Robert Silverberg: Master Of Life And Death

“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 again 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 think Citizen will 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 of Citizen, 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 VENUS

A big blowup took place on the planet Venus earlier today. Sky-men who watched the pop off 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, Citizen hit 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 theCullenBuilding and caught a jet-copter 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 Snorresen ofDenmark suddenly got up and said it was necessary for the safety of mankind that we give you a permanent appointment as director of Popeek.”

“Snorresen?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 neon United States sign, 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.”