Master of Life and Death. Robert Silverberg

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      Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.

      The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.

      “Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?”

      Walton smiled affably. “Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know.”

      “Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We’re really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!”

      “Umm. Yes.” Walton didn’t like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d have to rely on the old man’s abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.

      “Seen my brother around?” he asked.

      “Fred? He’s working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?”

      “No—no, don’t bother him, thanks. I’ll find him later.” Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.

      Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, “Find many sour ones today?”

      “Seven so far. They’re scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph.”

      “That only makes six,” Walton said.

      “Oh, and a spastic,” the doctor said. “Biggest haul we’ve had yet. Seven in one morning.”

      “Have any trouble with the parents?”

      “What do you think?” the doctor asked. “But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.”

      Walton shuddered. “You remember his name?” he asked, with feigned calm.

      Silence for a moment. “No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like.”

      “Don’t bother,” Walton said hurriedly.

      He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.

      Falbrough didn’t look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. “Morning, Mr. Walton.”

      “Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You’ll be operating soon, won’t you?”

      “Eleven hundred, as usual.”

      “Good. There’s a new regulation in effect from now on,” Walton said. “To keep public opinion on our side.”

      “Sir?”

      “Henceforth, until further notice, you’re to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there’s been no mistake. Got that?”

      “Mistake? But how—”

      “Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out.” How glibly I reel this stuff off, Walton thought in amazement.

      Falbrough looked grave. “I see, sir. Of course. We’ll double-check everything from now on.”

      “Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.”

      Walton couldn’t bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.

      Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.

      Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton’s mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.

      The annunciator chimed and said, “Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir.”

      “Put him on.”

      The screen lit and Falbrough’s face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.

      “What is it, Doctor?”

      “It’s a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You’ll never guess what just happened—”

      “No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.”

      “I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn’t have been sent to me!”

      “No!”

      “It’s the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I’ve got his card right here. The boy’s name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine.”

      “Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?” Walton asked.

      “No, sir.”

      Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. “Falbrough, we’re going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there’s been as much as one mistake, we’ll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour.”

      “Yes, sir.” Falbrough looked terribly grave. “What should I do, sir?”

      “Don’t say a word about this to anyone, not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort.”

      “Certainly, sir. Is that all?”

      “It is,” Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.

      The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.

      He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.

      Well, the thing was done.

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