The Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dale Grossman. For Antigonee, who thinks we're property. Preface of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Man Who Rationed Babies. By the twenty-third century, Earth's population had reached seven billion. Mankind was in danger of perishing from lack of elbow room unless prompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce those measures. But, though his job was in service of humanity, he soon found himself the most hated man in the world. For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live. He had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remote areas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens, denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make a decision, resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies, become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly. In other words, should he become the Master of Life and Death? Cast of Characters. Roy Walton. He had to adopt the motto the end justifies the means. Fritz Mom. His reward for devoted service was an assassin's bullet. Fred Walton. His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes, but he underestimated their size. Lee Percy. His specialty was to sugarcoat bitter pills. Prior, with the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son? Dr. Lamar. He died for discovering the secret of immortality. The End of the Preface of the Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. Chapter 1 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly known as Poe Peak, were located on the 20th through 29th floors of the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical of 22nd century neo-Victorian and its over-decorated worst. Roy Walton, Poe Peak's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himself every morning as he entered the hideous place. Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office on the 28th floor immediately below Director Fitzmom's, but that had created only one minor oasis in the aesthetically repugnant building. It couldn't be helped, though. Poe Peak was unpopular, though necessary, and like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, the Bureau did not rate attractive quarters. So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping that trimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaqueers, and changed the massive ceiling fixture to a more subtle electroluminescence. But the mark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building and office. Which was, as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the last century's foolishness that had made Poe Peak necessary, after all. His desk was piled high with reports and more kept arriving via pneumo-shoot every minute. The job of assistant administrator was a thankless one, he thought, as much responsibility as Director Fitzmom and half the pay. He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinkled paper carefully, and read it. It was a dispatch from Horrocks, the Poe Peak agent currently on duty in Patagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232, six days before. And after a long and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks' manner, it went on to say, population density remains low here, 17.3 per square mile, far below optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization. Walton agreed. He reached for his voice-right and said sharply, Moe, from assistant administrator Walton, re-equalization of, he paused, picking a trouble spot at random. Central Belgium, will the section chief in charge of this area consider the advisability of transferring population excess to the fertile areas of Patagonia? Recommendation, establishment of industries in latter region to ease transition. He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them, until bright flares of light shot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered by the multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousand Belgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of Director Fitzmom's off-repeated maxims. If you want to stay sane, think of these people as pawns in a chess game, not as human beings. Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history of humanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmate in a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only so long, shifting like loggers writing logs in a rushing river before trouble came. There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up the voice-right again. Memo from the Assistant Administrator, re-establishment of new policy on reports from local agents. Hire a staff of three clever girls to make precess of each report, eliminating irrelevant data. It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now, with three feet of report stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. One of the troubles with Popeke was its newness. It had been established so suddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage. He took another report from the heath. This one was a datasheet from Zurich Youth and Asia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. During the past week, 11 substandard children and 23 substandard adults had been sent to happy sleep. That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialed the report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the Numo shoot. The annunciator chimed. I'm busy, Walton said immediately. There's a Mr. Pryor here to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said. He insists it's an emergency. Tell Mr. Pryor I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Walton stared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him he can have ten minutes with me at, oh, say, thirteen hundred. Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outer office, and then the annunciator said, he insists he must see you immediately in reference to a happy sleep commitment. Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had been committed. Tell Mr. Pryor I can't see him at all. Walton found his fingers trembling. He clamped them tightly to the edge of his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in this ugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need, the door burst open. A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through and paused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind him came three unsmiling men in the gray silk sheen uniforms of security. They carried drawn needleers. Are you Administrator Walton, the big man asked, in an astonishingly deep, rich voice? I have to see you. I'm Lyle Pryor. The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Pryor. One of them turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this, sir. He just broke away and ran. We couldn't understand how he got in here, but he did. Ah, yes, so I noticed. Walton remarked dryly. See if he's planning to assassinate anybody, will you? Administrator Walton, Pryor protested. I'm a man of peace. How can you accuse me of one of the security men hit him? Walton stiffened and resisted the urge to reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all. Search him, Walton said. They gave Pryor an efficient going over. He's clean, Mr. Walton. Should we take him to security or downstairs to health? Neither. Leave him here with me. Are you sure you get out of here, Walton snapped? As the three security men slinked away, he added, and figured out some more efficient system for protecting me. Someday an assassin is going to sneak through here and get me.  It's simply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the world who'd take this job. Now get out. They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closed and jammed down hard on the lock stud. His tirade, he knew, was wholly unjustified. If he had remembered to lock his door as regulations prescribe, Pryor could never have broken in. But he couldn't admit that to the guards. Take a seat, Mr. Pryor. I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Pryor said, without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're a terribly busy man. I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton's desk since Pryor had entered. You are very lucky to have hit the psychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I would have had you brigged for a month. But just now I'm in need of a little diversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Pryor. Thank you. Again that humility startling and so big and commanding a man. I hadn't expected to find, I mean, that you... That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're groping for? Pryor readened. Yes, he admitted. Grinning, Walton said, I have to do something when I go home at night. I don't really read Popeke reports twenty-four hours a day. No more than twenty. That's my rule. I thought your last book was quite remarkable. The critics didn't, Pryor said diffidently. Critics, what do they know, Walton demanded? They swing in cycles. Ten years ago it was form and technique and you got the Melling Prize. Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr. Pryor, and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is. Take Yeats, for instance. Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Pryor back to Surrey and Wyatt. Anything to keep from the job at hand. Anything to keep his mind from Popeke. But Pryor interrupted him. Mr. Walton. Yes? My son Philip. He's two weeks old now. Walton understood. No, Pryor, please don't ask. Walton's skin felt cold. His hands tightly clenched were clammy. He was committed to happy sleep this morning, potentially tubercular. The boys perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you? Walton rose. No, he said, half commanding, half pleading. Don't ask me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You're an intelligent man. You understand our program? I voted for Popeke. I know all about Weeding the Garden and the euthanasia plan. But I hadn't expected. You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So did everyone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderly, he said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son.  I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practiced euthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now? It was an unanswerable question. Walton tried to ignore it. Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Pryor. We can wipe it out completely if we strike at those with TB susceptible genetic traits.   Burn me an effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to do the impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you. Pryor rose. He was immense, a hulking, tragic figure, staring broodingly at Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Walton feared violence. His fingers groped for the needle-gun he kept in his upper left desk drawer. But Pryor had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly. I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry for both of us. Walton pressed the door lock and let him out, and then locked it again, and slipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of the chute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were three bascalists. In the three weeks of Popeke's existence 3,000 babies had been ticketed for happy sleep, and 3,000 sets of degenerate genes had been wiped from the race. 10,000 subnormal males had been sterilized. 8,000 dying oldsters had reached their grave ahead of time. It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborn generations?  Why force a man, hopelessly cancerous, to linger on in pain, consuming precious food? Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and his team succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-light outfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done about Earth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now, and the figure was still growing. Pryor's words haunted him. I was tubercular. Where would my poems be now? The big, humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had been tubercular, too. What good are poets, he asked himself savagely? The reply came swiftly. What good is anything, then? Keats, Shakespeare, Eliot, Yates, Donnie, Pound, Matthews, and Pryor. How much duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturing his bookshelf, his one bookshelf in his crowded little cubicle of a one-room home. Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision. The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if he admitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the equalization law, it would be a criminal act. But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one. Pryor's baby. With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If there are any calls for me, take a message. I'll be out of my office for the next half hour. The end of Chapter 1 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg Chapter 2 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy. Half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeke was organized, and old man Fitzmom had tapped him for the second-in-command post. And now a rebellion. The sparing of a single child is a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeke this way as if he had brought about the repeal of the entire equalization law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I will spare Pryor's child, and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor. Roy, it was the sound of a quiet voice behind him. Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there. Good morning, Mr. Fitzmom. The old man was smiling serenely. His blind face warm and friendly. His mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter? Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. It's been a lot of work lately. As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeke worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. Fitzmom has driven for equalization legislation 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've adopted my habit of taking coffee breaks 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. Fitzmom. Walton felt as though he'd already been tied, drawn, and quartered. He requires personal attention. I see. The deep, warm eyes bore into his. You ought to slow down a little, I think. Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little. Fitzmom 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. Fitzmom pushed fourteen. There was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty, covering the panel with his arms so the old man was unable to see his destination. As the tube began to descend, Fitzmom said, Did Mr. Pryor come to see you this morning? Yes, Walton said. He's a 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 happy sleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down. Naturally, Fitzmom 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 open, revealing a neat, gleaming sign. Floor twenty, 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 Fitzmom'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 damned that smooth paternal smile. Fitzmom 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, 30 by 20 with deck upon deck of Dunnerson micro-memory tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm recorders on the other. In six weeks of life, Popey had filed 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-smock technician said. Popey 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 check. Mind if I use the machine? Not at all, sir. Go right ahead. Walton grinned slightly 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 Fitzmom's protege and second in command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popey crank quietly to himself. Frowning, he tried to remember the prior boy's name. Ah, Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for a card on Philip Pryor. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Dunnerson tubes for Philip Pryor's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot. Three, two, one, six, eight, four, seven, A, B, one. Philip Hue. Born 31 May, 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Pryor, Lyle Martin, and Pryor, Ava Leonard. Weight at birth, five pounds, three ounces. An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, a glutenation characteristic, and the 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 NY Youth Clinic, 10 June, 2332. Euthanasia recommended. He glanced at his watch. The time was 10.26. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative ax to descend. Walton has set up the schedule himself. The gas chamber delivered happy sleep every day at 11 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Pryor. 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 codes the clinic used. Symbols began pouring out, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with a line of gibberish on Philip Pryor's report 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 acknowledgment. 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 Pryor was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 10.37. Still 23 minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunate was put away. Now came the real test. Could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process? 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 pan 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 each child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in 10,000 would be denied a certificate and life. Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here? Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, doctor. I am trying to keep in touch with every department we have, you know? Mr. Fitzbaum was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going over today, Mr. Walton. Hmm, 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 protege to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose. See, my brother around, he asked. Fred, he's working in Room 7, running analysis. 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 and the employee of Popeke. 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 11 o'clock chamber. Three tuberque, two blind, one congenital syph. That only makes six, Walton said. Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest tall 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 seem to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though. Walton shrugged. You remember his name, he asked, with faint calm. Silence for a moment. No, darn it if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you'd like. Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Fallborough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared. Fallborough 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 for his weak blue eyes. Good morning, Mr. Walton. Good morning, Dr. Fallborough. You'll be operating soon, won't you? 1100 is usual. Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said, to keep the public opinion on our side. Sir? Hands forth, until further notice, you're to check every baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's no mistake. Got that? Missake? But how? Never mind that, Fallborough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if the news gets out. How glibly I reel this stuff off, Walton thought in amazement. Fallborough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on. Good, beginning with the 11 o'clock batch. Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit and signaled for the tube lift. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of the towering stack of work. His pulse was racing. His throat was dry. He remembered that Fitzmom 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 Fitzmom knew, or would soon know, what he had done. He would have to cover his traces somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Fallborough, of happy sleep, calling you, sir. Put him on. The screen lit, and Fallborough'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, Fallborough. Speak up. Hi. Well, sir, I ran the 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 baby's name is Philip Pryor, and his gene pattern is fine. Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked. Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. Fallborough, 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. Fallborough 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 Pryor 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.  Well, the thing was done. No, not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places, and by obliterating the computer's memory of this morning's activities. The annunciator chimed again. Here a brother is on the wire, sir. Walton trembled imperceptibly, as he said. Put him on. Somehow Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all. The End of Chapter 2 Of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg Chapter 3 of Masters of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirling colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother. He was a squat 5'7", next to Roy's lean 6'2". Fred had always threatened to get even with his older brother as soon as they were the same size. But to Fred's great dismay, he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height. Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidarity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image to take shape. And when the time lag was over, he said, Well, Fred, what goes on? His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I don't rate a visit? I wasn't in your section. It was official business anyway. I didn't have time. Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred's lapel and refused to look anywhere else. Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though. Official business. Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious. Unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine. Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into its stiff hard line and said, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popey computer outlet is confidential. Criminal offense may be so, but that makes two of us then, eh, Roy? How much do you know? You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communication system, would you? Your friend Fitzmom might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Old Doc Walton doesn't want to get his big-wig brother in trouble. Oh, no. Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly. You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now, shall we? Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have some work to do now. His voice was barely audible. I won't keep you any longer then, Fred said. The screen went dead. Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaque control and the frosted white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside. Idiot, he thought. Fool! He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway, and Fitzmom knew. The old man could see through Walton with ease, and Fred knew too, his brother and his father's substitute. Fitzmom might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred, there was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers. They had lived with their parents, now almost totally forgotten, until Roy was nine and Fred was seven. Their parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash. Roy and Fred had been sent to a public crush. After that, it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy and education in the law, a short spell of Senator Fitzmom's private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly created Poe Peak Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice. Finally, a job in the happy sleep section of Poe Peak, thanks to Roy. And now he has the upper hand for the first time, Walton thought. I hope he's not thirsting for my scalp. He was being ground in a vice. He saw now the gulf between the toughness needed for a Poe Peak man and the very real streak of softness that was part of his character. Walton suddenly realized that he had never merited his office. His only honorable move would be to offer his resignation to Fitzmom at once. He thought back. Thought of the senator saying, This is a job for a man with no heart. Poe Peak is the cruelest organization ever legislated by man. You think you can handle it, Roy? I think so, sir. I hope so. He remembered going on to declare some fuzzy phrases of the need for equalization, the immediate necessity of dealing with Earth's population problem. Temporary cruelty is the price of eternal happiness, Fitzmom had said. Walton remembered the day when the United Nations had finally agreed, had turned the Population Equalization Bureau loose on a stunned world. There had been a sharp flare of flash guns, the clatter of reporters feeding the story to the world, the momentary high-mindedness, the sense of nobility of Poe Peak, and then the six weeks of gathering hatred. No one liked Poe Peak. No one liked to put antiseptic on wounds, either, but it had to be done. Walton shook his head sorrowfully. He had made a serious mistake by saving Philip prior, but resigning his post was no way to atone for it. He opaque the window again and returned to his desk. It was time to go through the mail. The first letter on the stack was addressed to him by hand. He slid it open and scanned it. Dear Mr. Walton, yesterday your men came and took away my mother to be killed.   Signed disgusted. Walton shrugged and opened the next letter, typed in a crisp voice-right script on crinkly watermarked paper. Sir, I see by the papers that the latest euthanasia figures are the highest yet, and that you have successfully rid the world of many of its weak sisters, those who are unable to stand the gaffe, those who, in the words of the immortal Darwin, are not fit to survive. My heartiest congratulations, sir, upon the scope and ambition of your bold and courageous program. Your bureau offers mankind its first real chance to enter that promised land, that utopia, that has been our hope and prayer for so long. I do sincerely hope, though, that your bureau is devoted 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 for the Europeans who refuse to obey the demands of sanity. And, coming closer to home, I pray you reduce the number of Jews, Catholics, Communists, anti-Hershelites, and other free-thinking 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 Popeke did not plan to eliminate all forms of second-class citizens. There had been a Michigan minister, anxious that no left-wing relativistic atheists escaped the gas chamber. And, of course, there were the other kind, the barely literate letters from the bereaved parents or relatives accusing Popeke 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 the files, where they would be put on microfilm and scrupulously stored away. Fitzmom 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 Popeke only Fitzmom knew what was being done on it. But if it came through, Walton shrugged and turned back to his work. Reports 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 Benzoluthrian 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 Fitzmom used between their offices glowed to 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 a head American delegate to the United Nations, a stubborn, dedicated man who had fought Popeke 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 Popeke as a one-man show, Fitzmom explained. Of course that's not so, as that mountain of work on your desk testifies. But I want you here as evidence of the truth. I want him to see how much I rely on my assistance. I get it. Very good, Mr. Fitzmom. 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. I'll see you at thirteen hundred sharp then. Of course, sir. The screen went dead. Walton stared at it blankly. He wondered if this was some elaborate charade of the old man's. Fitzmom was devious enough. The last remark about loyal young lieutenants of impeccable character? It had seemed to be in good faith, but was it? Was Fitzmom staging an intricate pretense before deposing his faithless protege? Maybe Fred had something to do with it, Walton thought. He decided to have another session with the computer after his conference with Fitzmom and Ludwick. 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, he ordered lunch with quivering fingers and munched drearily on the tasteless synthetics for a while before dumping them down the disposal chute. The End of Chapter Three of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg Chapter Four of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. At precisely twelve-fifty-five 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 Fitzmom ultimately would stick by him. And there was little to fear from Fred, he realized now. It was next to impossible for a mere low-level medic to gain the ear of the director himself. In the normal course of events, if Fred attempted to contact Fitzmom, he would automatically be referred to Roy. No, the danger of 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 a white medic smock, stained yellow and red with reagents and coagulants. He was lounging against the curving, plasticine corridor wall, hands jammed deep into his pockets. His thick-featured, broad-faced war and expression of elaborate casualness. Hello, Roy, fancy finding you here. How did you know I was coming this way? I called your office. They told me you were on the way to the lift tubes. Why so jumpy, brother? Have a tough morning? Fred worse, Walton said. He was tense, guarded. He pushed the stud, beckoning the lift tube. Where are you off to, Fred asked? Confidential, top-level pow-wow with fits, 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 only get a minute or two left in my lunch hour. I want to make myself perfectly plain to you. Are there any spy pickups in this corridor? Walton considered that. There were none that he knew of, and he knew of most. Still, Fitzmom might have found it advisable to plant a few more without advertising the fact. I'm not sure, he said. What's on your mind? Fred took a pad from his pocket and began to scroll a note. Allowed, he said, I'll take my chances and tell you about it today. One of the men in the lab said another man told him, you and Fitzmom were both secretly Herschelites. His brow furrowed with the effort of saying one thing and writing another simultaneously. Naturally, I won't give you any names yet, but I want you to know I'm investigating his background very carefully. He may just have been shooting his mouth off. Is that why you don't want this to go into a spy pickup? Walton asked. Suddenly, I prefer to investigate unofficially for the time being. Fred finished the note, ripped the sheet from the pad, and handed it to his brother. Walton read it wordlessly. The handwriting was jagged and untidy, for it was no easy feat to carry on a conversation for the benefit of any concealed pickups while writing a message. It said, I know all about the prior, baby.  Don't try anything foolish, because I've deposited an account of the whole thing where you can't find it. Walton crumpled the note and tucked it into his pocket. He said, thanks for the information, Fred. I'll keep it in mind. OK, pal. The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped inside and pressed twenty-nine. In the moment it took the tube to rise one floor, he thought. So Fred's playing a waiting game. Hold the information over my head until he can make good use of it. That was some relief, anyway. No matter what evidence Fred might have salted away, Walton still had a chance to blot out some of the computer's memory track and obscure the trail to that extent. The lift tube opened. A gleaming sign listed the various activities on the twenty-ninth floor, and at the bottom of the list it said, D. F. Fitzmom, director. Fitzmom's office was at the back of a maze of small cubicles housing Popeke functionaries of one sort or another. Walton had made some attempt to familiarize himself with the organizational stratification of Popeke, but his success thus far had been minimal. Fitzmom had conceived the plan half a century ago and had lovingly created and worked over the organization structure through all the long years it took before the law was finally passed. There were plenty of bugs in the system, but in general Fitzmom's blueprint had been sound, sound enough for Popeke to begin functioning almost immediately after its U.N. approval. The many-formed departments, the tight network of inter-reporting agencies, the fantastically detailed budget for its niggling appropriations of office supplies and its massive expenditures for, say, the terraforming project. Most of these were fully understood only by Fitzmom himself. Walton glanced at his watch. He was three minutes late. The conversation with his brother had delayed him, but Ludwig of the U.N. was not known to be a scrupulously punctual man, and there was a high probability he hadn't arrived. The secretary in the office guarding Fitzmom's looked up at Walton approaching. The director is in an urgent conference, sir, and, oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Walton, go right in. Mr. Fitzmom is expecting you. Is Ludwig there yet? Yes, sir. He arrived about ten minutes ago. Curious, Walton thought. From what he knew of Ludwig, he wasn't a man to arrive early for any appointment. Walton and Fitzmom had had plenty of dealings with him in the days before Popeke was approved, but never once had Ludwig been on time. Walton shrugged. If Ludwig could switch his stand so decisively from an emphatic anti-Popeke to an even more emphatic pro-Popeke, perhaps he could change in other respects as well. Walton stepped within the field of the screener. His image, he knew, was being relayed inside where Fitzmom could scrutinize him carefully before admitting him. The director was very touchy about admitting people to his office. Five seconds passed. It usually took no more than that for Fitzmom to admit him, but there was no sign from within, and Walton coughed discreetly. Still no answer. He turned away and walked over to the desk where the secretary sat dictating into the voice-write. He waited for her to finish her sentence, then touched her arm lightly. Yes, Mr. Walton? The transmission seems to be out of order. Would you mind calling Mr. Fitzmom on the annunciator and telling him I'm here? Of course, sir. Her fingers deftly flipped the switches. He waited for her to announce him, but she paused and looked back at Walton. He doesn't acknowledge, Mr. Walton. He must be awfully busy. He has to acknowledge. Ring him again. I'm sorry, sir, but ring him again. She rang reluctantly, without any response. Fitzmom preferred the sort of annunciator that had to be acknowledged. Walton allowed the girl to break in on his privacy without the formality of a return buzz. Still no answer, sir. Walton was growing impatient. OK, devil take the acknowledgement. Break in on him and tell him I'm waiting out here. My presence is important inside. Sir, Mr. Fitzmom absolutely forbids anyone to use the annunciator without his acknowledgement, the girl protested. He felt his neck growing red. I'll take the responsibility. I'm sorry, sir. All right, get away from that machine and let me talk to him. If there are repercussions, tell him I forced you at gunpoint. She backed away, horrified, and he slid in behind the desk. He made contact. There was no acknowledgement. He said, Mr. Fitzmom, this is Roy. I'm outside your office now. Should I come in or not? Silence. He stared thoughtfully at the apparatus. I'm going in there, he said. The door was a solid-paneled imitation wood, a couple of inches thick, and probably filled with a good, sturdy sheet of beryllium steel. Fitzmom liked protection. Walton contemplated the door for a moment, stepping inside the screener field, he said. Mr. Fitzmom, can you hear me? In the ensuing silence he went on. This is Walton. I'm outside with a blaster. And unless I get any orders to the contrary, I'm going to break into your office. Silence. This was very extraordinary indeed. He wondered if it were part of some trap of Fitzmom's. He adjusted the blaster aperture to short-range, wide beam, and turned it on. A soft, even flow of heat bathed the door. Quite a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered by now at a respectful distance. Walton maintained the steady heat. The synthetic wood was sloughing away in dribbly blue masses as the radiation broke it down. The sheet of metal at the heart of the door was gleaming bright red. The lock became visible now. Walton concentrated the flame there, and the door creaked and groaned. He snapped the blaster off, pocketed it, and kicked the door soundly. It swung open. He had a momentary glimpse of a blood-soaked white head slumped over a broad desk, and then someone hit him amid ships. He was a man about his own height, wearing a blue suit woven through with glittering gold threads. Walton's mind caught the details with odd clarity. The man's face was distorted with fear and shock, but Walton recognized it clearly enough. The ruddy cheeks, the broad nose, and the bushy eyebrows belonged to Ludwig, the UN man, the man who had just assassinated Director Fitzmom. He was battering his fists into Walton, struggling to get past him and through the wreck door to escape somewhere, anywhere. Walton grunted as the fists clashed into his stomach. He reeled backward, gagging and gasping, but managed to keep his hands on the other's coat. Desperately he pulled Ludwig to him. In the suddenness of the encounter he had no time to evaluate what had happened, no time to react to Fitzmom's murder. His one thought was that Ludwig had to be subdued. His fist cracked into the other's mouth.  Ludwig sagged. Walton realized that he was blocking the doorway. Not only was he preventing Ludwig from escaping, but he was also making it impossible for anyone outside to come to his aid. Blindly he clubbed his fists down on Ludwig's neck, spun him around, crashed another blow into the man's midsection. Suddenly Ludwig pulled away from him and ran back behind the director's desk. Walton followed him and stopped short as he saw the UN men pause, quiver tremulously, and topple to the floor. He sprawled grotesquely on the deep beige carpet, shook for a moment, then was still. Walton gasped for breath. His clothes were torn. He was sticky with sweat and blood. His heart was pounding from unaccustomed exertion. Ludwig's killed the director, he thought, and now Ludwig's dead. He leaned against the doorpost. He was conscious of figures moving past him, going into the room, examining Fitzmom and the figure on the floor. Are you all right? A crisp, familiar voice asked. Pretty winded, Walton admitted. Have some water. Walton accepted a drink, gulped it, looked up at the man who had spoken. Ludwig, how in hell's name? A double, the UN man said. Come over here and look at him. Ludwig led him to the pseudo Ludwig on the floor. It was an incredible resemblance. Two or three of the office workers had rolled the body over. The jaws were clenched stiffly, the face frozen in an agonized mask. He took poison, Ludwig said. I don't imagine he expected to get out of here alive, but he did his work well. God, I wish I'd been on time for once in my life. Walton glanced numbly from the dead Ludwig on the floor to the live one standing opposite him. His shocked mind realized dimly what had happened. The assassin, masked to look like Ludwig, had arrived at thirteen hundred and had been admitted to the director's office. He had killed the old man and then had remained inside the office, rather hoping to make an escape later in the day, or perhaps simply waiting for the poison to take effect. It was bound to happen, Ludwig said. They'd been gunning for the senator for years, and now that Popeke has passed, Walton looked involuntarily at the desk, mirror-bright and uncluttered as always. Director Fitzmom was sprawled forward, hands half-clenched, arms spread.  He had been clubbed, the simplest, crudest sort of murder. Emotional reaction began. Walton wanted to break things, to cry, to let off steam somehow. But there were too many people present. The office, once sacrosanct, had miraculously become full of Popeke workers, policemen, secretaries, possibly some telefax reporters. Walton recovered a shred of his authority. All of you, outside, he said loudly. He recognized cellars the building security chief and added, except you, cellars, you can stay here. The crowd melted away magically. Now there were just five in the office, cellars, Ludwig, Walton, and the two corpses. Ludwig said, do you have any idea who might be behind this, Mr. Walton? I don't know, he said wearily.  Maybe it was a Herschelite plot. There'll be a full investigation. Fine, stepping out of the way, sir, cellars asked, I'd like to take some photos. Walton and Ludwig moved to one side as the security man went to work. It was inevitable, Walton thought, that this would happen. Fitzmom had been the living symbol of Popeke. He walked to the battered door, reflecting that he would have it repaired at once. That thought led naturally to a new one. Before it was fully formed, in his own mind, Ludwig voiced it. This is a terrible tragedy, the UN man said, but one mitigating factor exists. I'm sure Mr. Fitzmom's successor will be a fitting one. I'm confident you'll be able to carry on Fitzmom's great work quite capably, Mr. Walton. The End of Chapter 4 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg Chapter 5 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The new sign on the office door said, Ray Walton, interim director, Bureau of Population Equalization He had argued against putting it up there, on the grounds that his appointment was strictly temporary, pending a meeting of the General Assembly to choose a new head for Popeke, but Ludwig had maintained it might be weeks or months before such a meeting could be held, and that there was no harm in identifying his office. Everything under control, the UN man asked. Walton eyed him unhappily. I guess so. Now all I have to do is start figuring out how Mr. Fitzmom's filing system worked, and I'll be all set. You mean you don't know? Mr. Fitzmom took very few people into his confidence, Walton said. Popeke was his special brainchild. He had lived with it so long, he thought its workings were self-evident to everyone. There will be a period of adjustment. Of course, Ludwig said. This conference you were going to have with the director yesterday when he, uh, what was it about? Walton asked. The UN men shrugged. It's irrelevant now, I suppose. I wanted to find out how Popeke's subsidiary research lines were coming along. But I guess you'll have to go through Mr. Fitzmom's files before you know anything, eh? Ludwig stared at him sharply. Suddenly, Walton did not like the cheerful UN man. There'll be a certain period of adjustment, he repeated. I'll let you know when I'm ready to answer questions about Popeke. Of course, I didn't mean to imply any criticism of you or of the late director, or of Popeke, Mr. Walton. Naturally, I understand Mr. Ludwig. Ludwig took his leave at last, and Walton was alone in the late Mr. Fitzmom's office for the first time since the assassination. He spread his hands on the highly polished desk and twisted his wrists outward in a tense gesture. His fingers made squeaking sounds as they rubbed the wood surface. It had been an uneasy afternoon yesterday after the nightmare of the assassination and the subsequent security inquisition. Walton, rung dry, had gone home early. Leaving Popeke headless for two hours. The news blares in the jet bus had been programmed with nothing but talk of the killing. A brutal hand today struck down the revered D. F. Fitzmom, 81, director of population equalization. Security officers report definite prospects of solution of the shocking crime, and the other writers in the bus had been vehemently outspoken.  That baby killer! I knew they'd get him sooner or later, offered a thin, wispy-haired old man. They had to. Rumor going around that he was really a Herschelite. Some new kid is taking over Popeke, they said. They'll get him too, mark my words.  But it didn't work. They'll get him too, mark my words. He hadn't forgotten that prophecy by the time he reached his cubicle in Upper Manhattan. The harsh words had drifted through his restless sleep all night. Now, behind the safety of his office door, he thought of them again. He couldn't hide, it hadn't worked for Fitzmom, and it wouldn't for him. Hiding wasn't the answer. Walton smiled grimly. If martyrdom were in store for him, let martyrdom come. The work of Popeke had to go forward. He decided he would conduct as much of his official business as possible by screen, but when personal contact was necessary, he would make no attempt to avoid it. He glanced around Fitzmom's office. The director had been a product of the last century, and he had seen nothing ugly in the furnishings of the Cullen Building. Like Walton, then, he had not had his office remodeled. That would be one of the first tasks, to replace the clumsy battery of tungsten filament incandescence with a wall of electroluminescence, to replace the creaky sash windows with some decent opaqueurs, to get rid of the accursed gingerbread trimming that offended the eye in every direction. The thunkety-thunk air conditioner would have to go too. He'd have a molecular sorter installed in a day or two. The redecorating problems were the minor ones. It was the task of filling Fitzmom's giant shoes, even on an interim basis, that staggered Walton. He fumbled in the desk for a pad and stylus. This was going to call for an agenda. Hastily, he wrote. One, cancel F's appointments. Two, investigate setup in files. A, Lang terraforming project. B, faster than light. C, budget, stretchable. D, locate spy pickups in building. Three, meet with section chiefs. Four, press conference with telefax services. Five, see Ludwig, straighten things out. Six, redecorate office. He thought for a moment, then erased a few of his numbers and changed press conference to six and redecorate office to four. He licked the stylus and wrote at the very top of the page, oh, finished prior affair. In a way, Fitzmom's assassination had taken Walton off the hook on the prior case. Whatever Fitzmom suspected about Walton's activities yesterday morning no longer need trouble him. If the director had jotted down a memorandum on the subject, Walton would be able to find and destroy it when he went through Fitzmom's files later. And if the dead man had merely kept the matter in his head, well, then it was safely at rest in the crematorium. Walton groped in his jacket pocket and found the note his brother had slipped him at lunchtime the day before. In the rush of events, Walton had not had a chance to destroy it. Now he read it once more, ripped it in half, ripped it again, and fed one quarter of the note into the disposal chute. He would get rid of the rest at 15-minute intervals and he would defy anyone monitoring the disposal units to locate all four fragments. Actually, he realized he was being overcautious. This was director Fitzmom's office and Fitzmom's disposal chute. The director wouldn't have arranged to have his own chute monitored, would he? Or would he? There was never any telling with Fitzmom. The old man had been terribly devious in every maneuver he made. The room had the dry, crisp smell of detecting devices that had been used, the close to the ground, ugly metering robots that had crawled all over the floor, sniffing up footprints and stray dendro flakes for analysis, the chemical cleansers that had mopped the blood out of the rug, Walton cursed at the air conditioner that was so inefficiently removing these smells from the air. The annunciator chimed. Walton waited impatiently for a voice, then remembered that Fitzmom had doggedly required an acknowledgment. He opened the channel and said, This is Walton. In the future no acknowledgment will be necessary. Yes, sir. There's a reporter from Citizen here and one from Globe Telefacts. Tell them I'm not seeing anyone today. Here, I'll give them a statement. Tell them the gargantuan task of picking up the reins where the late great director Fitzmom dropped them is one that will require my full energy for the next several days. I'll be happy to hold my first official press conference as soon as Popeke is once again moving on an even keel. Got that? Yes, sir. Good. Make sure they print it.  If anyone shows up today or tomorrow who had an appointment with director Fitzmom, tell him approximately the same thing. Not in those flowery words, of course, but give him the gist of it. I've got a lot of catching up to do before I can see people. Certainly, director Walton. He grinned at the sound of those words. Director Walton. Turning away from the annunciator, he took out his agenda and checked off item one. Fitzmom's appointments. Frowning, he realized he had better add a seventh item to the list. A point new assistant administrator. Someone would have to handle his old job. But now the top priority would have to be the item ticketed zero on the list. Finish prior affair. He'd never be in a better position to erase the evidence of yesterday's illegality than he was right now. Connect me with euthanasia files, please. A moment later, a dry voice said, files. Files, this is acting director Walton. I'd like a complete transcript of your computer's activities for yesterday morning between 0900 and 1200. With each separate activity itemized. How soon can I have it? Within minutes, director Walton. Good. Send it sealed by closed circuit. There's some top level stuff on that transcript. If the seal's not intact when it gets here, I'll shake up the whole department. Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?  Send up a list of all doctors who were examining babies in the clinic yesterday morning. He waited. While he waited, he went through the top layer of memoranda in Fitzmom's desk. There was a note on top which read, appointment with Lamar, 11 June, 1215. Must be firm with him. Must handle with great delicacy. Perhaps time to let Walton know. Hmm, that was interesting, Walton thought. He had no idea who Lamar might be, but Fitzmom had drawn a spidery little star in the upper right-hand corner of the memo sheet indicating crash priority. He flipped on the annunciator. There's a Mr. Lamar who had an appointment with Director Fitzmom for 1215 today. If he calls, tell him I can't see him today, but we'll honor the appointment tomorrow at the same time. If he shows up, tell him the same thing. His watch said it was time to dispose of another fragment of Fred's message. He stuffed it into the disposal chute. A moment later a green light flashed over the arrival bin. Fitzmom had not been subject, as Walton had been in his previous office, to cascades of materials arriving without warning. Walton drew a sealed packet from the bin. He examined the seal and found it untampered, which was good. It meant the packet had come straight from the computer and had not even been read by the technician in charge. With it was a type list of five names, the doctors who had been in the lab the day before. Breaking open the packet, Walton discovered seven closely typed sheets with a series of itemized actions on them. He ran through them quickly, discarding sheets one, two, and three, which dealt with routine activities of the computer in the early hours of the previous day. Item 73 was his request for Philip Pryor's record card. He checked that one off. Item 74 was his requisition for the key to the clinic's gene sorting code. Item 75 was his revision of Philip Pryor's record, omitting all reference to his tubercular condition and to the euthanasia recommendation. Item 76 was the acknowledgment of this revision. Item 77 was his request for the boy's card, this time the amended one. The five items were dated in time. The earliest was 10.25 and the latest 10.37, all on June 10. Walton bracketed the five items thoughtfully and scanned the rest of the page. Nothing of interest there, just more routine business. But item 92, timed at 11.02, was an intriguing one. 92, full transcript of morning's transactions, issued by request of Dr. Frederick Walton. 932K104AZ. Fred hadn't been bluffing then. He actually had possession of all the damning evidence. But when one dealt with a computer and with Donerson micro-memory tubes, the past was an extremely fluid entity. I want a direct line to the computer on floor 20, he said. After a brief lag, a technician appeared on the screen. It was the same one he had spoken to earlier. There's been an error in the records, Walton said. An error I wouldn't want to perpetuate. Will you set me up so I can feed a direct order into the machine? Certainly, sir. Go ahead, sir. This is top secret. Vanish. The technician vanished. Walton said. Items 73 through 77 on yesterday morning's record tape will be deleted, and the information carried in those tubes is to be deleted as well. Furthermore, there is to be no record made of this transaction. The voice write on floor 20 shattered briefly and the order funneled into the computer. Walton waited for a moment, tensely. Then he said, All right, technician, come back in where I can see you. The technician appeared. Walton said, I'm running a check now. Have the machine prepare another transcript of yesterday's activities between 0900 and 1200 and also one of today's doings for the last 15 minutes. Right away, sir. While he was waiting for the new transcripts to arrive, Walton studied the list of names on his desk. Five doctors. Gunther, Raymond, Archer, C., Ryan. He didn't know which one of them examined the prior baby nor did he care to find out. All five would have to be transferred. Meticulously, he took up his stylus and pad again and plotted a destination for each. Gunther Zurich, Raymond Glasgow, Archer, Tierra del Fuego, C., Leopoldville, Rain, Bangkok. He nodded. This was optimum dissemination. He would put through notice of transfers later in the day, and by nightfall the men would be on their way to their new scenes of operation. Perhaps they would never understand why they had been uprooted and sent away from New York. The new transcripts arrived. Impatiently, Walton checked through them. In the June 10th transcript, Item 71 dealt with smallpox statistics in North America, 1822 through 68, and Item 72 with the tally of anti-histamine supply for requisition for Clinic 3. There was no sign of any of Walton's requests. They had vanished from the record as completely as if they had never been. Walton searched carefully through the June 11th transcript for any mention of his deletion order. No, that hadn't been recorded either. He smiled, his first honest smile since Fitzmom's assassination. Now, with the computer records erased, the director dead, and the doctors on their way elsewhere, only Fred stood in the way of Roy's chance of escaping punishment for the prior business. He decided he'd have to take his chances with Fred. Perhaps brotherly love would seal his lips after all. The director Fitzmom's files were spread over four floors of the building, but for Walton's purposes, the only ones that mattered were those to which access was granted through the director's office alone. A keyboard and screen were set into a wall to the left of the desk. Walton let his fingers rest lightly on the gleaming keys. The main problem facing him, he thought, lay in not knowing where to begin. Despite his careful agenda, despite the necessary marshalling of his thoughts, he was still confused by the enormity of his job. The seven billion people of the world were in his hands. He could transfer 50,000 New Yorkers to the bleak northern provinces of underpopulated Canada with the same quickies he had shifted five unsuspecting doctors half an hour before. After a few moments of uneasy thought, he pecked out a short message. Request, complete data file on terraforming project. On the screen appeared the words, acknowledged and coded, prepare to receive. The arrival bin thrumped with activity. Walton hastily scooped out a double handful of type sheets and made room for more. He grinned in anguish as the paper kept on coming. Fitzmom's files on terraforming, no doubt, covered reams and reams. Staggering, he carted it all over to his desk and began to skim through it. The data began 30 years earlier, in 2202, with a photo stat of a letter from Dr. Herbert Lang to Fitzmom, proposing a project whereby the inner planets of the solar system could be made habitable by human beings. Appended to that was Fitzmom's skeptical, slightly mocking reply. The old man had kept everything, it seemed, even letters which showed him in a bad light. After that came more letters from Lang, urging Fitzmom to plead terraforming's case before the United States Senate, and Fitzmom's increasingly more enthusiastic answers. Finally, in 2212, a notation that the Senate had voted a million-dollar appropriation to Lang, a minuscule amount in terms of the overall need, but it was enough to cover preliminary research. Lang had been grateful. Walton skimmed through more or less familiar documents on the nature of the terraforming project. He could study those in detail later, if time permitted. What he wanted now was information on the current status of the project. Fitzmom had been remarkably silent about it, though the public impression had been created that a team of engineers headed by Lang were already at work on Venus. He shoved whole handfuls of letters to one side, looking for those of recent date. Here was one dated 1 February 2232, Fitzmom to Lang. It informed the scientists that passage of the Equalization Act was imminent, and that Lang stood to get a substantial appropriation from the UN in that event. A jubilant reply from Lang was attached. Following that came another 10 May 2232, Fitzmom to Lang. Official authorization of Lang as an executive member of Popeke and appropriation of, Walton's eyes bugged out, five billion dollars for terraforming research. Note from Lang to Fitzmom, 14 May. The terraforming crew was leaving for Venus immediately. Note from Fitzmom to Lang, 16 May. Best wishes, and Lang was instructed to contact Fitzmom without fail at weekly intervals. Spacegram from Lang to Fitzmom, 28 May. Arrived at Venus safely, preparing operation as scheduled. The file ended there. Walton rummaged through the huge heap, hoping to discover a later communique. By Fitzmom's own request, Lang should have contacted Popeke about four days ago with his first report. Possibly it had gone astray in delivery, Walton thought. He spent 20 minutes digging through the assorted material before remembering that he could get a replacement within seconds from the filing computer. He typed out a requisition for any and all correspondence between Director Fitzmom and Dr. Herbert Lang. That was dated after 28 May, 2232. The machine acknowledged and a moment later replied, this material was not included in the memory banks. Walton frowned, gathered up most of his superfluous terraforming data and deposited it in a file drawer. The status of the project then was uncertain. The terraformers were on Venus and presumably at work, but were yet to be heard from. The next Popeke project to be tracked down would be the faster than light spaceship drive. But after the massive data Walton had just absorbed, he found himself hesitant to wade through another collection so soon. He realized that he was hungry for the sight of another human being. He had spent the whole morning alone speaking to anonymous underlings, via screen or annunciator, and requisitioning materials from an even more impersonal computer. He wanted noise, life, people around him. He snapped on the annunciator. I'm calling an immediate meeting of Popeke section chiefs, he said, in my office in half an hour, at 12.30 sharp. Tell them to drop whatever they're doing and come. Just before they started to arrive, Walton felt a sudden, sick wave of tension sweep dizzyingly over him. He pulled open the top drawer of his new desk and reached for his tranquilizer tablets. He suffered a moment of shock and disorientation before he realized that this was Fitzmom's desk, not his own, and that Fitzmom foreswore all forms of sedation. Chuckling nervously, Walton drew out his wallet and extracted the extra benzolurethane he carried for just such emergencies. He popped the lozenge into his mouth only a moment before the spare figure of Lee Percy, first of the section chiefs to arrive, appeared in the screener outside the door. Roy, it's me, Percy. I can see you. Come on in, Lee. Percy was in charge of public relations for Popeke. He was a tall, angular man with thick corrugated features. After him came Teddy Schoenhaaf, clinical coordinator. Pauline Medhurst, personnel director. Olaf Igland, director of field agents. And Sue Luelling, Popeke's controller. These five had constituted the Central Council of Popeke. Walton, as assistant administrator, had served as their coordinator, as well as handling population transfer and serving as a funnel for red tape. Above them all had been Fitzmom, brooding over his charges like an untroubled wotun. Fitzmom had reserved for himself, aside from the task of general supervision, the special duties attended on handling the terraforming and faster-than-light wings of Popeke. I should have called you together much earlier than this, Walton said when they had settled. The shock, though, and the general confusion. We understand Roy, said Sue Luelling sympathetically. She was a chubby little woman in her fifties, whose private life was reported to be incredibly at variance with her pleasant domestic appearance. It's been a rough week on all of us, but you were so close to Fitzmom, there was a sympathetic chuckle from the various corners of the room. Walton said, the period of mourning will be a brief one. What I'm suggesting is that business continue as usual, without a hitch. He glanced at Eagland, the director of field agents. Olaf, is there a man in your section capable of handling your job? Eagland looked astonished for a moment, then mastered himself. There must be five at least. Walters, Lassen, Dominic, skip the catalogue, Walton told him. Pick the man you think is best suited to replace you and send his dossier up to me for approval. And where do I go? You take over my slot as assistant administrator. As director of field agents, you're more familiar with the immediate problems of my old job than anyone else here. Eagland preened himself smugly. Walton wondered if he had made an unwise choice. Eagland was competent enough and would give forth 100% effort at all times, but probably never the 102% a really great administrator could put out when necessary. Still, the post had to be filled at once, and Eagland could pick up the reins of any of the others. Walton looked around. Otherwise, activities of Popeke will continue as under Mr. Fitzmom without a hitch. Any questions? Lee Percy raised his arm slowly. Roy, I've got a problem I'd like to bring up here as long as we're all together. There's a growing public sentiment that you and the late director were secretly Herschelites, he chuckled apologetically. I don't sound silly, but I just report what I hear. I'm familiar with the rumor, Walton said, and I don't like it much either. That's the sort of stuff that riots are made of. The Herschelites were extremists who advocated wholesale sterilization of defectives, mandatory birth control, and half a dozen other stringent remedies for overpopulation. What steps are you taking to counteract it? Well, said Percy, we're carrying a memorial program for Fitzmom which will intimate that he was murdered by Herschelites, who hated him. Good. What's the slant? That he was too easy going, too humane. We build up the Herschelites as ultra-reactionaries who intend to enforce their will on humanity if they get the chance and imply Fitzmom was fighting them tooth and nail. We close the show with some shots of you picking up the great man's mantle, etc. A short speech from you affirming the basically humanitarian aims of Popeke. Walton smiled approvingly and said, I like it. And when do you want me to do the speech? We won't need you, Percy told him. We've got plenty of stock footage and we can whip the speech out of some spare syllables you left around. Walton frowned. Too many of the public speeches of old engineers who split words into their component phonemes and reassembled them in any shape they pleased. Let me check through my speech before you put it over, at least. We'll do. We'll quash this Herschelite thing right off the bat. Pauline Medhurst squirmed uneasily in her chair. Walton caught the hint and recognized her. Uh, Roy, I don't know if this is the time or the place, but I got that transfer order of yours. The five doctors? You did. Good. Walton said hurriedly. Have you notified them yet? Yes, they seem unhappy about it. Refer them to Fitzmom's book. Tell them they're cogs in a mighty machine working to save humanity. We can't let personal considerations interfere, Pauline. If you could only explain why, yeah, injected Sean Hoff, the clinic coordinator suddenly, you cleaned out my whole morning lab shift down there. I was wondering. Walton felt like a stag at bay. Look, he said, cutting firmly through the hubbub. I made the transfer. I had reasons for doing it. It's your job to get the five men out where they've been assigned and get five new men in here at once. You're not required to make explanations to them, nor I to you. The silence fell over the office. Walton hoped he had not been too forceful and cast suspicion on his actions by his stiffness. Phew, Suluwellan said. You really mean business. I said we're going to run Popeke without a hitch, Walton replied. Just because you know my first name, that does not mean I'm not going to be as strong a director as Fitzmom was. Until the UN picks my successor, his mind at it, says out loud, he said, unless you have any further questions, I'll ask you now to return to your respective sections. He sat slumped at his desk after they were gone, trying to draw on some inner reserve of energy for the strength to go on. One day at the job and he was tired, terribly tired, and it would be six weeks or more before the United Nations convened to choose the next director of Popeke. He didn't know who the man would be. He expected they would offer the job to him, provided he did competent work during the interim. But, wearily, he saw that he would have to turn the offer down. It was not only that his nerves couldn't handle the grinding daily tension of the job, he saw now what Fred might be up to and it stung. What if his brother were holding off exposing him until the moment the UN proffered his appointment and then took that moment to reveal the head of Popeke, far from being an iron-minded Herschelite, had actually been guilty of an irregularity that transgressed against one of Popeke's own operations. He'd be finished. He'd be laughed out of public life for good and probably prosecuted in the bargain if Fred exposed him and Fred was perfectly capable of doing just that. Walton saw himself spinning dizzily between conflicting alternatives, keep the job and face his brother's expose, or resign and vanish into anonymity. Neither choice seemed to appealing. Shrugging, he dragged himself out of his chair, determined to shroud his conflict behind the mask of work. He typed a request to files, re-questioning data on the Faster than Light project. Moments later a torrent began, rising from somewhere in the depths of the giant computer, rumbling upward through the conveyor system, moving onward toward the twenty-ninth floor and the office of interim director Walton. The End of Chapter 6 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg Chapter 7 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The next morning there was a crowd gathered before the Cullen Building when Walton arrived. There must have been at least a hundred people fanning out from a central focus. Walton stepped from the jet bus and, with collar pulled up carefully to obscure as much of his face as possible, went to investigate. A small, red-faced man stood on a rickety chair against the side of the building. He was flanked by a pair of brass men bearing the American flag and the other the ensign of the United Nations. His voice was a biting rasp, probably thought Walton, intensified, sharpened, and made more irritating by a harmonic modulator at his throat. An irritating voice put its message across twice as fast as a pleasant one. He was shouting, this is the place, up here, in this building. That's where Popeke wastes our money. From the slant of the man's words Walton instantly sought Herschelite. He repressed his anger and, for once, decided to stay and hear the extremist out. He had never really paid attention to Herschelite propaganda, he had been exposed to little of it and he realized that now, as head of Popeke, he owed it to himself to become familiar with the anti-Popeke arguments and extremist factions. Those who insisted Popeke was a tyranny and the Herschelites who thought it was too weak. There's Popeke, the little man said, accenting the awkwardness of the word. You know what it is? It's a stopgap. It's a silly, soft-minded, half-hearted attempt to solve our problems. It's a fake, a fraud, a phony. There was real passion behind the words. The distrusted small man with deep wells of passion, he no more enjoyed their company than he did that of a dynamo or an atomic pile. They were always threatening to explode. The crowd stirred restlessly. The Herschelite was getting to them one way or another. Walton drew back nervously, not wanting to be recognized and stationed himself at the fringe of the crowd. Some of you don't like Popeke for that reason, or for that reason. But let me tell you something, friends.  We've got to get tough with ourselves. We have to face the truth. Popeke is an unrealistic half solution to man's problems. Until we limit birth, establish rigid controls over who's going to live and who isn't, we... It was straight Herschelite propaganda, undiluted. Walton wasn't surprised when someone in the audience interrupted and growled, and who's going to set those controls? You? You trusted yourself to Popeke, didn't you? Why hesitate, then, to trust yourself to Abel Herschel and his group of workers for the betterment and purification of mankind? Walton was almost limp with amazement. The Herschelite group was so much more drastic in its approach than Popeke that he wondered what was going on with these views in public. Animosity was high enough against Popeke. Would the public accept a group more stringent yet? The little man's voice rose high. Onward with the Herschelites! Mankind must move forward. The equalization people represent the forces of decay and sloth. Walton turned to the man next to him and murmured, but Herschel's a fanatic. The name of mankind. The man looked puzzled. Then, accepting the idea, he nodded. Yeah, buddy, you know you may have something there. That was all the spark needed. Walton edged away surreptitiously and watched it spread through the crowd, while the little man's harangue grew more and more inflammatory. Until a rock arched through the air from somewhere whipped across the billowing U.N. flag and cracked on the side of the building. That was the signal. A hundred men and women converged on the little man on the battered chair. We have to face the truth! The harsh voice cried. Then the flags were swept down, trampled on. Flag-poles fell, ringing metallically on the concrete. The chair toppled. The little man was lost beneath a tide of remorseless feet and arms. A siren screamed. Cops, Walton yelled from his vantage point some thirty feet away and abruptly the crowd melted away in all directions, leaving Walton and the little man alone on the street. A security van drew up. Four men in gray uniforms sprang out. What's been going on here? Who's this man? Then seeing Walton, hey, come over here. Of course, officer. Walton turned his color down and drew near. He looked at the camera of the ubiquitous video camera and faced it squarely. I'm Director Walton of Popeke, he said loudly to the camera. I'd just arrived here a few minutes ago. I saw the whole thing. Tell us about it, Mr. Walton, the security man said. It was a Herschelite, Walton gestured at the broken body crumpled against the ground. He was delivering an inflammatory speech aimed against Popeke and his mom and myself. I was about to summon you and end the disturbance when the listeners became aware that the man was a Herschelite. When they understood what he was advocating, they, well, you see the result. Thank you, sir. Terribly sorry we couldn't have prevented it. Must be very unpleasant, Mr. Walton. The man was asking for trouble, Walton said. Popeke represents the minds and hearts of the world. Herschel and his people seek to overthrow this order. I can't condone violence of any kind naturally, but he smiled into the camera. Popeke is a sacred responsibility to be. Its enemies I must regard as blind and misguided people. He turned and entered the building, feeling pleased with himself. That sequence would be shown globally over the next news screenings. Every news blare in the world has its words. Lee Percy would be proud of him. Without benefit of either rehearsal or phonemic engineering, Walton had delivered a rousing speech and turned a grisly incident into a major propaganda instrument. And, more than that, Director Fitzmom would have been proud of him. But beneath the glow of pride he was trembling. Yesterday he had saved a boy by a trifling alteration in his genetic record. He had killed a man by sending a whispering accusation rustling through a mob. Power. Popeke represented power, perhaps the greatest power in the world. That power would have to be channeled somehow, now that it had been unleashed. The stack of papers relating to the super-speed space-drive was still on his desk when he entered the office. He had had time yesterday to read through just some of the earliest. Then the pressures of routine had dragged him off to other duties. Encouraged by Fitzmom, the faster-than-light project had originated about a decade or so before. It stemmed from the fact that the ion-drive used to travel between planets had a top velocity, a limiting factor of about 90,000 miles per second. At that rate it would take some 18 years for a scouting party to visit the closest star and report back, not very efficient for a planet in a hurry to expand outward. A group of scientists had set to work developing a subspace warp-drive, one that would cut across the manifold of normal space and allow speeds above light velocity. All the records were here, the preliminary trials, the budget allocations, the sketches and plans, the names of the researchers. Walton plowed painstakingly through them, learning names, assimilating scientific data. It seemed that, while it was still in the early stages, Fitzmom had nurtured the project along with money from his personal fortune. For most of the morning, Walton leafed through documents describing projected generators, types of hull material, specifications, speculations. It was near noon when he came across a neatly typed note from Colonel Leslie McLeod, one of the military scientists of the nuclear-drive project. Walton read it through once, gasped, and read it again. It was dated 14 June, 2231, almost one year ago. It read, Dear Mr. Fitzmom, I'm sure it will gladden you to learn that we have at last achieved success in our endeavors. The X-72 passed its last test splendidly and we are ready to leave this flight at once, McLeod. It was followed by a note from Fitzmom to McLeod, dated 15 June. Dr. McLeod, all best wishes on your great adventure. I trust you'll be departing as usual from the Nairobi base within the next few days. Please let me hear from you before departure. FitzM. The file concluded with a final note dated 19 June, 2231. My dear Mr. Fitzmom, the X-72 will leave Nairobi in 11 hours, bound outward, manned by a crew of 16 including myself. The men are all impatient for the departure. I must offer my hearty thanks for the help you have given us over the past years, without which we would never have reached this step. Flight plans include visiting several stars, with the intention of returning either as soon as we have discovered a habitable extrasolar world or one year after departure, whichever first occurs. Sincer good wishes and may you have as much success when you plead your case before the United Nations as we have had here, though you'll forgive me for hoping that our work may make any population equalization program on earth totally superfluous. McLeod. Walton stared at the three notes for a moment, so shocked he was unable to react. So a faster than light drive was not merely a hoped for dream, but an actuality, with the first scouting missions a year absent already. He felt a new burst of admiration for Fitzmom.  Faster than light achieved and the terraforming group on Venus and neither fact reached to the public or even specifically given to Fitzmom's own staff, his alleged confidence. It had been shrewd of him, all right. He had made sure nothing could go wrong. If something happened to Lang and his crew on Venus and it was quite possible since word of them was a week overdue it would be easy to say that the terraforming project was still in the planning stages. In the event of success the news was that word of their project had been withheld for security reasons and the same would apply to the space drive. If MacLeod and his men vanished into the nether regions of inter-seller space and never returned Fitzmom would not have had to answer for the failure of the project which, as far as the public knew was still in the planning stage. It was a double-edged sword with the director controlling both edges. Walton was in charge. He hoped he would be able to continue manipulations with the aplomb worthy of the late director Fitzmom. The Annunciator chimed. Dr. Lamar is here for his appointment with you, Mr. Walton. Walton was cut off guard. His mind raced furiously. Lamar? Who the dickens owe that leftover appointment of Fitzmom's? Tell Dr. Lamar I'll be glad to see him in just a few minutes, I'll buzz you when I'm ready. He hurriedly gathered up the space flight documents and jammed them in a file drawer near the data on terraforming. He surveyed his office. It looked neat, presentable. Glancing around, he made sure no stray documents were visible, documents that might reveal the truth about the space drive. Send in Dr. Lamar, he said. Lamar was a short, thin, pale individual with an uncertain wave in his sandy hair and a slight stoop of his shoulders. He carried a large black leather portfolio which seemed on the point of exploding. Mr. Walton? That's right, you're Dr. Lamar. The small man handed him an engraved business card. T. Elliott Lamar, Gerontologist. Walton fingered the card uneasily and returned it to its owner. Gerontologist? One who studies ways of increasing the human lifespan? Precisely. Walton frowned. I presume you had some previous dealings with the late director Fitzmom? Lamar gaped. You mean he didn't tell you? Director Fitzmom shared very little information with his assistants, Dr. Lamar. The suddenness of my elevation to this post gave me little time to explore his files. Would you mind filling me in on the background? Of course, Lamar crossed his legs and squinted myopically across the desk at Walton. To be brief, Mr. Fitzmom first heard of my work fourteen years ago. Since that time he's supported my experiments with private grants of his own, public appropriations whenever possible and lately with money supplied by Popeheke. Naturally, with the nature of my work, I have shunned publicity. I completed my final test last week and was to have seen the director yesterday, but I know I was busy going through Mr. Fitzmom's files when you called yesterday. I didn't have time to see anyone. Walton wished he had checked on this man, Lamar, earlier. Apparently it was a private project of Fitzmom's and of some importance.  Certainly, Mr. Fitzmom expressed a hope that someday man's lifespan might be indefinitely extended. I'm happy to report that I have developed a simple technique which will provide just that. The little man smiled in self-satisfaction. In short, he said, what I have developed in everyday terms is immortality, Mr. Walton. The End of Chapter 7 of Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg