Chapter 8

Walton was becoming hardened to astonishment; the further he excavated into the late director’s affairs, the less susceptible he was to the visceral reaction of shock.

Still, this stunned him for a moment.

“Did you say you’d perfected this technique?” he asked slowly. “Or that it was still in the planning stage?”

Lamarre tapped the thick, glossy black portfolio. “In here. I’ve got it all.” He seemed ready to burst with self-satisfaction.

Walton leaned back, spread his fingers against the surface of the desk, and wrinkled his forehead. “I’ve had this job since 1300 on the tenth, Mr. Lamarre. That’s exactly two days ago, minus half an hour. And in that time I don’t think I’ve had less than ten major shocks and half a dozen minor ones.”

“Sir?”

“What I’m getting at is this: just why did Director FitzMaugham sponsor this project of yours?”

Lamarre looked blank. “Because the director was a great humanitarian, of course. Because he felt that the human life was short, far too short, and he wished his fellow men to enjoy long life. What other reason should there be?”

“I know FitzMaugham was a great man ... I was his secretary for three years.” (Though he never said a word about you, Dr. Lamarre, Walton thought.) “But to develop immortality at this stage of man’s existence...” Walton shook his head. “Tell me about your work, Dr. Lamarre.”

“It’s difficult to sum up readily. I’ve fought degeneration of the body on the cellular level, and my tests show a successful outcome. Phagocyte stimulation combined with--the data’s all here, Mr. Walton. I needn’t run through it for you.”

He began to hunt in the portfolio, fumbling for something. After a moment he extracted a folded quarto sheet, spread it out, and nudged it across the desk toward Walton.

The director glanced at the sheet; it was covered with chemical equations. “Spare me the technical details, Dr. Lamarre. Have you tested your treatment yet?”

“With the only test possible, the test of time. There are insects in my laboratories that have lived five years or more--veritable Methuselahs of their genera. Immortality is not something one can test in less than infinite time. But beneath the microscope, one can see the cells regenerating, one can see decay combated...”

Walton took a deep breath. “Are you aware, Dr. Lamarre, that for the benefit of humanity I really should have you shot at once?”

“What?“

Walton nearly burst out laughing; the man looked outrageously funny with that look of shocked incomprehension on his face. “Do you understand what immortality would do to Earth?” he asked. “With no other planet of the solar system habitable by man, and none of the stars within reach? Within a generation we’d be living ten to the square inch. We’d--”

“Director FitzMaugham was aware of these things,” Lamarre interrupted sharply. “He had no intention of administering my discovery wholesale to the populace. What’s more, he was fully confident that a faster-than-light space drive would soon let us reach the planets, and that the terraforming engineers would succeed with their work on Venus.”

“Those two factors are still unknowns in the equation,” Walton said. “Neither has succeeded, as of now. And we can’t possibly let word of your discovery get out until there are avenues to handle the overflow of population already on hand.”

“So you propose--”

“To confiscate the notes you have with you, and to insist that you remain silent about this serum of yours until I give you permission to announce it.”

“And if I refuse?”

Walton spread his hands. “Dr. Lamarre, I’m a reasonable man trying to do a very hard job. You’re a scientist--and a sane one, I hope. I’d appreciate your cooperation. Bear with me a few weeks, and then perhaps the situation will change.”

Awkward silence followed. Finally Lamarre said, “Very well. If you’ll return my notes, I promise to keep silent until you give me permission to speak.”

“That won’t be enough. I’ll need to keep the notes.”

Lamarre sighed. “If you insist,” he said.

When he was again alone, Walton stored the thick portfolio in a file drawer and stared at it quizzically.

FitzMaugham, he thought, you were incredible!

Lamarre’s immortality serum, or whatever it was, was deadly. Whether it actually worked or not was irrelevant. If word ever escaped that an immortality drug existed, there would be rioting and death on a vast scale.

FitzMaugham had certainly seen that, and yet he had sublimely underwritten development of the serum, knowing that if terraforming and the ultradrive project should fail, Lamarre’s project represented a major threat to civilization.

Well, Lamarre had knuckled under to Walton willingly enough. The problem now was to contact Lang on Venus and find out what was happening up there...

“Mr. Walton,” said the annunciator. “There’s a coded message arriving for Director FitzMaugham.”

“Where from?”

“From space, sir. They say they have news, but they won’t give it to anyone but Mr. FitzMaugham.”

Walton cursed. “Where is this message being received?”

“Floor twenty-three, sir. Communications.”

“Tell them I’ll be right down,” Walton snapped.

He caught a lift tube and arrived on the twenty-third floor moments later. No sooner had the tube door opened than he sprang out, dodging around a pair of startled technicians, and sprinted down the corridor toward communications.

Here throbbed the network that held the branches of Popeek together. From here the screens were powered, the annunciators were linked, the phones connected.