Walton shrugged and opened the next letter, typed in a crisp voicewrite
script on crinkly watermarked paper.
_Sir_:
_I see by the papers that the latest euthanasia figures are the
highest yet, and that you have successfully rid the world of many
of its weak sisters, those who are unable to stand the gaff, those
who, in the words of the immortal Darwin "are not fit to survive."
My heartiest congratulations, sir, upon the scope and ambition of
your bold and courageous program. Your Bureau offers mankind its
first real chance to enter that promised land, that Utopia, that
has been our hope and prayer for so long._
_I do sincerely hope, though, that your Bureau is devoting careful
thought to the type of citizen that should be spared. It seems
obvious that the myriad spawning Asiatics should be reduced
tremendously, since their unchecked proliferation has caused such
great hardship to humanity. The same might be said of the Europeans
who refuse to obey the demands of sanity; and, coming closer to
home, I pray you reduce the numbers of Jews, Catholics, Communists,
anti-Herschelites, and other freethinking rabble, in order to make
the new reborn world purer and cleaner and ..._
With a sickly cough Walton put the letter down. Most of them were just
this sort: intelligent, rational, bigoted letters. There had been the
educated Alabamian, disturbed that Popeek did not plan to eliminate all
forms of second-class citizens; there had been the Michigan minister,
anxious that no left-wing relativistic atheists escape the gas chamber.
And, of course, there were the other kind--the barely literate letters
from bereaved parents or relatives, accusing Popeek of nameless crimes
against humanity.
Well, it was only to be expected, Walton thought. He scribbled his
initials on both the letters and dropped them into the chute that led
to files, where they would be put on microfilm and scrupulously stored
away. FitzMaugham insisted that every letter received be read and so
filed.
Some day soon, Walton thought, population equalization would be
unnecessary. Oh, sure, euthanasia would stick; it was a sane and, in
the long run, merciful process. But this business of uprooting a few
thousand Belgians and shipping them to the open spaces in Patagonia
would cease.
Lang and his experimenters were struggling to transform Venus into a
livable world. If it worked, the terraforming engineers could go on to
convert Mars, the bigger moons of Jupiter and Saturn, and perhaps even
distant Pluto, if some form of heating could be developed.
There would be another transition then. Earth's multitudes would be
shipped wholesale to the new worlds. Perhaps there would be riots; none
but a few adventurers would go willingly. But some would go, and that
would be a partial solution.
And then, the stars. The faster-than-light project was top secret, so
top secret that in Popeek only FitzMaugham knew what was being done on
it. But if it came through....
Walton shrugged and turned back to his work. Reports had to be read,
filed, expedited.
The thought of Fred and what Fred knew bothered him. If only there
were some way to relive this morning, to let the Prior baby go to the
chamber as it deserved....
Tension pounded in him. He slipped a hand into his desk, fumbled, found
the green, diamond-shaped pellet he was searching for, and swallowed
the benzolurethrin almost unthinkingly. The tranquilizer was only
partly successful in relaxing him, but he was able to work steadily,
without a break, until noon.
He was about to dial for lunch when the private screen he and
FitzMaugham used between their offices glowed into life.
"Roy?"
The director's face looked impossibly tranquil.
"Sir?"
"I'm going to have a visitor at 1300. Ludwig. He wants to know how
things are going."
Walton nodded. Ludwig was the head American delegate to the United
Nations, a stubborn, dedicated man who had fought Popeek for years;
then he had seen the light and had fought just as strenuously for its
adoption. "Do you want me to prepare a report for him?" Walton asked.
"No, Roy. I want you to be here. I don't want to face him alone."
"Sir?"
"Some of the UN people feel I'm running Popeek as a one-man show,"
FitzMaugham explained. "Of course, that's not so, as that mountain of
work on your desk testifies. But I want you there as evidence of the
truth. I want him to see how much I have to rely on my assistants."
"I get it. Very good, Mr. FitzMaugham."
"And another thing," the Director went on. "It'll help appearances if
I show myself surrounded with loyal young lieutenants of impeccable
character. Like you, Roy."
"Thank you, sir," Walton said weakly.
"Thank _you_. See you at 1300 sharp, then?"
"Of course, sir."
The screen went dead. Walton stared at it blankly. He wondered if this
were some elaborate charade of the old man's; FitzMaugham was devious
enough. That last remark, about loyal young lieutenants of impeccable
character ... it had seemed to be in good faith, but was it? Was
FitzMaugham staging an intricate pretense before deposing his faithless
protégé?
Maybe Fred had something to do with it, Walton thought. He decided
to have another session with the computer after his conference with
FitzMaugham and Ludwig. Perhaps it still wasn't too late to erase the
damning data and cover his mistake.
Then it would be just his word against Fred's. He might yet be able to
brazen through, he thought dully.
He ordered lunch with quivering fingers, and munched drearily on the
tasteless synthetics for awhile before dumping them down the disposal
chute.