Chapter 12

Walton stared at the photograph of the alien. There was intelligence there ... yes, intelligence and understanding, and perhaps even a sort of compassion.

He sighed. There were always qualifications, never unalloyed successes.

“Colonel McLeod, how long would it take your ship to return to the Procyon system?” he asked thoughtfully.

McLeod considered the question. “Hardly any time, sir. A few days, maybe. Why?”

“Just a wild idea. Tell me about your contact with these--ah--Dirnans.”

“Well, sir, they landed after we’d spent more than a week surveying New Earth. There were six of them, and they had their translating widget with them. They told us who they were, and wanted to know who we were. We told them. They said they ran the Procyon system, and weren’t of a mind to let any alien beings come barging in.”

“Did they sound hostile?” Walton asked.

“Oh, no. Just businesslike. We were trespassing, and they asked us to get off. They were cold about it, but not angry.”

“Fine,” Walton said. “Look here, now. Do you think you could go back to their world as--well as an ambassador from Earth? Bring one of the Dirnans here for treaty talks, and such?”

“I suppose so,” McLeod said hesitantly. “If it’s necessary.”

“It looks as if it may be. You had no luck in any of the other nearby systems?”

“No.”

“Then Procyon VIII’s our main hope. Tell your men we’ll offer double pay for this cruise. And make it as fast as you know how.”

“Hyperspace travel’s practically instantaneous,” McLeod said. “We spent most of our time cruising on standard ion drive from planet to planet. Maneuvering in the subspace manifold’s a snap, though.”

“Good. Snap it up, then. Back to Nairobi and clear out of there as soon as you’re ready. Remember, it’s urgent you bring one of the aliens here for treaty talks.”

“I’ll do my best,” McLeod said.

Walton stared at the empty seat where McLeod had been, and tried to picture a green Dirnan sitting there, goggling at him with its three eyes.

He was beginning to feel like a juggler. Popeek activity proceeded on so many fronts at once that it quite dazzled him. And every hour there were new challenges to meet, new decisions to make.

At the moment, there were too many eggs and not enough baskets. Walton realized he was making the same mistake FitzMaugham had, that of carrying too much of the Popeek workings inside his skull. If anything happened to him, the operation would be fatally paralyzed, and it would be some time before the gears were meshing again.

He resolved to keep a journal, to record each day a full and mercilessly honest account of each of the many maneuvers in which he was engaged. He would begin with his private conflict with Fred and the interests Fred represented, follow through with the Lamarre-immortality episode, and include a detailed report on the problems of the subsidiary projects, New Earth and Lang’s terraforming group.

That gave him another idea. Reaching for his voicewrite, he dictated a concise confidential memorandum instructing Assistant Administrator Eglin to outfit an investigatory mission immediately; purpose, to go to Venus and make contact with Lang. The terraforming group was nearly two weeks overdue in its scheduled report. He could not ignore them any longer.

The everlasting annunciator chimed, and Walton switched on the screen. It was Sellors, and from the look of abject terror on the man’s face, Walton knew that something sticky had just transpired.

“What is it, Sellors? Any luck in tracing Lamarre?”

“None, sir,” the security chief said. “But there’s been another development, Mr. Walton. A most serious one. Most serious.”

Walton was ready to expect anything--a bulletin announcing the end of the universe, perhaps. “Well, tell me about it,” he snapped impatiently.

Sellors seemed about ready to collapse with shame. He said hesitantly, “One of the communications technicians was making a routine check of the building’s circuits, Mr. Walton. He found one trunk-line that didn’t seem to belong where it was, so he checked up and found out that it had been newly installed.”

“Well, what of it?”

“It was a spy pickup with its outlet in your office, sir,” Sellors said, letting the words tumble out in one blur. “All the time you were talking this morning, someone was spying on you.”

Walton grabbed the arms of his chair. “Are you telling me that your department was blind enough to let someone pipe a spy pickup right into this office?” he demanded. “Where did this outlet go? And is it cut off?”

“They cut it off as soon as they found it, sir. It went to a men’s lavatory on the twenty-sixth floor.”

“And how long was it in operation?”

“At least since last night, sir. Communications assures me that it couldn’t possibly have been there before yesterday afternoon, since they ran a general check then and didn’t see it.”

Walton groaned. It was small comfort to know that he had had privacy up till last evening; if the wrong people had listened in on his conversation with McLeod, there would be serious trouble.

“All right, Sellors. This thing can’t be your fault, but keep your eyes peeled in the future. And tell communications that my office is to be checked for such things twice a day from now on, at 0900 and at 1300.”

“Yes, sir.” Sellors looked tremendously relieved.

“And start interrogating the communications technicians. Find out who’s responsible for that spy circuit, and hold him on security charges. And locate Lamarre!”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Walton.”

While the screen was clearing, Walton jotted down a memorandum to himself: investigate Sellors. So far, as security chief, Sellors had allowed an assassin to reach FitzMaugham, allowed Prior to burst into Walton’s old office, permitted Fred to masquerade as a doorsmith long enough to gain access to Walton’s private files, and stood by blindly while Lee Percy tapped into Walton’s private wire and some unidentified technician strung a spy pickup into the director’s supposedly sacred office.

No security chief could have been as incompetent as all that. It had to be a planned campaign, directed from the outside.

He dialed Eglin.

“Olaf, you get my message about the Venus rescue mission okay?”

“Came through a few minutes ago. I’ll have the specs drawn up by tonight.”