Robert Silverberg: Master Of Life And Death

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 a dictator!” 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 of Citizen, 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

After the usual string of subheads, all in the cheerful, breezy, barely literate Citizen style, 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 tike the sound of those words. Popeek may be with the stream after all. Who knows?

The voice was that of Citizen, but the man behind the voice was thinking a little differently. Had the previous editors of Citizen been 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 first Citizen,” 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.