Chapter 16

Hervey showed up at 1003, grinning broadly. He unfolded a thick wad of documents and thrust them at Walton.

“I hold in my hand the world’s most potent telefax sheet,” Hervey said. He flipped the documents casually onto Walton’s desk and laughed. “They’re all yours. Fifty-one percent, every bit of it voting stock. I told Murlin about it just before I left him this morning. He turned purple.”

“What did he say?”

“What could he say? I asked him offhandedly if he knew where all the outstanding Citizen stock was, and he said yes, it was being held by a lot of small holders. And then I told him that somebody was buying out the small holders, and that I was selling my four percent to him. That’s when he started to change colors. When I left he was busy making phone calls, but I don’t think he’ll like what he’s going to find out.”

Walton riffled through the papers. “It’s all here, eh? Fine work. I’ll put through your voucher in half an hour or so, unless you’re in a hurry.”

“Oh, don’t rush,” Hervey said. He ran a finger inside his collar. “Couple of security boys outside, y’know. They really gave me a going-over.”

“I’m expecting an assassin at 1100,” Walton said lightly. “They’re on the lookout.”

“Oh? A close friend?”

“A relative,” Walton said.

Fred arrived promptly at 1100. By that time Walton had already set the machinery in operation for the taking-over of Citizen.

The first step had been to call Horace Murlin and confirm the fact that Popeek now owned the telefax sheet. Murlin’s fleshy face was a curious shade of rose-purple; he sputtered at Walton for five minutes before admitting he was beaten.

With Murlin out of the way, Walton selected a new editorial staff for the paper from a list Percy supplied. He intended to keep the reporting crew of the old regime intact; Citizen had a fantastically efficient newsgathering team, and there was no point in breaking it up. It was the policy-making level Walton was interested in controlling.

The 1000 edition of Citizen was the last under the old editors. They had received word from Murlin about what had happened, and by 1030, when Walton sent his dismissal notices over, they were already cleaning out their desks.

That 1000 edition was a beauty, though. The lead headline read:

ARE WE CHUMPS FOR THE GREENSKINS?

And most of the issue was devoted to inflammatory pro-war anti-Popeek journalism. A full page of “letters from the readers”--actually transcribed phone calls, since few of Citizen’s readers were interested in writing letters--echoed the editorial stand. One “letter” in particular caught Walton’s attention.

It was from a Mrs. P.F. of New York City Environ, which probably meant Jersey or lower Connecticut, and it was short and to the point:

To the Editor--

_Horray for you. Popeek is a damned crime and that Walton criminal

ought to be put away and we ought to kill those greenskins up there

before they kill us. We gotta have room to live._

Kill them before they kill us. Walton snickered. All the old hysterias, the old panic reactions, come boiling up again in times of stress.

He looked at his hand. It was perfectly steady, even though his wrist watch told him Fred would be here in just a few minutes. A week ago, a situation like this would have had him gobbling benzolurethrin as fast as he could unwrap the lozenges.

The ghostly presence of FitzMaugham seemed to hover in the room. The ends justify the means, Walton told himself grimly, as he waited for his brother to arrive.

Fred was dressed completely in black, from his stylish neo-Victorian waistcoat and the bit of ribbon at his throat to the mirror-bright leather pumps on his feet. The splendor of his clothing was curiously at odds with the coarseness of his features and the stockiness of his body.

He walked into Walton’s office at the stroke of 1100 and sighed deeply--the sigh of a man about to take permanent possession. “Good morning, Roy. I’m on time, as always.”

“And looking radiant, my dear brother.” Walton gestured appreciatively at Fred’s clothes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you in anything but your lab smock.”

“I gave notice at the lab yesterday, night after I spoke to you. I’m no longer an employee of Popeek. And I felt I should dress with the dignity suitable to my new rank.” He grinned buoyantly. “Well, ready to turn over the orb and scepter, Roy?”

“Not exactly,” Walton said.

“But--”

“But I promised you I’d resign in your favor today, Fred. I don’t think I ever used those words, but I certainly implied it, didn’t I?”

“Of course you did. You told me to come here at 1100 and you’d arrange the transfer.”

Walton nodded. “Exactly so.” He waited a long moment and then said quietly, “I lied, Fred.”

He had chosen the words carefully, for maximum impact. He had not chosen wrongly.

For a brief instant Fred’s face was very pale against the blackness of his garb. Total disbelief flickered across his eyes and mouth.

Walton had considered his brother’s mental picture of him--the elder brother, virtuous, devoted to hard work, kind to animals, and just a little soft in the head. Also, extremely honest.

Fred hadn’t expected Walton to be lying. And the calm admission stunned him.

“You’re not planning to go through with it, then?” Fred asked in a dead voice.

“No.”

“You realize what this means in terms of the serum, don’t you? The moment I get out of here and transmit your refusal to my employers, they’ll begin wholesale manufacture and distribution of the Lamarre serum. The publicity won’t be good, Roy. Nor the result.”

“You won’t get out of here,” Walton said.

Another shock wave rippled over Fred’s face. “You can’t be serious, Roy. My employers know where I am; they know what I’m here for. If they don’t hear from me within twenty-four hours, they’ll proceed with serum distribution. You can’t hope to--”