"Why?"
"I know something about you that wouldn't look good if it came out
in the open. Something that would get you bounced out of your high
position in a flash."
"Not fast enough to stop me from setting the wheels going. My successor
would continue the job of rooting out your league of landed gentry."
"I doubt that," Fred said calmly. "I doubt it very much--because _I'm_
going to be your successor."
X
Crosscurrents of fear ran through Walton. He said, "What are you
talking about?"
Fred folded his arms complacently. "I don't think it comes as news to
you that I broke into your office this morning while you were out. It
was very simple: when I installed the lock, I built in a canceling
circuit that would let me walk in whenever I pleased. And this morning
I pleased. I was hoping to find something I could use as immediate
leverage against you, but I hadn't expected anything as explosive as
the portfolio in the left-hand cabinet.
"Where is it?"
Fred grinned sharply. "The contents of that portfolio are now in very
safe keeping, Roy. Don't bluster and don't threaten, because it won't
work. I took precautions."
"And--"
"And you know as well as I what would happen if that immortality serum
got distributed to the good old man in the street," Fred said. "For one
thing, there'd be a glorious panic. That would solve your population
problem for, a while, with millions killed in the rush. But after
that--where would you equalize, with every man and woman on Earth
living forever, and producing immortal children?"
"We don't know the long-range effects yet--"
"Don't temporize. You damned well know it'd be the biggest upheaval the
world has ever seen." Fred paused. "My employers," he said, "are in
possession of the Lamarre formulas now."
"And with great glee are busy making themselves immortals."
"No. They don't trust the stuff, and won't use it until it's been
tried on two or three billion guinea pigs. Human ones."
"They're not planning to release the serum, are they?" Walton gasped.
"Not immediately," Fred said. "In exchange for certain concessions
on your part, they're prepared to return Lamarre's portfolio to you
without making use of it."
"Concessions? Such as what?"
"That you refrain from declaring their private lands open territory for
equalization. That you resign your post as interim director. That you
go before the General Assembly and recommend me as your successor."
"_You?_"
"Who else is best fitted to serve the interests I represent?"
Walton leaned back, his face showing a mirth he scarcely felt. "Very
neat, Fred. But full of holes. First thing, what assurance have I that
your wealthy friends won't keep a copy of the Lamarre formula and use
it as a bludgeon in the future against anyone they don't agree with?"
"None," Fred admitted.
"Naturally. What's more, suppose I refuse to give in and your employers
release the serum to all and sundry. Who gets hurt? Not me; I live in a
one-room box myself. But they'll be filling the world with billions and
billions of people. Their beloved estates will be overrun by the hungry
multitudes, whether they like it or not. And no fence will keep out a
million hungry people."
"This is a risk they recognize," Fred said.
Walton smiled triumphantly. "You mean they're bluffing! They know they
don't dare release that serum, and they think they can get me out of
the way and you, their puppet, into office by making menacing noises.
All right. I'll call their bluff."
"You mean you refuse?"
"Yes," Walton said. "I have no intention of resigning my interim
directorship, and when the Assembly convenes I'm going to ask for the
job on a permanent basis. They'll give it to me."
"And my evidence against you? The Prior baby?"
"Hearsay. Propaganda. I'll laugh it right out of sight."
"Try laughing off the serum, Roy. It won't be so easy as all that."
"I'll manage," Walton said tightly. He crossed the room and jabbed down
on the communicator stud. The screen lit; the wizened face of the tiny
servitor appeared.
"Sir?"
"Fulks, would you show this gentleman out of my chamber, please? He has
no further wish to remain with me."
"Right away, Mr. Walton."
"Before you throw me out," Fred said, "let me tell you one more thing."
"Go ahead."
"You're acting stupidly--though that's nothing new for you, Roy. I'll
give you a week's grace to make up your mind. Then the serum goes into
production."
"My mind is made up," Walton said stiffly. The door telescoped and
Fulks stood outside. He smiled obsequiously at Walton, bowed to Fred,
and said to him, "Would you come with me, please?"
* * * * *
It was like one of those dreams, Walton thought, in which you were a
butler bringing dishes to the table, and the tray becomes obstinately
stuck to your fingertips and refuses to be separated; or in which the
Cavendishes are dining in state and you come to the table nude; or in
which you float downward perpetually with never a sign of bottom.
There never seemed to be any way out. Force opposed force and he seemed
doomed always to be caught in the middle.
Angrily he snapped the kaleidoscope back on and let its everchanging
swirl of color distract him. But in the depth of the deepest violet he
kept seeing his brother's mocking face.
He summoned Fulks.
The gnome looked up at him expectantly. "Get me a jetcopter," Walton
ordered. "I'll be waiting on the west stage for it."
"Very good, sir."
Fulks never had any problems, Walton reflected sourly. The little man
had found his niche in life; he spent his days in the plush comfort of
the Bronze Room, seeing to the wants of the members. Never any choices
to make, never any of the agonizing decisions that complicated life.
Decisions. Walton realized that one particular decision had been made
for him, that of seeking the directorship permanently. He had not been
planning to do that. Now he had no choice but to remain in office as
long as he could.
He stepped out onto the landing stage and into the waiting jetcopter.
"Cullen Building," he told the robopilot abstractedly.
He did not feel very cheerful.
* * * * *
The annunciator panel in Walton's office was bright as a Christmas
tree; the signal bulbs were all alight, each representing someone
anxious to speak to him. He flipped over the circuit-breaker,
indicating he was back in his office, and received the first call.
It was from Lee Percy. Percy's thick features were wrinkled into a
smile. "Just heard that speech you made outside the building this
morning, Roy. It's getting a big blare on the newsscreens. Beautiful!
Simply beautiful! Couldn't have been better if we'd concocted it
ourselves."
"Glad you like it," Walton said. "It really was off the cuff."
"Even better, then. You're positively a genius. Say, I wanted to tell
you that we've got the FitzMaugham memorial all whipped up and ready to
go. Full channel blast tonight over all media at 2000 sharp ... a solid
hour block. Nifty. Neat."
"Is my speech in the program?"
"Sure is, Roy. A slick one, too. Makes two speeches of yours blasted in
a single day."
"Send me a transcript of my speech before it goes on the air," Walton
said. "I want to read and approve that thing if it's supposed to be
coming out of my mouth."
"It's a natural, Roy. You don't have to worry."
"_I want to read it beforehand!_" Walton snapped.
"Okay, okay. Don't chew my ears off. I'll ship it to you posthaste,
man. Ease up. Pop a pill. You aren't loose, Roy."
"I can't afford to be," Walton said.
He broke contact and almost instantly the next call blossomed on the
screen. Walton recognized the man as one of the technicians from
communications, floor twenty-three.
"Well?"
"We heard from McLeod again, sir. Message came in half an hour ago and
we've been trying to reach you ever since."
"I wasn't in. Give me the message."
The technician unfolded a slip of paper. "It says, 'Arriving Nairobi
tonight, will be in New York by morning. McLeod.'"
"Good. Send him confirmation and tell him I'll keep the entire morning
free to see him."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh--anything from Venus?"
The technician shook his head emphatically. "Not a peep. We can't make
contact with Dr. Lang at all."
Walton frowned. He wondered what was happening to the terraforming
crew up there. "Keep trying, will you? Work a twenty-four-hour-a-day
schedule. Draw extra pay. But get in touch with Lang, dammit!"
"Y-yes, sir. Anything else?"
"No. Get off the line."
As the contact snapped Walton smoothly broke connection again, leaving
ten more would-be callers sputtering. A row of lights a foot long
indicated their presence on the line. Walton ignored them and turned
instead to his newsscreen.
The 1400 news was on. He fiddled with the controls and saw his own face
take form on the screen. He was standing outside the Cullen Building,
looking right out of the screen at himself, and in the background could
be seen a huddled form under a coat. The dead Herschelite.
Walton of the screen was saying, "... The man was asking for trouble.
Popeek represents the minds and hearts of the world. Herschel and his
people seek to overthrow this order. I can't condone violence of any
sort, naturally, but Popeek is a sacred responsibility to me. Its
enemies I must regard as blind and misguided people."
He was smiling into the camera, but there was something behind the
smile, something cold and steely, that astonished the watching Walton.
_My God_, he thought. _Is that genuine? Have I really grown so hard?_
Apparently he had. He watched himself turn majestically and stride
into the Cullen Building, stronghold of Popeek. There was definitely a
commanding air about him.
The commentator was saying, "With those heartfelt words, Director
Walton goes to his desk in the Cullen Building to carry out his weighty
task. To bring life out of death, joy out of sadness--this is the
job facing Popeek, and this is the sort of man to whom it has been
entrusted. Roy Walton, we salute you!"
The screen panned to a still of Director FitzMaugham. "Meanwhile," the
commentator went on, "Walton's predecessor, the late D. F. FitzMaugham,
went to his rest today. Police are still hoping to uncover the group
responsible for his brutal slaying, and report a good probability of
success. Tonight all channels will carry a memorial program for this
great leader of humanity. D. F. FitzMaugham, hail and farewell!"
A little sickened, Walton snapped the set off. He had to admire Lee
Percy; the propaganda man had done his job well. With a minor assist
from Walton by way of a spontaneous speech, Percy had contrived to gain
vast quantities of precious air time for Popeek. All to the good.
The annunciator was still blinking violently; it seemed about to
explode with the weight of pent-up, frustrated calls. Walton nudged a
red stud at the top and Security Chief Sellors entered the screen.
"Sellors, sir. We've been looking for this Lamarre. Can't find him
anywhere."
"What?"
"We checked him to his home. He got there, all right. Then he
disappeared. No sign of him anywhere in the city. What now, sir?"
Walton felt his fingers quivering. "Order a tracer sent out through
all of Appalachia. No, cancel that--make it country-wide. Beam his
description everywhere. Got any snaps?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get them on the air. Tell the country this man is vital to global
security. Find him, Sellors."
"We'll give it a try."
"Better than that. You'll _find_ him. If he doesn't turn up within
eight hours, shift the tracer to world-wide. He might be anywhere--and
he has to be found!"
Walton blanked the screen and avoided the next caller. He called his
secretary and said, "Will you instruct everyone now calling me to refer
their business downstairs to Assistant Administrator Eglin. If they
don't want to do that, tell them to put it in writing and send it to
me. I can't accept any more calls just now." Then he added, "Oh, put me
through to Eglin myself before you let any of those calls reach him."
* * * * *
Eglin's face appeared on the private screen that linked the two
offices. The small man looked dark-browed and harried. "This is a hell
of a job, Roy," he sighed.
"So is mine," Walton said. "Look, I've got a ton of calls on the wire,
and I'm transferring them all down to you. Throw as many as you can
down to the subordinates. It's the only way to keep your sanity."
"Thanks. Thanks loads, Roy. All I need now is some more calls."
"Can't be helped. Who'd you pick for your replacement as director of
field agents?" Walton asked.
"Lassen. I sent his dossier to you hours ago."
"Haven't read it yet. Is he on the job already?"
"Sure. He's been there since I moved up here," Eglin said. "What--"
"Never mind," said Walton. He hung up and called Lassen, the new
director of field agents.
Lassen was a boyish-looking young man with stiff sandy hair and a
sternly efficient manner. Walton said, "Lassen, I want you to do a job
for me. Get one of your men to make up a list of the hundred biggest
private estates still unequalized. I want the names of their owners,
location of the estates, acreage, and things like that. Got it?"
"Right. When will you want it, Mr. Walton?"
"Immediately. But I don't want it to be a sloppy job. This is top
important, double."
Lassen nodded. Walton grinned at him--the boy seemed to be in good
control of himself--and clicked off.
He realized that he'd been engaged in half a dozen high-power
conversations without a break, over a span of perhaps twenty minutes.
His heart was pounding; his feet felt numb.
He popped a benzolurethrin into his mouth and kept on going. He
would need to act fast, now that the wheels were turning. McLeod
arriving the next day to report the results of the faster-than-light
expedition, Lamarre missing, Fred at large and working for a conspiracy
of landowners--Walton foresaw that he would be on a steady diet of
tranquilizers for the next few days.
He opened the arrival bin and pulled out a handful of paper. One thick
bundle was the dossier on Lassen; Walton initialed it and tossed
it unread into the Files chute. He would have to rely on Eglin's
judgement; Lassen seemed competent enough.
Underneath that, he found the script of the FitzMaugham memorial
program to be shown that evening. Walton sat back and started to skim
through it.
It was the usual sort of eulogy. He skipped rapidly past FitzMaugham's
life and great works, on to the part where Interim Director Walton
appeared on the screen to speak.
This part he read more carefully. He was very much interested in the
words that Percy had placed in his mouth.