“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.
Walton pushed open a door marked Communications Central and confronted four busy engineers who were crowded around a complex receiving mechanism.
“Where’s that space message?” he demanded of the sallow young engineer who approached him.
“Still coming in, sir. They’re repeating it over and over. We’re triangulating their position now. Somewhere near the orbit of Pluto, Mr. Walton.”
“Devil with that. Where’s the message?”
Someone handed him a slip of paper. It said, Calling Earth. Urgent call, top urgency, crash urgency. Will communicate only with D. F. FitzMaugham.
“This all it is?” Walton asked. “No signature, no ship name?”
“That’s right, Mr. Walton.”
“Okay. Find them in a hurry and send them a return message. Tell them FitzMaugham’s dead and I’m his successor. Mention me by name.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stamped impatiently around the lab while they set to work beaming the message into the void. Space communication was a field that dazzled and bewildered Walton, and he watched in awe as they swung into operation.
Time passed. “You know of any ships supposed to be in that sector?” he asked someone.
“No, sir. We weren’t expecting any calls except from Lang on Venus—” The technician gasped, realizing he had made a slip, and turned pale.
“That’s all right,” Walton assured him. “I’m the director, remember? I know all about Lang.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Here’s a reply, sir,” another of the nameless, faceless technicians said. Walton scanned it.
It read, Hello Walton. Request further identification before we report. McL.
A little shudder of satisfaction shook Walton at the sight of the initialed McL. at the end of the message. That could mean only McLeod—and that could mean only one thing: the experimental starship had returned!
Walton realized depressedly that this probably implied that they hadn’t found any Earth-type worlds among the stars. McLeod’s note to FitzMaugham had said they would search for a year, and would return home at the end of that time if they had no success. And just about a year had elapsed.
He said, “Send this return message: McLeod, Nairobi, X-72. Congratulations! Walton.”
The technician vanished again, leaving Walton alone. He gazed moodily at the complex maze of equipment all around him, listened to the steady tick-tick of the communication devices, strained his ears to pick up fragments of conversation from the men.
After what seemed like an hour, the technician returned. “There’s a message coming through now, sir. We’re decoding it as fast as we can.”
“Make it snappy,” Walton said. His watch read 1429. Only twenty minutes had passed since he had gone down there.
A grimy sheet of paper was thrust under his nose. He read it:
Hello Walton, this is McLeod. Happy to report that experimental ship X-72 is returning home with all hands in good shape, after a remarkable one-year cruise of the galaxy. I feel like Ulysses returning to Ithaca, except we didn’t have such a hard time of it.
I imagine you’ll be interested in this: we found a perfectly lovely and livable world in the Procyon system. No intelligent life at all, and incredibly fine climate. Pity old FitzMaugham couldn’t have lived to hear about it. Be seeing you soon.
Walton’s hands were still shaking as he pressed the actuator that would let him back into his office. He would have to call another meeting of the section chiefs again, to discuss the best method of presenting this exciting news to the world.
For one thing, they would have to explain away FitzMaugham’s failure to reveal that the X-72 had been sent out over a year ago. That could be easily handled.
Then, there would have to be a careful build-up: descriptions of the new world, profiles of the heroes who had found it, etcetera. Someone was going to have to work out a plan for emigration… unless the resourceful FitzMaugham had already drawn up such a plan and stowed it In Files for just this anticipated day.
And then, perhaps Lamarre could be called back now, and allowed to release his discovery. Plans buzzed in Walton’s mind: in the event that people proved reluctant to leave Earth and conquer an unknown world, no matter how tempting the climate, it might be feasible to dangle immortality before them—to restrict Lamarre’s treatment to volunteer colonists, or something along that line. There was plenty of time to figure that out, Walton thought.
He stepped into his office and locked the door behind him. A glow of pleasure surrounded him; for once it seemed that things were heading in the right direction. He was happy, in a way, that FitzMaugham was no longer in charge. Now, with mankind on the threshold of—
Walton blinked. Did I leave that file drawer open when I left the office? he wondered. He was usually more cautious than that.
The file was definitely open now, as were the two cabinets adjoining it. Numbly he swung the cabinet doors wider, peered into the shadows, groped inside.
The drawers containing the documents pertaining to terraforming and to McLeod’s space drive seemed intact. But the cabinet in which Walton had placed Lamarre’s portfolio—that cabinet was totally empty!
Someone’s been in here, he thought angrily. And then the anger changed to agony as he remembered what had been in Lamarre’s portfolio, and what would happen if that formula were loosed indiscriminately in the world.
IX
The odd part of it, Walton thought, was that there was absolutely nothing he could do.
He could call Sellors and give him a roasting for not guarding his office properly, but that wouldn’t restore the missing portfolio.
He could send out a general alarm, and thereby let the world know that there was such a thing as Lamarre’s formula. That would be catastrophic.
Walton slammed the cabinet shut and spun the lock. Then, heavily, he dropped into his chair and rested his head in his arms. All the jubilation of a few moments before had suddenly melted into dull apprehension.
Suspects? Just two—Lamarre, and Fred. Lamarre because he was obvious; Fred because he was likely to do anything to hurt his brother.
“Give me Sellors in security,” Walton said quietly.
Sellors’ bland face appeared on the screen. He blinked at the sight of Walton, causing Walton to wonder just how ghastly his own appearance was; even with the executive filter touching up the transmitted image, sprucing him up and falsifying him for the public benefit, he probably looked dreadful.
“Sellors, I want you to send out a general order for a Dr. Lamarre. You’ll find his appearance recorded on the entrance tapes for today; he came to see me earlier. The first name is—ah—Elliot. T. Elliot Lamarre, gerontologist. I don’t know where he lives.”
“What should I do when I find him, sir?”