“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 showdown the next morning.
* * *
The next day began busily enough. Hervey was the first to call.
“The Citizen’s sewed up, Roy! I had dinner with Murlin last night and weaseled him out of four percent of Citizen stock in exchange and for a fancy tip on the new monorail project outNevada 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— your holdings, 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. Citizen telefax 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 grab Citizen. 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 stockholders’ meeting was to be held at once. After that, he’d depose Murlin, fire the present Citizen editors, 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 want any newsbreaks 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.
XVI
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?”
“What could he say? I asked him offhandedly if he knew where all the outstanding Citizen stock 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. 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 of Citizen.
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; Citizen had 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 of Citizen was 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 of Citizen’s readers 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—
Hooray 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, right 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 my own position 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. I knew you. 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 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!”
XVII
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.
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