Master Of Life And Death Read online

  “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?”

  “Eleven hundred, as usual.”

  “Good. There’s a new regulation in effect from now on,” Walton said. “To keep public opinion on our side.”

  “Sir?”

  “Henceforth, until further notice, you’re to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there’s been no mistake. Got that?”

  “Mistake?But how—”

  “Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out.” How glibly I reel this stuff off, Walton thought in amazement.

  Falbrough looked grave. “I see, sir. Of course. We’ll double-check everything from now on.”

  “Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.”

  Walton couldn’t bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.

  Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said:Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.

  Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton’s mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.

  The annunciator chimed and said, “Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir.”

  “Put him on.”

  The screen lit and Falbrough’s face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.

  “What is it, Doctor?”

  “It’s a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You’ll never guess what just happened—”

  “No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.”

  “I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn’t have been sent to me!”

  “No!”

  “It’s the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I’ve got his card right here. The boy’s name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine.”

  “Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?” Walton asked.

  “No, sir.”

  Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. “Falbrough, we’re going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slippe
d up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there’s been as much as one mistake, we’ll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.” Falbrough looked terribly grave. “What should I do, sir?”

  “Don’t say a word about this to anyone, not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort.”

  “Certainly, sir. Is that all?”

  “It is,” Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.

  The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law— the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.

  He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even —for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.

  Well, the thing was done.

  No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer’s memories of this morning’s activities.

  The annunciator chimed again. “Your brother is on the wire, sir.”

  Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, “Put him on.” Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all.

  III

  Roy Walton watched his brother’s head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy’s lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to “get even” with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred’s great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.

  Even on the screen, Fred’s neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother’s image to take shape, and when the time lag was over he said, “Well, Fred? What goes?”

  His brother’s eyes flickered sleepily. “They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I didn’t rate a visit?”

  “I wasn’t in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn’t have time.”

  Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred’s lapel, and refused to look anywhere else.

  Fred said slowly, “You had time to tinker with our computer, though.”

  “Official business!”

  “Really, Roy?” His brother’s tone was venomous. “I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine.”

  Sparksseemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and say, “That’s a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek computer outlet is confidential.”

  “Criminal offense? Maybe so… but that makes two of us, then. Eh, Roy?”

  “How much do you know?”

  “You wouldn’t want me to recite it over a public communications system, would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton doesn’t want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!”

  “Thanks for small blessings,” Roy said acidly.

  “You got me this job. You can take it away. Let’s call it even for now, shall we?”

  “Anything you like,” Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. “I have some work to do now.” His voice was barely audible.

  “I won’t keep you any longer, then,” Fred said.

  The screen went dead.

  Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.

  Idiot!he thought. Fool!

  He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could see through Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his father-substitute.

  FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy’s defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred…

  There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their parents had gone down offMaracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public creche.

  After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham’s private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section of Popeek, thanks to Roy.

  And now he has the upper hand for the first time, Walton thought. I hope he’s not thirsting for my scalp.

  He was being ground in a vise; he saw now the gulf between the toughness needed for a Popeek man and the very real streak of softness that was part of his character. Walton suddenly realized that he had never merited his office. His only honorable move would be to offer his resignation to FitzMaugham at once.

  He thought back, thought of the Senator saying, This is a job for a man with no heart. Popeek is the crudest organization ever legislated by man. You think you can handle it, Roy?

  I think so, sir. I hope so.

  He remembered going on to declare some fuzzy phrases about the need for equalization, the immediate necessity for dealing with Earth’s population problem.

  Temporary cruelty is the price of eternal happiness, FitzMaugham had said.

  Walton remembered the day when the United Nations had finally agreed, had turned the Population Equalization Bureau loose on a stunned world. There had been the sharp flare of flash guns, the clatter of reporters feeding the story to the world, the momentary high-mindedness, the sense of the nobility of Popeek… And then the six weeks of gathering hatred. No one liked Popeek. No one liked to put antiseptic on wounds, either, but it had to be done.

  Walton shook his head sorrowfully. He had made a serious mistake by saving Philip Prior. But resigning his post was no way to atone for it.

  He opaqued the window again and returned to his desk. It was time to go through the mail.

  The first letter on the stack was addressed to him by hand; he slit it open and scanned it.

  Dear Mr Walton,

  Yesterday your men came and took away my mother to be kild. She didn’t do nothing and lived a good life for seventy years and I want you to know I think you people are the biggest vermin since Hitler and Stalin and when you're old and sick I hope your own men come for you and stick you in the furnace where you belong. You stink and all of you stink.

  Signed, Disgusted

  Walton shrugged and opened the next letter, typed in a crisp voicewrite script on crinkly watermarked paper.

  Sir:

  I see by the papers that the latest euthanasia figures are the highest yet, and that you have successfully rid the world of many of its weak sisters, those who are unable to stand the gaff, those who, in the words of the immortal Darwin “are not fit to survive.” My heartiest congratulations, sir, upon the scope and ambition of your bold and courageous program. Your Bureau offers mankind its first real chance to enter that promised land, that Utopia, that has been ou
r hope and prayer for so long.

  I do sincerely hope, though, that your Bureau is devoting careful thought to the type of citizen that should be spared. It seems obvious that the myriad spawning Asiatics should be reduced tremendously, since their unchecked proliferation has caused such great hardship to humanity. The same might be said of the Europeans who refuse to obey the demands of sanity; and, coming closer to home, I pray you reduce the numbers of Jews, Catholics, Communists, anti-Herschelites, and other free-thinking rabble, in order to make the new reborn world purer and cleaner and…

  With a sickly cough Walton put the letter down. Most of them were just this sort: intelligent, rational, bigoted letters. There had been the educated Alabaman, disturbed that Popeek did not plan to eliminate all forms of second-class citizens; there had been the Michigan minister, anxious that no left-wing relativistic atheists escape the gas chamber.

  And, of course, there was the other kind—the barely literate letters from bereaved parents or relatives, accusing Popeek of nameless crimes against humanity.

  Well, it was only to be expected, Walton thought. He scribbled his initials on both the letters and dropped them into the chute that led to files, where they would be put on microfilm and scrupulously stored away. FitzMaugham insisted that every letter received be read and so filed.

  Some day soon, Walton thought, population equalization would be unnecessary. Oh, sure, euthanasia would stick; it was a sane and, in the long run, merciful process. But this business of uprooting a few thousand Belgians and shipping them to the open spaces in Patagonia would cease.

  Lang and his experimenters were struggling to transform Venus into a livable world. If it worked, the terraforming engineers could go on to convert Mars, the bigger moons of Jupiter and Saturn, and perhaps even distant Pluto, provided some form of heating could be developed.

  There would be another transition then. Earth’s multitudes would be shipped wholesale to the new worlds. Perhaps there would be riots; none but a few adventurers would go willingly. But some would go, and that would be a partial solution.