Master of Life and Death. Robert Silverberg

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СКАЧАТЬ though, that your Bureau is devoting careful thought to the type of citizen that should be spared. It seems obvious that the myriad spawning Asiatics should be reduced tremendously, since their unchecked proliferation has caused such great hardship to humanity. The same might be said of the Europeans who refuse to obey the demands of sanity; and, coming closer to home, I pray you reduce the numbers of Jews, Catholics, Communists, anti-Herschelites, and other freethinking rabble, in order to make the new reborn world purer and cleaner and ...

      With a sickly cough Walton put the letter down. Most of them were just this sort: intelligent, rational, bigoted letters. There had been the educated Alabamian, disturbed that Popeek did not plan to eliminate all forms of second-class citizens; there had been the Michigan minister, anxious that no left-wing relativistic atheists escape the gas chamber.

      And, of course, there were the other kind—the barely literate letters from bereaved parents or relatives, accusing Popeek of nameless crimes against humanity.

      Well, it was only to be expected, Walton thought. He scribbled his initials on both the letters and dropped them into the chute that led to files, where they would be put on microfilm and scrupulously stored away. FitzMaugham insisted that every letter received be read and so filed.

      Some day soon, Walton thought, population equalization would be unnecessary. Oh, sure, euthanasia would stick; it was a sane and, in the long run, merciful process. But this business of uprooting a few thousand Belgians and shipping them to the open spaces in Patagonia would cease.

      Lang and his experimenters were struggling to transform Venus into a livable world. If it worked, the terraforming engineers could go on to convert Mars, the bigger moons of Jupiter and Saturn, and perhaps even distant Pluto, if some form of heating could be developed.

      There would be another transition then. Earth’s multitudes would be shipped wholesale to the new worlds. Perhaps there would be riots; none but a few adventurers would go willingly. But some would go, and that would be a partial solution.

      And then, the stars. The faster-than-light project was top secret, so top secret that in Popeek only FitzMaugham knew what was being done on it. But if it came through....

      Walton shrugged and turned back to his work. Reports had to be read, filed, expedited.

      The thought of Fred and what Fred knew bothered him. If only there were some way to relive this morning, to let the Prior baby go to the chamber as it deserved....

      Tension pounded in him. He slipped a hand into his desk, fumbled, found the green, diamond-shaped pellet he was searching for, and swallowed the benzolurethrin almost unthinkingly. The tranquilizer was only partly successful in relaxing him, but he was able to work steadily, without a break, until noon.

      He was about to dial for lunch when the private screen he and FitzMaugham used between their offices glowed into life.

      “Roy?”

      The director’s face looked impossibly tranquil.

      “Sir?”

      “I’m going to have a visitor at 1300. Ludwig. He wants to know how things are going.”

      Walton nodded. Ludwig was the head American delegate to the United Nations, a stubborn, dedicated man who had fought Popeek for years; then he had seen the light and had fought just as strenuously for its adoption. “Do you want me to prepare a report for him?” Walton asked.

      “No, Roy. I want you to be here. I don’t want to face him alone.”

      “Sir?”

      “Some of the UN people feel I’m running Popeek as a one-man show,” FitzMaugham explained. “Of course, that’s not so, as that mountain of work on your desk testifies. But I want you there as evidence of the truth. I want him to see how much I have to rely on my assistants.”

      “I get it. Very good, Mr. FitzMaugham.”

      “And another thing,” the Director went on. “It’ll help appearances if I show myself surrounded with loyal young lieutenants of impeccable character. Like you, Roy.”

      “Thank you, sir,” Walton said weakly.

      “Thank you. See you at 1300 sharp, then?”

      “Of course, sir.”

      The screen went dead. Walton stared at it blankly. He wondered if this were some elaborate charade of the old man’s; FitzMaugham was devious enough. That last remark, about loyal young lieutenants of impeccable character ... it had seemed to be in good faith, but was it? Was FitzMaugham staging an intricate pretense before deposing his faithless protégé?

      Maybe Fred had something to do with it, Walton thought. He decided to have another session with the computer after his conference with FitzMaugham and Ludwig. Perhaps it still wasn’t too late to erase the damning data and cover his mistake.

      Then it would be just his word against Fred’s. He might yet be able to brazen through, he thought dully.

      He ordered lunch with quivering fingers, and munched drearily on the tasteless synthetics for awhile before dumping them down the disposal chute.

      CHAPTER IV

      At precisely 1255 Walton tidied his desk, rose and for the second time that day, left his office. He was apprehensive, but not unduly so; behind his immediate surface fears and tensions lay a calm certainty that FitzMaugham ultimately would stick by him.

      And there was little to fear from Fred, he realized now. It was next to impossible for a mere lower-level medic to gain the ear of the director himself; in the normal course of events, if Fred attempted to contact FitzMaugham, he would automatically be referred to Roy.

      No; the danger in Fred’s knowledge was potential, not actual, and there might still be time to come to terms with him. It was almost with a jaunty step that Walton left his office, made his way through the busy outer office, and emerged in the outside corridor.

      Fred was waiting there.

      He was wearing his white medic’s smock, stained yellow and red by reagents and coagulants. He was lounging against the curving plastine corridor wall, hands jammed deep into his pockets. His thick-featured, broad face wore an expression of elaborate casualness.

      “Hello, Roy. Fancy finding you here!”

      “How did you know I’d be coming this way?”

      “I called your office. They told me you were on your way to the lift tubes. Why so jumpy, brother? Have a tough morning?”

      “I’ve had worse,” Walton said. He was tense, guarded. He pushed the stud beckoning the lift tube.

      “Where you off to?” Fred asked.

      “Confidential. Top-level powwow with Fitz, if you have to know.”

      Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Strictly upper-echelon, aren’t you? Do you have a minute to talk to a mere mortal?”

      “Fred, don’t make unnecessary trouble. You know—”

      “Can it. I’ve only got a minute or two left of my lunch hour. I want to make myself perfectly plain with you. Are there any spy pickups СКАЧАТЬ