Hervey showed up at 1003, grinning broadly. He unfolded a thick wad of
documents and thrust them at Walton.
"I hold in my hand the world's most potent telefax sheet," Hervey said.
He flipped the documents casually onto Walton's desk and laughed.
"They're all yours. Fifty-one percent, every bit of it voting stock.
I told Murlin about it just before I left him this morning. He turned
purple."
"What did he say?"
"What _could_ he say? I asked him offhandedly if he knew where all the
outstanding _Citizen_ stock was, and he said yes, it was being held by
a lot of small holders. And then I told him that somebody was buying
out the small holders, and that I was selling my four percent to him.
That's when he started to change colors. When I left he was busy making
phone calls, but I don't think he'll like what he's going to find out."
Walton riffled through the papers. "It's all here, eh? Fine work. I'll
put through your voucher in half an hour or so, unless you're in a
hurry."
"Oh, don't rush," Hervey said. He ran a finger inside his collar.
"Couple of security boys outside, y'know. They really gave me a
going-over."
"I'm expecting an assassin at 1100," Walton said lightly. "They're on
the lookout."
"Oh? A close friend?"
"A relative," Walton said.
Fred arrived promptly at 1100. By that time Walton had already set the
machinery in operation for the taking-over of _Citizen_.
The first step had been to call Horace Murlin and confirm the fact that
Popeek now owned the telefax sheet. Murlin's fleshy face was a curious
shade of rose-purple; he sputtered at Walton for five minutes before
admitting he was beaten.
With Murlin out of the way, Walton selected a new editorial staff for
the paper from a list Percy supplied. He intended to keep the reporting
crew of the old regime intact; _Citizen_ had a fantastically efficient
newsgathering team, and there was no point in breaking it up. It was
the policy-making level Walton was interested in controlling.
The 1000 edition of _Citizen_ was the last under the old editors. They
had received word from Murlin about what had happened, and by 1030,
when Walton sent his dismissal notices over, they were already cleaning
out their desks.
That 1000 edition was a beauty, though. The lead headline read:
_ARE WE CHUMPS FOR THE GREENSKINS?_
And most of the issue was devoted to inflammatory pro-war anti-Popeek
journalism. A full page of "letters from the readers"--actually
transcribed phone calls, since few of _Citizen's_ readers were
interested in writing letters--echoed the editorial stand. One "letter"
in particular caught Walton's attention.
It was from a Mrs. P.F. of New York City Environ, which probably meant
Jersey or lower Connecticut, and it was short and to the point:
_To the Editor_--
_Horray for you. Popeek is a damned crime and that Walton criminal
ought to be put away and we ought to kill those greenskins up there
before they kill us. We gotta have room to live._
_Kill them before they kill us._ Walton snickered. All the old
hysterias, the old panic reactions, come boiling up again in times of
stress.
He looked at his hand. It was perfectly steady, even though his wrist
watch told him Fred would be here in just a few minutes. A week ago, a
situation like this would have had him gobbling benzolurethrin as fast
as he could unwrap the lozenges.
The ghostly presence of FitzMaugham seemed to hover in the room. _The
ends justify the means_, Walton told himself grimly, as he waited for
his brother to arrive.
* * * * *
Fred was dressed completely in black, from his stylish neo-Victorian
waistcoat and the bit of ribbon at his throat to the mirror-bright
leather pumps on his feet. The splendor of his clothing was curiously
at odds with the coarseness of his features and the stockiness of his
body.
He walked into Walton's office at the stroke of 1100 and sighed
deeply--the sigh of a man about to take permanent possession. "Good
morning, Roy. I'm on time, as always."
"And looking radiant, my dear brother." Walton gestured appreciatively
at Fred's clothes. "It's been a long time since I've seen you in
anything but your lab smock."
"I gave notice at the lab yesterday, night after I spoke to you. I'm
no longer an employee of Popeek. And I felt I should dress with the
dignity suitable to my new rank." He grinned buoyantly. "Well, ready to
turn over the orb and scepter, Roy?"
"Not exactly," Walton said.
"But--"
"But I promised you I'd resign in your favor today, Fred. I don't think
I ever used those words, but I certainly implied it, didn't I?"
"Of course you did. You told me to come here at 1100 and you'd arrange
the transfer."
Walton nodded. "Exactly so." He waited a long moment and then said
quietly, "I lied, Fred."
He had chosen the words carefully, for maximum impact. He had not
chosen wrongly.
For a brief instant Fred's face was very pale against the blackness of
his garb. Total disbelief flickered across his eyes and mouth.
Walton had considered his brother's mental picture of him--the elder
brother, virtuous, devoted to hard work, kind to animals, and just a
little soft in the head. Also, extremely honest.
Fred hadn't expected Walton to be lying. And the calm admission stunned
him.
"You're not planning to go through with it, then?" Fred asked in a dead
voice.
"No."
"You realize what this means in terms of the serum, don't you? The
moment I get out of here and transmit your refusal to my employers,
they'll begin wholesale manufacture and distribution of the Lamarre
serum. The publicity won't be good, Roy. Nor the result."
"You won't get out of here," Walton said.
Another shock wave rippled over Fred's face. "You can't be serious,
Roy. My employers know where I am; they know what I'm here for. If they
don't hear from me within twenty-four hours, they'll proceed with serum
distribution. You can't hope to--"
"I'll risk it," Walton interrupted. "If nothing else, I'll have a
twenty-four extension. You didn't really think I could hand Popeek over
to you on a platter, Fred? Why, I don't even know how secure my _own_
position is here. So I'm afraid I'll have to back down on my offer.
You're under arrest, Fred!"
"_Arrest!_" Fred sprang from his seat and circled around the desk
toward Walton. For a moment the two brothers stared at each other,
faces inches apart. Walton put one hand on his brother's shoulder and,
gripping tightly, forced him around to the front of the desk.
"You had this all planned, didn't you?" Fred said bitterly. "Yesterday,
when you talked to me, you knew this was what you were going to do.
But you said you'd yield, and I believed you! I don't fool easy, but I
thought I had you pegged because you were my brother. I _knew_ you. You
wouldn't do a sneaky thing like this."
"But I did," Walton said.
Suddenly, Fred jumped. He charged at Walton blindly, head down.
In the same motion, Walton signaled for Keeler and his men to break
in, and met Fred's charge. He caught his brother in midstride with a
swinging punch that sent his head cracking back sharply.
Fred's face twisted and writhed, more in astonishment than pain. He
stepped back, rubbing his chin. "You've changed," he said. "This job's
made you tough. A year ago you would never have done this to me."
Walton shrugged. "Look behind you, Fred. And this time you can trust
me."
Fred turned warily. Keeler and two other gray-clad security men stood
there.
"Drug him and take him away," Walton said. "Have him held in custody
until I notify Martinez."
Fred's eyes widened. "You're a _dictator_!" he said hoarsely. "You just
move people around like chessmen, Roy. Like chessmen."
"Drug him," Walton repeated.
Keeler stepped forward, a tiny hypodermic spray cupped in his hand.
He activated it with a twitch of his thumb and touched it to Fred's
forearm. A momentary hum droned in the office as the vibrating spray
forced the drug into Fred's arm.
He slumped like an empty sack. "Pick him up," Keeler ordered. "Take him
and let's get going."
* * * * *
The story broke in the 1300 edition of _Citizen_, and from the general
tone of the piece Walton could see the fine hand of Lee Percy at work.
The headline was:
_GUY TRIES TO KNOCK OFF POPEEK HEAD_
After the usual string of subheads, all in the cheerful, breezy, barely
literate _Citizen_ style, came the body of the story:
_A guy tried to bump Popeek top number Roy Walton today. Security
men got there in time to keep Walton from getting the same finisher
as dead Popeek boss FitzMaugham got last week._
_Walton says he's all right; the assassin didn't even come close. He
also told our man that he expects good news on the New Earth bit
soon. We like the sound of those words. Popeek may be with the
stream after all. Who knows?_
The voice was that of _Citizen_, but the man behind the voice was
thinking a little differently. Had the previous editors of _Citizen_
been handling the break, the prevailing tone would most likely have
been too-bad-he-missed.
Walton called Percy after the edition came out. "Nice job you did on
our first _Citizen_," he said approvingly. "It's just what I want: same
illiterate style, but a slow swerving of editorial slant until it's
completely pro-Popeek."
"Wait till you see tomorrow's paper. We're just getting the hang of
it! And we'll have our first kaleidowhirl show at 2000 tonight. Cost a
fortune to buy in, but we figured that's the best hour."
"What's the buried message?"
"As you said," Percy told him. "A pro-Popeek job and some pacifist
stuff. We've got a team of pollsters out now, and they say the
current's predominantly going the other way. We'll be able to tell if
the kaleidowhirl stuff works out, all right."
"Keep up the good work," Walton said. "We'll get there yet. The alien
isn't due to arrive for another day or so--McLeod gets into Nairobi
tomorrow some time. I'm going to testify before the UN tomorrow, too. I
hope those UN boys are watching our pretty color patterns tonight."