Kill them before they kill us. Walton snickered. All the old hysterias, the old panic reactions, come boiling up again in times of stress.
He looked at his hand. It was perfectly steady, even though his wrist watch told him Fred would be here in just a few minutes. A week ago, a situation like this would have had him gobbling benzolurethrin as fast as he could unwrap the lozenges.
The ghostly presence of FitzMaugham seemed to hover in the room. The ends justify the means, Walton told himself grimly, as he waited for his brother to arrive.
Fred was dressed completely in black, from his stylish neo-Victorian waistcoat and the bit of ribbon at his throat to the mirror-bright leather pumps on his feet. The splendor of his clothing was curiously at odds with the coarseness of his features and the stockiness of his body.
He walked into Walton's office at the stroke of 1100 and sighed deeply—the sigh of a man about to take permanent possession. "Good morning, Roy. I'm on time, as always."
"And looking radiant, my dear brother." Walton gestured appreciatively at Fred's clothes. "It's been a long time since I've seen you in anything but your lab smock."
"I gave notice at the lab yesterday night after I spoke to you. I'm no longer an employee of Popeek. And I felt I should dress with the dignity suitable to my new rank." He grinned buoyantly. "Well, ready to turn over the orb and scepter, Roy?"
"Not exactly," Walton said.
"But—"