Master Of Life And Death Read online

  “Very well. Come on up here.”

  Fred shook his head. “Sorry, no go. There are too many tricky spy pickups in that office of yours. Let’s meet elsewhere, shall we?”

  “Where?”

  “That club you belong to. The Bronze Room.”

  Walton sputtered. “But I can’t leave the building now! There’s no one who—”

  “Now,” Fred interrupted. “The Bronze Room. It’s in the San Isidro, isn’t it? Top of Neville Prospect?”

  “All right,” said Walton resignedly. “There’s a door-smith coming up here to do some work. Give me a minute to cancel the assignment and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “You leave now,” Fred said. “I’ll arrive five minutes after you. And you won’t need to cancel anything. I was the doorsmith.”

  Neville Prospect was the most fashionable avenue in all of New York City, a wide strip of ferroconcrete running up the West Side between Eleventh Avenue and the West Side Drive from Fortieth to Fiftieth Street. It was bordered on both sides by looming apartment buildings in which a man of wealth might have as many as four or five rooms to his suite; and at the very head of the Prospect, facing downtown, was the mighty San Isidro, a buttressed fortress of gleaming metal and stone whose mighty beryllium-steel supports swept out in a massive arc five hundred feet in either direction.

  On the hundred fiftieth floor of the San Isidro was the exclusive Bronze Room, from whose quartz windows might be seen all the sprawling busyness of Manhattan and the close-packed confusion of New Jersey just across the river.

  The jetcopter delivered Walton to the landing-stage of the Bronze Room; he tipped the man too much and stepped within. A door of dull bronze confronted him. He touched his key to the signet plate; the door pivoted noiselessly inward, admitting him.

  The color scheme today was gray: gray light streamed from the luminescent walls, gray carpets lay underfoot, gray tables with gray dishes were visible in the murky distance. A gray-clad waiter, hardly more than four feet tall, sidled up to Walton.

  “Good to see you again, sir,” he murmured. “You have not been here of late.”

  “No,” Walton said. “I’ve been busy.”

  “A terrible tragedy, the death of Mr. FitzMaugham, He was one of our most esteemed members. Will you have your usual room today, sir?”

  Walton shook his head. “I’m entertaining a guest— my brother, Fred. We’ll need a compartment for two. He’ll identify himself when he arrives.”

  “Of course. Come with me, please.”

  The gnome led him through a gray haze to another bronze door, down a corridor lined with antique works of art, through an interior room decorated with glowing lumifacts of remarkable quality, past a broad quartz window so clean as to be dizzyingly invisible, and up to a narrow door with a bright red signet plate in its center.

  “For you, sir.”

  Walton touched his key to the signet plate; the door crumpled like a fan. He stepped inside, gravely handed the gnome a bill, and closed the door.

  The room was tastefully furnished, again in gray; the Bronze Room was always uniformly monochromatic, though the hue varied with the day and with the mood of the city. Walton had long speculated on what the club precincts would be like were the electronic magic disconnected.

  Actually, he knew, none of the Bronze Room’s appurtenances had any color except when the hand in the control room threw the switch. The club held many secrets. It was FitzMaugham who had brought about Walton’s admission to the club, and Walton had been deeply grateful.

  He was in a room just comfortably large enough for two, with a single bright window facing the Hudson, a small onyx table, a tiny screen tastefully set in the wall, and a bar. He dialed himself a filtered rum, his favorite drink. The dark, cloudy liquid came pouring instantly from the spigot.

  The screen suddenly flashed a wave of green, breaking the ubiquitous grayness. The green gave way to the bald head and scowling face of Kroll, the Bronze Room’s doorman.

  “Sir, there is a man outside who claims to be your brother. He alleges he has an appointment with you here.”

  “That’s right, Kroll; send him in. Fulks will bring him to my room.”

  “Just one moment, sir. First it is needful to verify.” Kroll’s face vanished and Fred’s appeared.

  “Is this the man?” Kroll’s voice asked.

  “Yes,” Walton said. “You can send my brother in.”

  * * *

  Fred seemed a little dazed by the opulence. He sat gingerly on the edge of the foamweb couch, obviously attempting to appear blase and painfully conscious of his failure to do so.

  “This is quite a place,” he said finally.

  Walton smiled. “A little on the palatial side for my tastes. I don’t come here often. The transition hurts too much when I go back outside.”

  “FitzMaugham got you in here, didn’t he?”

  Walton nodded.

  “I thought so,” Fred said. “Well, maybe someday soon I’ll be a member too. Then we can meet here more often. We don’t see enough of each other, you know.”

  “Dial yourself a drink,” Walton said. “Then tell me what’s on your mind—or were you just angling to get an invite up here?”

  “It was more than that. But let me get a drink before we begin.”

  Fred dialed a Weesuer, heavy on the absinthe, and took a few sampling sips before wheeling around to face Walton. He said, “One of the minor talents I acquired in the course of my wanderings was doorsmithing. It’s really not very difficult to learn, for a man who applies himself.”

  “You were the one who repaired my office door?”

  Fred smirked. “I was. I wore a mask, of course, and my uniform was borrowed. Masks are very handy things. They make them most convincingly, nowadays. As, for instance, the one worn by the man who posed as Ludwig.”

  “What do you know about—”

  “Nothing. And that’s the flat truth, Roy. I didn’t kill FitzMaugham, and I don’t know who did.” He drained his drink and dialed another. “No, the old man’s death is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. But I have to thank you for wrecking the door so completely when you blasted your way in. It gave me a chance to make some repairs when I most wanted to.”

  Walton held himself very carefully in check. He knew exactly what Fred was going to say in the next few minutes, but he refused to let himself precipitate the conversation.

  With studied care he rose, dialed another filtered rum for himself, and gently slid the initiator switch on the electroluminescent kaleidoscope embedded in the rear wall.

  A pattern of lights sprang into being—yellow, pale rose, blue, soft green. They wove together, intertwined, sprang apart info a sharp hexagon, broke into a scatter-pattern, melted, seemed to fall to the carpet in bright flakes.

  “Shut that thing off!” Fred snapped suddenly. “Come on! Shut it! Shut it!”

  Walton swung around. His brother was leaning forward intently, eyes clamped tight shut. “Is it off?” Fred asked. “Tell me!”

  Shrugging, Walton canceled the signal and the lights faded. “You can open your eyes, now. It’s off.”

  Cautiously Fred opened his eyes. “None of your fancy tricks, Roy!”

  “Trick?” Walton asked innocently. “What trick? Simple decoration, that’s all—and quite lovely, too. Just like the kaleidowhirls you’ve seen on video.”

  Fred shook his head. “It’s not the same thing. How do I know it’s not some sort of hypnoscreen? How do I know what those lights can do?”

  Walton realized his brother was unfamiliar with wall kaleidoscopes. “It’s perfectly harmless,” he said. “But if you don’t want it on, we can do without it.”

  “Good. That’s the way I like it.”

  Walton observed that Fred’s cool confidence seemed somewhat shaken. His brother had made a tactical error in insisting on holding their interview here, where Walton had so much the upper hand.

  “May I ask again why you wanted t
o see me?” Walton said.

  “There are those people,” Fred said slowly, “who oppose the entire principle of population equalization.”

  “I’m aware of that. Some of them are members of this very club.”

  “Exactly. Some of them are. The ones I mean are the gentry, those still lucky enough to cling to land and home. The squire with a hundred acres in the Matto Grosso; the wealthy landowner of Liberia; the gentleman who controls the rubber output of one of the lesser Indonesian islands. These people, Roy, are unhappy over equalization. They know that sooner or later you and your Bureau will find out about them and will equalize them… say, by installing a hundred Chinese on a private estate, or by using a private river for a nuclear turbine. You’ll have to admit that their dislike of equalization is understandable.”

  “Everyone’s dislike of equalization is understandable,” Walton said. “I dislike it myself. You got your evidence of that two days ago. No one likes to give up special privileges.”

  “You see my point, then. There are perhaps a hundred of these men in close contact with each other—”

  “What!”

  “Ah, yes,” Fred said. “A league. A conspiracy, it might almost be called. Very, very shady doings.”

  “Yes.”

  “I work for them,” Fred said.

  Walton let that soak in. “You’re an employee of Popeek,” he said. “Are you inferring that you’re both an employee of Popeek and an employee of a group that seeks to undermine Popeek?”

  Fred grinned proudly. “That’s the position on the nose. It calls for remarkable compartmentalization of mind. I think I manage nicely.”

  Incredulously Walton said, “How long has this been going on?”

  “Ever since I came to Popeek. This group is older than Popeek. They fought equalization all the way, and lost. Now they’re working from the bottom up and trying to wreck things before you catch wise and confiscate their estates, as you’re now legally entitled to do.”

  “And now that you’ve warned me they exist,” Walton said, “you can be assured that that’s the first thing I’ll do. The second thing I’ll do will be to have the security men track down their names and find out if there was an actual conspiracy. If there was, it’s jail for them. And the third thing I’ll do is discharge you from Popeek.”

  Fred shook his head. “You won’t do any of those things, Roy. You can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I know something about you that wouldn’t look good if it came out in the open. Something that would get you bounced out of your high position in a flash.”

  “Not fast enough to stop me from setting the wheels going. My successor would continue the job of rooting out your league of landed gentry.”

  “I doubt that,” Fred said calmly. “I doubt it very much —because I’m going to be your successor.”

  X

  Crosscurrents of fear ran through Walton. He said, “What are you talking about?”

  Fred folded his arms complacently. “I don’t think it comes as news to you that I broke into your office this morning while you were out. It was very simple: when I installed the lock, I built in a canceling circuit that would let me walk in whenever I pleased. And this morning I pleased. I was hoping to find something I could use as immediate leverage against you, but I hadn’t expected anything as explosive as the portfolio in the left-hand cabinet.”

  “Where is it?”

  Fred grinned sharply. “The contents of that portfolio are now in very safe keeping, Roy. Don’t bluster and don’t threaten, because it won’t work. I took precautions.”

  “And—”

  “And you know as well as I what would happen if that immortality serum got distributed to the good old man in the street,” Fred said. “For one thing, there’d be a glorious panic. That would solve your population problem for a while, with millions killed in the rush. But after that—where would you equalize, with every man and woman on Earth living forever, and producing immortal children?”

  “We don’t know the long-range effects yet—”

  “Don’t temporize. You damned well know it’d be the biggest upheaval the world has ever seen.” Fred paused. “My employers,” he said, “are in possession of the Lamarre formulas now.”

  “And with great glee are busy making themselves immortals.”

  “No. They don’t trust the stuff, and won’t use it until it’s been tried on two or three billion guinea pigs. Human ones.”

  “They’re not planning to release the serum, are they?” Walton gasped.

  “Not immediately,” Fred said. “In exchange for certain concessions on your part, they’re prepared to return Lamarre’s portfolio to you without making use of it.”

  “Concessions? Such as what?”

  “That you refrain from declaring their private lands open territory for equalization. That you resign your post as interim director. That you go before the General Assembly and recommend me as your successor.”

  “You?”

  “Who else is best fitted to serve the interests I represent?”

  Walton leaned back, his face showing a mirth he scarcely felt. “Very neat, Fred. But full of holes. First thing, what assurance have I that your wealthy friends won’t keep a copy of the Lamarre formula and use it as a bludgeon in the future against anyone they don’t agree with?”

  “None,” Fred admitted.

  “Naturally. What’s more, suppose I refuse to give in and your employers release the serum to all and sundry. Who gets hurt? Not me; I live in a one-room box myself. But they’ll be filling the world with billions and billions of people. Their beloved estates will be overrun by the hungry multitudes, whether they like it or not. And no fence will keep out a million hungry people.”

  “This is a risk they recognize,” Fred said.

  Walton smiled triumphantly. “You mean they’re bluffing! They know they don’t dare release that serum, and they think they can get me out of the way and you, their puppet, into office by making menacing noises. All right. I’ll call their bluff.”

  “You mean you refuse?”

  “Yes,” Walton said. “I have no intention of resigning my interim directorship, and when the Assembly convenes I’m going to ask for the job on a permanent basis. They’ll give it to me.”

  “And my evidence against you? The Prior baby?”

  “Hearsay. Propaganda. I’ll laugh it right out of sight.”

  “Try laughing off the serum, Roy. It won’t be so easy as all that.”

  “I’ll manage,” Walton said tightly. He crossed the room and jabbed down on the communicator stud. The screen lit; the wizened face of the tiny servitor appeared.

  “Sir?”

  “Fulks, would you show this gentleman out of my chamber, please? He has no further wish to remain with me.”

  “Right away, Mr. Walton.”

  “Before you throw me out,” Fred said, “let me tell you one more thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’re acting stupidly—though that’s nothing new for you, Roy. I’ll give you a week’s grace to make up your mind. Then the serum goes into production.”

  “My mind is made up,” Walton said stiffly. The door telescoped and Fulks stood outside. He smiled obsequiously at Walton, bowed to Fred, and said to him, “Would you come with me, please?”

  It was like one of those dreams, Walton thought, in which you were a butler bringing dishes to the table, and the tray becomes obstinately stuck to your fingertips and refuses to be separated; or in which the Cavendishes are dining in state and you come to the table nude; or in which you float downward perpetually with never a sign of bottom.

  There never seemed to be any way out. Force opposed force and he seemed doomed always to be caught in the middle.

  Angrily he snapped the kaleidoscope back on and let its everchanging swirl of color distract him. But in the depth of the deepest violet he kept seeing his brother’s mocking face.

  He summoned Fulks.

>   The gnome looked up at him expectantly. “Get me a jetcopter,” Walton ordered. “I’ll be waiting on the west stage for it.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Fulks never had any problems, Walton reflected sourly. The little man had found his niche in life; he spent his days in the plush comfort of the Bronze Room, seeing to the wants of the members. Never any choices to make, never any of the agonizing decisions that complicated life.

  Decisions. Walton realized that one particular decision had been made for him, that of seeking the directorship permanently. He had not been planning to do that. Now he had no choice but to remain in office as long as he could.

  He stepped out onto the landing stage and into the waiting jetcopter. “CullenBuilding,” he told the robopilot abstractedly.

  He did not feel very cheerful.

  * * *

  The annunciator panel in Walton’s office was bright as a Christmas tree; the signal bulbs were all alight, each representing someone anxious to speak to him. He flipped over the circuit-breaker, indicating he was back in his office, and received the first call.

  It was from Lee Percy. Percy’s thick features were wrinkled into a smile. “Just heard that speech you made outside the building this morning, Roy. It’s getting a big blare on the newsscreens. Beautiful! Simply beautiful! Couldn’t have been better if we’d concocted it ourselves.”

  “Glad you like it,” Walton said. “It really was off the cuff.”

  “Even better, then. You’re positively a genius. Say, I wanted to tell you that we’ve got the FitzMaugham memorial all whipped up and ready to go. Full channel blast tonight over all media at 2000 sharp… a solid hour block. Nifty. Neat.”

  “Is my speech in the program?”

  “Sure is, Roy. A slick one, too. Makes two speeches of yours blasted in a single day.”

  “Send me a transcript of my speech before it goes on the air,” Walton said. “I want to read and approve that thing if it’s supposed to be coming out of my mouth.”