 Chapter 8 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Walton was becoming hardened to astonishment. The further he excavated into the late director's affairs, the less susceptible he was to the visceral reaction of shock. Still, this stunned him for a moment. Did you say you'd perfected this technique, he asked slowly, or that it was still in the planning stage? Lamar tapped the thick, glossy black portfolio. In here, I got it all! He seemed ready to burst with self-satisfaction. Walton leaned back, spread his fingers against the surface of the desk, and wrinkled his forehead. I've had this job since 1300 on the tenth, Mr. Lamar. That's exactly two days ago, minus half an hour. And in that time I don't think I've had less than ten major shocks, and a half a dozen minor ones. Sir? What I'm getting at is this. Just why did director Fitzmom sponsor this project of yours? Lamar looked blank, because the director is a great humanitarian, of course, because he felt that human life was short, far too short, and he wished his fellow men to enjoy long life. What other reason should there be? I know Fitzmom was a great man, I was his secretary for three years, though he never said a word about you, Dr. Lamar, Walton thought. But to develop immortality at this stage of man's existence, Walton shook his head. Tell me about your work, Dr. Lamar. It's difficult to sum up, readily. I've fought degeneration of the body on the cellular level, and my tests show a successful outcome, phagocytine stimulation combined with, the date is all here, Mr. Walton, I needn't run through it for you. He began to hunt in the portfolio, fumbling for something. After a moment he extracted a folded quarto sheet, read it out, and nudged it across the desk toward Walton. The director glanced at the sheet. It was covered with chemical equations. Spare me the technical details, Mr. Lamar. Have you tested your treatment yet? With the only test possible, the test of time. There are insects in my laboratory that have lived five years or more, veritable Methuselus in their genera. Immortality is not something one can test in less than infinite time. But beneath the microscope one can see the cells regenerating, one can see decay combated. Walton took a breath. Are you aware, Mr. Lamar, that for the benefit of humanity I really should have you shot at once? What? Walton nearly burst out laughing. The man looked outrageously funny, with the look of shocked incomprehension on his face. Do you understand what immortality would do to Earth, he asked, with no other planet of the solar system inhabitable by man, and none of the stars within reach? Within a generation we'd be living ten to a square inch. Indeed, Dr. Fismam was aware of these things, Lamar interrupted sharply. He had no intention of administering my discovery wholesale to the populace. What's more, he was fully confident that a faster-than-light space-drive would soon let us reach the planets, and that the terraforming engineers would succeed with their work on Venus. Those two factors are still unknowns in the equation, Walton said. Nature has succeeded, as of now, and we can't possibly let word of your discovery get out until there are avenues to handle the overflow of population already on hand. So you propose to confiscate the notes you have with you, and insist that you remain silent about this serum of yours until I give you permission to announce it. And if I refuse, Walton spread his hands, Dr. Lamar, I'm a reasonable man trying to do a very hard job. You're a scientist, and a sane one, I hope. I'd appreciate your cooperation. Bear with me a few weeks, and then perhaps the situation will change. Awkward silence followed. Finally Lamar said, Very well. If you'll return my notes, I promise to keep silent until you give me permission to speak. That won't be enough. I'll need to keep the notes. Lamar sighed. If you insist, he said. When he was again alone, Walton stored the thick portfolio in a file drawer, and stared at it quizzically. Fitzmom, he thought, you were incredible. Lamar's immortality serum, or whatever it was, was deadly, whether it actually worked or not was irrelevant. If the word ever escaped that an immortality drug existed, there would be rioting and death on a vast scale. Fitzmom has certainly seen that, and yet he had subliminally underwritten development of the serum, knowing that if the terraforming and the ultra-dry project should fail, this project represented a major threat to civilization. Well, Lamar had knuckled under to Walton willingly enough. The problem now was to contact Lang on Venus and find out what was happening up there. Mr. Walton, said the annunciator, there's a coded message arriving for Director Fitzmom. Where from? From space, sir. They say they have news, but they won't give it to anyone but Mr. Fitzmom. Walton cursed. Where is the message being received? Floor 23, sir, communications. Tell them I'll be right down, Walton snapped. He caught a lift tube and arrived on the 23rd floor moments later. No sooner had the tube door opened than he sprang out, dodging around a pair of startled technicians and sprinting down the corridor toward communications. Here throbbed the network that held the branches of Poe Peak together. From here the screens were powered, the annunciators were linked, the phones connected. Walton pushed open the door and marched communications central and confronted four busy engineers who were crowded around a complex receiving mechanism. Here's the space message he demanded of a sallow young engineer who approached him. Still coming in, sir, they've repeated it over and over. We've triangulated their position now, somewhere near the orbit of Pluto, Mr. Walton. Devil with that, what's the message? Someone handed him a slip of paper. It said, calling Earth, urgent call, top urgency, crash urgency, will communicate only with DF Fitzmom. This is all it is, Walton asked. No signature, no ship name? That's right, Mr. Walton. OK, find them in a hurry and send them a return message. Tell them Fitzmom's dead and I'm his successor. Mention me by name. Yes, sir. He stamped impatiently around the lab while they set to work, beaming the message into the void. This communication was a field that dazzled and bewildered Walton, and he watched in awe as they swung into operation. Time passed. You know any of the ships supposed to be in that sector, he asked someone. No, sir. We weren't expecting any calls except from Lang on Venus. The technician gasped, realizing he had made a slip and turned pale. That's all right, Walton assured him. I'm the director, remember? I know all about Lang. Of course, sir. Here's a reply, sir, another of the nameless, faceless technician said. Walton scanned it. It read, hello, Walton, request further identification before we report. MacL. A little shudder of satisfaction shook Walton at the site of the initialed MCL at the end of the message. That could only mean MacLeod. And that could only mean one thing. The experimental ship had returned. Walton realized depressedly that this probably implied that they hadn't found any Earth-type worlds among the stars. MacLeod's note to Fitzmom had said they would search for a year, and would return home at the end of that time if they had no success, and just about a year had elapsed. He said, send this return message. MacLeod, Nairobi, X72, congratulations, Walton. The technician vanished again, leaving Walton alone. He gazed moodily at the complex maze of equipment all around him. Listened to the steady tick-tick of the communications devices, strained his ears to pick up fragments of conversation from the men. After what seemed like an hour, the technician returned. There's a message coming through now, sir. We're decoding it as fast as we can. Make it snappy, Walton said. His watch read 1429. Only 20 minutes had passed since he had gone down there. A grimy sheet of paper was thrust under his nose. He read it. Hello, Walton. This is MacLeod. Happy to report that experimental ship X72 is returning home with all hands in good shape after a remarkable one-year cruise of the galaxy. I feel like Ulysses returning to Ithaca, except we didn't have such a hard time of it. I imagine you'll be interested in this. We found a perfectly lovely and livable world in the prosion system, no intelligent life at all, and incredibly fine climate. Pity old Fitzmom couldn't have lived to hear about it. Be seeing you soon, MacLeod. Walton's hands were still shaking as he pressed the actuator that would let him back into his office. He would have to call another meeting of the section chiefs again to discuss the best method of presenting this exciting news to the world. For one thing, they would have to explain away Fitzmom's failure to reveal that the X72 had been sent out over a year ago. That would be easily handled. Then there would have to be a careful build-up. Descriptions of the New World, profiles of the heroes who had found it, et cetera. Someone was going to have to work out a plan for immigration unless the resourceful Fitzmom had already drawn up such a plan and stowed it in the files for just this anticipated day. And then perhaps Lamar could be called back now and allowed to release his discovery. Plans buzzed in Walton's mind in the event that people proved reluctant to leave Earth and conquer the unknown world, no matter how tempting the climate, it might be feasible to dangle immortality before them, to restrict Lamar's treatment to volunteer colonists or something along that line. There was plenty of time to figure that out, Walton thought. He stepped into his office and locked the door behind him. A glow of pleasure surrounded him for once it seemed that things were heading in the right direction. He was happy, in a way, that Fitzmom was no longer in charge. Now with mankind on the threshold of Walton Blink, did I leave that file drawer open when I left the office, he wondered. He was usually more cautious than that. The file was definitely open now, as were the two cabinets adjoining it. Numbly he swung the cabinet doors wider, peered into the shadows, groping inside. The drawers containing the documents pertaining to terraforming and to MacLeod's space-drive seemed intact. But the cabinet in which Walton had placed Lamar's portfolio, that cabinet was totally empty. Someone's been in here, he thought angrily. And then the anger changed to agony as he remembered what had been in Lamar's portfolio and what would happen if that formula were loosed indiscriminately on the world. The End of Chapter 8 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg Chapter 9 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The odd part of it, Walton thought, was that there was absolutely nothing he could do. He could call sellers and give him a roasting for not guarding his office properly, but that wouldn't restore the missing portfolio. He could send out a general alarm and thereby let the world know that there was such a thing as Lamar's formula. That would be catastrophic. Walton slammed the cabinet shut and spun the lock. Then, heavily, he dropped into his chair and rested his head in his arms. All the jubilation of a few minutes before had suddenly melted into dull apprehension. Suspects, just two. Lamar and Fred. Lamar, because he was obvious. Fred, because he was likely to do anything to hurt his brother. Give me sellers in security, Walton said quietly. Cellar's bland face appeared on the screen. He blinked at the sight of Walton, causing Walton to wonder just how ghastly his own appearance was. Even with the executive filter touching up the transmitted image, sprucing him up and falsifying him for the public benefit, he probably looked dreadful. Sellers, I want you to send out a general order for Dr. Lamar. You'll find his appearance recorded on the entry tapes for today. He came to see me earlier. The first name is, um, Elliot. T. Elliot Lamar, gerontologist. I don't know where he lives. What should I do if I find him, sir? Bring him here at once. If you catch him at home, slap a seal on his door. He may be in possession of some very important secret documents. Yes, sir. And get ahold of the doorsmith who repaired my office door. I want the lock calibration changed at once. Certainly, sir. The screen faded. Walton turned to his desk and busied himself in meaningless paperwork, trying to keep himself from thinking. A few minutes later, the screen brightened again. It was Fred. Walton stared coldly at his brother's image. Well, Fred chuckled. Why so pale and wan, dear brother? Disappointed in love? What do you want? An audience with his highness the interim director. If it please his grace, Fred grinned unpleasantly. A private audience, if you please, my lord. Very well, come on up here. Fred shook his head. Sorry, no go. There are too many tricky spy pickups in that office of yours. Let's meet elsewhere, shall we? Where? That club you belong to, the bronze room? Walton sputtered. But I can't leave the building now. There's no one who. Now, Fred interrupted. The bronze room. It's in San Ysidro, isn't it? Top of Neville Prospect? All right, said Walton residedly. There's a Dorsmith coming up here to do some work. Give me a minute to cancel the assignment, and I'll meet you downstairs. You leave now, Fred said. I'll arrive five minutes after you. And you won't need to cancel anything. I was the Dorsmith. Neville Prospect was the most fashionable avenue in all New York City, a wide strip of ferro concrete running up the west side between 11th Avenue and the West Side Drive from 14th to 15th Street. It was bordered on both sides by looming apartment buildings in which a man of wealth might have as many as four or five rooms to his suite. And at the very head of the Prospect, facing downtown, was the mighty San Ysidro, a buttressed fortress of gleaming metal and stone whose mighty beryllium steel supports swept out in a massive arc, 500 feet in either direction. On the 150th floor of the San Ysidro was the exclusive bronze room from whose quartz windows might be seen all the sprawling busyness of Manhattan and all the closely packed confusion of New Jersey just across the river. The jetcopter delivered Walton to the landing stage of the bronze room. He tipped the man too much and stepped within. A door of dull bronze confronted him. He touched his key to the signet plate. The door pivoted noiselessly inward, admitting him. The color scheme today was gray. Gray lights streamed through the luminescent walls. Gray carpets lay underfoot. Gray tables with gray dishes were visible in the murky distance. A gray clad waiter, hardly more than four feet tall, sidled up to Walton. Good to see you again, sir, he murmured. You have not been here of late. No, Walton said, I've been busy. A terrible tragedy, the death of Mr. Fitzmom, he was one of our most esteemed members. Will you have your usual room today, sir? Walton shook his head. I am entertaining a guest, my brother, Fred. We'll need a compartment for two. He'll identify himself when he arrives. Of course, come with me, please. The gnome led him through a gray haze to another bronze door, down a corridor lined with antique works of art, through an interior room decorated with glowing lumifacts of remarkable quality, past a broad quartz window so clean as to be dizzyingly invisible, and up to a narrow door with a bright red signet plate in its center. For you, sir. Walton touched his key to the signet plate. The door crumbled like a fan. He stepped inside, gravely handed the gnome a bill, and closed the door. The room was tastefully furnished, again in gray. The bronze room was always uniformly monochromatic, though the hue varied with the day, and with the mood of the city. Walton had long speculated on what the club precincts would look like were the electronic magic disconnected. Actually, he knew none of the bronze room's appearances had any color, except when the hand in the control room threw the switch. The club held many secrets. It was Fitzmom who had brought about Walton's admission to the club, and Walton had been deeply grateful. He was in a room just comfortably large enough for two, with a single bright window facing the Hudson, a small Onyx table, a tiny screen tastefully set in a wall, and a bar. He dialed himself a filtered rum, his favorite drink. The dark cloudy liquid came pouring instantly from the spigot. The screen suddenly flashed a wave of green, breaking the ubiquitous grayness. The green gave way to a bald head and scowling face of Kroll, the bronze room's doorman. Sir, there's a man outside who claims to be your brother. He alleges he has an appointment with you here. That's right, Kroll, send him in. Folks will bring him to my room. Just one moment, sir. First, it is needful to verify. Kroll's face vanished and Fred's appeared. Is this the man? Kroll's voice asked. Yes, Walton said, you can send my brother in. Fred seemed a little dazed by the opulence. He sat gingerly on the edge of the foam web couch, obviously attempting to appear blasé and painfully conscious of his failure to do so. This is quite a place, he said, finally. Walton smiled. A little on the palatial side for my tastes. I don't come here often. The transition hurts too much when I go back outside. Fitzmom got you in here, didn't he? Walton nodded. I thought so, Fred said. Well, maybe someday I'll be a member too. Then we can meet here more often. We don't see enough of each other, you know? Dial yourself a drink, Walton said. Then tell me what's on your mind or were you just angling to get an invite up here? It was more than that. Let me get a drink before we begin. Fred dialed a weasuer, heavy on the absinthe, and took a few sampling sips before wheeling around to face Walton. He said, one of the minor talents I acquired in the course of my wandering was doorsmithing. It's really not very difficult to learn for a man who applies himself. You were the one who repaired my office door? Fred smirked. I was. I wore a mask, of course, and my uniform was borrowed. Masks are very handy things. They make them most convincingly nowadays, as, for instance, the one worn by the man who posed as Ludwig. What do you know about? Nothing, and that's the flat truth, Roy. I didn't kill Fitzmom and I don't know who did. He drained his drink and dialed another. No, the old man's death is as much a mystery to me as it is to you, but I have to thank you for wrecking the door so completely when you blasted your way in. It gave me a chance to make some repairs when I most wanted to. Walton held himself very carefully in check. He knew exactly what Fred was going to say in the next few minutes, but he refused to let himself precipitate the conversation. With studied care he rose. Diled another filtered rum for himself and gently slid the initiator switch on the electro-luminescent kaleidoscope embedded in the rear wall. A pattern of lights sprang into being. Yellow, pale rose, blue, soft green. They wove together, intertwined, sprang apart into a sharp hexagon, broke into a scattered pattern, melted, seemed to fall on the carpet in bright flakes. Shut that thing off, Fred snapped suddenly. Come on, shut it, shut it. Walton swung around. His brother was leaning forward intently, eyes clamped tight shut. Is it off, Fred asked? Tell me. Shrugging, Walton canceled the signal and the lights faded. You can open your eyes now, it's off. Cautiously, Fred opened his eyes. None of your fancy tricks, Roy. Trick, Walton asked innocently. What trick? Simple decoration, that's all. And quite lovely, too. Just like the kaleido-whirls you've seen on video. Fred shook his head. It's not the same thing. How do I know it's not some sort of hypno-screen? How do I know what those lights can do? Walton realized his brother was unfamiliar with wall kaleidoscopes. It's perfectly harmless, he said. But if you don't want it on, we can do without it. Good, that's the way I like it. Walton observed that Fred's cool confidence seemed somewhat shaken. His brother had made a tactical error in insisting on holding their interview here, where Walton had so much the upper hand. May I ask again why you wanted to see me, Walton said? There are those people, Fred said slowly, who oppose the entire principle of population equalization. I'm aware of that. Some of them are members of this very club. Exactly, some of them are. The ones I mean are the gentry. Those still lucky enough to cling to land and home. The squire with a hundred acres in the Mato Grasso. The wealthy landowner in Liberia. The gentleman who controls the rubber output of one of the lesser Indonesian islands. These people, Roy, are unhappy over equalization. They know that sooner or later you and your bureau will find out about them and will equalize them. Say by installing a hundred Chinese on a private estate or by using a private river for a nuclear turbine. You'll have to admit that their dislike of equalization is understandable. Everyone's dislike of equalization is understandable, Walton said. I dislike it myself. You got your evidence of that two days ago. No one likes to give up special privileges. You see my point then. There are perhaps a hundred of these men in close contact with each other. What? Ah, yes, Fred said. A league, a conspiracy it might almost be called. Very, very shady doings. Yes, I worked for them, Fred said. Walton, let that soak in. You're an employee of Popeke, he said. Are you inferring that you're both an employee of Popeke and an employee of a group who seeks to undermine Popeke? Fred grinned proudly. That's the position on the nose. It calls for remarkable compartmentalization of mind. I think I managed nicely. Incredulously, Walton said. How long has this been going on? Ever since I came to Popeke, this group is older than Popeke. They fought equalization all the way and lost. Now they're working from the bottom up trying to wreck things before you catch wise and confiscate their estates as you're now legally entitled to do. And now that you've warned me they exist, Walton said, you can be assured that that's the first thing I'll do. The second thing I'll do will be to have the security men track down their names and find out if there is an actual conspiracy. If there was, it's jail for them. And the third thing I'll do is discharge you from Popeke. Fred shook his head. You won't do any of those things, Roy. You can't. 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. The end of chapter nine, of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 10 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Cross currents 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 cancelling 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 safekeeping, 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 the immortality serum got distributed to good old man on 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 temperize. You damn well know it'd be the biggest upheaval the world has ever seen, Fred paused. My employers, he said, are in possession of the Lamar formulas now and with great glee are making themselves immortals? No, they don't trust the stuff and wouldn't use it until it's been tried by two or three billion guinea pigs, human ones. They're not planning on releasing the serum, are they? Walton gasped. Not immediately, Fred said, in exchange for certain concessions on your part, they're prepared to return Lamar'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 Lamar 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 in 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 that 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? Here say, 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 and the whizzing face of a tiny servitor appeared. Sir, folks, 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 folks 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 cabin dishes 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 a 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 ever-changing swirl of colors distract him. But in the depth of the deepest violet, he could see his brother's mocking face. He summoned folks. 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. Folks never had any problem, 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 robo-pilot abstractly, he did not feel very cheerful. The enunciator 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 Blair on the news screens. 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 Fitzmom Memorial all whipped up and ready to go. Full channel blast tonight over all media at 20-hundred 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 ear off. I'll ship it to you post-haste, man. Ease up, pop a pill. You aren't loosed, 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 23. Well, we heard from McLeod again, sir. Message came in half an hour ago. 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 24 hour a day schedule. Draw extra pay. But get in touch with Lang, dammit. Yeah, yes, sir. Anything else? No, get off the line. As the contact snapped, Walton smoothly broke the connection again leaving 10 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 news screen. 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 was on screen saying, the man was asking for trouble. Poe Peek represents the minds and hearts of the world. Herschel and his people seek to overthrow this order. I can't condone violence of any kind naturally, but Poe Peek is a sacred responsibility to me. Its enemies I must regard as blind and misguided people. He smiled at 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 grown so hard? Apparently he had. He watched himself turn majestically and stride into the Cullen building, stronghold of Poe Peek. There was definitely a commanding air about him. The commentator said, 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 Poe Peek, and this is the sort of man to whom it has been entrusted. Roy Walton, we salute you. The screen pan to a still of Director Fitzmom. Meanwhile, the commentator went on, Walton's predecessor, the late DF Fitzmom, 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, DF Fitzmom, Hale 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 the way, of a spontaneous speech. Percy had contrived to gain vast quantities of precious airtime for Poe Peek, 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 sellers entered the screen. Sellers, sir, we've been looking for this Lamar. 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 quiver. Order a tracer set 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, sellers. 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 worldwide. 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, Well, you instruct anyone 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 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 two 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? Nevermind, 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 stern, 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 had been engaged in half a dozen high-power conversations without a break over a span of perhaps 20 minutes. His heart was pounding. His feet felt numb. He popped a benzolurethane 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, Lamar 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 judgment. Lassen seemed competent enough. Underneath that he found the script of the Fitzmom Memorial Program to be shown that evening. Walton sat back and started to skim through it. It was the usual sort of elegy. He skipped rapidly past Fitzmom'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 put in his mouth. The End of Chapter 10 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg Chapter 11 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The speech that night went over well, almost. Walton watched the program in the privacy of his home, sprawled out on the web-foam sofa with a drink in one hand and the text of Percy's shooting script in the other. The giant screen that occupied nearly half his one unbroken wall glowed in lifelike colors. Fitzmom's career was traced with pomp and circumstance, done up in full glory, plenty of ringing trumpet flourishes, dozens of eye-appealing color groupings, much high-pitched, tense narrative. Percy had done his job skillfully. The show was punctuated by quotations from Fitzmom's classic book, Breathing Space and Sanity. Key government figures drifted in and out of the narrative web-work, orating sonorously. That pious fraud, M. Seymour Lanson, president of the United States, delivered a flowery speech. The old figurehead was an artist at his one function, speech-making. Walton watched, spellbound. Lee Percy was a genius in his field. There was no denying that. Finally, toward the end of the hour, the narrator said, The work of Popeke goes on, though its lofty-minded creator lies dead at an assassin's hand. Director Fitzmom had chosen, as his successor, a young man schooled in the ideals of Popeke. Roy Walton, we know, will continue the noble task begun by D. F. Fitzmom. For the second time that day, Walton watched his own face appear on the video screen. He glanced down at the script in his hand and back up at the screen. Percy's technicians had done a brilliant job. The Walton image on the screen looked so real that the Walton on the couch almost believed he had actually delivered this speech. Although he knew it had been cooked up out of some rearranged stills and a few broken-down phonemes with his voice characteristics, it was a perfectly innocent speech. In humble tones he expressed his veneration for the late director, his hopes that he would be able to fill the void left by the death of Fitzmom, his sense of Popeke as a sacred trust. Half listening, Walton began to skim the script. Startled, Walton looked down at the script. He didn't remember having encountered any such lines on his first reading and he couldn't find them now. This morning, the pseudo Walton on the screen went on, we received contact from outer space from a faster than light ship sent out over a year ago to explore our neighboring stars. News of this voyage has been withheld until now for security reasons, but it is my great pleasure to tell you tonight that the stars haven't last been reached by man. A new world awaits us out there, lush, fertile, ready to be colonized by the brave pioneers of tomorrow. Walton stared aghast at the screen. His similacrum had returned now to the script as prepared, but he barely listened. He was thinking that Percy had let the cat out for sure. It was a totally unauthorized news break. Numbly, Walton watched the program come to its end and wondered what the repercussions would be once the public grasped all the implications. He was awakened at 0600 by the chiming of his phone. Grumpily, he climbed from bed, snapped on the receiver, switched the cutoff on the picture center in order to hide his sleep-rumpled appearance and said, this is Walton, yes? A picture formed on the screen, a heavily tanned man in his late 40s, stocky, hair-close cropped. Sorry to rouse you this way, old man. I'm McLeod. Walton came fully awake in an instant. McLeod, where are you? Out on Long Island. I just pulled into the airport half a moment ago, traveled all night after dumping the ship at Nairobi. You made a good landing, I hope. The best, the ship navigates like a bubble. McLeod frowned wordly. They brought me the early morning telefacts while I was having breakfast. I couldn't help reading all about the speech you made last night. Oh, I, quite a crasher of a speech, McLeod went on evenly. But don't you think it was a little premature of you to release word of my flight? I mean, it was quite premature, Walton said. A member of my staff inserted that statement into my talk without my knowledge. He'll be disciplined for it. A puzzled frown appeared on McLeod's face. Did you make that speech with your own lips? How can you blame it on a member of your staff? Science that can send a ship to Procyon and back within a year, Walton said, can also fake a speech. But I imagine we'll be able to cover up the pre-release without too much trouble. I'm not so sure of that, McLeod said. He shrugged apologetically. You see, that planet's there all right, but it happens to be the property of alien beings who live in the next world. And they're not so happy about having Earth come crashing into their system to colonize. Somehow, Walton managed to hang onto his self-control even with this staggering news crashing about him. You've been in contact with these beings, he asked. McLeod nodded. They have a translating gadget. We met them, yes. Walton moistened his lips. I think there's going to be trouble, he said. I think I may be out of a job, too. What's that? Just thinking out loud, Walton said. Finish your breakfast and meet me at my office at 0900. We'll talk this thing out then. Walton was in full command of himself by the time he reached the Cullen Building. He had read the morning telefacts and heard the news blares. They all screamed the sum and essence of Walton's speech of the previous night. And a few of the braver telefacts outfits went as far as to print a resume of the entire speech, boiled down to basic, of course, for the benefit of that substantial segment of the reading public that was most comfortable while moving its lips. The one telefacts outfit most outspokenly opposed the Popeke. Citizen took great delight in giving the speech full play and editorializing on a subsequent sheet against the veil of secrecy, hazing Popeke operations. Walton read the Citizen editorial twice, savoring its painstaking simplicities of expression. Then he clipped it out neatly and shot it down the chute to public relations, marked attentionly Percy. There's a Mr. McLeod awaiting to see you, his secretary informed him. He says he has an appointment. Send him in, Walton said, and have Mr. Percy come up here also. While he was waiting for McLeod to arrive, Walton riffled through the rest of the telefacts sheets. Some of them praised Popeke for having uncovered a new world. Others damned them for having hidden the news of faster-than-light drives so long. Walton stacked them neatly in a heap at the edge of his desk. In the bleak dark hours of the morning he had expected to be compelled to resign. Now he realized he could immeasurably strengthen his own position if he could control the flow of events and channel them properly. The square figure of McLeod appeared on the screen. Walton admitted him. Sir, I'm McLeod. Of course, won't you sit down? McLeod was tense, stiffly formal, very British in his reserve and general bearing. Walton gestured uneasily, trying to cut through the crackle of nervousness. We seem to have a mess on our hands, he said. But there's no mess so messy we can't muddle through it, eh? If we have to, sir. But I couldn't help feeling this could have been avoided. No, you're wrong, McLeod. If it could have been avoided, it would have been avoided. The fact that some idiot in my public relations department gained access to my wire and found out you were returning is incontrovertible. It happened despite precautions. Mr. Percy to see you, the annunciator said. The angular figure of Lee Percy appeared on the screen. Walton told him to come up. Percy looked frightened, terrified Walton thought. He held a folded slip of paper loosely in one hand. Good morning, sir. Good morning, Lee. Walton observed that the friendly Roy had changed to the formal salutation, sir. Did you get the clipping I sent you? Yes, sir, clumbly. Lee, this is Leslie McLeod, chief of operations of our successful Faster Than Light project. Colonel McLeod, I want you to meet Lee Percy. He is the man who masterminded our little news break last night. Percy flinched visibly. He stepped forward and laid his slip of paper on Walton's desk. I made a mistake last night, he stammered. I should never have released that break. Damn right you shouldn't have, Walton agreed, carefully keeping any hint of severity from his voice. You have us in considerable hot water, Lee. That planet isn't ours for colonization, despite the enthusiasm with which I allegedly announced it last night. And you ought to be clever enough to realize it's impossible to withdraw and deny good news once you've broken it. The planet's not ours, but according to Colonel McLeod, Walton said, the planet is the property of intelligent alien beings who live in a neighboring world and who have no more care to have their system overrun by a pack of earthmen than we would to have extra solar aliens settle on Mars. Sir, that sheet of paper, Percy said in a choked voice, it's, it's, Walton unfolded it. It was Percy's resignation. He read the note carefully twice, smiled and laid it down. Now is his time to be magnanimous. Denied, he said, we need you on our team, Lee. I'm authorizing a 10% pay cut for one week, effective yesterday, but there'll be no other penalty. Thank you, sir. He's crawling to me, Walton thought in amazement. He said, only don't pull that stunt again, or I'll not only fire you, but blacklist you so hard, you won't be able to find work between here and Procyon. Understand? Yes, sir. Okay, go back to your office and get to work. And no more publicity about this faster than light thing until I authorize it. No, cancel that. Get out a quick release. A follow-up to last night. A smoke screen, I mean. Cook up so much cloudy verbiage about the conquest of space that no one bothers to remember anything of what I said. And play down the colonization angle. I get it, sir, Percy grinned feebly. I doubt that, Walton snapped. When you have the release prepared, shoot it up here for my OK. And heaven help you if you deviate from the text I see by as much as a single comma. Percy practically backed out of the office. Why did you do that, MacLeod asked, puzzled. You mean, why did I let him off so lightly? MacLeod nodded. In the military, he said, we'd have had a man shot for doing a thing like that. This isn't the military, Walton said. And even though the man behaved like a congenital idiot yesterday, that's not enough evidence to push him into happy sleep. Besides, he knows his stuff. I can't afford to discharge him. Are public relations men that hard to come by? No, but he's a good one. And the prospect of having him desert to the other side frightens me. He'll be forever grateful to me now. If I had fired him, he would have had a half a dozen anti-po peak articles in the citizen before the week was out. And they'd ruin us. MacLeod smiled appreciatively. You handle your job well, Mr. Walton. I have to, Walton said. The director of Popeke is paid to produce two or three miracles per hour. One gets used to it after a while. Tell me about these aliens, MacLeod. MacLeod swung a briefcase to Walton's desk and flipped the magnet seal. He handed Walton a thick sheath of glossy color photos. The first dozen or so are screens of the planet, MacLeod explained. It's Procyon-8, number eight out of 16, unless we missed a couple. We check 16 worlds in the system anyway. 10 of them were methane giants. We didn't even bother to land. Two were ammonia supergiants, even less pleasant. Three small ones had no atmosphere at all worth speaking about and were no more livable looking than mercury. And the remaining one was the one we called New Earth. Take a look, sir. Walton looked. The photo showed rolling hills covered with close packed shrubbery, flowing rivers, a lovely sunrise. Several of the shots were of indigenous life, a wizened old four-handed monkey, a six-legged dog-like thing, a toothy bird. Life runs to six limbs there, Walton observed. But how livable can this place be? Unless your photos are soured, the grass is blue and the water's peculiar looking too. What sort of test did you run? It's the lights, sir, Procyon's a double star. That faint companion gets up in the sky and does tricky things to the camera. That grass may look blue, but it's a chlorophyll-based photosynthesizer all the same and the water's nothing but H2O, even with that purple tinge. Walton nodded. How about the atmosphere? We were breathing it for a week, no trouble. It's pretty rich in oxygen, 24%. Gives you a bouncy feeling, just right for pioneers, I'd say. You've prepared a full report on this place, haven't you? Of course, it's right here. McLeod started to reach for his briefcase. Not just yet, Walton said. I want to go through the rest of these snapshots. He turned over one after another rapidly until he came to a photo that showed a strange, blocky figure, forearmed, bright green in color. Its necklace head was encased in some sort of breathing mask, fashioned from some transparent plastic. Three cold, brooding eyes peered outward. What is this, Walton asked? Oh, that, McLeod attempted a cheerful grin. That's a deer-nin'. They live on Procyan 9, one of the ammonia gas planets. They're the aliens who don't want us there. The end of Chapter 11 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 12 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 Procyan 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, uh, deer-nins. 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 Procyan system and weren't of a mind to let any alien beings come barging in. Did they sound hostile, Walton asked? Oh, no, just business-like. 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 deer-nins here for treaty talks and such. I suppose so, McLeod said hesitantly. If it's necessary. It looks as if it might be. You had no luck in any of the other nearby systems. No. Then Procyan aides our main hope. Tell your men we'll offer double pay for this cruise and make it as fast as you know how. Hyperspace travels practically instantaneous, McLeod said. We spent most of our time cruising on standard ion drive from planet to planet, maneuvering in the subspace manifold to 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 that 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 deer-nins sitting there, gobbling at him with its three eyes. He was beginning to feel like a juggler. Po-peak activities proceeded on so many fronts at once that it quite dazzled him. And every hour there were new challenges to be met, new decisions to make. At the moment there were too many eggs and not enough baskets. Walton realized he was making the same mistake Fitzbaum had made, that of carrying too much of the Po-peak 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 every 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 Lamar 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 voice right, he dictated a concise, confidential memorandum instructing assisted administrator Eggland 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 enunciator chimed and Walton switched on the screen. It was cellars and from the look of abject terror in the man's face, Walton knew that something sticky had just transpired. What is it, cellars? Any luck in tracing Lamar? 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 in patiently. Cellars seemed about ready to collapse with shame. He said hesitantly, one of the communication technicians was making a routine check of the building 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, cellars 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 chairs. Are you telling me 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 the man's laboratory on the 26th 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 until last evening. If the wrong people had listened in on his conversation with McLeod, there would be serious trouble. All right, cellars. 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, 0900 and 1300. Yes, sir, cellars look 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 Lamar. I'll do my best, Mr. Walton. While the screen was clearing, Walton jotted down a memorandum to himself, investigate cellars. So far as security chief, cellars had allowed an assassin to reach Fitzbaum, allowed prior to burst into Walton's old office, permitted Fred to masquerade as a dorsmith 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 Egland, Olaf, you got 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 telefacts. I'll bet the next edition of The 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 10 minutes avidly awaiting the sheet's arrival. He was not disappointed. The streamer headline ran Things from Space Nick's Big Po-Peak Plan. And under it in smaller type green-skinned 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 Po-Peak'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 and 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 of the next planet out there don't want any sloppy old earthmen messing up their pasture. And so we ain't gonna have any new Earth after all. Wishy washy Walton is a cinch to throw in the towel now. More dope in later editions and check the edit page for extra information. It was obvious, Walton thought, that the spy pickup which had been planted in his office had been a direct pipeline 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 the Citizen the world's most heavily subsidized 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 Lamar's immortality serum. There would have been a lynch mob storming the Cullen building 10 minutes after the Citizen hit the waves with its expose. 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 their thumbs down on colonization of New Earth discovered by Colonel Leslie McLeod. Aside from the question of why Popeke kept the 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 them. 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 telefact sheet skitter to the floor and made no move to pick them up. War with the Durnans? If citizen had its way, there would be. The telefact 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 news blairs. They were full of the citizen break and one commentator made a point blank demand that Walton either advocate war with the Durnans or resign. Not long afterward, you and delegate Ludwig called. Some hot action over there today, he told Walton. After that citizen thing got out, a few of the Oriental delegates started howling for your scalp on 16 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 assistance surrounding me. I think I'm going to reduce the local population personnel 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 pipeline into my office last night and no one caught it until it was too late. Sure, these aliens are holding out. They don't want us coming in there. Ludwig chewed his lips. You have any plans? Dozens of them. Want some? Cheap? He laughed, a brittle, unamused laugh. Seriously, Roy, you ought to go on the air again and soothe this thing over. The people are yelling for war with these Durnans and half of us over here at the UN aren't even sure the damn creatures exist. Can't you fake it up a little? No, Walton said. There's been enough faking. I'm going on the air with the truth for a change. Better have all your delegates over there listening in because their ears are in for an opening. As soon as he was rid of Ludwig, he called Lee Percy. That program on the conquest of space is almost ready to go. The public relations man informed him. Kill it. Have you seen the noon citizen? No, been too busy on the new program. Anything big? Walton chuckled. Fairly big. The citizen just yanked the rug out from under everything. We'll probably be at war with Procyon 9 by sundown. I want you to buy me airspace on every medium for the 1900 spot tonight. Sure thing. What kind of a speech you want us to cook up? None at all, Walton said. I'm going to speak off the cuff for a change. Just buy the time for me and squeeze the budget for all it's worth. The End of Chapter 12 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 13 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The bright light of the video cameras flooded the room. Percy had done a good job. There was a representative from every network, every telefax, every Blair of any sort at all. The media had been corralled. Walton's words would be echoed around the world. He was seated behind his desk, seated because he could shape his words more forcefully that way and also because he was terribly tired. He smiled into the battery of cameras. Good evening, he said. I'm Roy Walton speaking to you from the offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization. I've been director of POPEC for less than a week now and I'd like to make a report, a progress report so to speak. We at POPEC regard ourselves as holding a mandate from you, the people. After all, it was a worldwide referendum last year that enabled the United Nations to put us into business and I want to tell you how the work of POPEC is going. Our aim is to provide breathing space for human beings. The world is vastly overcrowded with its seven billion people. POPEC's job is to ease that overcrowdedness, to equalize the population masses of the world so that the empty portions of the globe are filled up and the extremely overcrowded places thinned out a little. But this is only part of our job, the short range, temporary part. We are planning for the future here. We know we can't keep shifting the population from place to place on Earth. It won't work forever. Eventually, every square inch is going to be covered and then where do we go? You know the answer. We go out. We reach for the stars. At present we have spaceships that can take us to the planets but the planets aren't suitable for human life. All right, we'll make them suitable. At this very moment, a team of engineers is on Venus in that hot, dry, formaldehyde atmosphere struggling to turn Venus into a world fit for oxygen-breathing human beings. They'll do it, too. And when they're done with Venus, they'll move on to Mars, to the moon, perhaps to the big satellites of Jupiter and Saturn, too. There'll be a day when the solar system will be habitable from Mercury to Pluto, we hope. But even that is short range, Walton said pointedly. There'll be a day, and it may be in a hundred years from now, or a thousand or 10,000, when the entire solar system will be as crowded with humanity as Earth is today. We have to plan for that day, too. It's lack of planning on the part of our ancestors that's made things so hard for us. We at Popeke don't want to repeat the tragic mistakes of the past. My predecessor, the late director Fitzmom, was aware of this problem. He succeeded in gathering a group of scientists and technicians who developed a super-space drive, a faster than light ship that can travel to the stars virtually instantaneously instead of taking years to make the trip as our present ships would. The ship was built and set out on an exploratory mission. Director Fitzmom chose to keep this fact a secret. He was afraid of arousing false hopes in case the expedition should be a failure. The expedition was not a failure. Colonel Leslie McLeod and his men discovered a planet similar to Earth in the system of the star Procyon. I have seen photographs of New Earth, as they have named it, and I can tell you that it is a lovely planet and one that will be receptive to our pioneers. Walton paused for a moment before launching into the main subject of his talk. Unfortunately, there is a race of intelligent beings living on a neighboring planet of this world. Perhaps you have seen the misleading and inaccurate reports blared today to the effect that these people refuse to allow Earth to colonize in their system. Some of you have cried out for immediate war against these people, the Durnan. I must confirm part of the story the telefacts carried today. The Durnans are definitely not anxious to have Earth set up a colony on a world adjoining theirs. We are strangers to them, and their reaction is understandable. After all, suppose a race of strange-looking creatures landed on Mars and proceeded with wholesale colonization of our neighboring world. We'd be uneasy to say the least, and so the Durnans are uneasy. However, I've summoned a Durnan ambassador, our first diplomatic contact with intelligent alien creatures, and I hope he'll be on Earth shortly. I plan to convince him that we're peaceful, neighborly people, and that it will be to our mutual benefit to allow Earth to colonize the prosaion system. I'm going to need your help. If, while our alien guest is here, he discovers that some misguided Earthmen are demanding war with Durnan, he's certainly not going to think of us as particularly desirable neighbors to welcome with open arms. I want to stress the importance of this. Sure, we can go to war with Durnan for possession of prosaion nine, but widespread wholesale destruction on two worlds when we can probably achieve our goal peacefully. That's all I have to say tonight, people of the world. I hope you'll think about what I've told you. Po-peak works 24 hours a day in your behalf, and we need your full cooperation if we're going to achieve our aims and bring humanity to its full maturity. Thank you. The floodlights winked out suddenly, leaving Walton momentarily blinded. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the cameraman moving their bulky apparatus out of the office quickly and efficiently. The regular programs had returned to the channels, the vapid dancing and joke making, the terror shows, the collider worlds. Now that it was over, now that the tension was broken, Walton experienced a moment of bitter disillusionment. He had had high hopes for his speech, but had he really pulled it over? He wasn't sure. He glanced up. Lee Percy stood over him. Roy, could I say something? Percy said diffidently. Go ahead, Walton said. I don't know how many millions I forked over to put you on the media tonight, but I know one thing. We threw a hell of a lot of money away. Walton sighed wearily. Why do you say that? That speech of yours, Percy said, was the speech of an amateur. You ought to let the pros handle the big spills, Roy. I thought you liked the impromptu thing I did when they were mobbing the Herschelite. How come no go tonight? Percy shook his head. The speech you made outside the building was different. It had emotion, it had punch, but tonight you didn't come across at all. No, I'd put money behind it. Acidly, Percy said, you can't win the public opinion by being reasonable. You have a nice, smooth speech, bland, folksy. You laid everything on the line where they could see it. And that's wrong, is it? Walton closed his eyes a moment. Why? Because they won't listen. You gave them a sermon when you should've been punching at them. Sweet reason. You can't be sweet if you want to sell your product to seven billion morons. Is that all they are, Walton asked, just morons? Percy chuckled. In the long run, yes. Give them their daily bread and their one room to live in, and they won't give a damn what happens to the world. Fitzmom sold them Popeke the way you sell a car without turbines. He hoodwinked them into buying something they wouldn't have thought about or wanted. They needed Popeke, whether they wanted it or not. No one needs a car without turbines. Bad analogy then, Percy said, but it's true. They don't care a blast about Popeke, except where it affects them. If you'd told them that these aliens would kill them all if they didn't act nice, you'd have gotten across. But this sweetness and light business, oh no, Roy, it just doesn't work. Is that all you have to tell me, Walton asked? I guess so. I just wanted to show you where you had a big chance and muffed it, where we could've helped you out if you'd let us. I don't want you to think I'm rude or critical, Roy. I'm just trying to be helpful. Okay, Lee, get out. Huh? Go away. Go sell ice cream to Eskimos. Leave me alone, yes? If that's the way you want it, hell, Roy, don't brood over it. We can still fix things up before the alien gets here. We can put the content of tonight's speech across so smoothly that they won't even know we're, get out! Percy skittered for the door. He paused and said, you're all wrought up, Roy. You ought to take a pill or something for your nerves. Well, he had his answer, an expert evaluation of the content and effect of his speech. Damn it, he had tried to reach them. Percy said he hadn't, and Percy probably was right. Little as Walton cared to admit the fact to himself. But was Percy's approach the only one? Did you have to lie to them, push them, treat them as seven billion morons? Maybe. Right now, billions of human beings, the same human beings Walton was extending so much energy to save, were staring at the Kaleida Whirl programs on their videos. Their eyes were getting fixed, glassy. Their mouths were beginning to sag open, their cheeks to wobble, their lips to drool pendulously. As the hypnosis of the color pattern took effect. This was humanity. They were busy forgetting all the things they had just been forced to listen to. All the big words, like mandate, and eventually, and wholesale destruction. Just so many harsh syllables to be wiped away by the soothing swirl of the colors. And somewhere else, possibly, a poet named Pryor was listening to his baby's coughing and writing a poem. A poem that Walton and a few others would read excitedly while the billions would ignore it. Walton saw that Percy was dead right. Roy Walton could never have sold Popeke to the world. But Fitzmom, that cagey, devious genius, did it. By waving his hands before the public and saying abracadabra, he bamboozled them into approving Popeke before they knew what they were being sold. It was a lousy trick, but Fitzmom had realized that it had to be done. Someone had killed him for it, but it was too late by then. And Walton saw that he had taken the wrong track by trying to be reasonable. Percy's callous description of humanity as seven billion morons was uncomfortably close to the truth. Walton would have to make his appeal to a more subliminal level. Perhaps, he thought, at the level of the collider whorls, those endless patterns of colored light that were the main form of diversion for the great unwashed. I'll get to them, Walton promised himself. There can't be any dignity or nobility in human life with everyone crammed into one sardine can. So I'll treat them like the sardines they are and hope I can turn them into the human beings they could be if they only had room. He rose, turned out the lights, prepared to leave. He wondered if the late director Fitzmom had ever faced an internal crisis of this sort, or whether Fitzmom had known these truths innately from the start. Probably the latter was the case. Fitzmom had been a genius, a sort of Superman, but Fitzmom was dead. And the man who carried on his work was no genius. He was only a mere man. Reports started filtering in the next morning. It went much as Percy had predicted. Citizen was the most virulent. Under the sprawling headline, Who's Kidding Who, the telephact sheet wanted to know what the Mealy Moth Po-Peak director was trying to tell the world on all the media the night before. They weren't sure since Walton, according to Citizen, had been talking in highfalutin prose picked on purpose to befuddle John Q. Public. But their general impression was that Walton had proposed some sort of sellout to the Dernons. The sellout idea prevailed in most of the cheap telephact sheets. Behind a cloud of words, Po-Peak Zarr Walton is selling the world downstream to the greenskins, said one paper. His talk last night was strictly bunk. His holy, holy words and grim face were supposed to put over something, but we ain't fooled. And don't you be fooled either, friend. The video commentators were a little kinder, but not much. One called for a full investigation of the Earth-Derna situation. Another wanted to know why Walton, an appointed official and not even a permanent one at that, had taken it upon himself to handle such high-powered negotiations. The UN seemed a little worried about that, even though Ludwig had made a passionate speech insisting that negotiations with the Derna were part of Walton's allotted responsibilities. That touched off a new ruckus. How much power does Walton have, citizen demanded in a later edition? Is he boss of the world? And if he is, who the devil is he anyway? That struck Walton harder than all the other blows. He had been gradually realizing that he did in fact control what amounted to dictatorial powers over the world. But he had not yet fully admitted it to himself and it hurt to be accused of it publicly. One thing was clear. His attempt at sincerity and clarity had been a total failure. The world was accustomed to sub-refuge and verbal pyrotechnics. And when it didn't get the expected commotion, it grew suspicious. Sincerity had no market value. By going before the public and making a direct appeal, Walton had aroused the suspicion that he had something hidden up his sleeve. When citizens' third edition of the day openly screamed for war with Derna, Walton realized the time had come to stop playing it clean. From now on he would chart his course and head there at any cost. He tore a sheet of paper from his memo pad and inscribed on it a brief memo. The end justifies the means. With that as his guide, he was ready to get down to work. End of Chapter 13 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 14 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Martinez, security head for the entire Appalachian District, was a small, slight man with unruly hair and deep piercing eyes. He stared levelly at Walton and said, "'Sellers has been with security for 20 years. It's absurd to suggest that he's disloyal.' "'He's made a great many mistakes,' Walton remarked. "'I am simply suggesting that if he's not utterly incompetent, he has to be in someone else's pay. "'And you want us to break a man on your, say so, "'director Walton?' Martinez shook his head fussily. "'I'm afraid I can't see that. "'Of course, if you're willing to go "'through the usual channels, "'you could conceivably request a change "'of personnel in this district. "'But I don't see how else. "'Sellers will have to go,' Walton said. "'Our operation has sprung too many leaks. "'We'll need a new man in here at once, "'and I want you to double-check him personally.' Martinez rose. "'The little man's nostrils flickered ominously. "'I refuse. "'Security is external to whims and fancies. "'If I remove sellers, "'it will undermine security's self-confidence "'all through the country.' "'All right, Walton sighed. "'Sellers stays. "'I'll file a request to have him transferred, though. "'I'll pigeonhole it. "'I can vouch for sellers' competence myself,' Martinez snapped. "'Popeek is in good hands, Mr. Walton. "'Please believe that.' Martinez left. Walton glowered at the retreating figure. He knew Martinez was honest. But the security head was a stubborn man, and rather than admit the existence of a flaw in the security structure he had erected, Martinez would let a weak man continue a vital position. "'Well, that blind spot in Martinez's makeup "'would have to be compensated for, Walton thought. "'One way or another he would have to get rid of sellers "'and replace him with a security man he could trust.' "'He scribbled a hasty note "'and sent it down the chute to Lee Percy. "'As Walton anticipated, "'the public relations man phoned minutes later. "'Roy, what's this release you want me to get out? "'It's fantastic. "'Sellers a spy? "'How? "'He hasn't even been arrested. "'I just saw him in the building.' Walton smirked. "'Since when do you have such high respect for accuracy?' "'He said. "'Send out the release, and we'll watch what happens.' The 1140 news-blares were the first to carry the news. Walton listened cheerlessly as they revealed that security chief sellers had been arrested on charges of disloyalty. "'According to informed sources,' said the blares, "'sellers was now in custody "'and had agreed to reveal the nature of the secret conspiracy "'that had hired him. "'At 12.10 came a later report. "'Security chief sellers had temporarily been released "'from custody. "'And at 12.30 came a still-later report. "'Security chief sellers had been assassinated "'by an unknown hand outside the Cullen building. "'Walton listened to the reports with cold detachment. "'He had foreseen the move. "'Sellers, panicked employers, had silenced the man for good. "'The ends justify the means,' Walton told himself. "'There was no reason to feel pity for sellers. "'He had been a spy, and death was the penalty. "'It made no real difference whether the death came "'in a federal gas chamber "'or as the result of some carefully faked news releases.' "'Martinus called almost immediately "'after word of sellers' murder reached the blares. "'The little man's face was deathly pale. "'I owe you an apology,' he said. "'I acted like an idiot this morning.' "'Don't blame yourself,' Walton said. "'It was only natural that you'd trust sellers. "'You'd known him so long. "'But you can't trust anybody these days, Martinez. "'Not even yourself.' "'I will have to resign,' the security man said. "'Now it wasn't your fault. "'Sellers was a spy and a bungler, and he paid the price. "'His own men struck him down "'when the rumor escaped that he was going to inform. "'Just send me a new man, as I asked, and make him a good one.'" Keeler, the new security attaché, was a crisp-looking man in his early 30s. He reported directly to Walton as soon as he reached the building. "'Your sellers' replacement, eh? "'Glad to see you, Keeler,' Walton studied him. "'He looked tough and hard and thoroughly incorruptible. "'I have a couple of jobs I'd like you to start on right away. "'First, you know sellers was looking for a man named Lamar. "'Let me fill you in on that, and no need for that,' Keeler said. "'I was the man sellers put on the Lamar chase. "'There wasn't any trace of him anywhere. "'We got feelers out all over the planet now, and no luck.'" "'Hm!' said Walton mildly annoyed. "'He had been wishfully hoping sellers had found Lamar "'and had simply covered up the fact. "'But if Keeler had been the one who handled the search, "'there was no hope of that.' "'All right,' Walton said. "'Keep on the hunt for Lamar. "'At the moment I want you to give this building "'a thorough scouring. "'There's no telling how many spy pickup sellers planted here. "'Top to bottom, and report back to me when the job is done. "'Next on Walton's schedule was a call from communications. "'He received it, and a technician told him, "'There's been a call from the Venus ship. "'Do you want it, sir?' "'Of course.' "'It says, arrived Venus June 15 late. "'No sign of lying outfit yet. "'We'll keep looking, and we'll report daily. "'It's signed Spencer.' "'Okay,' Walton said. "'Thanks. "'And if any further word comes from them, "'let me have it right away.' "'The fate of the laying expedition,' Walton reflected, "'was not of immediate importance, "'but he would like to know what had happened to the group. "'He hoped Spencer and his rescue mission "'had something more concrete to report tomorrow.' The annunciator chimed. "'Dr. Fredwick Walton is on the line, sir. "'He says it's urgent.' "'Okay,' Walton said. "'He switched over, waiting for his brother's face "'to appear on the screen. "'A nervous current of anticipation throbbed at him.' "'Well, Fred,' he asked at length. "'You've been a busy little bee, haven't you,' Fred said. "'I understand you have a new security chief to watch over you. "'I don't have time to make conversation now,' Walton snapped. "'Nor do I. You fooled us badly with that newsbreak on sellers. You forced us into wiping out a useful contact prematurely. "'Not so useful,' Walton said. "'I was on to him. If you hadn't killed him, I would have had to handle the job myself. You saved me the trouble.' "'My, my. Getting ruthless, aren't we?' "'When the occasion demands,' Walton said. "'Fair enough. We'll play the same way,' Fred's eyes narrowed. "'You recall our conversation in the bronze room the other day, Roy?' "'Vividly.' "'I have called to ask your decision,' Fred said. One way or the other.' Walton was cut off guard. "'But you said I had a week's grace.' "'The period's been halved,' Fred said. "'We now see it's necessary to accelerate things.' "'Tell me what you want me to do. Then I'll give you my answer.' "'It's simple enough. You're to resign in my favor. If it's not done by nightfall tomorrow, we'll find it necessary to release the Lamar Serum. Those are our terms, and don't try to bargain with me.' Walton was silent for a moment, contemplating his brother's cold face on the screen. Finally he said, "'It takes time to get such things done. I can't just resign overnight.' "'Bitsbomb did.' "'Ah, yes, if you want to call that a resignation. But unless you want to inherit the same sort of chaos I did, you'd better give me a little time to prepare things.' Fred's eyes gleamed. "'Does that mean you'll yield? You'll resign in my favor?' "'There's no guarantee the UN will accept you,' Walton warned. "'Even with my recommendation, I can't promise a 100% chance of success.' "'We'll have to risk it,' Fred said. "'The important step is getting you out of there. When can I confirm all of this?' Walton eyed his brother shrewdly. "'Come up to my office tomorrow at this time, and I'll have everything set up for you by then, and I'll be able to show you how the Po-Peak machinery works. That's one advantage you'll have over me.' Fitzbaum kept half the workings in his head. "'Fred grins savagely. I'll see you then, Roy.' Chuckling, he added, "'I knew all that ruthlessness of yours was only skin deep. You never were tough, Roy.' Walton glanced at his watch after Fred had left the screen. The time was eleven hundred. It had been a busy morning, but some of the vaguenesses were beginning to look sharper. He knew, for instance, that sellers had been in the pay of the same organization that backed Fred. Presumably this meant that Fitzbaum had been assassinated by the landed gentry. But for what reason? Surely not simply for the sake of assassination. If they cared to, they might have killed Fitzbaum whenever they pleased. He saw now why the assassination had been timed as it had. By the time the conspirators had realized that Walton was sure to be the old man's successor, Fred had already joined their group. They had ready leverage on the prospective director. They knew they could shove him out of office almost as quickly as he got in, and supplant him with their puppet, Fred. Well, they were in for a surprise. Fred was due to appear at Walton's office at eleven hundred on the morning of the seventeenth to take over command. Walton planned to be ready for them by then. There was the matter of Lamar. Walton wanted the little scientist and his formula badly, but by this time Fred had certainly made at least one copy of Lamar's documents. The threat would remain, whether or not Popeke recovered the originals. Walton had twenty-four hours to act. He called up Sue Llewellyn, Popeke's controller. Sue, how's our budget looking? What's on your mind, Roy? Plenty. I want to know if I can make an expenditure of, say, a billion between now and nightfall. A billion? You're joking, Roy. Hardly, Walton's tone was grim. I hope I won't need it all, but there's a big purchase I want to make, an investment. Can you squeeze out the money? It doesn't matter where you squeeze it from, either, because if we don't get it by nightfall, there probably won't be a Popeke by the day after tomorrow. What are you talking about, Roy? Give me a yes or no answer, and if the answer is not the one I want to hear, I'm afraid you can start looking for a new job, Sue. She uttered a little gasp. Then she said, OK, Roy, I'll play along with you, even if it bankrupts us. There's a billion at your disposal as of now, though Lord knows what I'll use for payroll next week. You'll have it back, Walton promised, with compound interest. His next call was to a man he once dealt with in his capacity of secretary to Senator Fitzmom. He was Noel Hervey, a registered security and exchange shyster. Hervey was a small, worried-looking little man, but his unflinching eyes belied his ready appearance. What troubles you, Roy? I want you to make a stock purchase for me, Pronto, within an hour, say? Hervey shook his head instantly. Sorry, Roy, I'm all tied up on a hefty monorail deal. Won't be free until Wednesday or Thursday, if by then. Walton said, what sort of money will you be making on this big deal of yours, Noel? Confidential. You wouldn't invade a man's privacy on a delicate matter like, well, will it be worth five million dollars to you, Noel? Five million? Hey, is this a gag? I'm awfully serious, Walton said. I want you to swing a deal for me, right away. You heard my price. Hervey smiled warmly. Well, start talking, friend. Consider me hired. A few other matters remain to be tended to hurriedly. Walton spent some moments talking to a communications technician, then sent out an order for three or four technical books, Basic Collider Whirl Theory and Related Works. He sent a note to Lee Percy requesting him to stop by and see him in an hour, and told his annunciator that for no reason whatsoever was he to be disturbed for the next 60 minutes. The hour passed rapidly, but by its end Walton's head was slightly dizzy from too much skimming, and his mind was thumping with new possibilities with communications potential galore. Talk about reaching people. He had a natural. He flipped on the annunciator. Is Mr. Percy here yet? No, sir, should I send for him? Yes, he's due here any minute to see me. Have there been any calls? Quite a few. I relayed them down to Mr. Eggland's office, as instructed. Good girl, Walton said. Oh, Mr. Percy's here, and there's a call for you from communications. Walton frowned. Tell Percy to wait outside a minute or two. Give me the call. The communications tech on the screen was grinning excitedly. He said, subspace message has just come in for you, sir. From Venus? Let's have it, Walton said. The technician read, two Walton from McLeod, via subspace radio, have made successful voyage to ProScience System, and am on way back with Dernan Ambassador on board. See you soon, and good luck. You'll need it. Good, that all? That's all, sir. Okay, keep me posted. He broke the contact and turned to the annunciator. Excitement put a faint quiver in his voice. You can send Mr. Percy in now, he said. The end of Chapter 14 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg.