Walton stared at the photograph of the alien. There was intelligence
there ... yes, intelligence and understanding, and perhaps even a sort
of compassion.
He sighed. There were always qualifications, never unalloyed successes.
"Colonel McLeod, how long would it take your ship to return to the
Procyon system?" he asked thoughtfully.
McLeod considered the question. "Hardly any time, sir. A few days,
maybe. Why?"
"Just a wild idea. Tell me about your contact with these--ah--Dirnans."
"Well, sir, they landed after we'd spent more than a week surveying New
Earth. There were six of them, and they had their translating widget
with them. They told us who they were, and wanted to know who we were.
We told them. They said they ran the Procyon system, and weren't of a
mind to let any alien beings come barging in."
"Did they sound hostile?" Walton asked.
"Oh, no. Just businesslike. We were trespassing, and they asked us to
get off. They were cold about it, but not angry."
"Fine," Walton said. "Look here, now. Do you think you could go back
to their world as--well as an ambassador from Earth? Bring one of the
Dirnans here for treaty talks, and such?"
"I suppose so," McLeod said hesitantly. "If it's necessary."
"It looks as if it may be. You had no luck in any of the other nearby
systems?"
"No."
"Then Procyon VIII's our main hope. Tell your men we'll offer double
pay for this cruise. And make it as fast as you know how."
"Hyperspace travel's practically instantaneous," McLeod said. "We spent
most of our time cruising on standard ion drive from planet to planet.
Maneuvering in the subspace manifold's a snap, though."
"Good. Snap it up, then. Back to Nairobi and clear out of there as
soon as you're ready. Remember, it's urgent you bring one of the aliens
here for treaty talks."
"I'll do my best," McLeod said.
* * * * *
Walton stared at the empty seat where McLeod had been, and tried to
picture a green Dirnan sitting there, goggling at him with its three
eyes.
He was beginning to feel like a juggler. Popeek activity proceeded on
so many fronts at once that it quite dazzled him. And every hour there
were new challenges to meet, new decisions to make.
At the moment, there were too many eggs and not enough baskets. Walton
realized he was making the same mistake FitzMaugham had, that of
carrying too much of the Popeek workings inside his skull. If anything
happened to him, the operation would be fatally paralyzed, and it would
be some time before the gears were meshing again.
He resolved to keep a journal, to record each day a full and
mercilessly honest account of each of the many maneuvers in which he
was engaged. He would begin with his private conflict with Fred and the
interests Fred represented, follow through with the Lamarre-immortality
episode, and include a detailed report on the problems of the
subsidiary projects, New Earth and Lang's terraforming group.
That gave him another idea. Reaching for his voicewrite, he dictated
a concise confidential memorandum instructing Assistant Administrator
Eglin to outfit an investigatory mission immediately; purpose, to go
to Venus and make contact with Lang. The terraforming group was nearly
two weeks overdue in its scheduled report. He could not ignore them any
longer.
The everlasting annunciator chimed, and Walton switched on the screen.
It was Sellors, and from the look of abject terror on the man's face,
Walton knew that something sticky had just transpired.
"What is it, Sellors? Any luck in tracing Lamarre?"
"None, sir," the security chief said. "But there's been another
development, Mr. Walton. A most serious one. _Most_ serious."
Walton was ready to expect anything--a bulletin announcing the end of
the universe, perhaps. "Well, tell me about it," he snapped impatiently.
Sellors seemed about ready to collapse with shame. He said hesitantly,
"One of the communications technicians was making a routine check of
the building's circuits, Mr. Walton. He found one trunk-line that
didn't seem to belong where it was, so he checked up and found out that
it had been newly installed."
"Well, what of it?"
"It was a spy pickup with its outlet in your office, sir," Sellors
said, letting the words tumble out in one blur. "All the time you were
talking this morning, someone was spying on you."
Walton grabbed the arms of his chair. "Are you telling me that your
department was blind enough to let someone pipe a spy pickup right into
this office?" he demanded. "Where did this outlet go? And is it cut
off?"
"They cut it off as soon as they found it, sir. It went to a men's
lavatory on the twenty-sixth floor."
"And how long was it in operation?"
"At least since last night, sir. Communications assures me that it
couldn't possibly have been there before yesterday afternoon, since
they ran a general check then and didn't see it."
Walton groaned. It was small comfort to know that he had had privacy
up till last evening; if the wrong people had listened in on his
conversation with McLeod, there would be serious trouble.
"All right, Sellors. This thing can't be your fault, but keep your eyes
peeled in the future. And tell communications that my office is to be
checked for such things twice a day from now on, at 0900 and at 1300."
"Yes, sir." Sellors looked tremendously relieved.
"And start interrogating the communications technicians. Find out who's
responsible for that spy circuit, and hold him on security charges. And
locate Lamarre!"
"I'll do my best, Mr. Walton."
While the screen was clearing, Walton jotted down a memorandum to
himself: _investigate Sellors_. So far, as security chief, Sellors had
allowed an assassin to reach FitzMaugham, allowed Prior to burst into
Walton's old office, permitted Fred to masquerade as a doorsmith long
enough to gain access to Walton's private files, and stood by blindly
while Lee Percy tapped into Walton's private wire and some unidentified
technician strung a spy pickup into the director's supposedly sacred
office.
No security chief could have been as incompetent as all that. It had to
be a planned campaign, directed from the outside.
He dialed Eglin.
"Olaf, you get my message about the Venus rescue mission okay?"
"Came through a few minutes ago. I'll have the specs drawn up by
tonight."
"Devil with that," Walton said. "Drop everything and send that ship out
_now_. I've got to know what Lang and his crew are up to, and I have
to know right away. If we don't produce a livable Venus, or at least
the possibility of one, in a couple of days, we'll be in for it on all
sides."
"Why? What's up?"
"You'll see. Keep an eye on the telefax. I'll bet the next edition of
_Citizen_ is going to be interesting."
* * * * *
It was.
The glossy sheets of the 1200 _Citizen_ extruded themselves from a
million receivers in the New York area, but none of those million
copies was as avidly pounced on as was Director Walton's. He had been
hovering near the wall outlet for ten minutes, avidly awaiting the
sheet's arrival.
And he was not disappointed.
The streamer headline ran:
_THINGS FROM SPACE NIX BIG POPEEK PLAN_
And under it in smaller type:
_Greenskinned Uglies Put Feet In Director Walton's Big Mouth_
He smiled grimly and went on to the story itself. Written in the best
approved _Citizen_ journalese, it read:
_Fellow human beings, we've been suckered again. The_ Citizen _found
out for sure this morning that the big surprise Popeek's Interim
Director Walton yanked out of his hat last night has a hole in it._
_It's sure dope that there's a good planet up there in the sky for
grabs. The way we hear it, it's just like earth only prettier, with
trees and flowers (remember them?). Our man says the air there is
nice and clean. This world sounds okay._
_But what Walton didn't know last night came home to roost today.
Seems the folks on the next planet out there don't want any sloppy
old Earthmen messing up their pasture--and so we ain't going to have
any New Earth after all. Wish-washy Walton is a cinch to throw in
the towel now._
_More dope in later editions. And check the edit page for extra
info._
It was obvious, Walton thought, that the spy pickup which had been
planted in his office had been a direct pipe line to the _Citizen_ news
desk. They had taken his conversation with McLeod and carefully ground
it down into the chatty, informal, colloquial style that made _Citizen_
the world's most heavily-subscribed telefax service.
He shuddered at what might have happened if they'd had their spy
pickup installed a day earlier, and overheard Walton in the process of
suppressing Lamarre's immortality serum. There would have been a lynch
mob storming the Cullen Building ten minutes after the _Citizen_ hit
the waves with its exposé.
Not that he was much better off now. He no longer had the advantage of
secrecy to cloak his actions, and public officials who were compelled
to conduct business in the harsh light of public scrutiny generally
didn't hold their offices for long.
He turned the sheet over and searched for the editorial column, merely
to confirm his expectations.
It was captioned in bold black:
_ARE WE PATSIES FOR GREENSKINS?_
And went on to say:
_Non-human beings have said "Whoa!" to our plans for opening up a
new world in space. These aliens have put thumbs down on
colonization of the New Earth discovered by Colonel Leslie McLeod._
_Aside from the question of why Popeek kept word of the McLeod
expedition from the public so long, there is this to consider--will
we take this lying down?_
_We've got to find space for us to live. New Earth is a good place.
The answer to the trouble is easy: we take New Earth. If the
greenskins don't like it, bounce 'em!_
_How about it? What do we do? Mr. Walton, we want to know. What
goes?_
It was an open exhortation to interstellar warfare. Dispiritedly,
Walton let the telefax sheets skitter to the floor, and made no move to
pick them up.
War with the Dirnans? If _Citizen_ had its way, there would be. The
telefax sheet would remorselessly stir the people up until the cry for
war was unanimous.
_Well_, thought Walton callously, _a good war would reduce the
population surplus. The idiots!_
* * * * *
He caught the afternoon newsblares. They were full of the _Citizen_
break, and one commentator made a point-blank demand that Walton either
advocate war with the Dirnans or resign.
Not long afterward, UN delegate Ludwig called.
"Some hot action over here today," he told Walton. "After that
_Citizen_ thing got out, a few of the Oriental delegates started
howling for your scalp on sixteen different counts of bungling. What's
going on, Walton?"
"Plenty of spy activity, for one thing. The main problem, though, is
the nucleus of incompetent assistants surrounding me. I think I'm going
to reduce the local population personally before the day is out. With a
blunt instrument, preferably."
"Is there any truth in the _Citizen_ story?"
"Hell, yes!" Walton exclaimed. "For once, it's gospel! An enterprising
telefax man rigged a private pipe line into my office last night and
no one caught it until it was too late. Sure, those aliens are holding
out. They don't want us coming in there."