp._
He was being ground in a vise; he saw now the gulf between the
toughness needed for a Popeek man and the very real streak of softness
that was part of his character. Walton suddenly realized that he had
never merited his office. His only honorable move would be to offer his
resignation to FitzMaugham at once.
He thought back, thought of the Senator saying, _This is a job for a
man with no heart. Popeek is the cruelest organization ever legislated
by man. You think you can handle it, Roy?_
_I think so, sir. I hope so._
He remembered going on to declare some fuzzy phrases about the need
for equalization, the immediate necessity for dealing with Earth's
population problem.
_Temporary cruelty is the price of eternal happiness_, FitzMaugham had
said.
Walton remembered the day when the United Nations had finally
agreed, had turned the Population Equalization Bureau loose on a
stunned world. There had been the sharp flare of flash guns, the
clatter of reporters feeding the story to the world, the momentary
high-mindedness, the sense of the nobility of Popeek....
And then the six weeks of gathering hatred. No one liked Popeek. No one
liked to put antiseptic on wounds, either, but it had to be done.
Walton shook his head sorrowfully. He had made a serious mistake by
saving Philip Prior. But resigning his post was no way to atone for it.
He opaqued the window again and returned to his desk. It was time to go
through the mail.
The first letter on the stack was addressed to him by hand; he slit it
open and scanned it.
_Dear Mr Walton_,
_Yesterday your men came and took away my mother to be kild. She
didn't do nothing and lived a good life for seventy years and I want
you to know I think you people are the biggest vermin since Hitler
and Stalin and when youre old and sick I hope your own men come for
you and stick you in the furnace where you belong. You stink and
all of you stink._