Robert Silverberg - Master Of Life And Death

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.

He returned to New York alone, later that night, too tired to sleep and too wide awake to relax. He felt like a poker player who had triumphantly topped four kings with four aces, and now was fumbling in his hand trying to locate some of those aces for his skeptical opponents.

The alien had accepted his offer. That was the one solid fact he was able to cling to, on the lonely night ride back from Nairobi. The rest was a quicksand of it’s and maybes.

If Lamarre could be found…

If the serum actually had any value…

If it was equally effective on Earthmen and Dirnans…

Walton tried to dismiss the alternatives. He had made a desperately wild offer, and it had been accepted. New Earth was open for colonization, if …

The world outside the jet was a dark blur. He had left Nairobi at 0518 Nairobi time; jetting back across the eight intervening time zones, he would arrive in New York around midnight. Ultra rapid jet transit made such things possible; he would live twice through the early hours of June nineteenth.

New Yorkhad a fifteen minute rain scheduled at 0100 that night. Walton reached the housing project where he lived just as the rain was turned on. The night was otherwise a little muggy; he paused outside the main entrance, letting the drops fall on him. After a few minutes, feeling faintly foolish and very tired, he went inside, shook himself dry, and went to bed. He did not sleep.

Four caffeine tablets helped him get off to a running start in the morning. He arrived at the Cullen Building early, about 0835, and spent some time bringing his private journal up to date, explaining in detail the burden of his interview with the alien ambassador. Some day, Walton thought, a historian of the future would discover his journal and find that for a short period in 2232 a man named Roy Walton had acted as absolute dictator of humanity. The odd thing, Walton reflected, was that he had absolutely no power drive: he had been pitch forked into the role, and each of his successive extra-legal steps had been taken quite genuinely in the name of humanity.

Rationalization? Perhaps. But a necessary one.

At 0900 Walton took a deep breath and called Keeler of security. The security man smiled oddly and said, “I was just about to call you, sir. We have some news, at last.”

“News? What?”

“Lamarre. We found his body this morning, just about an hour ago: Murdered. It turned up in Marseilles, pretty badly decomposed, but we ran a full check and the retinal’s absolutely Lamarre’s.”

“Oh,” Walton said leadenly. His head swam. “Definitely Lamarre,” he repeated. “Thanks, Keeler. Fine work. Fine.”

“Something wrong, sir? You look—”

“I’m very tired,” Walton said. “That’s all. Tired. Thanks, Keeler.”

“You called me about something, sir,” Keeler reminded him gently.

“Oh, I was calling about Lamarre. I guess there’s no point in—thanks, Keeler.” He broke the contact.

For the first time Walton felt total despair, and, out of despair, came a sort of deathlike calmness. With Lamarre dead, his only hope of obtaining the serum was to free Fred and wangle the notes from him. But Fred’s price for the notes would be Walton’s job. Full circle, and a dead end.

Perhaps Fred could be induced to reveal the whereabouts of the notes. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. And if not? Walton shrugged. A man could do only so much. Terraforming had proved a failure, equalization was a stopgap of limited value, and the one extrasolar planet worth colonizing was held by aliens. Dead end.

I tried, Walton thought. Now let someone else try .

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of negation that suddenly surrounded him. His thinking was all wrong; he had to keep trying, had to investigate every possible avenue before giving up.

His fingers hovered lightly over a benzolurethrin tablet, then drew back. Stiffly he rose from his chair and switched on the annunciator.

“I’m leaving the office for a while,” he said hoarsely. “Send all calls to Mr. Eglin.”

He had to see Fred.

Security Keep was a big, blocky building beyond the city limits proper, a windowless tower near Nyack, New York. Walton’s private jetcopter dropped noiselessly to the landing stage on the wide parapet of the building. He contemplated its dull-bronze metallic exterior for a moment.

“Should I wait here?” the pilot asked.

“Yes,” Walton said. With accession to the permanent dictorship he rated a private ship and a live pilot. “I won’t be here long.”

He left the landing stage and stepped within an indicated screener field. There was a long pause. The air up here, Walton thought, is fresh and clean, not like city air.

A voice said, “‘What is your business here?”

“I’m Walton, director of Popeek. I have an appointment with Security Head Martinez.”

“Wait a moment, Director Walton.”

None of the obsequious sirring and pleasing Walton had grown accustomed to. In its way, the bluntness of address was as refreshing as the unpolluted air.

Walton’s keen ears detected a gentle electronic whirr; he was being thoroughly scanned. After a moment the metal door before him rose silently into a hidden slot, and he found himself facing an inner door of burnished copper.

A screen was set in the inner door.

Martinez‘ face confronted him.

“Good morning, Director Walton. You’re here for our interview?”

“Yes.”

The inner door closed. This time, two chunky atomic cannons came barreling down to face him snout first. Walton flinched involuntarily, but a smiling Martinez stepped before them and greeted him. “Well, why are you here?”

“To see a prisoner of yours. My brother, Fred.”

Martinez frowned and passed a delicate hand through his rumpled hair. “Seeing prisoners is positively forbidden, Mr. Walton. Seeing them in person, that is. I could arrange a closed-circuit video screening for you.”

“Forbidden? But the man’s here on my word alone. I—”

“Your powers, Mr. Walton, are still somewhat less than infinite. This is one rule we never have relaxed, and never will. The prisoners in the Keep are under constant security surveillance, and your presence in the cell block would undermine our entire system. Will video do?”

“I guess it’ll have to,” Walton said. He was not of a mind to argue now.

“Come with me, then,” said Martinez.

The little man led him down a dim corridor into a side room, one entire wall of which was an unlit video screen. “You’ll have total privacy in here,” Martinez assured him.