Master Of Life And Death

by Robert Silverberg

  Has possibilities, Walton noted, and forwarded the plan on to Eglin. It sounded plausible enough, but Walton was personally skeptical of undertaking any more terra-forming experiments after the Venus fiasco. There were, after all, limits to the public relations miracles Lee Percy could create.

  At 1535 the annunciator chimed again. “Call from Nairobi, Africa, Mr. Walton.”

  “Okay.”

  McLeod appeared on the screen.

  “We’re here,” he said. “Arrived safely half a microsecond ago, and all’s well.”

  “How about the alien?”

  “We have him in a specially constructed cabin. Breathes hydrogen and ammonia, you know. He’s very anxious to see you. When can you come?”

  Walton thought for a moment. “I guess there’s no way of transporting him here, is there?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. The Dirnans are very sensitive about traveling in such a low gravitational field. Makes their stomachs queasy, you know. Do you think you could come out here?”

  “When’s the earliest?”

  “Oh—half an hour?” McLeod suggested.

  “I’m on my way,” said Walton.

  * * *

  The sprawling metropolis of Nairobi, capital of the Republic of Kenya, lay at the foot of the Kikuyu Hills, and magnificent Mount Kilimanjaro towered above it. Four million people inhabited Nairobi, finest of the many fine cities along Africa’s eastern coast. Africa’s Negro republics had built soundly and well after achieving their liberation from colonial status.

  The city was calm as Walton’s special jet decelerated for landing at the vast Nairobi airport. He had left at 1547 New York time; the transatlantic trip had taken two hours and some minutes, and there was an eight-hour time zone differential between Kenya and New York. It was now 0313 in Nairobi; the early-morning rain was falling right on schedule as the jet taxied to a halt.

  McLeod was there to meet him. “The ship’s in the hills, five miles out of town. There’s a ‘copter waiting for you here.”

  Moments after leaving the jetliner, Walton was shepherded aboard the ‘copter. Rotors whirred; the ’copter rose perpendicularly until it hung just above the cloud-seeders at 13,000 feet, then fired its jets and streaked toward the hills.

  It was not raining when they landed; according to McLeod, the night rain was scheduled for 0200 in this sector, and the seeders had already been here and moved on to bring rain to the city proper. A groundcar waited for them at the airstrip in the hills. McLeod drove, handling the turboelectric job with skill.

  “There’s the ship,” he said proudly, pointing.

  Walton felt a sudden throat lump.

  The ship stood on its tail in the midst of a wide, flat swath of jet-blackened concrete. It was at least five hundred feet high, a towering pale needle shimmering brightly in the moonlight. Wideswept tailjets supported it like arching buttresses. Men moved busily about in the floodlighted area at its base.

  McLeod drove up to the ship and around it. The flawless symmetry of the foreside was not duplicated behind; there, a spidery catwalk ran some eighty feet up the side of the ship to a gaping lock, and by its side a crude elevator shaft rose to the same hatch.

  McLeod drew efficient salutes from the men as he left the car; Walton, only puzzled glares.

  “We’d better take the elevator,” McLeod said. “The men are working on the catwalk.”

  Silently they rode up into the ship. They stepped through the open airlock into a paneled lounge, then into narrow companionways. McLeod paused and pressed down a stud in an alcove along the way.

  “I’m back,” he announced. “Tell Thogran Klayrn that I’ve brought Walton. Find out whether he’ll come out to talk to him.”

  “I thought he had to breathe special atmosphere,” Walton said. “How can he come out?”

  “They’ve got breathing masks. Usually they don’t like to use them.” McLeod listened at the earpiece for a moment, then nodded. To Walton he said, “The alien will see you in the lounge.”

  * * *

  Walton had barely time to fortify himself with a slug of filtered rum when a crewman appeared at the entrance to the lounge and declared ostentatiously, “His Excellency, Thogran Klayrn of Dirna.”

  The alien entered.

  Walton had seen the photographs, and so he was partially prepared. But only partially.

  The photos had not given him any idea of size. The alien stood eight feet high, and gave an appearance of astonishing mass. It must have weighed four or five hundred pounds, but it stood on two thick legs barely three feet long. Somewhere near the middle of the column body, four sturdy arms jutted forth strangely. A neck-less head topped the ponderous creature—a head covered entirely with the transparent breathing mask. One of the hands held a mechanical device of some sort; the translating machine, Walton surmised.

  The alien’s hide was bright-green, and leathery in texture. A faint pungent odor drifted through the room, as of an object long immersed in ammonia.

  “I am Thogran Klayrn,” a booming voice said. “Diplomasiarch of Dirna. I have been sent to talk with Roy Walton. Are you Roy Walton?”

  “I am.” Walton’s voice sounded cold and dry to his own ears. He knew he was too tense, pressing too hard. “I’m very glad to meet you, Thogran Klayrn.”

  “Please sit. I do not. My body is not made that way.”

  Walton sat. It made him feel uncomfortable to have to crane his neck upward at the alien, but that could not be helped. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” Walton asked, temporizing desperately.

  A half-grunt came from Thogran Klayrn. “Indeed it was so. But I do not indulge in little talk. A problem we have, and it must be discussed.”

  “Agreed.” Whatever a diplomasiarch might be on Dirna, it was not a typical diplomat. Walton was relieved that it would not be necessary to spend hours in formalities before they reached the main problem.

  “A ship sent out by your people,” the alien said, “invaded our system some time ago. In command was your Colonel McLeod, whom I have come to know well. What was the purpose of this ship?”

  “To explore the worlds of the universe and to discover a planet where we of Earth could settle. Our world is very overcrowded now.”

  “So I have been given to know. You have chosen Labura—or, in your terms, Procyon VIII—as your colony. Is this so?”

  “Yes,” Walton said. “It’s a perfect world for our purposes. But Colonel McLeod has informed me that you object to our settling there.”

  “We do so object.” The Dirnan’s voice was cold. “You are a young and active race. We do not know what danger you may bring to us. To have you as our neighbors—”

  “We could swear a treaty of eternal peace,” Walton said.

  “Words. Mere words.”

  “But don’t you see that we can’t even land on that planet of yours! It’s too big, too heavy for us. What possible harm could we do?”

  “There are races,” said the Dirnan heavily, “which believe in violence as a sacred act. You have long-range missiles. How might we trust you?”

  Walton squirmed; then sudden inspiration struck him. “There’s a planet in this system that’s as suitable for your people as Labura is for ours. I mean Jupiter. We could offer you colonial rights to Jupiter in exchange for the privilege of colonizing Labura!”

  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.

  XIX

  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.

  He did things to a dial set in the right-hand wall, and murmured a few words. The screen began to glow.

  “You can call me when you’re through,” Martinez said. He seemed to glide out of the room, leaving Walton alone with Fred.

  The huge screen was like a window directly into Fred’s cell. Walton met his brother’s bitter gaze head on.

  Fred looked demonic. His eyes were ringed by black shadows; his hair was uncombed, his heavy-featured face unwashed. He said, “Welcome to my palatial abode, dearest brother.”

  “Fred, don’t make it hard for me. I came here to try to clarify things. I didn’t want to stick you away here. I had to.”

  Fred smiled balefully. “You don’t need to apologize. It was entirely my fault. I underestimated you; I didn’t realize you had changed. I thought you were the same old s
oft-hearted dope I grew up with. You aren’t.”

  “Possibly.” Walton wished he had taken that benzolurethrin after all. Every nerve in his body seemed to be jumping. He said, “I found out today that Lamarre’s dead.”

  “So?”

  “So there’s no possible way for Popeek to obtain the immortality serum except through you. Fred, I need that serum. I’ve promised it to the alien in exchange for colonization rights on Procyon VIII.”

  “A neat little package deal,” Fred said harshly. “Quid pro quo. Well, I hate to spoil it, but I’m not going to tell where the quo lies hidden. You’re not getting that serum out of me.”

  “I can have you mind-blasted,” Walton said. “They’ll pick your mind apart and strip it away layer by layer until they find what they want. There won’t be much of you left by then, but we’ll have the serum.”

  “No go. Not even you can swing that deal,” Fred said. “You can’t get a mind-pick permit on your lonesome: you need the President’s okay. It takes at least a day to go through channels—half a day, if you pull rank. And by that time, Roy, I’ll be out of here.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me clear enough. Out. Seems you’re holding me here on pretty tenuous grounds. Habeas corpus hasn’t been suspended yet, Roy, and Popeek isn’t big enough to do it. I’ve got a writ. I’ll be sprung at 1500 today.”

  “I’ll have you back in by 1530,” Walton said angrily. “We’re picking up di Cassio and that whole bunch. That’ll be sufficient grounds to quash your habeas corpus.”

  “Ah! Maybe so,” Fred said. “But I’ll be out of here for half an hour. That’s long enough to let the world know how you exercised an illegal special privilege and spared Philip Prior from Happysleep. Wiggle out of that one, then.”

  Walton began to sweat.

  Fred had him neatly nailed this time.

  Someone in security evidently had let him sneak his plea out of the Keep. Martinez? Well, it didn’t matter. By 1500 Fred would be free, and the long-suppressed Prior incident would be smeared all over the telefax system. That would finish Walton; affairs were at too delicate an impasse for him to risk having to defend himself now. Fred might not be able to save himself, but he could certainly topple his brother.