"Floor twenty-three, sir. Communications."
"Tell them I'll be right down," Walton snapped.
He caught a lift tube and arrived on the twenty-third floor moments
later. No sooner had the tube door opened than he sprang out, dodging
around a pair of startled technicians, and sprinted down the corridor
toward communications.
Here throbbed the network that held the branches of Popeek together.
From here the screens were powered, the annunciators were linked, the
phones connected.
Walton pushed open a door marked _Communications Central_ and
confronted four busy engineers who were crowded around a complex
receiving mechanism.
"Where's that space message?" he demanded of the sallow young engineer
who approached him.
"Still coming in, sir. They're repeating it over and over. We're
triangulating their position now. Somewhere near the orbit of Pluto,
Mr. Walton."
"Devil with that. Where's the message?"
Someone handed him a slip of paper. It said, _Calling Earth. Urgent
call, top urgency, crash urgency. Will communicate only with D. F.
FitzMaugham._
"This all it is?" Walton asked. "No signature, no ship name?"
"That's right, Mr. Walton."
"Okay. Find them in a hurry and send them a return message. Tell them
FitzMaugham's dead and I'm his successor. Mention me by name."
"Yes, sir."
He stamped impatiently around the lab while they set to work beaming
the message into the void. Space communication was a field that dazzled
and bewildered Walton, and he watched in awe as they swung into
operation.
Time passed. "You know of any ships supposed to be in that sector?" he
asked someone.
"No, sir. We weren't expecting any calls except from Lang on Venus--"
The technician gasped, realizing he had made a slip, and turned pale.
"That's all right," Walton assured him. "I'm the director, remember? I
know all about Lang."
"Of course, sir."
"Here's a reply, sir," another of the nameless, faceless technicians
said. Walton scanned it.
It read, _Hello Walton. Request further identification before we
report. McL._
A little shudder of satisfaction shook Walton at the sight of the
initialed _McL._ at the end of the message. That could mean only
McLeod--and _that_ could mean only one thing: the experimental starship
had returned!
Walton realized depressedly that this probably implied that they
hadn't found any Earth-type worlds among the stars. McLeod's note to
FitzMaugham had said they would search for a year, and would return
home at the end of that time if they had no success. And just about a
year had elapsed.
He said, "Send this return message: McLeod, Nairobi, X-72.
Congratulations! Walton."
The technician vanished again, leaving Walton alone. He gazed moodily
at the complex maze of equipment all around him, listened to the steady
_tick-tick_ of the communication devices, strained his ears to pick up
fragments of conversation from the men.
After what seemed like an hour, the technician returned. "There's a
message coming through now, sir. We're decoding it as fast as we can."
"Make it snappy," Walton said. His watch read 1429. Only twenty minutes
had passed since he had gone down there.
A grimy sheet of paper was thrust under his nose. He read it:
_Hello Walton, this is McLeod. Happy to report that experimental
ship X-72 is returning home with all hands in good shape, after
a remarkable one-year cruise of the galaxy. I feel like Ulysses
returning to Ithaca, except we didn't have such a hard time of it._
_I imagine you'll be interested in this: we found a perfectly
lovely and livable world in the Procyon system. No intelligent life
at all, and incredibly fine climate. Pity old FitzMaugham couldn't
have lived to hear about it. Be seeing you soon. McLeod._
Walton's hands were still shaking as he pressed the actuator that would
let him back into his office. He would have to call another meeting of
the section chiefs again, to discuss the best method of presenting this
exciting news to the world.
For one thing, they would have to explain away FitzMaugham's failure
to reveal that the X-72 had been sent out over a year ago. That could
be easily handled.
Then, there would have to be a careful build-up: descriptions of the
new world, profiles of the heroes who had found it, etcetera. Someone
was going to have to work out a plan for emigration ... unless the
resourceful FitzMaugham had already drawn up such a plan and stowed it
in Files for just this anticipated day.
And then, perhaps Lamarre could be called back now, and allowed to
release his discovery. Plans buzzed in Walton's mind: in the event that
people proved reluctant to leave Earth and conquer an unknown world,
no matter how tempting the climate, it might be feasible to dangle
immortality before them--to restrict Lamarre's treatment to volunteer
colonists, or something along that line. There was plenty of time to
figure that out, Walton thought.
He stepped into his office and locked the door behind him. A glow of
pleasure surrounded him; for once it seemed that things were heading in
the right direction. He was happy, in a way, that FitzMaugham was no
longer in charge. Now, with mankind on the threshold of--
Walton blinked. _Did I leave that file drawer open when I left the
office?_ he wondered. He was usually more cautious than that.
The file was definitely open now, as were the two cabinets adjoining
it. Numbly he swung the cabinet doors wider, peered into the shadows,
groped inside.
The drawers containing the documents pertaining to terraforming and to
McLeod's space drive seemed intact. But the cabinet in which Walton had
placed Lamarre's portfolio--that cabinet was totally empty!
_Someone's been in here_, he thought angrily. And then the anger
changed to agony as he remembered what had been in Lamarre's portfolio,
and what would happen if that formula were loosed indiscriminately in
the world.