The 1000 edition of _Citizen_ was the last under the old editors. They had received word from Murlin about what had happened, and by 1030, when Walton sent his dismissal notices over, they were already cleaning out their desks.
That 1000 edition was a beauty, though. The lead headline read:
And most of the issue was devoted to inflammatory pro-war anti-Popeek journalism. A full page of "letters from the readers"--actually transcribed phone calls, since few of _Citizen's_ readers were interested in writing letters--echoed the editorial stand. One "letter" in particular caught Walton's attention.
It was from a Mrs. P.F. of New York City Environ, which probably meant Jersey or lower Connecticut, and it was short and to the point:
_Horray for you. Popeek is a damned crime and that Walton criminal ought to be put away and we ought to kill those greenskins up there before they kill us. We gotta have room to live._
_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?"