Master of Life and Death. Robert Silverberg
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 off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public crèche.
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 cruelest 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 youre 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 our 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 freethinking 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 Alabamian, 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 were 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, if 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.
And then, the stars. The faster-than-light project was top secret, so top secret that in Popeek only FitzMaugham knew what was being done on it. But if it came through....
Walton shrugged and turned back to his work. Reports had to be read, filed, expedited.
The thought of Fred and what Fred knew bothered him. If only there were some way to relive this morning, to let the Prior baby go to the chamber as it deserved....
Tension pounded in him. He slipped a hand into his desk, fumbled, found the green, diamond-shaped pellet he was searching for, and swallowed the benzolurethrin almost unthinkingly. The tranquilizer was only partly successful in relaxing him, but he was able to work steadily, without a break, until noon.
He was about to dial for lunch when the private screen he and FitzMaugham used between their offices glowed into life.
“Roy?”
The director’s face looked impossibly tranquil.
“Sir?”
“I’m going to have a visitor at 1300. Ludwig. He wants to know how things are going.”
Walton nodded. Ludwig was the head American delegate to the United Nations, a stubborn, dedicated man who had fought Popeek for years; then he had seen the light and had fought just as strenuously for its adoption. “Do you want me to prepare a report for him?” Walton asked.
“No, Roy. I want you to be here. I don’t want to face him alone.”
“Sir?”
“Some of the UN people feel I’m running Popeek as a one-man show,” FitzMaugham explained. “Of course, that’s not so, as that mountain of work on your desk testifies. But I want you there as evidence of the truth. I want him to see how much I have to rely on my assistants.”
“I get it. Very good, Mr. FitzMaugham.”
“And another thing,” the Director went on. “It’ll help appearances if I show myself surrounded with loyal young lieutenants of impeccable character. Like you, Roy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Walton said weakly.
“Thank you. See you at 1300 sharp, then?”
“Of course, sir.”
The screen went dead. Walton stared at it blankly. He wondered if this were some elaborate charade of the old man’s; FitzMaugham was devious enough. That last remark, about loyal young lieutenants of impeccable character ... it had seemed to be