Master of Life and Death. Robert Silverberg
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 slipped 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.
CHAPTER 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.”
Sparks seemed 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 offence? 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