Fred Walton: _None of that stuff. You gave me a free hand. Don't
try to interfere now._
Walton let the transcript slip from his numb hands to the floor.
"My God," he said softly. "My God!"
Martinez' bright eyes flicked from Walton to the scattered papers
on the floor. "What's the trouble? You've got Fred in your custody,
haven't you?"
"Didn't you read the order I sent you?"
Martinez chuckled hollowly. "Well, yes--it was a Happysleep
authorization. But I thought it was just a way of avoiding that
writ ... I mean ... your own _brother_, man?"
"That was no dodge," Walton said. "That was a Happysleep order, and I
meant it. Really. Unless there was a slip-up, Fred went to the chamber
four hours ago. And," said Walton, "he took the Lamarre formula along
with him."
* * * * *
Alone in his office in the night-shadowed Cullen Building, Walton
stared at his own distorted reflection mirrored in the opaqued windows.
On his desk lay the slip of paper bearing the names of those who had
gone to Happysleep in the 1500 gassing.
Frederic Walton was the fourth name on the list. For once, there had
been no slip-ups.
Walton thought back over the events of the last nine days. One of his
earliest realizations during that time had been that the head of Popeek
held powers of life and death over humanity.
Godlike, he had assumed both responsibilities. He had granted life to
Philip Prior; that had been the start of this chain of events, and the
first of his many mistakes. Now, he had given death to Frederic Walton,
an act in itself justifiable, but in consequence the most massive of
his errors.
All his scheming had come to naught. Any help now would have to come
from without.
Wearily, he snapped on the phone and asked for a connection to Nairobi.
The interstellar swap would have to be canceled; Walton was unable to
deliver the goods. Fred would have the final smirk yet.
Some minutes later, he got through to McLeod.
"I'm glad you called," McLeod said immediately. "I've been trying to
reach you all day. The Dirnan's getting rather impatient; this low
gravity is making him sick, and he wants to get going back to his home
world."
"Let me talk to him. He'll be able to leave right away."
McLeod nodded and vanished from the screen. The alien visage of Thogran
Klayrn appeared.
"I have been waiting for you," the Dirnan said. "You promised to call
earlier today. You did not."
"I'm sorry about that," Walton told him. "I was trying to locate the
papers to turn over to you."
"Ah, yes. Has it been done?"
"No," Walton said. "The serum doesn't exist any more. The man who
invented it is dead, and so is the only other man who knew the formula."
There was a moment of startled silence. Then the Dirnan said, "You
assured me delivery of the information."
"I know. But it can't be delivered." Walton was silent a long while,
brooding. "The deal's off. There was a mix-up and the man who had the
data was--was inadvertently executed today."
"_Today_, you say?"
"Yes. It was an error on my part. A foolish blunder."
"That is irrelevant," the alien interrupted peevishly. "Is the man's
body still intact?"
"Why, yes," Walton said, taken off guard. He wondered what plan the
alien had. "It's in our morgue right now. But--"
The alien turned away from the screen, and Walton heard him conferring
with someone beyond the field of vision. Then the Dirnan returned.
"There are techniques for recovering information from newly dead
persons," Thogran Klayrn said. "You have none of these on Earth?"
"Recovering information?" Walton stammered. "No, we don't."
"These techniques exist. Have you such a device as an
electroencephalograph on Earth?"
"Of course."
"Then it is still possible to extract the data from this dead man's
brain." The alien uttered a wistful wheeze. "See that the body comes
to no harm. I will be at your city shortly."
For a moment Walton did not understand.