Читать книгу Master of Life and Death - Robert Silverberg - Страница 5

CHAPTER II

He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway.

There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law.

Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I’ll spare Prior’s child, and after that I’ll keep within the law.

He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor.

“Roy.”

At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there.

“Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.”

The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. “You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?”

Walton shook his head quickly. “Just a little tired, sir. There’s been a lot of work lately.”

As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.

The director smiled. “You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You’ll be a worn-out wreck before you’re half my age. I’m glad you’re adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?”

“I’m—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.”

“Oh? Can’t you take care of it by phone?”

“No, Mr. FitzMaugham.” Walton felt as though he’d already been tried, drawn, and quartered. “It requires personal attention.”

“I see.” The deep, warm eyes bored into his. “You ought to slow down a little, I think.”

“Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.”

FitzMaugham chuckled. “In another century or two, you mean. I’m afraid you’ll never learn how to relax, my boy.”

The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty, covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.

As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, “Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?”

“Yes,” Walton said.

“He’s the poet, isn’t he? The one you say is so good?”

“That’s right, sir,” Walton said tightly.

“He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?”

Walton hesitated. “He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down.”

“Naturally,” FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. “Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.”

“Of course, sir.”

The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:

FLOOR 20

Euthanasia Clinic and Files

Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.

The old man’s eyes were twinkling amusedly. “I guess you get off here,” he said. “I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham’s smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.

Some fine criminal you are. You’ve given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!

Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.

* * * *

The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.

While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.

“Can I help—oh, it’s you, Mr. Walton,” a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?”

“Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.”

Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.

No doubt I must radiate charisma, he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham’s protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.

Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy’s name. Ah ... Philip, wasn’t it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.

A moment’s pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior’s record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:

3216847AB1

PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.

An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:

EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332

Euthanasia Recommended

He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.

Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.

He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby’s card into his breast pocket.

That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior’s record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone.

He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.

He proceeded to retype the child’s card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.

Then, he requested the boy’s file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.

The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.

He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning’s haul of unfortunates was put away.

Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process?

* * * *

Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.

The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.

“Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?”

Walton smiled affably. “Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know.”

“Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We’re really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!”

“Umm. Yes.” Walton didn’t like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d have to rely on the old man’s abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.

“Seen my brother around?” he asked.

“Fred? He’s working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?”

“No—no, don’t bother him, thanks. I’ll find him later.” Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.

Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, “Find many sour ones today?”

“Seven so far. They’re scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph.”

“That only makes six,” Walton said.

“Oh, and a spastic,” the doctor said. “Biggest haul we’ve had yet. Seven in one morning.”

“Have any trouble with the parents?”

“What do you think?” the doctor asked. “But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.”

Walton shuddered. “You remember his name?” he asked, with feigned calm.

Silence for a moment. “No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like.”

“Don’t bother,” Walton said hurriedly.

He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.

Falbrough didn’t look like the sort of man who would 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.