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."
"Abillion? 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."
"Whatareyou 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 back," Walton promised. "With compound interest."
His next call was to a man he had once dealt with in his capacity of secretary to Senator FitzMaugham. He was Noel Hervey, a registered securities and exchange slyster.
Hervey was a small, worried-looking little man, but his unflickering eyes belied his ratty appearance. "What troubles you, Roy?"
"I want you to make a stock purchase for me, pronto. Within an hour, say?"
Hervey shook his head instantly. "Sorry, Roy. I'm all tied up on a hefty monorail deal. Won't be free until Wednesday or Thursday, if by then."
Walton said, "What sort of money will you be making on this big deal of yours, Noel?"
"Confidential! You wouldn't invade a man's privacy on a delicate matter like—"
"Will it be worth five million dollars for you, Noel?"
"Five million—hey, is this a gag?"
"I'm awfully serious," Walton said. "I want you to swing a deal for me, right away. You've heard my price."
Hervey smiled warmly. "Well, start talking, friend. Consider me hired."
A few other matters remained to be tended to hurriedly. Walton spent some moments talking to a communications technician, then sent out an order for three or four technical books—Basic Kaleidowhirl Theoryand related works. He sent a note to Lee Percy requesting him to stop by and see him in an hour, and told his annunciator that for no reason whatsoever was he to be disturbed for the next sixty minutes.
The hour passed rapidly; by its end, Walton's head was slightly dizzy from too much skimming, but his mind was thrumming with new possibilities, with communications potentials galore. Talk about reaching people! He had a natural!
He flipped on the annunciator. "Is Mr. Percy here yet?"
"No, sir. Should I send for him?"
"Yes. He's due here any minute to see me. Have there been any calls?"
"Quite a few. I've relayed them down to Mr. Eglin's office, as instructed."
"Good girl," Walton said.
"Oh, Mr. Percy's here. And there's a call for you from communications."
Walton frowned. "Tell Percy to wait outside a minute or two. Give me the call."
The communications tech on the screen was grinning excitedly. He said, "Subspace message just came in for you, sir."
"From Venus?"
"No, sir. From Colonel McLeod."
"Let's have it," Walton said.
The technician read, "'To Walton from McLeod, via subspace radio: Have made successful voyage to Procyon system, and am on way back with Dirnan ambassador on board. See you soon, and good luck—you'll need it.'"
"Good. That all?"
"That's all, sir."
"Okay. Keep me posted." He broke contact and turned to the annunciator. Excitement put a faint quiver in his voice. "You can send in Mr. Percy now," he said.
Walton looked up at the public relations man and said, "How much do you know about kaleidowhirls, Lee?"
"Not a hell of a lot. I never watch the things, myself. They're bad for the eyes."
Walton smiled. "That makes you a nonconformist, doesn't it? According to the figures I have here, the nightly kaleidowhirl programs are top-ranked on the rating charts."
"Maybe so," Percy said cautiously. "I still don't like to watch them. What goes, Roy?"
"I've suddenly become very interested in kaleidowhirls myself," Walton said. He leaned back and added casually, "I think they can be used as propaganda devices. My brother's reaction to one gave me the idea, couple days ago, at the Bronze Room. For the past hour or so, I've been studying kaleidowhirls in terms of information theory. Did you know that it's possible to get messages across via kaleidowhirl?"
"Of course," Percy gasped. "But the Communications Commission would never let you get away with it!"
"By the time the Communications Commission found out what had been done," Walton said calmly, "we wouldn't be doing it any more. They won't be able to prove a thing." Sarcastically he added, "After spending a lifetime in public relations, you're not suddenly getting a rush of ethics, are you?"
"Well ... let's have the details, then."
"Simple enough," Walton said. "We feed through a verbal message—something likeHooray for PopeekorI Don't Want War With Dirna. We flash it on the screen for, say, a microsecond, then cover it up with kaleidowhirl patterns. Wait two minutes, then flash it again. Plenty of noise, but the signal will get through if we flash it often enough."
"And it'll get through deep down," Percy said. "Subliminally. They won't even realize that they're being indoctrinated, but suddenly they'll have a new set of opinions about Popeek and Dirna!" He shuddered. "Roy, I hate to think what can happen if someone else gets to thinking about this and puts on his own kaleidowhirl show."
"I've thought of that. After the Dirna crisis is over—after we've put over our point—I'm going to take steps to make sure no one can use this sort of weapon again. I'm going to frame someone into putting on a propaganda kaleidowhirl, and then catch him in the act. That ought to be sufficient to wise up the Communications Commission."
"In other words," Percy said, "you're willing to use this techniquenow. But since you don't want anyone else to use it, you're willing to give up future use of it yourself as soon as the Dirna trouble is over."
"Exactly." Walton shoved the stack of textbooks over to the PR man. "Read these through first. Get yourself familiar with the setup. Then buy a kaleidowhirl hour and get a bunch of our engineers in there to handle the special inserts. Okay?"
"It's nasty, but I like it. When do you want the program to begin?"
"Tomorrow. Tonight, if you can work it. And set up a poll of some kind to keep check on the program's effectiveness. I want two messages kaleidowhirled alternately: one supporting Popeek, one demanding a peaceful settlement with the aliens. Have your pulse takers feel out the populace on those two propositions, and report any fluctuation to me immediately."
"Got it."
"Oh, one more thing. I suspect you'll have some extra responsibilities as of tomorrow, Lee."
"Eh?"
"Your office will have one additional medium to deal with. Telefax. I'm buyingCitizenand we're going to turn it into a pro-Popeek rag."
Percy's mouth dropped in astonishment; then he started to laugh. "You're a wonder, Roy. A genuine wonder."
Moments after Percy departed, Noel Hervey, the security and exchange slyster, called.
"Well?" Walton asked.
Hervey looked preoccupied. "I've successfully spent a couple of hundred million of Popeek's money in the last half-hour, Roy. You now own the single biggest block ofCitizenstock there is."
"How much is that?"
"One hundred fifty-two thousand shares. Approximately thirty-three percent."
"Thirty-three percent! What about the other eighteen percent?"
"Patience, lad, patience. I know my job. I snapped up all the small holdings there were, very quietly. It cost me a pretty penny to farm out the purchases, too."
"Why'd you do that?" Walton asked.
"Because this has to be handled very gingerly. You know the ownership setup ofCitizen?"
"No."
"Well, it goes like this: Amalgamated Telefax owns a twenty-six percent chunk, and Horace Murlin owns twenty-five percent. Since Murlin also owns Amalgamated, he votes fifty-one percent of the stock, even though it isn't registered that way. The other forty-nine percent doesn't matter, Murlin figures. So I'm busy gathering up as much of it as I can for you—under half a dozen different brokerage names. I doubt that I can get it all, but I figure on rounding up at least forty-nine percent. Then I'll approach Murlin with a Big Deal and sucker him into selling me six percent of hisCitizenstock. He'll check around, find out that the remaining stock is splintered ninety-seven different ways, and he'll probably let go of a little of his, figuring he still has control."
"Suppose he doesn't?" Walton asked.
"Don't worry," Hervey said confidently. "He will. I've got a billion smackers to play with, don't I? I'll cook up a deal so juicy he can't resist it—and all he'll have to do to take a flyer will be to peel off a little of hisCitizenstock. The second he does that, I transfer all the fragmented stock to you. With your controlling majority of fifty-one percent, you boot Murlin off the Board, and the telefax sheet is yours! Simple? Clear?"
"Perfectly," Walton said. "Okay. Keep in touch."
He broke contact and walked to the window. The street was packed with people scrambling in every direction, like so many ants moving at random over the ground. Many of them clutched telefax sheets—and the most popular one was theCitizen. Many of them would gape and goggle at kaleidowhirl programs, come evening.
Walton suddenly tightened his fist. In just that way, he thought, Popeek was tightening its hold on the public by capturing the mass media. If Hervey's confidence had any justification in truth, they would own the leading anti-Popeek telefax sheet by tomorrow. With subtle handling over the course of several days, they could swing the slant ofCitizenaround to a pro-Popeek stand, and do it so surreptitiously that it would seem as though the sheet had never had any other policy.
As for the kaleidowhirl subterfuge—that, Walton admitted, was hitting below the belt. But he had resolved that all would be fair during the current crisis. There would be time enough for morality after war had been averted.
At about 1430 that day, Walton took advantage of a lull in activities to have a late lunch at the Bronze Room. He felt that he had to get away from the confining walls of his office for at least some part of the afternoon.
The Bronze Room had adopted cerise as its color scheme for the day. Walton selected a private room, lunched lightly on baked chlorella steak and filtered rum, and dialed a twelve-minute nap. When the alarm system in the foamweb couch stirred him to wakefulness, he stretched happily, some of the choking tension having been washed out of him.
Thoughtfully, he switched on the electroluminescent kaleidoscope and stared at it. It worked on the same principle as the kaleidowhirl programs beamed over the public video, except that the Bronze Room provided closed-channel beaming of its own kaleidoscopic patterns; tending more to soft greens and pale rose, they were on a higher esthetic plane, certainly, than the jagged, melodramatic purples and reds the video channels sent out for popular consumption.
But it was with a certain new apprehension that Walton now studied the kaleidoscopic pattern. Now that he knew what a dangerous weapon the flashing colors could be, how could he be certain that the Bronze Room proprietors were not flashing some scarcely seen subliminal command at him this very moment?
He turned the set off with a brusque gesture.
The ends justify the means.A nice homily, he thought, which allowed him to do almost anything. It brought to mind the rationale of Ivan Karamazov: without God, everything is permissible.
But both God and Dostoevski seem to be obsolete these days, he reminded himself. God is now a lean young man with an office on the twenty-ninth floor of the Cullen Building—and as for Dostoevski, all he did was write books, and therefore could not have been of any great importance.
He felt a tremor of self-doubt. Maybe it had been unwise to let kaleidowhirl propaganda loose on the world; once unleashed, it might not be so easily caged again. He realized that as soon as the Popeek campaign was over, he would have to make sure some method was devised for pre-checking all public and closed-channel kaleidoscopic patterns.
The most damnable part of such propaganda techniques, he knew, was that you could put over almost any idea at all without arousing suspicion on the part of the viewer. He wouldn't know he'd been tampered with; you could tell him so, after the new idea had been planted, and by then he wouldn't believe you.
Walton dialed another filtered rum, and lifted it to his lips with a slightly shaky hand.
"Mr. Ludwig of the United Nations called while you were out, sir," Walton was told upon returning to his office. "He'd like you to call him back."
"Very well. Make the connection for me."
When Ludwig appeared, Walton said, "Sorry I missed your call. What's happening?"
"Special session of the Security Council just broke up. They passed a resolution unanimously and shipped it on to the Assembly. There's going to be an immediate hearing to determine the new permanent head of Popeek."
Walton clamped his lips together. After a moment he said, "How come?"
"The Dirnan crisis. They don't want a mere interim director handling things. They feel the man dealing with the aliens ought to have full UN blessing."
"Should I interpret that to mean I get the job automatically?"
"I couldn't swear to it," said Ludwig. "General consensus certainly favors you to continue. I'd advise that you show up at the hearing in person and present your program in detail; otherwise they may stick some smooth-talking politico in your place. The noise is slated to start at 1100, day after tomorrow. The eighteenth."
"I'll be there," Walton said. "Thanks for the tip."
He chewed the end of his stylus for a moment, then hastily scribbled down the appointment. As of now, he knew he couldn't worry too strongly about events taking place the day after tomorrow—not with Fred arriving for a show-down the next morning.
The next day began busily enough. Hervey was the first to call.
"TheCitizen'ssewed up, Roy! I had dinner with Murlin last night and weaseled him out of four percent ofCitizenstock in exchange for a fancy tip on the new monorail project out Nevada way. He was grinning all over the place—but I'll bet he's grinning out of the other side of his mouth this morning."
"Is it all arranged?" Walton asked.
"In the bag. I was up by 0700 and consolidating my holdings—yourholdings, I mean. Forty-seven percent of the stock I had fragmented in a dozen different outfits; the other two percent outstanding belonged to rich widows who wouldn't sell. I lumped the forty-seven percent together in your name, then completed the transfer on Murlin's four percent and stuck that in there too.Citizentelefax is now the property of Popeek, Roy!"
"Fine work. How much did it cost?"
Then he said, "Four hundred eighty-three million and some change. Plus my usual five percent commission, which in this case comes to about two and a quarter million."
"But I offered you five million," Walton said. "That offer still goes."
"You want me to lose my license? I spend years placing bribes to get a slyster's license, and you want me to throw it away for an extra couple million? Uh-uh. I'll settle for two and a quarter, and damn good doing I call that for a day's work."
Walton grinned. "You win. And Sue Llewellyn will be glad to know it didn't cost the whole billion to grabCitizen. You'll be over with the papers, won't you?"
"About 1000," the slyster said. "I've gotta follow through for Murlin on his monorail deal first. The poor sucker! See you in an hour."
"Right."
Rapidly Walton scribbled memos. As soon as the papers were in his hands, he'd serve notice on Murlin that a stock-holders' meeting was to be held at once. After that, he'd depose Murlin, fire the presentCitizeneditors, and pack the telefax sheet with men loyal to Popeek.
Fred was due at 1100. Walton buzzed Keeler, the new security chief, and said, "Keeler, I have an appointment with someone at 1100. I want you to station three men outside my door and frisk him for weapons as he comes in."
"We'd do that anyway, sir. It's standard procedure now."
"Good. But I want you to be one of the three. And make sure the two who come with you are tight-mouthed. I don't wantanynewsbreaks on this."
"Right, sir."
"Okay. Be there about 1050 or so. About 1115, I'm going to press my door opener, and I want you and your men to break in, arrest my visitor, and spirit him off to the deepest dungeon security has. And leave him there. If Martinez wants to know what's going on, tell him I'll take responsibility."
Keeler looked vaguely puzzled, but merely nodded. "We frisk him first, then let him talk to you for fifteen minutes. Then we come in on signal and take him away. I've got it."
"This man's a dangerous anti-Popeek conspirator. Make sure he's drugged before he gets out of my office. I don't want him making noise."
The annunciator sounded. "Man from communications has a message for you, Mr. Walton."
He switched over from Keeler to communications and said, "Go ahead."
"From McLeod, Mr. Walton. We just got it. It says, 'Arriving Nairobi on the 18th, will be in your office with Dirnan following morning if he feels like making the trip. Otherwise will you come to Nairobi?'"
"Tell him yes, if necessary," Walton said.
He glanced at his watch. 0917. It looked like it was going to be hectic all day.
And Fred was due at 1100.
Hervey showed up at 1003, grinning broadly. He unfolded a thick wad of documents and thrust them at Walton.
"I hold in my hand the world's most potent telefax sheet," Hervey said. He flipped the documents casually onto Walton's desk and laughed. "They're all yours. Fifty-one percent, every bit of it voting stock. I told Murlin about it just before I left him this morning. He turned purple."
"What did he say?"
"Whatcouldhe say? I asked him offhandedly if he knew where all the outstandingCitizenstock was, and he said yes, it was being held by a lot of small holders. And then I told him that somebody was buying out the small holders, and that I was selling my four percent to him. That's when he started to change colors. When I left he was busy making phone calls, but I don't think he'll like what he's going to find out."
Walton riffled through the papers. "It's all here, eh? Fine work. I'll put through your voucher in half an hour or so, unless you're in a hurry."
"Oh, don't rush," Hervey said. He ran a finger inside his collar. "Couple of security boys outside, y'know. They really gave me a going-over."
"I'm expecting an assassin at 1100," Walton said lightly. "They're on the lookout."
"Oh? A close friend?"
"A relative," Walton said.
Fred arrived promptly at 1100. By that time Walton had already set the machinery in operation for the taking-over ofCitizen.
The first step had been to call Horace Murlin and confirm the fact that Popeek now owned the telefax sheet. Murlin's fleshy face was a curious shade of rose-purple; he sputtered at Walton for five minutes before admitting he was beaten.
With Murlin out of the way, Walton selected a new editorial staff for the paper from a list Percy supplied. He intended to keep the reporting crew of the old regime intact;Citizenhad a fantastically efficient newsgathering team, and there was no point in breaking it up. It was the policy-making level Walton was interested in controlling.
The 1000 edition ofCitizenwas the last under the old editors. They had received word from Murlin about what had happened, and by 1030, when Walton sent his dismissal notices over, they were already cleaning out their desks.
That 1000 edition was a beauty, though. The lead headline read:
ARE WE CHUMPS FOR THE GREENSKINS?
And most of the issue was devoted to inflammatory pro-war anti-Popeek journalism. A full page of "letters from the readers"—actually transcribed phone calls, since few ofCitizen'sreaders were interested in writing letters—echoed the editorial stand. One "letter" in particular caught Walton's attention.
It was from a Mrs. P.F. of New York City Environ, which probably meant Jersey or lower Connecticut, and it was short and to the point:
To the Editor—Horray for you. Popeek is a damned crime and that Walton criminal ought to be put away and we ought to kill those greenskins up there before they kill us. We gotta have room to live.
To the Editor—
Horray for you. Popeek is a damned crime and that Walton criminal ought to be put away and we ought to kill those greenskins up there before they kill us. We gotta have room to live.
Kill them before they kill us.Walton snickered. All the old hysterias, the old panic reactions, come boiling up again in times of stress.
He looked at his hand. It was perfectly steady, even though his wrist watch told him Fred would be here in just a few minutes. A week ago, a situation like this would have had him gobbling benzolurethrin as fast as he could unwrap the lozenges.
The ghostly presence of FitzMaugham seemed to hover in the room.The ends justify the means, Walton told himself grimly, as he waited for his brother to arrive.
Fred was dressed completely in black, from his stylish neo-Victorian waistcoat and the bit of ribbon at his throat to the mirror-bright leather pumps on his feet. The splendor of his clothing was curiously at odds with the coarseness of his features and the stockiness of his body.
He walked into Walton's office at the stroke of 1100 and sighed deeply—the sigh of a man about to take permanent possession. "Good morning, Roy. I'm on time, as always."
"And looking radiant, my dear brother." Walton gestured appreciatively at Fred's clothes. "It's been a long time since I've seen you in anything but your lab smock."
"I gave notice at the lab yesterday night after I spoke to you. I'm no longer an employee of Popeek. And I felt I should dress with the dignity suitable to my new rank." He grinned buoyantly. "Well, ready to turn over the orb and scepter, Roy?"
"Not exactly," Walton said.
"But—"
"But I promised you I'd resign in your favor today, Fred. I don't think I ever used those words, but I certainly implied it, didn't I?"
"Of course you did. You told me to come here at 1100 and you'd arrange the transfer."
Walton nodded. "Exactly so." He waited a long moment and then said quietly, "I lied, Fred."
He had chosen the words carefully, for maximum impact. He had not chosen wrongly.
For a brief instant Fred's face was very pale against the blackness of his garb. Total disbelief flickered across his eyes and mouth.
Walton had considered his brother's mental picture of him—the elder brother, virtuous, devoted to hard work, kind to animals, and just a little soft in the head. Also, extremely honest.
Fred hadn't expected Walton to be lying. And the calm admission stunned him.
"You're not planning to go through with it, then?" Fred asked in a dead voice.
"No."
"You realize what this means in terms of the serum, don't you? The moment I get out of here and transmit your refusal to my employers, they'll begin wholesale manufacture and distribution of the Lamarre serum. The publicity won't be good, Roy. Nor the result."
"You won't get out of here," Walton said.
Another shock wave rippled over Fred's face. "You can't be serious, Roy. My employers know where I am; they know what I'm here for. If they don't hear from me within twenty-four hours, they'll proceed with serum distribution. You can't hope to—"
"I'll risk it," Walton interrupted. "If nothing else, I'll have a twenty-four extension. You didn't really think I could hand Popeek over to you on a platter, Fred? Why, I don't even know how secure myownposition is here. So I'm afraid I'll have to back down on my offer. You're under arrest, Fred!"
"Arrest!" Fred sprang from his seat and circled around the desk toward Walton. For a moment the two brothers stared at each other, faces inches apart. Walton put one hand on his brother's shoulder and, gripping tightly, forced him around to the front of the desk.
"You had this all planned, didn't you?" Fred said bitterly. "Yesterday, when you talked to me, you knew this was what you were going to do. But you said you'd yield, and I believed you! I don't fool easy, but I thought I had you pegged because you were my brother. Iknewyou. You wouldn't do a sneaky thing like this."
"But I did," Walton said.
Suddenly, Fred jumped. He charged at Walton blindly, head down.
In the same motion, Walton signaled for Keeler and his men to break in, and met Fred's charge. He caught his brother in midstride with a swinging punch that sent his head cracking back sharply.
Fred's face twisted and writhed, more in astonishment than pain. He stepped back, rubbing his chin. "You've changed," he said. "This job's made you tough. A year ago you would never have done this to me."
Walton shrugged. "Look behind you, Fred. And this time you can trust me."
Fred turned warily. Keeler and two other gray-clad security men stood there.
"Drug him and take him away," Walton said. "Have him held in custody until I notify Martinez."
Fred's eyes widened. "You're adictator!" he said hoarsely. "You just move people around like chessmen, Roy. Like chessmen."
"Drug him," Walton repeated.
Keeler stepped forward, a tiny hypodermic spray cupped in his hand. He activated it with a twitch of his thumb and touched it to Fred's forearm. A momentary hum droned in the office as the vibrating spray forced the drug into Fred's arm.
He slumped like an empty sack. "Pick him up," Keeler ordered. "Take him and let's get going."
The story broke in the 1300 edition ofCitizen, and from the general tone of the piece Walton could see the fine hand of Lee Percy at work.
The headline was:
GUY TRIES TO KNOCK OFF POPEEK HEAD
GUY TRIES TO KNOCK OFF POPEEK HEAD
After the usual string of subheads, all in the cheerful, breezy, barely literateCitizenstyle, came the body of the story:
A guy tried to bump Popeek top number Roy Walton today. Security men got there in time to keep Walton from getting the same finisher as dead Popeek boss FitzMaugham got last week.Walton says he's all right; the assassin didn't even come close. He also told our man that he expects good news on the New Earth bit soon. We like the sound of those words. Popeek may be with the stream after all. Who knows?
A guy tried to bump Popeek top number Roy Walton today. Security men got there in time to keep Walton from getting the same finisher as dead Popeek boss FitzMaugham got last week.
Walton says he's all right; the assassin didn't even come close. He also told our man that he expects good news on the New Earth bit soon. We like the sound of those words. Popeek may be with the stream after all. Who knows?
The voice was that ofCitizen, but the man behind the voice was thinking a little differently. Had the previous editors ofCitizenbeen handling the break, the prevailing tone would most likely have been too-bad-he-missed.
Walton called Percy after the edition came out. "Nice job you did on our firstCitizen," he said approvingly. "It's just what I want: same illiterate style, but a slow swerving of editorial slant until it's completely pro-Popeek."
"Wait till you see tomorrow's paper. We're just getting the hang of it! And we'll have our first kaleidowhirl show at 2000 tonight. Cost a fortune to buy in, but we figured that's the best hour."
"What's the buried message?"
"As you said," Percy told him. "A pro-Popeek job and some pacifist stuff. We've got a team of pollsters out now, and they say the current's predominantly going the other way. We'll be able to tell if the kaleidowhirl stuff works out, all right."
"Keep up the good work," Walton said. "We'll get there yet. The alien isn't due to arrive for another day or so—McLeod gets into Nairobi tomorrow some time. I'm going to testify before the UN tomorrow, too. I hope those UN boys are watching our pretty color patterns tonight."
Percy grinned. "Boy, you bet!"
Walton threw himself energetically into his work. It was taking shape, now. There were still some loose ends, of course, but he was beginning to feel that some end to the tangle of interlocking intrigues was in sight.
He checked with a public recreation director and discovered there would be a block forum on West 382nd Street at 1830 that night. He made a note to attend, and arranged to have a synthetic mask fashioned so he wouldn't have to reveal his own identity.
Twenty-four hours. In that time, Fred's employers would presumably be readying themselves to loose Lamarre's serum on the world; an extraterrestrial being would be landing on Earth—and, by then, Walton would have been called to render an account of his stewardship before the United Nations.
The annunciator chimed again. "Yes?" Walton said.
"Mr. O'Mealia of Mount Palomar Observatory, calling long distance to talk to you, sir."
"Put him on," Walton said puzzledly.
O'Mealia was a red-faced individual with deep-set, compelling eyes. He introduced himself as a member of the research staff at Mount Palomar. "Glad I could finally reach you," he said, in a staccato burst of words. "Been trying to call for an hour. Made some early-morning observations of Venus a little while ago, and I thought you'd be interested."
"Venus? What?"
"Cloud blanket looks awfully funny, Mr. Walton. Blazing away like sixty. Got the whole staff down here to discuss it, and the way it looks to us there's some sort of atomic chain-reaction going on in Venus' atmosphere. I think it's those terraforming men you Popeek folk have up there. I think they've blown the whole place up!"
Walton stepped off the jetbus at Broadway and West 382nd Street, paused for a moment beneath a street lamp, and fingered his chin to see if his mask were on properly. It was.
Three youths stood leaning against a nearby building. "Could you tell me where the block meeting's being held?" Walton asked.
"Down the street and turn left. You a telefax man?"
"Just an interested citizen," Walton said. "Thanks for the directions."
It was easy to see where the block meeting was; Walton saw streams of determined-looking men and women entering a bulky old building just off 382nd Street. He joined them and found himself carried along into the auditorium.
Nervously he found a seat. The auditorium was an old one, predominantly dark brown and cavernous, with row after row of hard wooden folding chairs. Someone was adjusting a microphone on stage. A sharp metallic whine came over the public-address system.
"Testing. Testing, one two three...."
"It's all right, Max!" someone yelled from the rear. Walton didn't turn around to look.
A low undercurrent of murmuring was audible. It was only 1815; the meeting was not due to start for another fifteen minutes, but the hall was nearly full, with more than a thousand of the local residents already on hand.
The fifteen minutes passed slowly. Walton listened carefully to the conversations around him; no one was discussing the Venus situation. Apparently his cloud of censorship had been effective. He had instructed Percy to keep all word of the disaster from the public until the 2100 newsblares. By that time, the people would have been exposed to the indoctrinating kaleidowhirl program at 2000, and their reaction would be accordingly more temperate—he hoped.
Also, releasing the news early would have further complicated the survey Walton was trying to make by attending this public meeting. The Index of Public Confusion increased factorially; one extra consideration for discussion and Walton's task would be hopelessly difficult.
At exactly 1830, a tall, middle-aged man stepped out on the stage. He seized the microphone as if it were a twig and said, "Hello, folks. Glad to see you're all here tonight. This is an important meeting for us all. In case some of you don't know me—and I do see some new faces out there—I'm Dave Forman, president of the West 382nd Street Association. I also run a little law business on the side, just to help pay the rent." (Giggles.)
"As usual in these meetings," Forman went on, "we'll have a brief panel discussion, and then I'll throw the thing open to you folks for floor discussion. The panelists tonight are people you all know—Sadie Hargreave, Dominic Campobello, Rudi Steinfeld. Come on out here, folks."
The panelists appeared on the stage diffidently. Sadie Hargreave was a short, stout, fierce-looking little woman; Campobello was chunky, balding, Steinfeld tall and ascetic. Walton was astonished that there should be such camaraderie here. Was it all synthetic? It didn't seem that way.
He had always remained aloof, never mingling with his neighbors in the gigantic project where he lived, never suspecting the existence of community life on this scale. But, somehow, community life had sprung up in this most Gargantuan of cities. Organizations within each project, within each block perhaps, had arisen, converting New York into an interlocking series of small towns.I ought to investigate the grass roots more often, Walton thought.Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid having a night on the town.
"Hello, folks," Sadie Hargreave said aggressively. "I'm glad I can talk to you tonight. Gosh, I want to speak out. I think it's crazy to let these thing-men from outer space push us around. I for one feel we ought to take strong action against that space world."
Cries of "Yeah! Yeah! Go to it, Sadie!" rose from the audience.
Skillfully she presented three inflammatory arguments in favor of war with Dirna, backing up each with a referent of high emotional connotation. Walton watched her performance with growing admiration. The woman was a born public relations technician. It was too bad she was on the other side of the fence.
He saw the effect she had: people were nodding in agreement, grimacing vehemently, muttering to themselves. The mood of the meeting, he gathered, was overwhelmingly in favor of war if Dirna did not yield New Earth.
Dominic Campobello began his address by inviting all and sundry to his barber shop; this was greeted with laughter. Then he launched into a discourse on Popeek as an enemy of mankind. A few catcalls, Walton noted, but again chiefly approval. Campobello seemed sincere.
The third man, Rudi Steinfeld, was a local music teacher. He, too, spoke out against Popeek, though in a restrained, dryly intellectual manner. People began yawning. Steinfeld cut his speech short.
It was now 1900. In one hour Percy's kaleidowhirl program would be screened.
Walton stayed at the block meeting until 1930, listening to citizen after citizen rise and heap curses upon Popeek, Dirna, or Walton, depending on where his particular ire lay. At 1930 Walton rose and left the hall.
He phoned Percy. "I'm on West 382nd Street. Just attended a block meeting. I'd say the prevailing sentiment runs about ninety percent agin us. We don't have the people backing our program any more, Lee."
"We never did. But I think we'll nail 'em now. The kaleidowhirl's ready to go, and it's a honey. And I thinkCitizenwill sell 'em too! We're on our way, Roy."
"I hope so," Walton said.
He was unable to bring himself to watch Percy's program, even though he reached his room in time that night. He knew there could be no harm in watching—at least not for him—but the idea of voluntarily submitting his mind to external tampering was too repugnant to accept.
Instead he spent the hour dictating a report on the block meeting, for benefit of his pollster staff. When he was done with that, he turned to the 2100 edition ofCitizen, which came clicking from the telefax slot right on schedule.
He had to look hard for the Venus story. Finally he found it tucked away at the bottom of the sheet.
ACCIDENT ON VENUSA big blowup took place on the planet Venus earlier today. Sky-men who watched the popoff say it was caused by an atomic explosion in the planet's atmosphere.Meanwhile, attempts are being made to reach the team of Earth engineers working on Venus. No word from them yet. They may be dead.
ACCIDENT ON VENUS
A big blowup took place on the planet Venus earlier today. Sky-men who watched the popoff say it was caused by an atomic explosion in the planet's atmosphere.
Meanwhile, attempts are being made to reach the team of Earth engineers working on Venus. No word from them yet. They may be dead.
Walton chuckled.They may be dead, indeed! By now Lang and his team, and the rescue mission as well, lay dead under showers of radioactive formaldehyde, and Venus had been turned into a blazing hell ten times less livable than it had been before.
Percy had mishandled the news superbly. For one thing, he had carefully neglected to link Lang with Popeek in any way. That was good connotative thinking. It would be senseless to identify Popeek in the public mind with disasters or fiascos of any kind.
For another, the skimpy insignificance of the piece implied that it had been some natural phenomenon that sent Venus up in flames, not the fumbling attempts of the terraformers. Good handling there, too.
Walton felt cheerful. He slept soundly, knowing that the public consciousness was being properly shaped.
By 0900, when he arrived at his office, the pollsters had reported a ten percent swing in public opinion, in the direction of Popeek and Walton. At 1000,Citizenhit the slots with an extra announcing that prospects for peaceful occupation of New Earth looked excellent. The editorial praised Walton. The letters-to-the-editor column, carefully fabricated by Lee Percy, showed a definite upswing of opinion.
The trend continued, and it was contagious. By 1100, when Walton left the Cullen Building and caught a jetcopter for United Nations Headquarters, the pro-Popeek trend in public opinion was almost overwhelming.
The copter put down before the gleaming green-glass facade of UN Headquarters; Walton handed the man a bill and went inside, where a tense-faced Ludwig was waiting for him.
"They started early," Ludwig said. "It's been going on since 1000."
"How do things look?"
"I'm puzzled, Roy. Couple of die-hards are screaming for your scalp, but you're getting help from unexpected quarters. Old Mogens Snorreson of Denmark suddenly got up and said it was necessary for the safety of mankind that we give you a permanent appointment as director of Popeek."
"Snorreson?But hasn't he been the one who wanted me bounced?"
Ludwig nodded. "That's what I mean. The climate is changing, definitely changing. Ride the crest, Roy. The way things look now, you may end up being swept into office for life."
They entered the giant Assembly hall. At the dais, a black-faced man with bright teeth was speaking.
"Who's that?" Walton whispered.
"Malcolm Nbono, the delegate from Ghana. He regards you as a sort of saint for our times."
Walton slipped into a seat in the gallery and said, "Let's listen from here before we go down below. I want to catch my breath."
The young man from Ghana was saying, "... Crisis points are common to humanity. Many years ago, when my people came from their colonial status and achieved independence, we learned that painstaking negotiations and peaceful approaches are infinitely more efficacious than frontal attack by violent means. In my eyes, Roy Walton is an outstanding exponent of this philosophy. I urge his election as director of the Bureau of Population Equalization."
A heavy-bearded, ponderous man to Nbono's right shouted "Bravo!" at that point, and added several thick Scandinavian expletives.
"That's good old Mogens. The Dane really is on your side this morning," Ludwig said.
"Must have been watching the kaleidowhirl last night," Walton murmured.
The delegate from Ghana concluded with a brief tremolo cadenza praising Walton. Walton's eyes were a little moist; he hadn't realized he was a saint. Nbono tacked on an abrupt coda and sat down.
"All right," Walton said. "Let's go down there."
They made a grand entrance. Ludwig took his seat behind the neonUnited Statessign, and Walton slid into the unoccupied seat to Ludwig's right. A definite stir of interest was noticeable.
The secretary-general was presiding—beady-eyed Lars Magnusson of Sweden. "I see Mr. Walton of Popeek has arrived," he commented. "By a resolution passed unanimously yesterday, we have invited Mr. Walton this morning to address us briefly. Mr. Walton, would you care to speak now?"
"Thank you very much," Walton said. He rose.
The delegates were staring at him with great interest ... and, somewhere behind them, obscured by the bright lights of the cameras, there were, he sensed, a vast multitude of onlookers peering at him from the galleries.
Onlookers who had seen Percy's kaleidowhirl last night, evidently. A thunderous wave of applause swept down on him.This is too easy, he thought.That kaleidowhirl program seems to have hypnotized everybody.
He moistened his lips.
"Mr. Secretary-General, members of the Assembly, friends: I'm very grateful for this chance to come before you on my own behalf. It's my understanding that you are to choose a permanent successor to Mr. FitzMaugham today. I offer myself as a candidate for that post."
He had planned a long, impassioned, semantically loaded speech to sway them, but the happenings thus far this morning convinced him it was unnecessary. The kaleidowhirl had done the work for him.
"My qualifications for the post should be apparent to all. I worked with the late Director FitzMaugham during the formative days of Popeek. Upon his death I succeeded to his post and have efficiently maintained the operation of the Bureau during the eight days since his assassination.
"There are special circumstances which dictate my continuation in office. Perhaps you know of the failure of our terraforming experiments—the destruction of our outpost on Venus, and the permanent damage done to that planet. The failure of this project makes it imperative that we move outward to the stars to relieve our population crisis."
He took a deep breath. "In exactly four hours," he said, "a representative of an alien race will land on Earth to confer with the director of Popeek. I cannot stress too greatly the importance of maintaining a continuity of thought and action within our Bureau. Bluntly, it is essential thatIbe the one who deals with this alien. I ask for your support. Thank you."
He took his seat again. Ludwig was staring at him, aghast.
"Roy! What kind of a speech was that? You can't justdemandthe job! You've got to give reasons! You have to—"
"Hush," Walton said. "Don't worry about it. Were you watching the kaleidowhirls last night?"
"Me? Of course not!"
Walton grinned. "Theywere," he said, gesturing at the other delegates. "I'm not worried."
Walton left the Assembly meeting about 1215, pleading urgent Popeek business. The voting began at 1300, and half an hour later the result was officially released.
The 1400Citizenwas the first to carry the report.
WALTON ELECTED POPEEK HEADThe General Assembly of the United Nations gave Roy Walton a healthy vote of confidence today. By a 95-0 vote, three abstaining, he was picked to succeed the late D. F. FitzMaugham as Popeek czar. He has held the post on a temporary basis for the past eight days.
WALTON ELECTED POPEEK HEAD
The General Assembly of the United Nations gave Roy Walton a healthy vote of confidence today. By a 95-0 vote, three abstaining, he was picked to succeed the late D. F. FitzMaugham as Popeek czar. He has held the post on a temporary basis for the past eight days.
Walton rang up Percy. "Who wrote thatCitizenpiece on me?" he asked.
"I did, chief. Why?"
"Nicely done, but not enough sock. Get all those three-syllable words out of it by the next edition. Get back to the oldCitizenstyle of jazzy writing."
"We thought we'd brush it up a little now that you're in," Percy said.
"No. That's dangerous. Keep to the old style, but revamp the content. We're rolling along, now. What's new from the pollsters?"
"Fifty percent swing to Popeek. You're the most popular man in the country, as of noon. Churches are offering up prayers for you. There's a move afoot to make you President of the United States in place of old Lanson."
"Let Lanson keep his job," Walton chuckled. "I'm not looking for any figurehead jobs. I'm too young. When's the nextCitizendue?"
"At 1500. We're keeping up hourly editions until the crisis is over."
Walton thought for a moment. "I think 1500's too early. The Dirnan arrives in Nairobi at 1530 our time. I want a big splash in the 1600 edition—but not a word before then!"
"I'm with you," Percy said, and signed off.
A moment later the annunciator said, "There's a closed-circuit call for you from Batavia, sir."
"From where?"
"Batavia. Java."
"Let's have it," Walton said.
A fleshy face filled the screen, the face of a man who had lived a soft life in a moist climate. A rumbling voice said, "You are Walton."
"I am Walton."
"I am Gaetano di Cassio. Pleased of making the acquaintance, Signor Director Walton. I own rubber plantation in the area here."
Walton's mind immediately clocked off the top name on the list of landed proprietors Lassen had prepared for him:
di Cassio, Gaetano. 57. Holdings estimated at better than a billion and a quarter. Born Genoa 2175, settled in Amsterdam 2199. Purchased large Java holding 2211.
"What can I do for you, Mr. di Cassio?"
The rubber magnate looked ill; his fleshy face was beaded with globules of sweat. "Your brother," he grunted heavily. "Your brother worked for me. I sent him to see you yesterday. He has not come back."
"Indeed?" Walton shrugged. "There's a famous phrase I could use at this point. I won't."
"Make no flippancies," di Cassio said heavily. "Where is he?"
Walton said, "In jail. Attempted coercion of a public official." He realized di Cassio was twice as nervous and tense as he was.
"You have jailed him," di Cassio repeated flatly. "Ah, I see. Jail." The audio pickup brought in the sound of stertorous breathing. "Will you not free him?" di Cassio asked.
"I will not."
"Did he not tell you what would happen if he would not be granted his request?"
"He told me," Walton said. "Well?"
The fat man looked sick. Walton saw that the bluff was going to be unsuccessful; that the conspirators would not dare put Lamarre's drug into open production. It had been a weapon without weight, and Walton had not let himself be cowed by it.
"Well?" Walton repeated inflexibly.
"You trouble me sorely," said di Cassio. "You give my heart pain, Mr. Walton. Steps will have to be taken."
"The Lamarre immortality serum—"
The face on the screen turned a leaden gray. "The serum," di Cassio said, "is not entered into this talking."
"Oh, no? My brother Fred made a few remarks—"
"Serumnon esiste!"
Walton smiled calmly. "A nonexistent serum," he said, "has, unfortunately, nonexistent leverage against me. You don't scare me, di Cassio. I've outbluffed you. Go take a walk around your plantation. While you still have it, that is."
"Steps will be taken," di Cassio said. But his malevolence was hollow. Walton laughed and broke contact.
He drew Lassen's list from his desk and inscribed a brief memo to Olaf Eglin on it. These were the hundred biggest estates in the world. Within a week, there would be equalized Japanese living on all of them.
He called Martinez of security. "I've ordered my brother Fred remanded to your care," he said.
"I know." The security man sounded peeved. "We can't hold a man indefinitely, not even on your say-so, Director Walton."
"The charge is conspiracy," Walton said. "Conspiracy against the successful operation of Popeek. I'll have a list of the ringleaders on your desk in half an hour. I want them rounded up, given a thorough psyching, and jailed."
"There are times," Martinez said slowly, "when I suspect you exceed your powers, Director Walton. But send me the list and I'll have the arrests made."
The afternoon crawled. Walton proceeded with routine work on half a dozen fronts, held screened conferences with each of his section chiefs, read reports augmenting what he already knew of the Venus disaster, and gobbled a few benzolurethrin tranquilizers.
He called Keeler and learned that no sign of Lamarre had come to light yet. From Percy he discovered thatCitizenhad added two hundred thousand subscribers overnight. The 1500 edition had a lengthy editorial praising Walton, and some letters that Percy swore were genuine, doing the same.
At 1515 Olaf Eglin called to announce that the big estates were in the process of being dismembered. "You'll be able to hear the howls from here to Batavia when we get going," Eglin warned.
"We have to be tough," Walton told him firmly.
At 1517 he devoted a few minutes to a scientific paper that proposed terraforming Pluto by establishing synthetic hydrogen-fusion suns on the icy planet. Walton skimmed through the specifications, which involved passing a current of several million amperes through a tube containing a mixture of tritium and deuterium. The general idea, he gathered, was to create electromagnetic forces of near-solar intensity; a pulsed-reaction engine would supply a hundred megawatts of power continuously at 10,000,000 degrees centigrade.
Has possibilities, Walton noted, and forwarded the plan on to Eglin. It sounded plausible enough, but Walton was personally skeptical of undertaking any more terraforming experiments after the Venus fiasco. There were, after all, limits to the public relations miracles Lee Percy could create.
At 1535 the annunciator chimed again. "Call from Nairobi, Africa, Mr. Walton."
"Okay."
McLeod appeared on the screen.
"We're here," he said. "Arrived safely half a microsecond ago, and all's well."
"How about the alien?"
"We have him in a specially constructed cabin. Breathes hydrogen and ammonia, you know. He's very anxious to see you. When can you come?"
Walton thought for a moment. "I guess there's no way of transporting him here, is there?"
"I wouldn't advise it. The Dirnans are very sensitive about traveling in such a low gravitational field. Makes their stomachs queasy, you know. Do you think you could come out here?"
"When's the earliest?"
"Oh—half an hour?" McLeod suggested.
"I'm on my way," said Walton.
The sprawling metropolis of Nairobi, capital of the Republic of Kenya, lay at the foot of the Kikuyu Hills, and magnificent Mount Kilimanjaro towered above it. Four million people inhabited Nairobi, finest of the many fine cities along Africa's western coast. Africa's Negro republics had built soundly and well after achieving their liberation from colonial status.
The city was calm as Walton's special jet decelerated for landing at the vast Nairobi airport. He had left at 1547 New York time; the transatlantic trip had taken two hours and some minutes, and there was an eight-hour time zone differential between Kenya and New York. It was now 0313 in Nairobi; the early-morning rain was falling right on schedule as the jet taxied to a halt.
McLeod was there to meet him. "The ship's in the hills, five miles out of town. There's a copter waiting for you here."
Moments after leaving the jetliner, Walton was shepherded aboard the 'copter. Rotors whirred; the 'copter rose perpendicularly until it hung just above the cloud-seeders at 13,000 feet, then fired its jets and streaked toward the hills.
It was not raining when they landed; according to McLeod, the night rain was scheduled for 0200 in this sector, and the seeders had already been here and moved on to bring rain to the city proper. A groundcar waited for them at the airstrip in the hills. McLeod drove, handling the turboelectric job with skill.
"There's the ship," he said proudly, pointing.
Walton felt a sudden throat lump.
The ship stood on its tail in the midst of a wide, flat swath of jet-blackened concrete. It was at least five hundred feet high, a towering pale needle shimmering brightly in the moonlight. Wideswept tailjets supported it like arching buttresses. Men moved busily about in the floodlighted area at its base.
McLeod drove up to the ship and around it. The flawless symmetry of the foreside was not duplicated behind; there, a spidery catwalk ran some eighty feet up the side of the ship to a gaping lock, and by its side a crude elevator shaft rose to the same hatch.
McLeod drew efficient salutes from the men as he left the car; Walton, only puzzled glares.
"We'd better take the elevator," McLeod said. "The men are working on the catwalk."
Silently they rode up into the ship. They stepped through the open airlock into a paneled lounge, then into narrow companionways. McLeod paused and pressed down a stud in an alcove along the way.
"I'm back," he announced. "Tell Thogran Klayrn that I've brought Walton. Find out whether he'll come out to talk to him."
"I thought he had to breathe special atmosphere," Walton said. "How can he come out?"
"They've got breathing masks. Usually they don't like to use them." McLeod listened at the earpiece for a moment, then nodded. To Walton he said, "The alien will see you in the lounge."
Walton had barely time to fortify himself with a slug of filtered rum when a crewman appeared at the entrance to the lounge and declared ostentatiously, "His Excellency, Thogran Klayrn of Dirna."
The alien entered.
Walton had seen the photographs, and so he was partially prepared. But only partially.
The photos had not given him any idea of size. The alien stood eight feet high, and gave an appearance of astonishing mass. It must have weighed four or five hundred pounds, but it stood on two thick legs barely three feet long. Somewhere near the middle of the columnar body, four sturdy arms jutted forth strangely. A neckless head topped the ponderous creature—a head covered entirely with the transparent breathing mask. One of the hands held a mechanical device of some sort; the translating machine, Walton surmised.
The alien's hide was bright-green, and leathery in texture. A faint pungent odor drifted through the room, as of an object long immersed in ammonia.
"I am Thogran Klayrn," a booming voice said. "Diplomasiarch of Dirna. I have been sent to talk with Roy Walton. Are you Roy Walton?"
"I am." Walton's voice sounded cold and dry to his own ears. He knew he was too tense, pressing too hard. "I'm very glad to meet you, Thogran Klayrn."
"Please sit. I do not. My body is not made that way."
Walton sat. It made him feel uncomfortable to have to crane his neck upward at the alien, but that could not be helped. "Did you have a pleasant trip?" Walton asked, temporizing desperately.
A half-grunt came from Thogran Klayrn. "Indeed it was so. But I do not indulge in little talk. A problem we have, and it must be discussed."
"Agreed." Whatever a diplomasiarch might be on Dirna, it wasnota typical diplomat. Walton was relieved that it would not be necessary to spend hours in formalities before they reached the main problem.
"A ship sent out by your people," the alien said, "invaded our system some time ago. In command was your Colonel McLeod, whom I have come to know well. What was the purpose of this ship?"
"To explore the worlds of the universe and to discover a planet where we of Earth could settle. Our world is very overcrowded now."
"So I have been given to know. You have chosen Labura—or, in your terms, Procyon VIII—as your colony. Is this so?"
"Yes," Walton said. "It's a perfect world for our purposes. But Colonel McLeod has informed me that you object to our settling there."
"We do so object." The Dirnan's voice was cold. "You are a young and active race. We do not know what danger you may bring to us. To have you as our neighbors—"
"We could swear a treaty of eternal peace," Walton said.
"Words. Mere words."
"But don't you see that we can't evenlandon that planet of yours! It's too big, too heavy for us. What possible harm could we do?"
"There are races," said the Dirnan heavily, "which believe in violence as a sacred act. You have long-range missiles. How might we trust you?"
Walton squirmed; then sudden inspiration struck him. "There's a planet in this system that's as suitable for your people as Labura is for ours. I mean Jupiter. We could offer you colonial rights to Jupiter in exchange for the privilege of colonizing Labura!"
The alien was silent for a moment. Considering? There was no way of telling what emotions passed across that face. At length the alien said, "Not satisfactory. Our people have long since reached stability of population. We have no need of colonies. It has been many thousands of your years since we have ventured into space."
Walton felt chilled.Many thousands of years!He realized he was up against a formidable life form.
"We have learned to stabilize births and deaths," the Dirnan went on sonorously. "It is a fundamental law of the universe, and one that you Earthfolk must learn sooner or later. How you choose to do it is your own business. But we have no need of planets in your system, and we fear allowing you to enter ours. The matter is simple of statement, difficult of resolution. But we are open to suggestions from you."
Walton's mind blanked. Suggestions? What possible suggestion could he make?
He gasped. "We have something to offer," he said. "It might be of value to a race that has achieved population stability. We would give it to you in exchange for colonization rights."
"What is this commodity?" the Dirnan asked.
"Immortality," Walton said.