Master of Life and Death. Robert Silverberg

him I’m waiting out here. My presence is important inside.”

      “Sir, Mr. FitzMaugham absolutely forbids anyone to use the annunciator without his acknowledgment,” the girl protested.

      He felt his neck going red. “I’ll take the responsibility.”

      “I’m sorry, sir—”

      “All right. Get away from that machine and let me talk to him. If there are repercussions, tell him I forced you at gunpoint.”

      She backed away, horrified, and he slid in behind the desk. He made contact; there was no acknowledgment. He said, “Mr. FitzMaugham, this is Roy. I’m outside your office now. Should I come in, or not?”

      Silence. He stared thoughtfully at the apparatus.

      “I’m going in there,” he said.

      * * * *

      The door was of solid-paneled imitation wood, a couple of inches thick and probably filled with a good sturdy sheet of beryllium steel. FitzMaugham liked protection.

      Walton contemplated the door for a moment. Stepping into the screener field, he said, “Mr. FitzMaugham? Can you hear me?” In the ensuing silence he went on, “This is Walton. I’m outside with a blaster, and unless I get any orders to the contrary, I’m going to break into your office.”

      Silence. This was very extraordinary indeed. He wondered if it were part of some trap of FitzMaugham’s. Well, he’d find out soon enough. He adjusted the blaster aperture to short-range wide-beam, and turned it on. A soft even flow of heat bathed the door.

      Quite a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered by now, at a respectful distance. Walton maintained the steady heat. The synthetic wood was sloughing away in dribbly blue masses as the radiation broke it down; the sheet of metal in the heart of the door was gleaming bright red.

      The lock became visible now. Walton concentrated the flame there, and the door creaked and groaned.

      He snapped the blaster off, pocketed it, and kicked the door soundly. It swung open.

      He had a momentary glimpse of a blood-soaked white head slumped over a broad desk—and then someone hit him amidships.

      He was a man about his own height, wearing a blue suit woven through with glittering gold threads; Walton’s mind caught the details with odd clarity. The man’s face was distorted with fear and shock, but Walton recognized it clearly enough. The ruddy cheeks, the broad nose and bushy eyebrows, belonged to Ludwig.

      The UN man. The man who had just assassinated Director FitzMaugham.

      He was battering his fists into Walton, struggling to get past him and through the wrecked door, to escape somewhere, anywhere. Walton grunted as a fist crashed into his stomach. He reeled backward, gagging and gasping, but managed to keep his hand on the other’s coat. Desperately he pulled Ludwig to him. In the suddenness of the encounter he had no time to evaluate what had happened, no time to react to FitzMaugham’s murder.

      His one thought was that Ludwig had to be subdued.

      His fist cracked into the other’s mouth; sharp pain shot up through his hand at the impact of knuckles against teeth. Ludwig sagged. Walton realized that he was blocking the doorway; not only was he preventing Ludwig from escaping, he was also making it impossible for anyone outside to come to his own aid.

      Blindly he clubbed his fist down on Ludwig’s neck, spun him around, crashed another blow into the man’s midsection. Suddenly Ludwig pulled away from him and ran back behind the director’s desk.

      Walton followed him ... and stopped short as he saw the UN man pause, quiver tremulously, and topple to the floor. He sprawled grotesquely on the deep beige carpet, shook for a moment, then was still.

      Walton gasped for breath. His clothes were torn, he was sticky with sweat and blood, his heart was pounding from unaccustomed exertion.

      Ludwig’s killed the director, he thought leadenly. And now Ludwig’s dead.

      He leaned against the doorpost. He was conscious of figures moving past him, going into the room, examining FitzMaugham and the figure on the floor.

      “Are you all right?” a crisp, familiar voice asked.

      “Pretty winded,” Walton admitted.

      “Have some water.”

      Walton accepted the drink, gulped it, looked up at the man who had spoken. “Ludwig! How in hell’s name—”

      “A double,” the UN man said. “Come over here and look at him.”

      Ludwig led him to the pseudo-Ludwig on the floor. It was an incredible resemblance. Two or three of the office workers had rolled the body over; the jaws were clenched stiffly, the face frozen in an agonized mask.

      “He took poison,” Ludwig said. “I don’t imagine he expected to get out of here alive. But he did his work well. God, I wish I’d been on time for once in my life!”

      Walton glanced numbly from the dead Ludwig on the floor to the live one standing opposite him. His shocked mind realized dimly what had happened. The assassin, masked to look like Ludwig, had arrived at 1300, and had been admitted to the director’s office. He had killed the old man, and then had remained inside the office, either hoping to make an escape later in the day, or perhaps simply waiting for the poison to take effect.

      “It was bound to happen,” Ludwig said. “They’ve been gunning for the senator for years. And now that Popeek was passed....”

      Walton looked involuntarily at the desk, mirror bright and uncluttered as always. Director FitzMaugham was sprawled forward, hands half-clenched, arms spread. His impressive mane of white hair was stained with his own blood. He had been clubbed—the simplest, crudest sort of murder.

      Emotional reaction began. Walton wanted to break things, to cry, to let off steam somehow. But there were too many people present; the office, once sacrosanct, had miraculously become full of Popeek workers, policemen, secretaries, possibly some telefax reporters.

      Walton recovered a shred of his authority. “All of you, outside!” he said loudly. He recognized Sellors, the building’s security chief, and added, “Except you, Sellors. You can stay here.”

      The crowd melted away magically. Now there were just five in the office—Sellors, Ludwig, Walton, and the two corpses.

      Ludwig said, “Do you have any idea who might be behind this, Mr. Walton?”

      “I don’t know,” he said wearily. “There are thousands who’d have wanted to kill the director. Maybe it was a Herschelite plot. There’ll be a full investigation.”

      “Mind stepping out of the way, sir?” Sellors asked. “I’d like to take some photos.”

      Walton and Ludwig moved to one side as the security man went to work. It was inevitable, Walton thought, that this would happen. FitzMaugham had been the living symbol of Popeek.

      He walked to the battered door, reflecting that he would have it repaired at once. That thought led naturally to a new one, but before it was fully formed in his own mind, Ludwig voiced it.

      “This is a terrible tragedy,” the UN man said. “But one mitigating factor exists. I’m sure Mr. FitzMaugham’s successor will be a fitting one. I’m confident you’ll be able to carry on FitzMaugham’s great work quite capably, Mr. Walton.”