Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg (uplifting books for women TXT) 📗

to Citizen, had been talking in "hifalutin prose picked on purpose to befuddle John Q. Public." But their general impression was that Walton had proposed some sort of sellout to the Dirnans.

The sellout idea prevailed in most of the cheap telefax sheets.

"Behind a cloud of words, Popeek czar Walton is selling the world downstream to the greenskins," said one paper. "His talk last night was strictly bunk. His holy-holy words and grim face were supposed to put over something, but we ain't fooled—and don't you be fooled either, friend!"

The video commentators were a little kinder, but not very. One called for a full investigation of the Earth-Dirna situation. Another wanted to know why Walton, an appointed official and not even a permanent one at that, had taken it upon himself to handle such high-power negotiations. The UN seemed a little worried about that, even though Ludwig had made a passionate speech insisting that negotiations with Dirna were part of Walton's allotted responsibilities.

That touched off a new ruckus. "How much power does Walton have?" Citizen demanded in a later edition. "Is he the boss of the world? And if he is, who the devil is he anyway?"

That struck Walton harder than all the other blows. He had been gradually realizing that he did, in fact, control what amounted to dictatorial powers over the world. But he had not yet fully admitted it to himself, and it hurt to be accused of it publicly.

One thing was clear: his attempt at sincerity and clarity had been a total failure. The world was accustomed to subterfuge and verbal pyrotechnics, and when it didn't get the expected commodity, it grew suspicious. Sincerity had no market value. By going before the public and making a direct appeal, Walton had aroused the suspicion that he had something hidden up his sleeve.

When Citizen's third edition of the day openly screamed for war with Dirna, Walton realized the time had come to stop playing it clean. From now on, he would chart his course and head there at any cost.

He tore a sheet of paper from his memo pad and inscribed on it a brief motto: The ends justify the means!

With that as his guide, he was ready to get down to work.

XIV

Martinez, security head for the entire Appalachia district, was a small, slight man with unruly hair and deep, piercing eyes. He stared levelly at Walton and said, "Sellors has been with security for twenty years. It's absurd to suggest that he's disloyal."

"He's made a great many mistakes," Walton remarked. "I'm simply suggesting that if he's not utterly incompetent he must be in someone else's pay."

"And you want us to break a man on your say-so, Director Walton?" Martinez shook his head fussily. "I'm afraid I can't see that. Of course, if you're willing to go through the usual channels, you could conceivably request a change of personnel in this district. But I don't see how else—"

"Sellors will have to go," Walton said. "Our operation has sprung too many leaks. We'll need a new man in here at once, and I want you to double-check him personally."

Martinez rose. The little man's nostrils flickered ominously. "I refuse. Security is external to whims and fancies. If I remove Sellors, it will undermine security self-confidence all throughout the country."

"All right," sighed Walton. "Sellors stays. I'll file a request to have him transferred, though."

"I'll pigeonhole it. I can vouch for Sellors' competence myself," Martinez snapped. "Popeek is in good hands, Mr. Walton. Please believe that."

Martinez left. Walton glowered at the retreating figure. He knew Martinez was honest—but the security head was a stubborn man, and rather than admit the existence of a flaw in the security structure he had erected, Martinez would let a weak man continue in a vital position.

Well, that blind spot in Martinez' makeup would have to be compensated for, Walton thought. One way or another, he would have to get rid of Sellors and replace him with a security man he could trust.

He scribbled a hasty note and sent it down the chute to Lee Percy. As Walton anticipated, the public relations man phoned minutes later.

"Roy, what's this release you want me to get out? It's fantastic—Sellors a spy? How? He hasn't even been arrested. I just saw him in the building."

Walton smirked. "Since when do you have such a high respect for accuracy?" he asked. "Send out the release and we'll watch what happens."

The 1140 newsblares were the first to carry the news. Walton listened cheerlessly as they revealed that Security Chief Sellors had been arrested on charges of disloyalty. According to informed sources, said the blares, Sellors was now in custody and had agreed to reveal the nature of the secret conspiracy which had hired him.

At 1210 came a later report: Security Chief Sellors had temporarily been released from custody.

And at 1230 came a still later report: Security Chief Sellors had been assassinated by an unknown hand outside the Cullen Building.

Walton listened to the reports with cold detachment. He had foreseen the move: Sellors' panicky employers had silenced the man for good. The ends justify the means, Walton told himself. There was no reason to feel pity for Sellors; he had been a spy and death was the penalty. It made no real difference whether death came in a federal gas chamber or as the result of some carefully faked news releases.

Martinez called almost immediately after word of Sellors' murder reached the blares. The little man's face was deadly pale.

"I owe you an apology," he said. "I acted like an idiot this morning."

"Don't blame yourself," Walton said. "It was only natural that you'd trust Sellors; you'd known him so long. But you can't trust anyone these days, Martinez. Not even yourself."

"I will have to resign," the security man said.

"No. It wasn't your fault. Sellors was a spy and a bungler, and he paid the price. His own men struck him down when that rumor escaped that he was going to inform. Just send me a new man, as I asked—and make him a good one!"

Keeler, the new security attaché, was a crisp-looking man in his early thirties. He reported directly to Walton as soon as he reached the building.

"You're Sellors' replacement, eh? Glad to see you, Keeler." Walton studied him. He looked tough and hard and thoroughly incorruptible. "I've a couple of jobs I'd like you to start on right away. First, you know Sellors was looking for a man named Lamarre. Let me fill you in on that, and—"

"No need for that," Keeler said. "I was the man Sellors put on the Lamarre chase. There isn't a trace of him anywhere. We've got feelers out all over the planet now, and no luck."

"Hmm." Walton was mildly annoyed; he had been wishfully hoping Sellors had found Lamarre and had simply covered up the fact. But if Keeler had been the one who handled the search, there was no hope of that.

"All right," Walton said. "Keep on the hunt for Lamarre. At the moment I want you to give this building a thorough scouring. There's no telling how many spy pickups Sellors planted here. Top to bottom, and report back to me when the job is done."

Next on Walton's schedule was a call from communications. He received it and a technician told him, "There's been a call from the Venus ship. Do you want it, sir?"

"Of course!"

"It says, 'Arrived Venus June fifteen late, no sign of Lang outfit yet. Well keep looking and will report daily.' It's signed, 'Spencer.'"

"Okay," Walton said. "Thanks. And if any further word from them comes, let me have it right away."

The fate of the Lang expedition, Walton reflected, was not of immediate importance. But he would like to know what had happened to the group. He hoped Spencer and his rescue mission had something more concrete to report tomorrow.

The annunciator chimed. "Dr. Frederic Walton is on the line, sir. He says it's urgent."

"Okay," Walton said. He switched over and waited for his brother's face to appear on the screen. A nervous current of anticipation throbbed in him.

"Well, Fred?" he asked at length.

"You've been a busy little bee, haven't you?" Fred said. "I understand you have a new security chief to watch over you."

"I don't have time to make conversation now," Walton snapped.

"Nor do I. You fooled us badly, with that newsbreak on Sellors. You forced us into wiping out a useful contact prematurely."

"Not so useful," Walton said. "I was on to him. If you hadn't killed him, I would have had to handle the job myself. You saved me the trouble."

"My, my! Getting ruthless, aren't we!"

"When the occasion demands," Walton said.

"Fair enough. We'll play the same way." Fred's eyes narrowed. "You recall our conversation in the Bronze Room the other day, Roy?"

"Vividly."

"I've called to ask for your decision," Fred said. "One way or the other."

Walton was caught off guard. "But you said I had a week's grace!"

"The period has been halved," Fred said. "We now see it's necessary to accelerate things."

"Tell me what you want me to do. Then I'll give you my answer."

"It's simple enough. You're to resign in my favor. If it's not done by nightfall tomorrow, we'll find it necessary to release the Lamarre serum. Those are our terms, and don't try to bargain with me."

Walton was silent for a moment, contemplating his brother's cold face on the screen. Finally he said, "It takes time to get such things done. I can't just resign overnight."

"FitzMaugham did."

"Ah, yes—if you call that a resignation. But unless you want to inherit the same sort of chaos I did, you'd better give me a little time to prepare things."

Fred's eyes gleamed. "Does that mean you'll yield? You'll resign in my favor?"

"There's no guarantee the UN will accept you," Walton warned. "Even with my recommendation, I can't promise a one hundred percent chance of success."

"We'll have to risk it," said Fred. "The important step is getting you out of there. When can I have confirmation of all this?"

Walton eyed his brother shrewdly. "Come up to my office tomorrow at this time. I'll have everything set up for you by then, and I'll be able to show you how the Popeek machinery works. That's one advantage you'll have over me. FitzMaugham kept half the workings in his head."

Fred grinned savagely. "I'll see you then, Roy." Chuckling, he added, "I knew all that ruthlessness of yours was just skin deep. You never were tough, Roy."

Walton glanced at his watch after Fred had left the screen. The time was 1100. It had been a busy morning.

But some of the vaguenesses were beginning to look sharper. He knew, for instance, that Sellors had been in the pay of the same organization that backed Fred. Presumably, this meant that FitzMaugham had been assassinated by the landed gentry.

But for what reason? Surely, not simply for the sake of assassination. Had they cared to, they might have killed FitzMaugham whenever they pleased.

He saw now why the assassination had been timed as it had. By the time the conspirators had realized that Walton was sure to be the old man's successor, Fred had already joined their group. They had ready leverage on the prospective director. They knew they could shove him out of office almost as quickly as he got in, and supplant him with their puppet, Fred.

Well, they were in for a surprise. Fred was due to appear at Walton's office at 1100 on the morning of the seventeenth to take over command. Walton planned to be ready for them by then.

There was the matter of Lamarre. Walton wanted the little scientist and his formula badly. But by this time Fred had certainly made at least one copy of Lamarre's documents; the threat would remain, whether or not Popeek recovered the originals.

Walton had twenty-four hours to act. He called up Sue Llewellyn, Popeek's comptroller.

"Sue, how's our budget looking?"

"What's on your mind, Roy?"

"Plenty. I want to know if I can make an expenditure of—say, a billion, between now and nightfall."

"A billion? You joking, Roy?"

"Hardly." Walton's tone was grim. "I hope I won't need it all. But there's a big purchase I want to make ... an investment. Can you squeeze out the money? It doesn't matter where you squeeze it from, either, because if we don't get it by nightfall there probably won't be a Popeek by the day after tomorrow."

"What are you talking about, Roy?"

"Give me a yes or no answer. And if the answer's not the one I want to hear, I'm afraid you can start looking for a new job, Sue."

She uttered a little gasp. Then she said, "Okay, Roy. I'll play along with you, even if it bankrupts us. There's a billion at your disposal as of now, though Lord knows what I'll use for a payroll next week."

"You'll have it