He returned to New York alone, later that night, too tired to sleep
and too wide awake to relax. He felt like a poker player who had
triumphantly topped four kings with four aces, and now was fumbling
in his hand trying to locate some of those aces for his skeptical
opponents.
The alien had accepted his offer. That was the one solid fact he was
able to cling to, on the lonely night ride back from Nairobi. The rest
was a quicksand of ifs and maybes.
_If_ Lamarre could be found....
_If_ the serum actually had any value....
_If_ it was equally effective on Earthmen and Dirnans....
Walton tried to dismiss the alternatives. He had made a desperately
wild offer, and it had been accepted. New Earth was open for
colonization, _if_....
The world outside the jet was a dark blur. He had left Nairobi at 0518
Nairobi time; jetting back across the eight intervening time zones, he
would arrive in New York around midnight. Ultrarapid jet transit made
such things possible; he would live twice through the early hours of
June nineteenth.
New York had a fifteen minute rain scheduled at 0100 that night. Walton
reached the housing project where he lived just as the rain was turned
on. The night was otherwise a little muggy; he paused outside the main
entrance, letting the drops fall on him. After a few minutes, feeling
faintly foolish and very tired, he went inside, shook himself dry, and
went to bed. He did not sleep.
Four caffeine tablets helped him get off to a running start in the
morning. He arrived at the Cullen Building early, about 0835, and spent
some time bringing his private journal up to date, explaining in detail
the burden of his interview with the alien ambassador. Some day, Walton
thought, a historian of the future would discover his journal and find
that for a short period in 2232 a man named Roy Walton had acted as
absolute dictator of humanity. The odd thing, Walton reflected, was
that he had absolutely no power drive: he had been pitchforked into the
role, and each of his successive extra-legal steps had been taken quite
genuinely in the name of humanity.
Rationalization? Perhaps. But a necessary one.
At 0900 Walton took a deep breath and called Keeler of security. The
security man smiled oddly and said, "I was just about to call you, sir.
We have some news, at last."
"News? What?"
"Lamarre. We found his body this morning, just about an hour ago.
Murdered. It turned up in Marseilles, pretty badly decomposed, but we
ran a full check and the retinal's absolutely Lamarre's."
"Oh," Walton said leadenly. His head swam. "Definitely Lamarre," he
repeated. "Thanks, Keeler. Fine work. Fine."
"Something wrong, sir? You look--"
"I'm very tired," Walton said. "That's all. Tired. Thanks, Keeler."
"You called me about something, sir," Keeler reminded him gently.
"Oh, I was calling about Lamarre. I guess there's no point in--thanks,
Keeler." He broke the contact.
For the first time Walton felt total despair, and, out of despair,
came a sort of deathlike calmness. With Lamarre dead, his only hope of
obtaining the serum was to free Fred and wangle the notes from him. But
Fred's price for the notes would be Walton's job. Full circle, and a
dead end.
Perhaps Fred could be induced to reveal the whereabouts of the notes.
It wasn't likely, but it was possible. And if not? Walton shrugged.
A man could do only so much. Terraforming had proved a failure,
equalization was a stopgap of limited value, and the one extrasolar
planet worth colonizing was held by aliens. Dead end.
_I tried_, Walton thought. _Now let someone else try._
He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of negation that suddenly
surrounded him. His thinking was all wrong; he had to keep trying, had
to investigate every possible avenue before giving up.
His fingers hovered lightly over a benzolurethrin tablet, then drew
back. Stiffly he rose from his chair and switched on the annunciator.
"I'm leaving the office for a while," he said hoarsely. "Send all calls
to Mr. Eglin."
He had to see Fred.
* * * * *
Security Keep was a big, blocky building beyond the city limits proper,
a windowless tower near Nyack, New York. Walton's private jetcopter
dropped noiselessly to the landing stage on the wide parapet of the
building. He contemplated its dull-bronze metallic exterior for a
moment.
"Should I wait here?" the pilot asked.
"Yes," Walton said. With accession to the permanent directorship he
rated a private ship and a live pilot. "I won't be here long."
He left the landing stage and stepped within an indicated screener
field. There was a long pause. The air up here, Walton thought, is
fresh and clean, not like city air.