"Well," said Percy, "we're preparing a memorial program for FitzMaugham which will intimate that he was murdered by the Herschelites, who hated him." "Good. What's the slant?" "That he was too easygoing, too humane. We build up the Herschelites as ultrareactionaries who intend to enforce their will on humanity if they get the chance, and imply FitzMaugham was fighting them tooth and nail. We close the show with some shots of you picking up the great man's mantle, etcetera, etcetera. And a short speech from you affirming the basically humanitarian aims of Popeek." Walton smiled approvingly and said, "I like it. When do you want me to do the speech?" "We won't need you," Percy told him. "We've got plenty of stock footage, and we can whip the speech out of some spare syllables you left around." Walton frowned. Too many of the public speeches of the day were synthetic, created by skilled engineers who split words into their component phonemes and reassembled them in any shape they pleased. "Let me check through my speech before you put it over, at least." "Will do. And we'll squash this Herschelite thing right off the bat." Pauline Medhurst squirmed uneasily in her chair. Walton caught the hint and recognized her. "Uh, Roy, I don't know if this is the time or the place, but I got that transfer order of yours, the five doctors...." "You did? Good," Walton said hurriedly. "Have you notified them yet?" "Yes. They seemed unhappy about it." "Refer them to FitzMaugham's book. Tell them they're cogs in a mighty machine, working to save humanity. We can't let personal considerations interefere, Pauline." "If you could only explain why--" "Yeah," interjected Schaunhaft, the clinic coordinator suddenly. "You cleaned out my whole morning lab shift down there. I was wondering--" Walton felt like a stag at bay. "Look," he said firmly, cutting through the hubbub, "_I_ made the transfer. I had reasons for doing it. It's your job to get the five men out where they've been assigned, and to get five new men in here at once. You're not required to make explanations to them--nor I to you." Sudden silence fell over the office. Walton hoped he had not been too forceful, and cast suspicion on his actions by his stiffness. "Whew!" Sue Llewellyn said. "You really mean business!" "I said we were going to run Popeek without a hitch," Walton replied. "Just because you know my first name, that doesn't mean I'm not going to be as strong a director as FitzMaugham was." _Until the UN picks my successor_, his mind added. Out loud he said, "Unless you have any further questions, I'll ask you now to return to your respective sections." He sat slumped at his desk after they were gone, trying to draw on some inner reserve of energy for the strength to go on. One day at the job, and he was tired, terribly tired. And it would be six weeks or more before the United Nations convened to choose the next director of Popeek.