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.”
“Devil with that,” Walton said. “Drop everything and send that ship out now. I’ve got to know what Lang and his crew are up to, and I have to know right away. If we don’t produce a livable Venus, or at least the possibility of one, in a couple of days, we’ll be in for it on all sides.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“You’ll see. Keep an eye on the telefax. I’ll bet the next edition of Citizen is going to be interesting.”
It was.
The glossy sheets of the 1200 Citizen extruded themselves from a million receivers in the New York area, but none of those million copies was as avidly pounced on as was Director Walton’s. He had been hovering near the wall outlet for ten minutes, avidly awaiting the sheet’s arrival.
And he was not disappointed.
The streamer headline ran:
THINGS FROM SPACE NIX BIG POPEEK PLAN
And under it in smaller type:
Greenskinned Uglies Put Feet In Director Walton’s Big Mouth
He smiled grimly and went on to the story, itself. Written in the best approved Citizen journalese, it read:
Fellow human beings, we’ve been suckered again. TheCitizenfound out for sure this morning that the big surprise Popeek’s Interim Director Walton yanked out of his hat last night has a hole in it.
It’s sure dope that there’s a good planet up there in the sky for grabs. The way we hear it, it’s just like earth only prettier, with trees and flowers (remember them?). Our man says the air there is nice and clean. This world sounds okay.
But what Walton didn’t know last night came home to roost today. Seems the folks on the next planet out there don’t want any sloppy old Earthmen messing up their pasture—and so we ain’t going to have any New Earth after all. Wishy-washy Walton is a cinch to throw in the towel now.
More dope in later editions. And check the edit page for extra info.
It was obvious, Walton thought, that the spy pickup which had been planted in his office had been a direct pipe line to the Citizen news desk. They had taken his conversation with McLeod and carefully ground it down into the chatty, informal, colloquial style that made Citizen the world’s most heavily-subscribed telefax service.
He shuddered at what might have happened if they’d had their spy pickup installed a day earlier, and overheard Walton in the process of suppressing Lamarre’s immortality serum. There would have been a lynch mob storming theCullenBuilding ten minutes after the Citizen hit the waves with its expose.
Not that he was much better off now. He no longer had the advantage of secrecy to cloak his actions, and public officials who were compelled to conduct business in the harsh light of public scrutiny generally didn’t hold their offices for long.
He turned the sheet over and searched for the editorial column, merely to confirm his expectations.
It was captioned in bold black:
ARE WE PATSIES FOR GREENSKINS?
And went on to say:
Non-human beings have said “Whoa!” to our plans for opening up a new world in space. These aliens have put thumbs down on colonization of the New Earth discovered by Colonel Leslie McLeod.
Aside from the question of why Popeek kept word of the McLeod expedition from the public so long, there is this to consider— will we take this lying down?
We’ve got to find space for us to live. New Earth is a good place. The answer to the trouble is easy: we take New Earth. If the greenskins don’t like it, bounce ‘em!
How about it? What do we do? Mr. Walton, we want to know. What goes?
It was an open exhortation to interstellar warfare. Dispiritedly, Walton let the telefax sheets skitter to the floor, and made no move to pick them up.
War with the Dirnans? If Citizen had its way, there would be. The telefax sheet would remorselessly stir the people up until the cry for war was unanimous.
Well, thought Walton callously, a good war would reduce the population surplus. The idiots!
He caught the afternoon newsblares. They were full of the Citizen break, and one commentator made a point-blank demand that Walton either advocate war with the Dirnans or resign.
Not long afterward, UN delegate Ludwig called.
“Some hot action over here today,” he told Walton. “After that Citizen thing got out, a few of the Oriental delegates started howling for your scalp on sixteen different counts of bungling. What’s going on, Walton?”
“Plenty of spy activity, for one thing. The main problem, though, is the nucleus of incompetent assistants surrounding me. I think I’m going to reduce the local population personally before the day is out. With a blunt instrument, preferably.”
“Is there any truth in the Citizen story?”
“Hell, yes!” Walton exclaimed. “For once, it’s gospel! An enterprising telefax man rigged a private pipeline into my office last night and no one caught it until it was too late. Sure, those aliens are holding out. They don’t want us coming up there.”
Ludwig chewed at his lip. “You have any plans?”
“Dozens of them. Want some, cheap?” He laughed, a brittle, unamused laugh.
“Seriously, Roy. You ought to go on the air again and smooth this thing over. The people are yelling for war with these Dirnans, and half of us over here at the UN aren’t even sure the damned creatures exist. Couldn’t you fake it up a little?”
“No,” Walton said. “There’s been enough faking. I’m going on the air with the truth for a change! Better have all your delegates over there listening in, because their ears are in for an opening.”
As soon as he was rid of Ludwig he called Lee Percy.
“That program on the conquest of space is almost ready to go,” the public relations man informed him.
“Kill it. Have you seen the noon Citizen?”
“No; been too busy on the new program. Anything big?”
Walton chuckled. “Fairly big. The Citizen just yanked the rug out from under everything. We’ll probably be at war with Procyon IX by sundown. I want you to buy me air space on every medium for the 1900 spot tonight.”
“Sure thing. What kind of speech you want us to cook up?”
“None at all,” Walton said. “I’m going to speak off the cuff for a change. Just buy the time for me, and squeeze the budget for all it’s worth.”
XIII
The bright light of the video cameras flooded the room. Percy had done a good job; there was a representative from every network, every telefax, every blare of any sort at all. The media had been corralled. Walton’s words would echo round the world.