 CHAPTER XV OF MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH by Robert Silberberg. This Lieberbach's recording is in the public domain. Walton looked up at the public relations man and said, "'How much do you know about Kaleida-whirls, Lee?' "'Not a hell of a lot. I never watched the things myself. They're bad for the eyes.' Walton smiled. "'That makes you a nonconformist, doesn't it? According to the figures I have here, the nightly Kaleida-whirls programs are top-ranked on the ratings charts.' "'Maybe so,' Percy said cautiously. "'I still don't like to watch them. What goes, Roy?' "'I've suddenly become very interested in Kaleida-whirls myself,' Walton said. He leaned back and added casually. I think they may be used as propaganda devices. My brother's reaction to one gave me the idea a couple of days ago at the bronze room. For the past hour or so I've been studying Kaleida-whirls in terms of information theory. Did you know that it's possible to get a message across via Kaleida-whirls? Of course,' Percy gasped, but the Communications Commission would never let you get away with it. By the time the Communications Commission found out what had been done, Walton said calmly, we wouldn't be doing it any more. They wouldn't be able to prove a thing.' Sarcastically, he added, after spending a lifetime in public relations, you're not suddenly getting a rush of ethics, are you? "'Well, let's have the details in.' "'Simple enough,' Walton said. We feed through a verbal message, something like, hooray for Popeke, or, I don't want war with the dirna. We flash it on the screen for, say, a microsecond, then cover it up with Kaleida-whirls patterns. Wait two minutes, then flash it again. Not many of noise, but the signal will get through if we flash it often enough.' "'And it'll get through down deep,' Percy said. Subliminally, they won't even realize that they've been indoctrinated, but suddenly they'll have a new set of opinions about Popeke and dirna.' He shuddered. "'Roy, I hate to think what would happen if someone else gets to thinking about this and puts on his own Kaleida-whirls show. I thought of that. But the dirna crisis is over. After we've put over our point, I'm going to frame someone into putting on a propaganda Kaleida-whirl and then catch him in the act. That ought to be sufficient to wise up the communications commission.' "'In other words,' Percy said, you're willing to use this technology now, but since you don't want anyone else to use it, you're willing to give up future use of it yourself as soon as the dirna trouble is over.' "'Exactly.' Walton shoved the stack of textbooks over to the PR man. Read these through first. Get yourself familiar with the set-up. Then buy a Kaleida-whirl hour and get a bunch of our engineers in there to handle the special inserts. Okay?' "'It's nasty, but I like it. When do you want the program to begin?' "'Tomorrow, tonight if you can work it, and set up a poll of some kind to keep check on the program's effectiveness. I want two messages Kaleida-whirl'd alternately, one supporting Popeke, one demanding a peaceful settlement with the aliens. Have your pulse-takers feel out the populace on those two propositions, and report any fluctuation to me immediately.' "'Got it.' "'Oh, one more thing. I suspect you'll have some extra responsibilities as of tomorrow, Lee.' "'Hey.' "'Your office will have one additional medium to deal with. Telefax.' "'I'm buying Citizen, and we're going to turn it into a pro-Popeke rag.' Percy's mouth dropped in astonishment. Then he started to laugh. "'You're a wonder, Roy. A genuine wonder.' Moments after Percy departed, Noel Herve, the security and exchange-sheister, called. "'Well,' Walton asked. Herve looked preoccupied. "'I've successfully spent a couple of hundred million of Popeke's money in the last half hour, Roy. You now own the single biggest block of citizen stock there is. How much is that?' "'152,000 shares. Approximately 33 percent.' "'33 percent? What about the other 18 percent?' "'Patience, lad, patience. I know my job. I snapped up all the small holdings there were. Very quietly. It cost me a pretty penny to farm out the purchases, too.' "'Why'd you do that?' Walton asked. "'Because this has to be handled very gingerly. You know the ownership set up of Citizen?' "'No. Well, it goes like this. Amalgamated Telefax owns a 26 percent chunk, and Horace Merlin owns 25 percent. Since Merlin owns Amalgamated, he votes 51 percent of the stock, even though it isn't registered that way. The other 49 percent doesn't matter, Merlin figures. So I'm busy gathering up as much of it as I can for you, under a half a dozen different brokerage names. I doubt that I can get it all, but I figured on rounding up at least 49 percent. Then I'll approach Merlin with a big deal, and sucker him into selling me six percent of his citizen stock. He'll check around. I doubt that the remaining stock is splittered 97 different ways, and he'll probably let go of a little of his, figuring he still has control. "'Suppose he doesn't,' Walton asked. "'Don't worry,' Hervé said confidently. "'He will. I've got a billion smackers to play with, don't I? I'll cook up a deal so juicy he can't resist it, and all he'll have to do to take a flyer will be to peel off a little of his citizen stock. "'The second he does that, I'll transfer all the fragmented stock to you. With your controlling majority of fifty-one percent, you boot Merlin off the board, and the tele-fax sheet is yours.' Simple? Clear? "'Perfectly,' Walton said. "'Okay, keep in touch.' He broke the contact and walked to the window. The street was packed with people scrambling in every direction, like so many ants moving at random over the ground. Many of them clutched tele-fax sheets. The most popular one was The Citizen. Many of them would gape and goggle at collider-world programs come evening. Walton suddenly tightened his fist. In just that way, he thought, Popeke has tightened its hold on the public by capturing the mass media. If Hervé's confidence had any justification in truth, they would own the leading anti-Popeke tele-fax sheet by tomorrow. With subtle handling over the course of several days, they could swing the slant of Citizen around to a pro-Popeke stand and do it so surreptitiously that it would seem as though the sheet had never had any other policy. As for collider-world subterfuge, that, Walton admitted, was hitting below the belt. But he had resolved that all would be fair during the current crisis. There would be time enough for morality after the war had been averted. At about fourteen-thirty that day Walton took advantage of a lull in activities to have a late lunch at the Bronze Room. He felt that he had to get away from the confining walls of his office for at least some part of the afternoon. The Bronze Room had adopted Cerise as its color scheme for the day. Walton selected a private room, lunched lightly on baked chlorella steak and filtered rum, and dialed a twelve minute nap. When the alarm system in the foam web couch stirred him to waitfulness, he stretched happily. Some of the choking tension had been washed out of him. Thoughtfully, he switched on the electro-luminescent kaleidoscope and stared at it. It worked on the same principle as the kaleido-horal programs beamed over the public video, except that the Bronze Room provided closed channel beaming of its own kaleidoscope patterns. Tending more to soft greens and pale rows, they were on a higher aesthetic plane, certainly, than the jagged melodramatic purples and reds the video channel set out for popular consumption, but it was with a certain new apprehension that Walton now studied the kaleidoscopic pattern. Now that he knew what a dangerous weapon the flashing colors could be, how could he be certain that the Bronze Room proprietors were not flashing some scarcely seeds subliminal command at him this very moment? He turned the set off with a brusque gesture. The ends justify the means, a nice homily, he thought, which allowed him to do almost anything. It brought to mind the rationale of Ivan Karamazov. Without God everything is permissible. But both God and Dostoevsky seemed to be obsolete these days, he reminded himself. God was now a lean young man with an office on the 29th floor of the Cullen Building. And as for Dostoevsky, all he did was write books, and therefore could not have been of any great importance. He felt a tremor of self-doubt. Maybe it had been unwise to let kaleido-whirl propaganda loose on the world. Once unleashed it might not be so easily caged again. He realized that as soon as the popic campaign was over he would have to make sure some method was devised for pre-checking all public and closed-channel kaleidoscopic patterns. The most damnable part of such propaganda techniques, he knew, was that you could put over almost any idea at all without arousing suspicion on the part of the viewer. He wouldn't know that he'd been tampered with. You could tell him so after the new idea had been planted, but by then he wouldn't believe you. Walton dialed another filtered rub and lifted it to his lips with a slightly shaky hand. Mr. Ludwig of the United Nations called while you were out, sir, Walton was told upon returning to his office. He'd like you to call him back. Very well, make the connection for me. When Ludwig appeared, Walton said, Sorry I missed your call, what's happening? Special session of the Security Council just broke up. They passed a resolution unanimously and shipped it on to the assembly. There's going to be an immediate hearing to determine the new permanent head of Popeke. Walton clamped his lips together. After a moment he said, How come? The Dernan crisis. They don't want a mere interim director handling things. They feel the man dealing with the aliens ought to have full UN blessing. Should I interpret that to mean I get the job automatically? I couldn't swear to it, said Ludwig. General consensus certainly favors you to continue. I'd advise you to show up at the hearing in person and present your programming in detail. Otherwise they may stick some smooth talking politico in your place. The noise is slated to start at 1100 day after tomorrow, the 18th. I'll be there, Walton said. Thanks for the tip. He chewed the end of his stylus for a moment, then hastily scribbled down the appointment. As of now he knew he couldn't worry too strongly about events taking place the day after tomorrow, not with Fred arriving for a showdown the next morning. The next day began busily enough. Herve was the first to call. The citizens sold up Roy. I had dinner with Merlin last night and weaseled him out a 4% of citizen stock in exchange for a fancy tip on the new monorail project out Nevada Way. He was grinning all over the place, but I'll bet he's grinning out of the other side of his mouth this morning. Is it all arranged, Walt Nask? In the bag, I was up at 0700 and consolidated my holdings, your holdings I mean, 47% of the stock I had fragmented in a dozen different outfits. The other 2% outstanding belonged to rich widows who wouldn't sell. I lumped the 47% together in your name, then completed the transfer on Merlin's 4% and stuck that in there too. Citizen Telefax is now the property of Popey, Roy. Fine work, how much did it cost? Then he said, 483 million and some change, plus my usual 5% commission, which in this case comes to about two and a quarter million. But I offered you 5 million, Walt Nask said. That offer still goes. You want me to lose my license? I spent years placing bribes to get a Scheister's license and you want me to throw it away for a couple of extra million? Uh-uh, I'll settle for two and a quarter and damn good doing, I call that for a day's work. Walt N. Grind. You win and Sue Llewellyn will be glad to know that it didn't cost the whole billion to grab Citizen. You'll be over with the papers, won't you? About 10 hundred, the Scheister said. I've got a follow through for Merlin on his monorail deal first. The poor sucker, see you in an hour. Right. Rapidly, Walton scribbled memos. As soon as the papers were in his hands, he'd served notice on Merlin that the stockholders meeting was to be held at once. After that, he deposed Merlin, fired the present Citizen's editors and packed the tele-fact sheets with men loyal to Popeke. Fred was due at 11 hundred. Walton buzzed Keeler, the new security chief, and said, Keeler, I have an appointment with someone at 11 hundred. I want you to station three men outside my door and frisk him for weapons as he comes in. We do that anyway, sir. It's standard procedure now. Good, but I want you to be one of the three and make sure the two who come with you are tight-mouthed. I don't want any news breaks on this. Right, sir. Okay, be there at 10 50 or so. About 11 15, I'm gonna press the door opener and I want you and your men to break in, arrest my visitor, and spirit him off to the deepest dungeon security has, and leave him there. If Martinez wants to know what's going on, tell him I'll take responsibility. Keeler looked vaguely puzzled, but merely nodded. We frisk him first, then let him talk to you for 15 minutes. Then we come in on signal and take him away. I've got it. This man's a dangerous anti-Popeke conspirator. Make sure he's drugged before he gets out of my office. I don't want him making noise. The annunciator sounded. Man from communications has a message for you, Mr. Walton. He switched over from Keeler to communications and said, go ahead. From the cloud, Mr. Walton, we just got it. It says, arriving Nairobi on the 18th. We'll be in your office with the Dernan following morning, if he feels like making the trip. Otherwise, will you come to Nairobi? Tell him, yes, if necessary, Walton said. He glanced at his watch. Oh, nine seventeen. It looked like it was going to be hectic all day, and Fred was due at eleven hundred. The end of chapter fifteen of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter sixteen of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This Lieberbox recording is in the public domain. Herve showed up at ten oh three, grinning broadly. He unfolded a thick wad of documents and thrust them at Walton. I hold in my hand the world's most potent tele-fact sheet, Herve said. He flipped the documents casually onto Walton's desk and laughed. They're all yours, fifty one percent, every bit of it voting stock. I told Mullen about it just before I left him this morning. He turned purple. What did he say? What could he say? I asked him offhandedly if he knew where all the outstanding citizen stock was, and he said yes, it was being held by a lot of small holders. Then I told him that somebody was buying out the small holders and that I was selling my four percent to him. That's when he started to change color. When I left he was busy making phone calls, but I don't think he'll like what he's going to find out. Walton riffed through the papers. It's all here, eh? Fine work. I'll put through your voucher in half an hour or so, unless you're in a hurry. Oh, don't rush, Herve said. He ran a finger inside his collar. A couple of security boys outside, you know? They really gave me a going over. I'm expecting an assassin at 1100, Walton said lightly. They're on the lookout. Oh, a close friend? A relative, Walton said. Fred arrived promptly at 1100. By that time, Walton had already set the machinery in operation for the takeover of Citizen. The first step had been to call Horace Merlin and confirm the fact that Popeke now owned the Telefax sheet. Merlin's fleshy face was a curious shade of rose purple. He sputtered at Walton for five minutes before admitting he was beaten. With Merlin out of the way, Walton selected a new editorial staff for the paper from a list Percy supplied. He intended to keep the reporting crew of the old regime intact. Citizen had a fantastically efficient news gathering team, and there was no point in breaking it up. It was the policymaking level Walton was interested in controlling. The 100 edition of Citizen was the last under the old editors. They had received word from Merlin about what had happened, and by 1030 when Walton had sent his dismissal notices over, they had already cleaned out their desks. The 100 edition was beautiful, though. The lead headline read, Are we chumps for the greenskins? And most of the issue was devoted to inflammatory pro-war anti-Popeke journalism. A full page of Letters from the Readers, actually transcribed telephone calls since few of Citizen's readers were interested in writing letters, echoed the editorial stand. One letter in particular caught Walton's attention. It was from Mrs. P. F. of New York City Environ, which probably meant Jersey or a lower Connecticut, and it was short and to the point. Do the editor. Hooray for you. Popeke is a damn crime and that Walton criminal ought to be put away, and we ought to kill those greenskins up there before they kill us. Kill them before they kill us, Walton snickered. All the old hysterias, the old panic reactions came boiling up again in times of stress. He looked at his hand. It was perfectly steady, even though his wristwatch told him Fred would be there in just a few minutes. A week ago a situation like this would have had him gobbling Benzlerothane as fast as he could unwrap the lozenges. The ghostly presence of Fitzmom seemed to hover in the room. The ends justify the means, Walton told himself grimly, as he waited for his brother to arrive. Fred was dressed completely in black from his stylish neo-Victorian waistcoat and the bit of ribbon at his throat to the mirror-bright leather pumps on his feet. The splendor of his clothing was curiously at odds with the coarseness of his features and the stockiness of his body. He walked into Walton's office at the stroke of 1100 and sighed deeply, the sigh of a man about to take permanent possession. Good morning, Roy. I'm on time, as always. And looking radiant, dear brother, Walton gestured appreciatively at Fred's clothes. It's been a long time since I've seen you in anything but your lab smock. I gave notice at the lab yesterday night after I spoke to you. I'm no longer an employee of Popeke and I felt I should dress with the dignity suitable to my new rank. He grand-boyantly, well, ready to turn over the orb and scepter, Roy? Not exactly, Walton said. But, but I promised I'd resign in your favor today, Fred. I don't think I ever used those words, but I certainly implied it, didn't I? Of course you did. You told me to come here at 1100 and you'd arranged the transfer. Walton nodded, exactly so. He waited a long moment and then said quietly, I lied, Fred. He had chosen the words carefully for maximum impact. He had not chosen wrongly. For a brief instant Fred's face was very pale against the blackness of his garb. Total disbelief flickered across his eyes and mouth. Walton had considered his brother's mental picture of him, the elder brother, virtuous, devoted to hard work, kind to animals, and just a little soft in the head. Also, extremely honest. Fred hadn't expected Walton to be lying and the calm admission stunned him. You're not planning to go through with it then? Fred asked in a dead voice. No. You realize what this means in terms of the serum, don't you? The moment I get out of here and transmit your refusal to my employers, they'll begin wholesale manufacture and distribution of the Lamar serum. The publicity won't be good, Roy, nor the result. You won't get out of here, Walton said. Another shockwave rippled over Fred's face. You can't be serious, Roy. My employers know where I am and they know what I'm here for. If they don't hear from me within 24 hours, they'll proceed with the serum distribution. You can't hope to, I'll risk it, Walton interrupted. If nothing else, I'll have a 24-hour extension. You don't really think I would hand Popeke over to you on a platter, Fred. Why, I didn't even know how secure my own position is here, so I'm afraid I'll have to back down on my offer. You're under arrest, Fred. Arrest? Fred sprang from his seat and circled around the desk toward Walton. For a moment, the two brothers stared at each other, faces inches apart. Walton put one hand on his brother's shoulder and, gripping tightly, forced him around to the front of the desk. You had this all planned, didn't you, Fred said bitterly? Yesterday, when you talked to me, you knew this was what you were going to do. But you said you'd yield and I believed you. I don't fool easily, but I thought I had you pegged because you were my brother. I knew you. You wouldn't do a sneaky thing like this. But I did, Walton said. Suddenly, Fred jumped. He charged at Walton blindly, head down. In the same motion, Walton signaled for Keeler and his men to break in and met Fred's charge. He caught his brother mid stride with a swinging punch that sent his head cracking back sharply. Fred's face twisted and writhed, more in astonishment than pain. He stepped back, rubbing his chin. You've changed, he said. This job's made you tough. A year ago, you would never have done this to me. Walton shrugged. Look behind you, Fred, and this time you can trust me. Fred turned warily. Keeler and the two other great clad security men stood there. Drug him and take him away, Walton said. Have him held in custody until I notify Martinez. Fred's eyes widened. You're a dictator, he said hoarsely. You just move people around like chessmen, Roy. Like chessmen. Drag him, Walton repeated. Keeler stepped forward. A tiny hypodermic spray cupped in his hand. He activated it with a twitch of his thumb and touched it to Fred's forearm. A momentary hum droned in the office as the vibrating spray forced the drug into Fred's arm. He slumped like an empty sack. Pick him up, Keeler ordered. Take him and let's get going. The story broke in the 1300 edition of Citizen and from the general tone of the piece, Walton could see the fine hand of Lee Percy at work. The headline was, guy tries to knock off Popeke head. After the usual string of subheads, all in the cheerful, breezy, barely literate citizen style, came the body of the story. A guy tried to bump Popeke top number Roy Walton today. Security men got there in time to keep Walton from getting the same finisher as dead Popeke boss Fitzmom got last week. Walton says he's all right. The assassin didn't even come close. He also told our man that he expects good news from the new earth bit soon. We like the sound of those words. Popeke may be with the stream after all. Who knows? The voice was that of citizen, but the man behind the voice was thinking a little differently. Had the previous editors of Citizen been handling the break, the prevailing tone would most likely have been, too bad he missed. Walton called Percy after the addition came out. Nice job you did on our first citizen, he said approvingly. That's just what I want. The same illiterate style, but a slow swerving of editorial slant until it's completely pro-Popeke. Wait until you see tomorrow's paper. We're just getting the hang of it and we'll have our first Collider Whirl Show at 20 hundred tonight. Cost a fortune to buy in, but we figured that's the best hour. What's the buried message? As you said, Percy told him, a pro-Popeke job and some pacifist stuff. We've got a team of pollsters out now and they say the currents predominantly going the other way. We'll be able to tell if the Collider Whirl Stuff works out all right. Keep up the good work, Walton said. We'll get there yet. The alien isn't due to arrive for another day or so. McLeod gets into Nairobi tomorrow sometime. I'm going to testify before the U.N. tomorrow too. I hope those U.N. boys are watching our pretty color patterns tonight. Percy Grand, boy you bet. Walton threw himself energetically into his work. It was taking shape now. There were still some loose ends of course, but he was beginning to feel that some end of the tangle of interlocking intrigues was in sight. He checked with the public recreation director and discovered there would be a block forum on West 382nd Street at 1830 that night. He made a note to attend and arranged to have a synthetic mask fashioned so he wouldn't have to reveal his own identity. 24 hours. In that time, Fred's employers would presumably be readying themselves to loose Lamar's serum on the world. An extraterrestrial being would be landing on earth. And by then, Walton would have been called to render an account of his stewardship before the United Nations. The annunciator chimed again. Yes, Walton said. Mr. Amelia of Mount Palomar Observatory calling long distance to talk with you, sir. Put him on, Walton said puzzledly. Amelia was a red faced individual with deep set compelling eyes. He introduced himself as a member of the research staff at Mount Palomar. Glad I could finally reach you, he said in a staccato burst of words. Been trying to call for an hour, made some early morning observations on Venus a little while ago and I thought you'd be interested. Venus? What? Cloud Blanket looks awfully funny, Mr. Walton, blazing away like 60. Got the whole staff down here discussing it and the way it looks to us, it's some sort of atomic chain reaction going on in Venus's atmosphere. I think it's those terraforming men you popic folk have up there. I think they've blown the whole place up. The end of chapter 16 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 17 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Walton stepped off the jet bus at Broadway and West 382nd Street, paused for a moment beneath a street lamp and fingered his chin to see if his mask were on properly. It was. Three youths stood leaning against a nearby building. Could you tell me where the block meetings being held, Walton asked? Down the street, turn left. You a telefax man? Just an interested citizen, Walton said. Thanks for the directions. It was easy to see where the block meeting was. Walton saw streams of determined looking men and women entering a bulky old building just off 382nd Street. He joined them and found himself carried along into the auditorium. Nervously he found a seat. The auditorium was an old one, predominantly dark brown and cavernous, with row after row of hard wooden folding chairs. Someone was adjusting a microphone on stage. A sharp metallic wine came over the public address system. Testing, testing, one, two, three. It's all right, Max. Someone yelled at the rear. Walton didn't turn around to look. A low undercurrent of murmuring was audible. It was only 1815. The meeting was not due to start for another 15 minutes, but the hall was nearly full, with more than a thousand of the local residents already on hand. 15 minutes passed slowly. Walton listened carefully to the conversations around him. No one was discussing the Venus situation. Apparently his cloud of censorship had been effective. He had instructed Percy to keep all word of the disaster from the public until the 2100 news blares. By that time, the people would have been exposed to the indoctrinating Kaleida Whirl program at 2100, and their reaction would be accordingly more temperate, he hoped. Also, releasing the news early would have further complicated the survey Walton was trying to make by attending this public meeting. The index of public confusion increased factorially. One extra consideration for discussion and Walton's task would be hopelessly difficult. At exactly 1830, a tall, middle-aged man stepped out on the stage. He seized the microphone as if it were a twig and said, hello folks, glad to see you're all here tonight. This is an important meeting for us all. In case some of you don't know me, and I do see some new faces out there, I'm Dave Foreman, president of the West 382nd Street Association. I also run a little law business on the side just to help pay the rent, giggles. As usual in these meetings, Foreman went on, we'll have a brief panel discussion and then I'll throw the thing open to you folks for floor discussion. The panelists tonight are people you all know. Sadie Hargreaves, Dominic Campabello, Rudy Steinfeld. Come on out here, folks. The panelists appeared on the stage differently. Sadie Hargreaves was a short, stout, fierce-looking little woman. Campabello was chunky, bolding, Steinfeld, tall and aesthetic. Walton was astonished that there should be such camaraderie here. Was it all synthetic? It didn't seem that way. He had always remained aloof, never mingling with his neighbors in the gigantic project where he lived, never suspecting the existence of community life on this scale. But somehow, community life had sprung up in this most gargantuan of cities. Organizations within each project, within each block, perhaps, had arisen, converting New York into an interlocking series of small towns. I ought to investigate the grassroots more often, Walton thought. Khalif Haroon al-Ashid, having a night of the town. Hello, folks, Sadie Hargreaves said aggressively. I'm glad I can talk to you tonight. Gosh, I want to speak out. I think it's crazy to let these thing men from outer space push us around. I, for one, feel we ought to take strong action against that space world. Cries of, yay, yay, go to it, Sadie, arose from the audience. Skillfully, she presented three inflammatory arguments in favor of war with Derna, backing up each with a referent of high emotional connotation. Walton watched her performance with growing admiration. The woman was a born public relations technician. It's too bad she was on the other side of the fence. He saw the effect she had. People were nodding in agreement, grimacing vehemently, muttering to themselves. The mood of the meeting, he gathered, was overwhelmingly in favor of war, if Derna did not yield new earth. Dominic Campabello began his address by inviting all and sundry to his barbershop. This was greeted with laughter. Then he launched into a discourse on Popeke as the enemy of mankind. A few cat calls, Walton noticed, but again, chiefly approval. Campabello seemed sincere. The third man, Rudy Steinfeld, was a local music teacher. He too spoke out against Popeke, though in a restrained, grily intellectual manner. People were yawning. Steinfeld cut his speech short. It was now 1900. In one hour, Percy's Collider Wheel program would be screened. Walton stayed at the block meeting until 1930, listening to citizen after citizen rise and heap curses upon Popeke, Derna, and Walton, depending on where his particular ire lay. At 1930, Walton rose and left the hall. He phoned Percy. I'm on West 382nd Street, just attended a block meeting. I'd say the prevailing sentiment runs about 90% against us. We don't have the people backing our program anymore, Lee. We never did, but I think we'll nail them now. The Collider Whirl's ready to go, and it's a honey. And I think citizen will sell them too. We're on our way, Roy. I hope so, Walton said. He was unable to bring himself to watch Percy's program, even though he reached his room in time that night. He knew there would be no harm in watching, at least not for him, but the idea of voluntarily submitting his mind to external tampering was too repugnant to accept. Instead, he spent the hour dictating a report on the block meeting for the benefit of his pollster staff. When he was done with that, he turned to the 2100 edition of Citizen, which came clicking from the Telefax slot right on schedule. He had to look hard for the Venus story. Finally, he found it, tucked away at the bottom of the sheet. Accident on Venus. A big blow-up took place on the planet Venus earlier today. Skymen, who watched the pop-off, say it was caused by an atomic explosion in the planet's atmosphere. Meanwhile, attempts are being made to reach the team of Earth engineers working on Venus. No word from them yet. They may be dead. Walton shuckled. They may be dead indeed. By now, Lang and his team, and the rescue mission as well, lay dead under showers of radioactive formaldehyde and Venus had been turned into a blazing hell, 10 times less livable than it had been before. Percy had mishandled the news superbly. For one thing, he had carefully neglected to link Lang with Popeke in any way. That was good, connotative thinking. It would be senseless to identify Popeke in the public mind with disasters or fiascos of any kind. For another, the skimpy insignificance of the piece implied that it had been some natural phenomenon that had sent Venus up in flames, not the fumbling attempts of terraformers, good handling there too. Walton felt cheerful. He slept soundly, knowing that the public consciousness was being properly shaped. By 0900 when he arrived at his office, the pollsters had reported a 10% swing in public opinion in the direction of Popeke and Walton. At 100, Citizen hit the slides with an extra, announcing that prospects for peaceful occupation of New Earth looked excellent. The editorial praised Walton. The letters to the editor column, carefully fabricated by Lee Percy, showed a definite upswing of opinion. The trend continued and it was contagious. By 1100, when Walton left the Cullen building and caught the jet copter for the United Nations headquarters, the pro-Popeke trend in public opinion was almost overwhelming. The copter put down before the gleaming, green glass facade of UN headquarters. Walton handed the man a bill and went inside where a tense-faced Ludwig was waiting for him. They started early, Ludwig said. It's been going on since 100. How do things look? I'm puzzled, Roy. Couple of diehards are screaming for your scalp, but you're getting help from unexpected quarters. Old Morgan Snorinson of Denmark suddenly got up and said it was necessary for the safety of mankind that we give you a permanent appointment as director of Popeke. Snorinson, but hasn't he been the one who wanted me bounced? Ludwig nodded. That's what I mean. The climate is changing, definitely changing. Ride the crest, Roy. The way things look now, you may end up being swept into office for life. They entered the giant assembly hall. At the dais, a black-faced man with bright teeth was speaking. Who's that, Walton whispered? Malcolm Nbono, the delicate from Ghana. He regards you as a sort of saint for our times. Walton slipped into a seat in the gallery and said, let's listen from here before we go down below. I want to catch my breath. The young man from Ghana was saying, crisis points are common to humanity. Many years ago, when my people came from their colonial status and achieved independence, we learned that painstaking negotiations and peaceful approaches are infinitely more efficacious than frontal attack by violent means. He in my eyes, Roy Walton, is an outstanding exponent of this philosophy. I urge his election as director of the Bureau of Population Equalization. A heavy-bearded, ponderous man, Tuten Nbono's right shouted, Bravo, at that point, and added several thick Scandinavian expletives. That's good old Boygins. The Dane really is on your side this morning, Ludwig said. Must have been watching the Colina Whirl last night, Walton muttered. The delegate from Ghana concluded with a brief tremolo cadenza praising Walton. Walton's eyes were a little moist. He hadn't realized he was a saint. Nbono tacked on an abrupt coda and sat down. All right, Walton said, let's go down there. They made a grand entrance. Ludwig took his seat behind the neon United States sign and Walton slid into an unoccupied seat to Ludwig's right. A definite stir of interest was noticeable. The secretary general was still presiding, beady-eyed Lars Magnuson of Sweden. I see Mr. Walton of Popeke has arrived, he commented. By a resolution passed unanimously yesterday, we have invited Mr. Walton this morning to address us briefly. Mr. Walton, would you care to speak now? Thank you very much, Walton said. He rose. The delegates were staring at him with great interest and somewhere behind them, obscured by the bright lights of the cameras. There were, he sensed, a vast multitude of onlookers peering at him from the galleries. The onlookers had seen Percy's Collider Whirl last night, evidently. A thunderous wave of applause swept down on him. This was too easy, he thought. That Collider Whirl program seems to have hypnotized everybody. He moistened his lips. Mr. General Secretary, members of the assembly, friends, I am very grateful for this chance to come before you on my own behalf. It's my understanding that you are to choose a permanent successor to Mr. Fitzmom today. I offer myself as a candidate for that post. He had planned a long, impassioned, semantically loaded speech to sway them. But the happenings thus far this morning convinced him it was unnecessary. The Collider Whirl had done the work for him. My qualifications for the post should be apparent to all. I worked with the late director Fitzmom during the formative days of Popeke. Upon his death, I succeeded to his post and have efficiently maintained the operation of the bureau during the eight days since his assassination. There are several considerations which dictate my continuation in office. Perhaps you know of the failure of our terraforming experiments. The destruction of our outpost on Venus and the permanent damage done to that planet. The failure of this project makes it imperative that we move onward to the stars to relieve our population crisis. He took a deep breath. In exactly four hours, he said, a representative of an alien race will land on earth to confer with the director of Popeke. I cannot stress too greatly the importance of maintaining a continuity of thought and action within our bureau. Luckily, it is essential that I be the one who deals with this alien. I ask for your support. Thank you. He took his seat again. Ludwig was staring at it aghast. Roy, what kind of a speech was that? You can't just demand the job. You've got to give reasons. You have to. Hush, Roy said. Don't worry about it. Were you watching the Colita Whirls last night? Me? Of course not. Walton grinned. They were, he said, gesturing to the other delegates. I'm not worried. The end of chapter 17 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 18 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Walton left the assembly meeting about 1215, pleading urgent Popeke business. The voting began at 1300, and half an hour later, the result was officially released. The 1400 citizen was the first to carry the report. Walton elected Popeke head. The General Assembly of the United Nations gave Roy Walton a healthy vote of confidence today. By a 950 vote, three abstaining, he was picked to succeed the late DF Fitzbaum as Popeke Tsar. He has held the post on a temporary basis for the past eight days. Walton rang up Percy. Who wrote that citizen piece on me? he asked. I did, chief. Why? Nicely done, but not enough sock. Get all those three syllable words out of it before the next edition. Get back to the old citizen style of jazzy writing. We thought we'd brush it up a little now that you're in, Percy said. No, that's dangerous. Keep to the old style, but revamp the content. We're rolling along now. What's new from the pollsters? 50% swing to Popeke. You're the most popular man in the country as of noon. Churches are offering up prayers for you. There's a move afoot to make you president of the United States in place of old Lansen. Let Lansen keep his job, Walton chuckled. I'm not looking for any figurehead jobs. I'm too young. When's the next citizen due? At 1500, we're keeping up hourly additions until the crisis is over. Walton thought for a moment. I think 1500's too early. The Dernan arrives in Nairobi at 1530 hour time. I want a big splash in the 1600 edition, but not a word before then. I'm with you, Percy said, and signed off. A moment later the annunciator said, there's a closed circuit call for you from Batavia, sir. From where? Batavia Java. Let's have it, Walton said. A fleshy face filled the screen. The face of a man who had lived a soft life in a moist climate. Our rumbling voice said, you are Walton. I am Walton. I am Gaetano Dicasio, pleased of making the acquaintance, senior director Walton. I own rubber plantation in the area here. Walton's mind immediately clocked off the top name on the list of landed proprietors that Lassen had prepared for him. Dicasio, Gaetano, 57. Holdings estimated at better than a billion and a quarter. Born Genoa, 2175. Settled in Amsterdam, 2199. Purchased large Java holding in 2211. What can I do for you, Mr. Dicasio? The rubber magnet looked ill. His fleshy face was beaded with globulets of sweat. Your brother, he grunted heavily. Your brother worked for me. I sent him to see you yesterday. He has not come back. Indeed, Walton shrugged. There's a famous phrase I could use at this point. I won't. Make no flippancies, Dicasio said heavily. Where is he? Walton said, in jail. Attempted coercion of a public official. He realized Dicasio was twice as nervous and tense as he was. You have jailed him, Dicasio repeated flatly. Ah, I see. Jail. The audio pickup brought in the sound of stentorous breathing. Will you not free him? Dicasio asked. I will not. Did he not tell you what would happen if he would not be granted his request? He told me, Walton said. Well, the fat man looked sick. Walton saw that the bluff was going to be unsuccessful, that the conspirators would not dare to put Lamar's drug into open production. It had been a weapon without weight, and Walton had not let himself be cowed by it. Well, Walton repeated inflexibly. You trouble me sorely, said Dicasio. You give my heart pain, Mr. Walton. Steps will have to be taken. The Lamar immortality serum? The face on the screen turned lead and gray. The serum, Dicasio said, is not entered into this talking. Oh no, my brother Fred made a few remarks. Citrim no estus. Walton smiled calmly. A non-existent serum, he said, has, unfortunately, non-existent leverage against me. You don't scare me, Dicasio. I've outbluffed you. Go take a walk around your plantation, while you still have it, that is. Steps will be taken, Dicasio said, but his malevolence was hollow. Walton laughed and broke contact. He drew Lassen's list from his desk and inscribed a brief memo to Olaf Eglin on it. These were the hundred biggest estates in the world. Within a week there would be equalized Japanese living on all of them. He called Martinez of security. I have ordered my brother Fred remanded to your care, he said. I know the security man sounded peeved. We can't hold a man indefinitely, not even on your say so, Director Walton. The charge is conspiracy, Walton said. Conspiracy against the successful operation of Popeke. I'll have a list of the ringleaders on your desk in half an hour. I want them rounded up, given a thorough psyching, and jailed. There are times, Martinez said slowly, when I suspect you exceed your powers, Director Walton, but send me the list and I'll have the arrests made. The afternoon crawled. Walton proceeded with routine work on a half a dozen fronts, held screened conferences with each of his section chiefs, read reports augmenting what he already knew of the Venus disaster, and gobbled a few Benzellurithine tranquilizers. He called Keeler and learned that no sign of Lamar had come to light yet. From Percy he discovered that Citizen had added 200,000 subscribers overnight. The 1500 edition had a lengthy editorial praising Walton, and some letters that Percy's for were genuine, doing the same. At 1550, Olaf Eglund called to announce that the biggest estates were in the process of being dismembered. You'll be able to hear the howls from here to Batavia when we get going, Eglund warned. We have to be tough, Walton told him firmly. At 1517 he devoted a few minutes to a scientific paper that proposed terraforming Pluto by establishing synthetic hydrogen fusion suns on the icy planet. Walton skimmed through the specifications which involved passing a current of several million amperes through a tube containing a mixture of tritium and deuterium. The general idea he gathered was to create electromagnetic forces of near solar intensity. A pulse reaction engine would supply 100 megawatts of power continuously at 10 million degrees centigrade. Has possibilities, Walton noted, and forwarded the plan to Eglund. It sounded plausible enough, but Walton was personally skeptical of undertaking any more terraforming experiments after the Venus fiasco. There were, after all, limits to the public relations miracles Lee Percy could create. At 1535 the annunciator chimed again. Call from Nairobi, Africa, Mr. Walton. Okay, McLeod appeared on the screen. We're here, he said. Arrive safely half a microsecond ago and all's well. How about the alien? We have him in a specially constructed cabin. Breeze, hydrogen, and ammonia, you know? He's very anxious to see you. When can you come? Walton thought for a moment. I guess there's no way of transporting him here, is there? I wouldn't advise it. The Dernons are very sensitive about traveling in such a low gravitational field. Makes their stomachs queasy, you know? Do you think you could come out here? What's the earliest? Oh, half an hour, McLeod suggested. On my way, Walton said. The sprawling metropolis of Nairobi, capital of the Republic of Kenya, lay at the foot of the Kukuyu Hills and magnificent Mount Kilimanjaro towered above it. Four million people inhabited Nairobi, finest of the many fine cities along Africa's West Coast. Africa's Negro republics had built soundly and well after achieving their liberation from colonial status. The city was calm as Walton's special jet decelerated for a landing at the vast Nairobi airport. He had left at 1547 New York time. The transatlantic trip had taken two hours and some minutes and there was an eight hour time zone differential between Kenya and New York. It was now 03.13 in Nairobi and the early morning rain was falling right on schedule as the jet taxied to a halt. McLeod was there to meet him. The ships in the hills five miles out of town. There's a copter waiting for you here. Moments after leaving the jetliner, Walton was shepherded aboard a copter. Rotors whirred and the copter rose perpendicular until it hung just above the cloud cedars at 13,000 feet. Then it fired its jets and streaked toward the hills. It was not raining when they landed. According to McLeod, the night rain was scheduled for 0200 in this sector and the cedars had already been there and moved on to bring rain into the city proper. A ground car was waiting for them at the airstrip in the hills. McLeod drove, handling the turbo-electric job with skill. There's the ship, he said proudly, pointing. Walton felt a sudden throat lump. The ship stood on its tail in the midst of a wide swath of jet blackened concrete. It was at least 500 feet high, a towering, pale needle shimmering brightly in the moonlight. Wide swept tail jets supported it like arching buttresses. Men moved busily around in the floodlighted area at its base. McLeod drove up to the ship and around it. The flawless symmetry of the foreside was not duplicated behind. There, a spidery catwalk ran some 80 feet up the side of the ship to a gaping lock and by its side, a crude elevator shaft rose to the same hatch. McLeod drew efficient salutes from the men as he left the car. Walton only puzzled glares. We'd better take the elevator, McLeod said. The men are working on the catwalk. Silently they rose up into the ship. They stepped through the open airlock into a paneled lounge, then into narrow companion ways. McLeod paused and pressed down on a stud in the alcove along the way. I'm back, he announced. Tell Thorgren-Claylon that I brought Walton. Find out whether he'll come out and talk to him. I thought he had to breathe special atmosphere, Walton said. How can he come out? They've got breathing masks. Usually they don't like to use them. McLeod listened at the earpiece for a moment, then nodded. To Walton, he said, the alien will see you in the lounge. Walton had barely time to fortify himself with a slug of filtered rum when a crewman appeared at the entrance to the lounge and declared ostentatiously, his Excellency Thorgren-Claylon of Derna, the alien entered. Walton had seen photographs and so he was partially prepared, but only partially. The photos had not given him any idea of size. The alien stood eight feet high and gave an appearance of astonishing mass. It must have weighed four or 500 pounds, but it stood on two thick legs, barely three feet long. Somewhere in the middle of the columnar body, four sturdy arms jutted forth, strangely. A necklace head topped the ponderous creature, a head covered entirely with a transparent breathing mask. One of the hands held a mechanical device of some sort, the translating machine, Walton surmised. The alien's hide was bright green and leathery in texture. A faint, pungent odor drifted through the room as of an object long immersed in ammonia. I am Thorgren-Claylon, a booming voice said. Diplo Masiark of Derna, I have been sent to talk to Roy Walton. Are you Roy Walton? I am, Walton's voice sounded cold and dry to his own ears. He knew he was too tense, pressing too hard. I am very glad to meet you, Thorgren-Claylon. Please sit, I do not. My body is not made that way. Walton sat, it made him uncomfortable to have to crane his neck upward at the alien, but that could not be helped. Did you have a pleasant trip, Walton asked, temporizing desperately? A half grunt came from Thorgren-Claylon. Indeed it was so, but I do not indulge in little talk. A problem we have, and it must be discussed. Indeed, whatever a Diplo Masiark might be on Derna, it was not a typical diplomat. Walton was relieved that it would not be necessary to spend hours in formalities before they reached the main problem. A ship set out by your people, the alien said, invaded our system some time ago. In command was your Colonel McLeod, whom I have come to know well. What was the purpose of this ship? To explore the worlds of the universe and to discover a planet where we of Earth could settle. Our planet is very overcrowded now. So I have been given to know. You have chosen Labura, or in your terms, Crocyon Nine, as your colony. Is this so? Yes, Walton said, it's a perfect world for our purposes, but Colonel McLeod has informed me that you object to our settling there. We do so object that Derna's voice was cold. You are a young and active race. We do not know what danger you may bring to us. To have you as our neighbors. We could swear a treaty of eternal peace, Walton said. Words, mere words. But don't you see that we can't even land on that planet of yours? It's too big, too heavy for us. What possible harm could we do? There are races, said the Derna heavily, which believe in violence as a sacred act. You have long range missiles. How would we trust you? Walton squirmed, then suddenly inspiration struck him. There's a planet in this system that's as suitable for your people as Labura is for ours. I mean Jupiter. We could offer you colonial rights to Jupiter in exchange for the privilege of colonizing Labura. The alien was silent for a moment, considering there was no way of telling what emotions passed across that face. At length, the alien said, not satisfactory. Our people have long since reached stability of population. We have no need of colonies. It has been many thousands of your years since we have ventured into space. Walton felt chilled. Many thousands of years? He realized he was up against a formidable life form. We have learned to stabilize births and deaths. The Derna went on sonorously. It is a fundamental law of the universe and one that you earth folk must learn sooner or later. How you choose to do it is your own business. But we have no need of planets in your system and we fear allowing you to enter ours. The matter is of simple statement, difficult of resolution but we are open to suggestions from you. Walton's mind blanked. Suggestions? What possible suggestion could he make? He gasped. We have something to offer, he said. It might be a value to a race that has achieved population stability. We would give it to you in exchange for colonization rights. What is this commodity? The Derna asked. Immortality, Walton said. The end of chapter 18 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 19 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. He returned to New York alone late that night, too tired to sleep and too wide awake to relax. He felt like a poker player who had triumphantly topped four kings with four aces and now was fumbling in his hand trying to locate some of those aces for his skeptical opponents. The alien had accepted his offer. That was one solid fact he was able to cling to on the lonely ride back from Nairobi. The arrest was a quicksand of ifs and maybes. If Lamar could be found. If the serum actually had any value. If it was equally effective on earth men and dernans. Walton tried to dismiss the alternatives. He had made a desperately wild offer and it had been accepted. New earth was open for colonization. If. The world outside the jet was a dark blur. He had left Nairobi at 05-18 Nairobi time. Jetting back across the eight intervening time zones, he would arrive in New York around midnight. Ultra rapid jet transit made such things possible. He would live twice through the early hours of June 19th. New York had a 15 minute rain scheduled for 0100 that night. Walton reached the housing project where he lived just as the rain was turned on. The night was otherwise a little muggy. He paused outside the main entrance letting the drops fall on him. After a few minutes, feeling faintly foolish and very tired, he went inside, shook himself dry and went to bed. He did not sleep. Four caffeine tablets helped him get off to a running start in the morning. He arrived at the Cullen Building early, about 08-35 and spent some time bringing his private journal up to date explaining in detail the burden of his interview with the alien ambassador. Someday, Walton thought, a historian in the future would discover his journal and find that for a short period in 2232, a man named Roy Walton had acted as absolute dictator of humanity. The odd thing, Walton reflected, was that he had absolutely no power drive. He had been pitchforked into the role and each of his successive extra-legal steps had been taken quite genuinely in the name of humanity. Rationalization, perhaps, but a necessary one. At 0900, Walton took a deep breath and called Keeler of security. The security man smiled oddly and said, I was just about to call you, sir. We have some news at last. News, what? Lamar, we found his body this morning just about an hour ago, murdered. It turned up in Marseille, pretty badly decomposed, but we ran a full check and the retina was absolutely Lamar's. Oh, Walton said, leddenly, his head swam. Definitely Lamar, he repeated. Thanks, Keeler, fine work, fine. Something wrong, sir, you look. I'm very tired, Walton said. That's all, tired. Thanks, Keeler. You called me about something, sir, Keeler reminded him gently. Oh, I was calling about Lamar. I guess there's no point in. Thanks, Keeler, he broke the contact. For the first time, Walton felt totally desperate and out of despair came a sort of death-like calmness. With Lamar dead, his only hope of obtaining the serum was to free Fred and wrangle the notes from him. But Fred's price for the notes would be Walton's job, full circle, and a dead end. Perhaps Fred could be induced to reveal the whereabouts of the notes. It wasn't likely, but it was possible. And if not, Walton shrugged. A man could only do so much. Terraforming had proved a failure. Equalization was a stopgap of limited value and the one extra solar planet worth colonizing was held by aliens. Dead end. I tried, Walton thought. Now let someone else try. He shook his head trying to clear the fog of negation that suddenly surrounded him. His thinking was all wrong. He had to keep trying, had to investigate every possible avenue before giving up. His fingers hovered lightly over a benzolurethane tablet, then drew back. Stiffly, he rose from his chair and switched on the annunciator. I'm leaving the office for a while, he said hoarsely. Sand all calls to Mr. Eglin. He had to see Fred. Security keep was a big blocky building beyond the city limits proper. A windowless tower near Nyack, New York. Walton's private jetcopter dropped noiselessly to the landing stage on the wide parapet of the building. He contemplated its dull bronze metallic exterior for a moment. Should I wait here, the pilot asked. Yes, Walton said. With accession to the permanent directorship, he raided a private ship and a live pilot. I won't be here long. He left the landing stage and stepped within an indicated screener field. There was a long pause. The air up here, Walton thought, is fresh and clean. Not like city air. A voice said, what is your business here? I'm Walton, director of Popeke. I have an appointment with security head Martinez. Wait a moment, director Walton. None of the obsequious suring and pleasing Walton had grown accustomed to. In its way, the bluntness of address was as refreshing as the unpolluted air. Walton's keen ear detected a gentle electronic whir. He was being thoroughly scanned. After a moment, the metal door before him rose silently into a hidden slot and he found himself facing an inner door of burnished copper. A screen was set up in the inner door. Martinez's face confronted him. Good morning, director Walton. You're here for our interview? Yes. The inner door closed. This time, two chunky atomic cannons came barreling down to face him snout first. Walton flinched involuntarily, but a smiling Martinez stepped before them and greeted him. Well, why are you here? To see a prisoner of yours, my brother Fred. Martinez frowned and passed a delicate hand through his rumpled hair. Seeing prisoners is positively forbidden, Mr. Walton. Seeing them in person, that is. I could arrange a closed circuit video screening for you. Forbidden, but the man's here on my word alone. I, your powers, Mr. Walton, are still somewhat less than infinite. This is one rule we have never relaxed and never will. The prisoners in the keep are under constant security surveillance and your presence in the cell block would undermine our entire system. Will video do? I guess it'll have to, Walton said. He was not of a mind to argue now. Come with me then, said Martinez. The little man led him down a dim corridor into a side room, one entire wall of which was an unlit video screen. You'll have total privacy in here, Martinez assured him. He did things to a dial, said in the right hand wall and murmured a few words. The screen began to glow. You can call me when you're through, Martinez said. He seemed to glide out of the room, leaving Walton alone with Fred. The huge screen was like a window directly into Fred's cell. Walton met his brother's bitter gaze head on. Fred looked demonic. His eyes were ringed by black shadows. His hair was uncombed. His heavy-featured face unwashed. He said, welcome to my palatial abode, dearest brother. Fred, don't make it hard for me. I came here to try to clarify things. I didn't want to stick you away here. I had to. Fred smiled balefully. You don't need to apologize. It's entirely my fault. I underestimated you. I didn't realize you had changed. I thought you were the same old soft-hearted dope I grew up with. You aren't. Possibly, Walton wished he had taken the benzolurethane after all. Every nerve in his body seemed to be jumping. He said, I found out today that Lamar's dead. So? So there's no possible way for Popey to obtain the immortality serum except through you. Fred, I need that serum. I promised it to the alien in exchange for colonization rights for Procyon 9. A neat little package deal, Fred said harshly. Quid pro quo. Well, I hate to spoil it, but I'm not gonna tell where the quo lies hidden. You're not getting that serum out of me. I can have your mind blasted, Walton said. They'll pick your mind apart and strip it away layer by layer until they find what they want. There won't be so much of you left by then, but we'll have the serum. No, go. Not even you can swing that deal, Fred said. You can't get a mind pick permit on your lonesome. You need the president's okay. It takes at least a day to go through channels. Half a day if you pull a rank. And by that time, Roy, I'll be out of here. What? You heard me clear enough, out. Seems you're holding me here on pretty tenuous grounds. Habeus Corpus hasn't been suspended yet, Roy, and Popey isn't big enough to do it. I've got a writ. I'll be sprung at 1500 today. I'll have you back in here by 1530, Walton said angrily. We're picking up to Cassio and that whole bunch. There'll be sufficient grounds to quash your Habeus Corpus. Ah, maybe so, Fred said, but I'll be out of here for half an hour. That's long enough to let the world know how you exercised an illegal special privilege and spared Philip Pryor from happy sleep. Wiggle out of that one, then. Walton began to sweat. Fred had him neatly nailed this time. Someone in security evidently had let him sneak his plea out of the keep. Martinez, well, it didn't matter. By 1500, Fred would be free, and the long suppressed Pryor incident would be smeared all over the telefax system. That would finish Walton. Affairs were at too delicate an impasse for him to risk having to defend himself now. Fred might not be able to save himself, but he could certainly topple his brother. There was no possible way to get a mind-pick request through before 1500. President Lansen himself would have to sign the authorization, and the old daughter would take his time about it. Mind-picking was out, but there was still one weapon left to the head of Popeke if he cared to use it. Walton moistened his lips. It sounds very neat, he said. I'll ask you one more time. Will you yield Lamar's serum to me for the use in my negotiations with the Dernan? Are you kidding? No, Fred said positively, not to save your life or mine. I've got you exactly where I want you, Roy, where I've wanted you all my life, and you can't wriggle out of it. I think you're underestimating me again, Walton said in a quiet voice, and for the last time, he stood up and opened the door of the room, a gray-clad security man hovered outside. Will you tell Mr. Martinez I'm ready to leave, Walton said. The jet-copter pilot was dozing when Walton reached the landing stage. Walton woke him and said, let's go back to the Cullen building, fast. The trip took about 10 minutes. Walton entered his office signaling his return, but indicating he wanted no calls just yet. Carefully, thoroughly, he arranged the various strands of circumstance in his mind, building them into a symmetrical structure. Decasio and the other conspirators would be rounded up by nightfall, certainly. But no time element operated there. Walton knew he could get mind-pick authorizations in a day or so and go through one after another of them until the whereabouts of Lamar's formula was turned up. It was brutal, but necessary. Fred was a different problem. Unless Walton prevented it, he'd be free on his writ within hours. And when he revealed the prior incident, it would smash Walton's whole fragile construct into flinders. He couldn't fight Habeas Corpus, but the director of Popeke had one weapon that legally superseded all others. Fred had gambled on his brother's softness and Fred had lost. Walton reached for his voice right and, in a calm, controlled voice, began to dictate an order for the immediate removal of Frederick Walton from the security keep and for his prompt transfer to the euthanasia clinic on the grounds of criminal insanity. End of Chapter 19 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 20 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Even after that, for which he felt no guilt, only relief, Walton felt oppressive foreboding hanging over him. Martinez phoned, late that day, to inform him that the hundred landowners had been duly corralled and were being held in the lower reaches of security keep. They're yelling and squalling, Martinez said, and they'll have plenty of high-powered legal authority down here soon enough. You'd better have a case against them. I've obtained an authorization to mind-blast one named Casio. He's the ringleader, I think. Walton paused for a moment, then asked, did a po-peak chopper arrive to pick up Frederick Walton? Yes, Martinez said, at 14.06. A lawyer showed up waving a writ a little while later, but naturally we had no further jurisdiction. The security man's eyes were cold and accusing, but Walton did not flinch. 14.06, he repeated. All right, Martinez, thanks for your cooperation. He blanked the screen. He was moving coolly, crisply now. In order to get the mind-pick authorization, he would have to see President Lanson personally. Very well, he would see President Lanson. The shrunken old man in the White House was openly differential to the po-peak head. Walton stated his case quickly, bluntly. Lanson's watery, mild eyes blinked a few times at the many complexities of the situation. He rocked uneasily up and down. Finally, he said, this mind-pick, it's absolutely necessary? Absolutely, we must know where that serum is hidden. Lanson sighed heavily. I'll authorize it, he said. He looked beaten. Washington to New York was a matter of some few minutes. The precious authorization in his hands, Walton spoke to DeCasio via the screener set up at the security keep, informing him of what was going to be done with him. Then, despite the fat man's hysterical protests, he turned the authorization over to Martinez with instructions to proceed with the mind-pick. It took 58 minutes. Walton waited in a bare, awestear office somewhere in the keep, while the mind-picking technicians peeled away the cortex of DeCasio's mind. By now, Walton was passed all ambivalence, all self-doubt. He thought of himself as a mere robot, fulfilling a preset pattern of action. At 1950, Martinez presented himself before Walton. The little security head looked bleak. It's done, DeCasio's been reduced to blubber and bone. I wouldn't want to watch another mind-pick too soon. You may have to, Walton said. If DeCasio wasn't the right one, I intend to go straight down the line of all the hundred out of them. One of them dealt with Fred. One of them must know where the Lamar papers are. Martinez shook his head wearily. No, there won't be need for any more mind-picking. We got it all out of DeCasio. The transcript ought to be along any moment. As the security man spoke, an arrival bin in the office flashed, and a packet arrived. Walton broke immediately into the bin, but Martinez waved him away. This is my domain, Mr. Walton. Please be patient. With infuriating slowness, Martinez opened the packet, removed some closely typed sheets, nodded over them. He handed them to Walton. Here, read for yourself. Here's the record of the conversation between your brother and DeCasio. I think it's what you're looking for. Walton accepted the sheets tensely and began to read. DeCasio, you have a what? Fred Walton, an immortality serum, eternal life. You know, some Pope peak scientist invented it, and I stole his notebook from my brother's office. It's all here. DeCasio, bueno, excellent work, excellent. Immortality, you say? Fred Walton, damn right. And it's the weapon we can use to pry Roy out of office. All I have to do is tell him he'd better get out of the way or we'll turn the serum loose on humanity and he'll move. He's an idealist, stars in his eyes and all that. He won't dare resist. DeCasio, this is marvelous. You will, of course, send the serum formula to us for safekeeping. Fred Walton, like hell I will, I'm keeping these notes right where they belong, inside my head. I've destroyed the notebooks and had the scientists killed. The only one who knows the secret is yours truly. This is just to prevent double crossing on your part, DeCasio. Not that I don't trust you, you understand? DeCasio, Fred my boy, 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 says softly. My God. Martinez bright eyes flickered 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 hollily. Yes, it was a happy sleep 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 happy sleep order, and I meant it. Really? Unless there was a slip-up, Fred went to the chamber four hours ago. And, Walton said, he took the Lamar formula along with him. Alone in his office in the night shadowed Cullen building, Walton stared at his own distorted reflection mirrored in the opaque windows. On his desk lay the slip of paper bearing the names of those who had gone to happy sleep in the 1500 gassing. Frederick 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 Popeke held powers of life and death over humanity. Godlike, he had assumed both responsibilities. He had granted life to Philip Pryor. That had been the start of this chain of events and the first of his many mistakes. Now he had given death to Frederick 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 MacLeod. I'm glad you called, MacLeod said immediately. I've been trying to reach you all day. The Dernan's getting rather impatient. This low gravity is making him sick and he wants to get back to his home world. Let me talk to him. He'll be able to leave right away. MacLeod nodded and vanished from the screen. The alien visage of Thor-Grand Claren appeared. I have been waiting for you, the Dernan 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 anymore. 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 Dernan said, you assured me of delivery of the information. I know, but it can't be delivered. Walton was silent for 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 previously. 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 Dernan returned. There are techniques for recovering information from newly-dead persons. Thorgrint Kaelin 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 whistful wheeze. See that the body comes to no harm. I will be in your city shortly. For a moment Walton did not understand. Then he thought, of course, it had to happen this way. He realized the rent in the fabric that had been bound up, his mistakes undone, his conscience granted a reprieve. He felt absolutely grateful that all his striving should have been ruined at the last moment would have been intolerable. Now, all was made whole. Thanks, he said with a sudden fervor. Thanks. 14 May, 2233. Roy Walton, Director of the Bureau of Population Equalization, stood sweltering in the sun at Nairobi spaceport, watching the smiling people file past him into the towering golden hulled ship. A powerful-looking man holding a small child in his arms came up to him. Hello, Walton, he said, in a majestic basso. Walton turned, startled. Prior, he exclaimed, after a moment's fumbling. And this is my son, Phillip, said prior. We'll both be going as colonists. My wife's already aboard, but I just wanted to thank you. Walton looked at the happy, red-cheeked boy. There is a medical exam for all volunteer colonists. How did you get the boy through this time? Legitimately, prior said grinning. He's a perfectly healthy, normal boy. That potential TB condition was just that, potential. Phillip got an A1 health clearance, so it's new earth and wide ranges for the prior family. I'm glad for you, Walton said absently. I wish I could go. Why can't you? Too much work here, Walton said. If you turn out any poetry up there, I'd like to see it. Prior shook his head. I have a feeling I'll be too busy. Poetry's really a substitute for living, I'm getting to think. I'll be too busy living up there to write anything. Maybe, Walton said, I suppose you're right, but you'd better move along. That ship's due to blast pretty soon. Right, thanks again for everything, prior said, and he and the child moved on. Walton watched them go. He thought back over the past year. At least he thought, I made one right guess. The boy deserved to live. The loading continued. One thousand colonists would go on this first trip and a thousand more the next day. And a thousand and a thousand more until a billion of earth's multitude were on the new world. There was a great deal of paperwork involved in transporting a billion people through space. Walton's desk groaned with the backlog of work. He glanced up. No stars were visible, of course, in the midday sky, but he knew that new earth was out there somewhere. And near it, Derna. Someday, he thought, we'll have to learn to control our growth. And that will be the day that Derna's give us back our immortality formula. A warning siren sounded suddenly and ship number one sprang up from earth, hovered for a few instance on a red pillar of flame and vanished. Director Walton looked blankly at the place where the ship had been and, after a moment, turned away. Plenty of work waited for him back in New York. The end of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg.