Robert Silverberg: Master Of Life And Death

“He’s the 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 Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down.”

“Naturally,” FitzMaugham 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 back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:

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 FitzMaugham’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 damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham 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—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled 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-smocked technician said. Popeek 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 checkup. Mind if I use the machine?”

“Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.”

Walton grinned lightly 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 FitzMaugham’s protege and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.

Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy’s name. Ah… Philip, wasn’t it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.

A moment’s pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior’s record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:

3216847AB1

PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232,New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.

An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and 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 EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2232 — EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED.

He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the axe to descend.

Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.

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 code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth. Walton correlated them with the line of gibberish on Philip Prior’s record 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 Prior was a normal, healthy baby.

He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning’s haul of unfortunates 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 pen 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 every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate… and life.

“Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?”

Walton smiled affably. “Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know.”

“Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We’re really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!”

“Umm. 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.

“Seen my brother around?” he asked.

“Fred? He’s working in room seven, running analyses. 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 in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down here.

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 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph.”

“That only makes six,” Walton said.

“Oh, and a spastic,” the doctor said. “Biggest haul 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 seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.”

Walton shuddered. “You remember his name?” he asked, with feigned calm.

Silence for a moment. “No. Darned if I can think of it I can look it up for you if you like.”

“Don’t bother,” Walton said hurriedly.

He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.

Falbrough 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 in his weak blue eyes. “Morning, Mr. Walton.”

“Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You’ll be operating soon, won’t you?”