The odd part of it, Walton thought, was that there was absolutely
nothing he could do.
He could call Sellors and give him a roasting for not guarding his
office properly, but that wouldn't restore the missing portfolio.
He could send out a general alarm, and thereby let the world know that
there was such a thing as Lamarre's formula. That would be catastrophic.
Walton slammed the cabinet shut and spun the lock. Then, heavily,
he dropped into his chair and rested his head in his arms. All the
jubilation of a few moments before had suddenly melted into dull
apprehension.
Suspects? Just two--Lamarre, and Fred. Lamarre because he was obvious;
Fred because he was likely to do anything to hurt his brother.
"Give me Sellors in security," Walton said quietly.
Sellors' bland face appeared on the screen. He blinked at the sight of
Walton, causing Walton to wonder just how ghastly his own appearance
was; even with the executive filter touching up the transmitted image,
sprucing him up and falsifying him for the public benefit, he probably
looked dreadful.
"Sellors, I want you to send out a general order for a Dr. Lamarre.
You'll find his appearance recorded on the entrance tapes for today;
he came to see me earlier. The first name is--ah--Elliot. T. Elliot
Lamarre, gerontologist. I don't know where he lives."
"What should I do when I find him, sir?"
"Bring him here at once. And if you catch him at home, slap a seal
on his door. He may be in possession of some very important secret
documents."
"Yes, sir."
"And get hold of the doorsmith who repaired my office door; I want the
lock calibration changed at once."
"Certainly, sir."
The screen faded. Walton turned back to his desk and busied himself in
meaningless paper work, trying to keep himself from thinking.
A few moments later the screen brightened again. It was Fred.