Suddenly, Walton did not like the cheerful UN man.
"There'll be a certain period of adjustment," he repeated. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to answer questions about Popeek."
"Of course. I didn't mean to imply any criticism of you or of the late director or of Popeek, Mr. Walton."
"Naturally. I understand, Mr. Ludwig."
Ludwig took his leave at last, and Walton was alone in the late Mr. FitzMaugham's office for the first time since the assassination. He spread his hands on the highly polished desk and twisted his wrists outward in a tense gesture. His fingers made squeaking sounds as they rubbed the wood surface.
It had been an uneasy afternoon yesterday, after the nightmare of the assassination and the subsequent security inquisition. Walton, wrung dry, had gone home early, leaving Popeek headless for two hours. The newsblares in the jetbus had been programmed with nothing but talk of the killing.
"A brutal hand today struck down the revered D. F. FitzMaugham, eighty-one, Director of Population Equalization. Security officials report definite prospects of solution of the shocking crime, and...."
The other riders in the bus had been vehemently outspoken.
"It's about time they let him have it," a fat woman in sleazy old clothes said. "That baby killer!"
"I knew they'd get him sooner or later," offered a thin, wispy-haired old man. "They had to."