Master of Life and Death. Robert Silverberg

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СКАЧАТЬ he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.

      The director smiled. “You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You’ll be a worn-out wreck before you’re half my age. I’m glad you’re adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?”

      “I’m—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.”

      “Oh? Can’t you take care of it by phone?”

      “No, Mr. FitzMaugham.” Walton felt as though he’d already been tried, drawn, and quartered. “It requires personal attention.”

      “I see.” The deep, warm eyes bored into his. “You ought to slow down a little, I think.”

      “Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.”

      FitzMaugham chuckled. “In another century or two, you mean. I’m afraid you’ll never learn how to relax, my boy.”

      The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty, covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.

      As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, “Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?”

      “Yes,” Walton said.

      “He’s the poet, isn’t he? The one you say is so good?”

      “That’s right, sir,” Walton said tightly.

      “He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?”

      Walton hesitated. “He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down.”

      “Naturally,” FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. “Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.”

      “Of course, sir.”

      The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:

      FLOOR 20

      Euthanasia Clinic and Files

      Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.

      The old man’s eyes were twinkling amusedly. “I guess you get off here,” he said. “I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day.”

      “I’ll try, sir.”

      Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham’s smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.

      Some fine criminal you are. You’ve given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!

      Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.

      * * * *

      The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.

      While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.

      “Can I help—oh, it’s you, Mr. Walton,” a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. “Is there anything I can do?”

      “I’m simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?”

      “Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.”

      Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.

      No doubt I must radiate charisma, he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham’s protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.

      Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy’s name. Ah ... Philip, wasn’t it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.

      A moment’s pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior’s record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:

      3216847AB1

      PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.

      An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:

      EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332

      Euthanasia Recommended

      He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.

      Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.

      He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby’s card into his breast pocket.

      That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior’s record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone.

      He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.

      He proceeded to retype the child’s card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.

      Then, he requested the boy’s file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.

      The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.

      He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning’s haul of unfortunates was СКАЧАТЬ