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diff --git a/old/30339-0.txt b/old/30339-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b02ae0 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/30339-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4018 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Status Quo by Dallas McCord Reynolds + + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no +restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under +the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or +online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license + + + +Title: Status Quo + +Author: Dallas McCord Reynolds + +Release Date: October 26, 2009 [Ebook #30339] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STATUS QUO*** + + + + + + Status Quo + + by Dallas McCord Reynolds + + Illustrated by John Schoenherr + + Analog Science Fact & Fiction + + August 1961 + + + + + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This text was produced from Analog Science Fact & +Fiction August 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that +the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + +In his income bracket and in the suburb in which he lived, government +employees in the twenty-five to thirty-five age group were currently +wearing tweeds. Tweeds were in. Not to wear tweeds was Non-U. + +Lawrence Woolford wore tweeds. His suit, this morning, had first seen the +light of day on a hand loom in Donegal. It had been cut by a Swede widely +patronized by serious young career men in Lawrence Woolford’s status +group; English tailors were out currently and Italians unheard of. + +Woolford sauntered down the walk before his auto-bungalow, scowling at the +sportscar at the curb—wrong year, wrong make. He’d have to trade it in on +a new model. Which was a shame in a way, he liked the car. However, he had +no desire to get a reputation as a weird among colleagues and friends. +What was it Senator Carey MacArthur had said the other day? Show me a +weird and I’ll show you a person who has taken the first step toward being +a Commie. + +Woolford slid under the wheel, dropped the lift lever, depressed gently +the thrust pedal and took off for downtown Greater Washington. +Theoretically, he had another four days of vacation coming to him. He +wondered what the Boss wanted. That was the trouble in being one of the +Boss’ favorite trouble shooters, when trouble arose you wound up in the +middle of it. Lawrence Woolford was to the point where he was thinking in +terms of graduating out of field work and taking on a desk job which meant +promotion in status and pay. + +He turned over his car to a parker at the departmental parking lot and +made his way through the entrance utilized by second-grade departmental +officials. In another year, he told himself, he’d be using that other +door. + +The Boss’ reception secretary looked up when Lawrence Woolford entered the +anteroom where she presided. “Hello, Larry,” she said. “Hear they called +your vacation short. Darn shame.” + +LaVerne Polk was a cute little whizz of efficiency. Like Napoleon and his +army, she knew the name of every member of the department and was on a +first-name basis with all. However, she was definitely a weird. For +instance, styles might come and styles might go, but LaVerne dressed for +comfort, did her hair the way she thought it looked best, and wore +low-heeled walking shoes on the job. In fact, she was ready and willing to +snarl at anyone, no matter how kindly intentioned, who even hinted that +her nonconformity didn’t help her promotion prospects. + +Woolford said, “Hi, LaVerne. I think the Boss is expecting me.” + +“That he is. Go right in, Larry.” + +She looked after him when he turned and left her desk. Lawrence Woolford +cut a pleasant figure as thirty year old bachelors go. + +The Boss looked up from some report on his desk which he’d been frowning +at, nodded to his field man and said, “Sit down, Lawrence. I’ll be with +you in a minute. Please take a look at this while you’re waiting.” He +handed over a banknote. + +Larry Woolford took it and found himself a comfortable chair. He examined +the bill, front and back. It was a fifty dollar note, almost new. + +Finally the Boss, a stocky but impeccable career bureaucrat of the +ultra-latest school, scribbled his initials on the report and tossed it +into an Out chute. He said to Woolford, “I am sorry to cut short your +vacation, Lawrence. I considered giving Walter Foster the assignment, but +I think you’re the better choice.” + +Larry decided the faint praise routine was the best tactic, said earnestly +about his closest rival. “Walt’s a good man, sir.” And then, “What’s the +crisis?” + +“What do you think of that fifty?” + +His trouble shooter looked down at it. “What is there to think about it?” + +The Boss grunted, slid open a desk drawer and brought forth another bill. +“Here, look at this, please.” + +It was another fifty. Larry Woolford frowned at it, not getting whatever +was going on. + +“Observe the serial numbers,” the Boss said impatiently. + +They were identical. + +Woolford looked up. “Counterfeit. Which one is the bad one?” + +“That is exactly what we would like to know,” the Boss said. + +Larry Woolford stared at his superior, blinked and then examined the bills +again. “A beautiful job,” he said, “but what’s it got to do with us, sir? +This is Secret Service jurisdiction, counterfeiting.” + +“They called us in on it. They think it might have international +ramifications.” + +Now they were getting somewhere. Larry Woolford put the two bills on the +Boss’ desk and leaned back in his chair, waiting. + +His superior said, “Remember the Nazis turning out American and British +banknotes during the Second War?” + +“I was just a kid.” + +“I thought you might have read about it. At any rate, obviously a +government—with all its resources—could counterfeit perfectly any currency +in the world. It would have the skills, the equipment, the funds to +accomplish the task. The Germans turned out hundreds of millions of +dollars and pounds with the idea of confounding the Allied financial +basics.” + +“And why didn’t it work?” + +“The difficulty of getting it into circulation, for one thing. However, +they did actually use a quantity. For a time our people were so alarmed +that they wouldn’t allow any bills to come into this country from Mexico +except two-dollar denomination—the one denomination the Germans hadn’t +bothered to duplicate. Oh, they had the Secret Service in a dither for a +time.” + +Woolford was frowning. “What’s this got to do with our current situation?” + +The Boss said, “It is only a conjecture. One of those bills is counterfeit +but such an excellent reproduction that the skill involved is beyond the +resources of any known counterfeiter. Secret Service wants to know if it +might be coming from abroad, and, if so, from where. If it’s a +governmental project, particularly a Soviet Complex one, then it comes +into the ken of our particular cloak-and-dagger department.” + +“Yes, sir.” Woolford said. He got up and examined the two bills again. +“How’d they ever detect that one was bad?” + +“Pure fortune. A bank clerk with an all but eidetic memory was going +through a batch of fifties. It’s not too commonly used a denomination, you +know. Coincidence was involved since in that same sheaf the serial number +was duplicated.” + +“And then?” + +“The reproduction was so perfect that Secret Service was in an immediate +uproar. Short of the Nazi effort, there has never been anything like it. A +perfect duplication of engraving and paper identically the same. The +counterfeiters have even evidently gone to the extent of putting a certain +amount of artificial wear on the bills before putting them into +circulation.” + +Larry Woolford said, “This is out of my line. How were they able to check +further, and how many more did they turn up?” + +“The new I.B.M. sorters help. Secret Service checked every fifty dollar +bill in every institution in town both banking and governmental. Thus far, +they have located ten bills in all.” + +“And other cities?” + +“None. They’ve all been passed in Greater Washington, which is suspicious +in itself. The amount of expense that has gone into the manufacture of +these bills does not allow for only a handful of them being passed. They +should be turning up in number. Lawrence, this reproduction is such that a +pusher could walk into a bank and have his false currency changed by any +clerk.” + +“Wow,” Larry whistled. + +“Indeed.” + +“So you want me to work with Secret Service on this on the off chance that +the Soviet Complex is doing us deliberate dirt.” + +“That is exactly the idea, Lawrence. Get to work, please, and keep in +touch with me. If you need support, I can assign Walter Foster or some of +the other operatives to assist you. This might have endless +ramifications.” + + ------------------------------------- + +Back in the anteroom, Woolford said to the Boss’ receptionist, “I’m on a +local job, LaVerne, how about assigning me a girl?” + +“Can do,” she said. + +“And, look, tell her to get hold of every available work on counterfeiting +and pile it on my desk.” + +“Right. Thinking of going into business, Larry?” + +He grinned down at her. “That’s the idea. Keeping up with the Jones clan +in this man’s town costs roughly twice my income.” + +LaVerne said disapprovingly, “Then why not give it up? With the +classification you’ve got a single man ought to be able to save half his +pay.” She added, more quietly, “Or get married and support a family.” + +“Save half my pay?” Larry snorted. “And get a far out reputation, eh? No +thanks, you can’t afford to be a weird these days.” + +She flushed—and damn prettily, Larry Woolford decided. She could be an +attractive item if it wasn’t for obviously getting her kicks out of being +individualistic. + +Larry said suddenly, “Look, promise like a good girl not to make us +conspicuous and I’ll take you to the Swank Room for dinner tonight.” + +“Is that where all the bright young men currently have to be seen once or +twice a week?” she snapped back at him. “Get lost, Larry. Being a healthy, +normal woman I’m interested in men, but not necessarily in walking +status-symbols.” + +It was his turn to flush, and, he decided wryly, he probably didn’t do it +as prettily as she did. + +On his way to his office, he wondered why the Boss kept her on. +Classically, a secretary-receptionist should have every pore in place, but +in her time LaVerne Polk must have caused more than one bureaucratic +eyebrow to raise. Efficiency was probably the answer; the Boss couldn’t +afford to let her go. + +Larry Woolford’s office wasn’t much more than a cubicle. He sat down at +the desk and banged a drawer or two open and closed. He liked the work, +liked the department, but theoretically he still had several days of +vacation and hated to get back into routine. + +Had he known it, this was hardly going to be routine. + +He flicked the phone finally and asked for an outline. He dialed three +numbers before getting his subject. The phone screen remained blank. + +“Hans?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.” + +The Teutonic accent was heavy, the voice bluff. “Ah, Larry! you need some +assistance to make your vacation? Perhaps a sinister, exotic young lady, +complete with long cigarette holder?” + +Larry Woolford growled, “How’d you know I was on vacation?” + +The other laughed. “You know better than to ask that, my friend.” + +Larry said, “The vacation is over, Hans. I need some information.” + +The voice was more guarded now. “I owe you a favor or two.” + +“Don’t you though? Look, Hans, what’s new in the Russkie camp?” + +The heartiness was gone. “How do you mean?” + +“Is there anything big stirring? Is there anyone new in this country from +the Soviet Complex?” + +“Well now—” the other’s voice drifted away. + +Larry Woolford said impatiently, “Look, Hans, let’s don’t waste time +fencing. You run a clearing agency for, _ah_, information. You’re strictly +a businessman, nonpartisan, so to speak. Fine, thus far our department has +tolerated you. Perhaps we’ll continue to. Perhaps the reason is that we +figure we get more out of your existence than we lose. The Russkies +evidently figure the same way, the proof being that you’re alive and have +branches in the capitals of every power on Earth.” + +“All right, all right,” the German said. “Let me think a moment. Can you +give me an idea of what you’re looking for?” There was an undernote of +interest in the voice now. + +“No. I just want to know if you’ve heard anything new anti-my-side, from +the other side. Or if you know of any fresh personnel recently from +there.” + +“Frankly, I haven’t. If you could give me a hint.” + +“I can’t,” Larry said. “Look, Hans, like you say, you owe me a favor or +two. If something comes up, let me know. Then I’ll owe you one.” + +The voice was jovial again. “It’s a bargain, my friend.” + +After Woolford had hung up, he scowled at the phone. He wondered if Hans +Distelmayer was lying. The German commanded the largest professional spy +ring in the world. It was possible, but difficult, for anything in +espionage to develop without his having an inkling. + +The phone rang back. It was Steve Hackett of Secret Service on the screen. + +Hackett said, “Woolford, you coming over? I understand you’ve been +assigned to get in our hair on this job.” + +“Huh,” Larry grunted. “The way I hear it, your whole department has given +up, so I’m assigned to help you out of your usual fumble-fingered +confusion.” + +Hackett snorted. “At any rate, can you drop over? I’m to work in liaison +with you.” + +“Coming,” Larry said. He hung up, got to his feet and headed for the door. +If they could crack this thing the first day, he’d take up that vacation +where it’d been interrupted and possibly be able to wangle a few more days +out of the Boss to boot. + +At this time of day, parking would have been a problem, in spite of +automation of the streets. He left his car in the departmental lot and +took a cab. + + ------------------------------------- + +The Counterfeit Division of the Secret Service occupied an impressive +section of an impressive governmental building. Larry Woolford flashed his +credentials here and there, explained to guards and receptionists here and +there, and finally wound up in Steve Hackett’s office which was all but a +duplicate of his own in size and decor. + +Steve Hackett himself was a fairly accurate carbon copy of Woolford, +barring facial resemblance alone. The fact was, Steve was almost +Lincolnesque in his ugliness. Career man, about thirty, good university, +crew cut, six foot, one hundred and seventy, earnest of eye. He wore +Harris tweed. Larry Woolford made a note of that; possibly herringbone was +coming back in. He winced at the thought of a major change in his +wardrobe; it’d cost a fortune. + +They’d worked on a few cases together before when Steve Hackett had been +assigned to the presidential bodyguard and co-operated well. + +Steve came to his feet and shook hands. “Thought that you were going to be +down in Florida bass fishing this month. You like your work so well you +can’t stay away, or is it a matter of trying to impress your chief?” + +Larry growled, “Fine thing. Secret Service bogs down and they’ve got to +call me in to clean up the mess.” + +Steve motioned him to a chair and immediately went serious. “Do you know +anything about pushing queer, Woolford?” + +“That means passing counterfeit money, doesn’t it? All I know is what’s +in the TriD crime shows.” + +“I can see you’re going to be a lot of help. Have you got anywhere at all +on the possibility that the stuff might be coming from abroad?” + +“Nothing positive,” Larry said. “Are you people accomplishing anything?” + +“We’re just getting underway. There’s something off-trail about this deal, +Woolford. It doesn’t fit into routine.” + +Larry Woolford said, “I wouldn’t think so if the stuff is so good not even +a bank clerk can tell the difference.” + +“That’s not what I’m talking about now. Let me give you a run down on +standard counterfeiting.” The Secret Service agent pushed back in his +swivel chair, lit a cigarette, and propped his feet onto the edge of a +partly open desk drawer. “Briefly, it goes like this. Some smart lad gets +himself a set of plates and a platen press and—” + +Larry interrupted, “Where does he get the plates?” + +“That doesn’t matter now,” Steve said. “Various ways. Maybe he makes them +himself, sometimes he buys them from a crooked engraver. But I’m talking +about pushing green goods once it’s printed. Anyway, our friend runs off, +say, a million dollars worth of fives. But he doesn’t try to pass them +himself. He wholesales them around netting, say, fifty thousand dollars. +In other words, he sells twenty dollars in counterfeit for one good +dollar.” + +Larry pursed his lips. “Quite a discount.” + +“Um-m-m. But that’s safest from his angle. The half dozen or so +distributors he sold it to don’t try to pass it either. They also are +playing it carefully. They peddle it, at say ten to one, to the next rung +down the ladder.” + +“And these are the fellows that pass it, eh?” + +“Not even then, usually. These small timers take it and pass it on at five +to one to the suckers in the trade, who take the biggest risks. Most of +these are professional pushers of the queer, as the term goes. Some, +however, are comparative amateurs. Sailors for instance, who buy with the +idea of passing it in some foreign port where seamen’s money flows fast.” + +Larry Woolford shifted in his chair. “So what are you building up to?” + +Steve Hackett rubbed the end of his pug nose with a forefinger in quick +irritation. “Like I say, that’s standard counterfeit procedure. We’re all +set up to meet it, and do a pretty good job. Where we have our +difficulties is with amateurs.” + +Woolford scowled at him. + +Hackett said, “Some guy who makes and passes it himself, for instance. +He’s unknown to the stool pigeons, has no criminal record, does up +comparatively small amounts and dribbles his product onto the market over +a period of time. We had one old devil up in New York once who actually +_drew_ one dollar bills. He was a tremendous artist. It took us years to +get him.” + +Larry Woolford said, “Well, why go into all this? We’re hardly dealing +with amateurs now.” + +Steve looked at him. “That’s the trouble. We are.” + +“Are you batty? Not even your own experts can tell this product from real +money.” + +“I didn’t say it was being _made_ by amateurs. It’s being _pushed_ by +amateurs—or maybe amateur is the better word.” + +“How do you know?” + +“For one thing, most professionals won’t touch anything bigger than a +twenty. Tens are better, fives better still. When you pass a fifty, the +person you give it to is apt to remember where he got it.” Steve Hackett +said slowly, “Particularly if you give one as a tip to the _maître +d’hôtel_ in a first-class restaurant. A _maître d’_ holds his job on the +strength of his ability to remember faces and names.” + + [Illustration.] + +“What else makes you think your pushers are amateurs?” + +“Amateur,” Hackett corrected. “Ideally, a pusher is an inconspicuous type. +The kind of person whose face you’d never remember. It’s never a teenage +girl who’s blowing money.” + +It was time to stare now, and Larry Woolford obliged. “A teenager!” + +“We’ve had four descriptions of her, one of them excellent. Fredrick, the +_maître d’_ over at La Calvados, is the one that counts, but the others +jibe. She’s bought perfume and gloves at Michel Swiss, the swankiest shop +in town, a dress at Chez Marie—she passed three fifties there—and a hat at +Paulette’s over on Monroe Street. + +“That’s another sign of the amateur, by the way. A competent pusher buys a +small item and gets change from his counterfeit bill. Our girl’s been +buying expensive items, obviously more interested in the product than in +her change.” + +“This doesn’t seem to make much sense,” Larry Woolford protested. “You +have any ideas at all?” + +“The question is,” Hackett said, “where did she get it? Is she connected +with one of the embassies and acquired the stuff overseas? If so, that +puts it in your lap again possibly—” + +The phone rang and Steve flicked the switch and grumbled, “Yeah? Steven +Hackett speaking.” + +He listened for a moment then banged the phone off and jumped to his feet. +“Come on, Larry,” he snapped. “This is it.” + +Larry stood, too. “Who was that?” + +“Fredrick, over at La Calvados. The girl has come in for lunch. Let’s go!” + + ------------------------------------- + +La Calvados was the swankiest French restaurant in Greater Washington, a +city not devoid of swank restaurants. Only the upper-echelons in +governmental circles could afford its tariffs; the clientele was more apt +to consist of business mucky-mucks and lobbyists on the make. Larry +Woolford had eaten here exactly twice. You could get a reputation spending +money far beyond your obvious pay status. + +Fredrick, the _maître de hôtel_, however, was able to greet them both by +name. “Monsieur Hackett, Monsieur Woolford,” he bowed. He obviously didn’t +approve of La Calvados being used as a hangout where counterfeiters were +picked up the authorities. + +“Where is she?” Steve said, looking out over the public dining room. + +Fredrick said, unprofessionally agitated, “See here, Monsieur Hackett, you +didn’t expect to, ah, arrest the young lady _here_ during our lunch hour?” + +Steve looked at him impatiently. “We don’t exactly beat them over the head +with blackjacks, slip the bracelets on and drag them screaming to the +paddywagon.” + +“Of course not, monsieur, but—” + +Larry Woolford’s chief dined here several times a week and was probably on +the best of terms with Fredrick whose decisions on tables and whose degree +of servility had a good deal of influence on a man’s status in Greater +Washington. Larry said wearily, “We can wait until she leaves. Where is +she?” + +Fredrick had taken them to one side. + +“Do you see the young lady over near the window on the park? The rather +gauche appearing type?” + +It was a teenager, all right. A youngster up to her eyebrows in the +attempt to project sophistication. + +Steve said, “Do you know who she is?” + +“No,” Fredrick said. “Hardly our usual clientele.” + +“Oh?” Larry said. “She looks like money.” + +Fredrick said, “The dress appears as though it is of Chez Marie, but she +wears it as though it came from Klein’s. Her perfume is Chanel, but she +has used approximately three times the quantity one would expect.” + +“That’s our girl, all right,” Steve murmured. “Where can we keep an eye on +her until she leaves?” + +“Why not at the bar here, Messieurs?” + +“Why not?” Larry said. “I could use a drink.” + +Fredrick cleared his throat. “Ah, Messieurs, that fifty I turned over you. +I suppose it turned out to be spurious?” + +Steve grinned at him. “Afraid so, Fredrick. The department is holding it.” + +Larry took out his wallet. “However, we have a certain leeway on expenses +on this assignment and appreciate your co-operation.” He handed two +twenties and a ten to the _maître d’_. Fredrick bowed low, the money +disappearing into his clothes magically. “_Merci bien_, monsieur.” + +At the bar, Steve scowled at his colleague. “Ha!” he said. “Why didn’t I +think of that first? He’ll get down on his knees and bump his head each +time he sees you in the joint from now on.” + +Larry Woolford waggled a finger at the other. “This is a status conscious +town, my boy. Prestige means everything. When I take over my Boss’ job, +maybe we can swing a transfer and I’ll give you a position suitable to +your attainments.” He pursed his lips judiciously. “Although, come to +think of it, that might mean a demotion from the job you’re holding now.” + +“Vodka martini,” Steve told the bartender. “Polish vodka, of course.” + +“Of course, sir.” + +Larry said, “Same for me.” + +The bartender left and Steve muttered, “I hate vodka.” + +“Yeah,” Larry said, “But what’re you going to do in a place like this, +order some weird drink?” + +Steve dug into his pocket for money. “We’re not going to have to drink +them. Here she comes.” + +She walked with her head held high, hauteur in every step. Ignoring the +peasants at the tables she passed. + +“Holy smokes,” Steve grunted. “It’s a wonder Fredrick let her in.” + +She hesitated momentarily before the doorway of the prestige restaurant +allowing the passers-by to realize she’d just emerged, and then turned to +her right to promenade along the shopping street. + +Fifty feet below La Calvados, Steve said, “Let’s go, Woolford.” + +One stepped to one elbow, the other to the other. Steve said quietly, “I +wonder if we could ask you a few questions?” + +Her eyebrows went up, “I _beg_ your pardon!” + +Steve sighed and displayed the badge pinned to his wallet, keeping it +inconspicuous. “Secret Service, Miss,” he murmured. + +“Oh, devil,” she said. She looked up at Larry Woolford, and then back at +Steve. + +Steve said, “Among other things, we’re in charge of counterfeit money.” + +She was about five foot four in her heels, had obviously been on a round +of beauty shops and had obviously instructed them to glamorize her. It +hadn’t come off. She still looked as though she’d be more at home as +cheerleader of the junior class in small town high school. She was honey +blond, green-blue of eye, and had that complexion they seldom carry even +into the twenties. + +“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her chin began to tremble. + +Larry said gently, “Don’t worry. We just want to ask you some questions.” + +“Well ... like what?” She was going to be blinking back tears in a moment. +At least Larry hoped she’d blink them back. He’d hate to have her start +howling here in public. + +Larry said, “We think you can be of assistance to the government, and we’d +like your help.” + +Steve rolled his eyes upward, but turned and waved for a street level cab. + +In the cab, Larry said, “Suppose we go over to my office, Steve?” + +“O.K. with me,” Steve muttered, “but by the looks of the young lady here, +I think it’s a false alarm from your angle. She’s obviously an American. +What’s your name, Miss?” + +“It’s Zusanette. Well, really, Susan.” + +“Susan what?” + +“I ... I’m not sure I want to tell you. I ... I want a lawyer.” + +“A lawyer!” Steve snorted. “You mean you want the juvenile authorities, +don’t you?” + +“Oh, what a mean thing to say,” she sputtered. + + ------------------------------------- + +In the corridor outside the Boss’ suite of offices, Larry said to Steve, +“You take Miss ... ah, Zusanette to my office, will you Steve. I’ll be +there in a minute.” + +He opened the door to the anteroom and said, “LaVerne, we’ve got a girl in +my office—” + +“Why, Larry!” + +He glowered at her. “A suspect. I want a complete tape of everything said. +As soon as we’re through, have copies made, at least three or four.” + +“And, who, Mr. Woolford, was your girl Friday last year?” + +“This is important, honey. I suppose you’ve supplied me with a secretary +but I haven’t even met her yet. Take care of it, will you?” + +“Sure enough, Larry.” + +He followed Steve and the girl to his office. + +Once seated, the girl and Steve in the only two extra chairs the cubicle +boasted and Larry behind his desk, he looked at her in what he hoped was +reassurance. “Just tell us where you got the money, Zusanette.” + +Steve reached out a hand suddenly and took her bag from her lap. She +gasped and snatched at it, but he eluded her and she sat back, her chin +trembling again. + +Steve came up with a thick sheaf of bills, the top ones, at least, all +fifties and tossed them to Larry’s desk. He took out a school pass and +read, “Susan Self, Elwood Avenue.” He looked up at Larry and said, “That’s +right off Eastern, near Paterson Park in the Baltimore section of town, +isn’t it?” + +Larry said to her, “Zusanette, I think you’d better tell us where you got +all this money.” + +“I found it,” she said defiantly. “You can’t do anything to me if I simply +found it. Anybody can find money. Finders keepers—” + +“But if it’s counterfeit,” Steve interrupted dryly, “it might also be, +finders weepers.” + +“Where did you find it, Zusanette?” Larry said gently. + +She tightened her lips, and the trembling of her chin disappeared. “I ... +I can’t tell you that. But it’s not counterfeit. Daddy ... my father said +it was as good as any money the government prints.” + +“That it is,” Steve said sourly. “But it’s still counterfeit, which makes +it very illegal indeed to spend, Miss Self.” + +She looked from one of them to the other, not clear about her position. +She said to Larry, “You mean it’s not _real_ money?” + +He kept his tone disarming, but shook his head, “I’m afraid not, +Zusanette. Now, tell us, where did you find it?” + +“I can’t. I promised” + +“I see. Then you don’t know to whom it originally belonged?” + +“It didn’t belong to anybody.” + +Steve Hackett made with a disbelieving whistle. He was taking the part of +the tough, suspicious cop; Larry the part of the understanding, +sympathetic officer, trying to give the suspect a break. + +Susan Self turned quickly on Steve. “Well, it didn’t. You don’t even +know.” + +Larry said, “I think she’s telling the truth, Steve. Give her a chance. +She’s playing fair.” He looked back at the girl, and frowned his +puzzlement. “All money belongs to _somebody_ doesn’t it?” + +She had them now. She said superiorly. “Not necessarily to some_body_. It +can belong to, like, an organization.” + +Steve grunted skepticism. “I think we ought to arrest her,” he said. + +Larry held up a hand, his face registering opposition. “I’ll handle this,” +he said sharply. “Zusanette is doing everything she can to co-operate.” He +turned back to the girl. “Now, the question is, what organization did this +money belong to?” + +She looked triumphantly at Steve Hackett. “It belonged to the Movement.” + +They both looked at her. + +Steve said finally, “What movement?” + +She pouted in thought. “That’s the only name they call it.” + +“Who’s they?” Steve snapped nastily. + +“I ... I don’t know.” + +Larry said, “Well, you already told us your father was a member, +Zusanette.” + +Her eyes went wide. “I did? I shouldn’t have said that.” But she evidently +took him at his word. + +Larry said encouragingly, “Well, we might as well go on. Who else is a +member of this Movement besides your father?” + +She shifted in her chair uncomfortably. “I don’t know any of their names.” + +Steve looked down at the school pass in his hands. He said to Larry, “I’d +better make a phone call.” + +He left. + + ------------------------------------- + +Larry said, “Don’t worry about him, Zusanette. Now then, this _movement_. +That’s kind of a funny name, isn’t it? What does it mean?” + +She was evidently glad that the less than handsome Steve Hackett had left +the room. Her words flowed more freely. “Well, Daddy says that they call +it the Movement rather than a revolution....” + +An ice cube manifested itself in the stomach of Lawrence Woolford. + +“... Because people get conditioned, like, to words. Like revolution. +Everybody is against the word because they all think of killing and +everything, and, Daddy says, there doesn’t have to be any shooting or +killing or anything like that at all. It just means a fundamental change +in society. And, Daddy says, take the word propaganda. Everybody’s got to +thinking that it automatically means lies, but it doesn’t at all. It just +means, like, the arguments you use to convince people that what you stand +for is right and it might be lies or it might not. And, Daddy says, take +the word socialism. So many people have the wrong idea of what it means +that the socialists ought to scrap the word and start using something else +to mean what they stand for.” + +Larry said gently, “Your father is a socialist?” + +“Oh, no.” + +He nodded in understanding. “Oh, a Communist, eh?” + +Susan Self was indignant. “Daddy thinks the Communists are strictly awful, +really weird.” + +Steve Hackett came back into the office. He said to Larry, “I sent a +couple of the boys out to pick him up.” + +Susan was on her feet, a hand to mouth. “You mean my father! You’re going +to arrest him!” + +Larry said soothingly, “Sit down, Zusanette. There’s a lot of things about +this that I’m sure your father can explain.” He said to Steve, “She tells +me that the money belonged to a movement. A revolutionary movement which +doesn’t use the term revolutionary because people react unfavorably to +that word. It’s not Commie.” + +Susan said indignantly, “It’s American, not anything foreign!” + +Steve growled, “Let’s get back to the money. What’s this movement doing +with a lot of counterfeit bills and where did you find them?” + +She evidently figured she’d gone too far now to take a stand. “It’s not +Daddy’s fault,” she said. “He took me to headquarters twice.” + +“Where’s headquarters?” Larry said trying to keep his voice soothing. + +“Well ... I don’t know. Daddy was awfully silly about it. He tied his +handkerchief around my eyes near the end. But the others complained about +me anyway, and Daddy got awfully mad and said something about the young +people of the country participating in their emancipation and all, but the +others got mad too, and said there wasn’t any kind of help I could do +around headquarters anyway, and I’d be better off in school. Everybody got +awfully mad, but after the second time Daddy promised not to take me to +headquarters any more.” + +“But where did you find the money, Zusannette?” Larry said. + +“At headquarters. There’s tons and tons of it there.” + +Larry cleared his throat and said, “When you say tons and tons, you mean a +great deal of it, eh?” + +She was proudly definite. “I mean tons and tons. A ton is two thousand +pounds.” + +“Look, Zusanette,” Larry said reasonably. “I don’t know how much money +weighs, exactly, but let’s say a pound would be, say, a thousand bills.” +He took up a pencil and scribbled on a pad before him. “A pound of fifties +would be $50,000. Then if you multiply that by 2,000 pounds to make a ton, +you’d have $100,000,000. And you say there’s tons and tons?” + +“And that’s just the fifties,” Susan said triumphantly. “So you can see +the two little packages I picked up aren’t really important at all. It’s +just like I found them.” + +“I don’t think there’s quite a thousand bills in a pound,” Steve said +weakly. + +Larry said, “How much other money is there?” + +“Oh, piles. Whole rooms. Rooms after rooms. And hundred dollar bills, and +twenties, and fives, and tens—” + +Larry said, “Look, Zusanette, I don’t think you’re in any position to be +telling us whoppers. This whole story doesn’t make much sense, does it?” + +Her mouth tightened. “I’m not going to say anything more until Daddy gets +here, anyway,” she said. + +Which was when the phone rang. + +“I have an idea that’s for me,” Steve said. + +The screen lit up and LaVerne Polk said, “Call for Steve Hackett, Larry.” + +Larry pushed the phone around so Steve could look into it. LaVerne flicked +off and was replaced by a stranger in uniform. Steve said, “Yeah?” + +The cop said, “He’s flown the coop, sir. Must have got out just minutes +before we arrived. Couldn’t have taken more than a suitcase. Few papers +scattered around the room he used for an office.” + +Susan gasped, “You mean Daddy?” + +Steve Hackett rubbed a hand over his flattened nose. “Holy Smokes,” he +said. He thanked the cop and flicked off. + +Larry said, “Look Zusanette, everything’s going to be all right. Nothing +will happen to you. You say you managed to pick up two packets of all this +money they have at headquarters. O.K. So you thought it wouldn’t be missed +and you’ve always wanted to spend money the way you see the stars do on +TriD and in the movies.” + +She looked at him, taken back. “How did you know?” + +Larry said dryly, “I’ve always wanted to myself. But I would like to know +one more thing. The Movement. What was it going to do with all this +money?” + +That evidently puzzled her. “The Professor said they were going to spend +it on chorus girls. I guess ... I guess he was joking or something. But +Daddy and I’d just been up to New York and we saw those famous precision +dancers at the New Roxy Theatre and all and then when we got back the +Professor and Daddy were talking and I heard him say it.” + +Steve said, carefully, “Professor who?” + +Susan said, “Just the Professor. That’s all we ever call him.” Her chin +went to trembling still again. + + ------------------------------------- + +Larry summed it up for the Boss later. + +His chief scoffed his disbelief. “The child is full of dreams, Lawrence. +It comes from seeing an over-abundance of these TriD shows. I have a girl +the same age. I don’t know what is happening to the country. They have no +sense of reality.” + +Larry Woolford said mildly, “Well, she might be full of nonsense, but she +did have the fifties, and she’s our only connection with whoever printed +them whether it’s a movement to overthrow the government, or what.” + +The Boss said tolerantly, “Movement, indeed. Obviously, her father +produced them and she purloined a quantity before he was ready to attempt +to pass them. Have you a run down on him yet?” + +“Susan Self says her father, Ernest Self, is an inventor. Steve Hackett is +working on locating him.” + +“He’s an inventor indeed. Evidently, he has invented a perfect +counterfeiting device. However, that is the Secret Service’s headache, not +ours. Do you wish to resume that vacation of yours, Lawrence?” + +His operative twisted his face in a grimace. “Sure, I do, but I’m not +happy about this, sir. What happens if there really is an organization, a +Movement, like she said? That brings it back under our jurisdiction, +anti-subversion.” + +The other shook his head tolerantly. “See here, Lawrence, when you begin +scheming a social revolution you can’t plan on an organization composed of +a small number of persons who keep their existence secret. In spite of +what a good many persons seem to believe, revolutions are not accomplished +by handfuls of conspirators hiding in cellars and eventually overthrowing +society by dramatically shooting the President, or King, or Czar, or +whoever. Revolutions are precipitated by masses of people. People who have +ample cause to be against whatever the current government happens to be. +Usually, they are on the point of actual starvation. Have you ever read +Machiavelli?” + +Niccolo Machiavelli was currently _the thing_ to read. Larry said with a +certain dignity, “I’ve gone through ‘The Prince,’ the ‘Discourses’ and +currently I’m amusing myself with his ‘History of Florence.’ ” + +“Anybody who can amuse himself reading Machiavelli,” the Boss said dryly, +“has a macabre sense of humor. At any rate, what I was alluding to was +where he stated that the Prince cannot rule indefinitely in the face of +the active opposition of his people. Therefore, the people always get a +government that lies within the limits of their tolerance. It may be on +one edge or the other of their limits of tolerance—but it’s always within +their tolerance zone.” + +Larry frowned and said, “Well, what’s your point, sir?” + +The Boss said patiently, “I’m just observing that cultures aren’t +overthrown by little handfuls of secret conspirators. You might eliminate +a few individuals in that manner, in other words change the personnel of +the government, but you aren’t going to alter a socio-economic system. +That can’t be done until your people have been pushed outside their limits +of tolerance. Very well then. A revolutionary organization must get out +and propagandize. It has got to convince the people that they are being +pushed beyond endurance. You have got to get the _masses_ to moving. You +have to give speeches, print newspapers, books, pamphlets, you have got to +send your organizers out to intensify interest in your program.” + +Larry said, “I see what you mean. If this so-called Movement actually +existed it couldn’t expect to get anywhere as long as remained secret.” + +The Boss nodded. “That is correct. The _leaders_ of a revolutionary +movement might be intellectuals, social scientists, scholars—in fact they +usually are—take our own American Revolution with Jefferson, Madison, +Franklin, Washington. Or the French Revolution with Robespierre, Danton, +Marat, Engels and Lenin. All were well educated intellectuals from the +middle class. But the revolution itself, once it starts, comes from below, +from the mass of people pushed beyond tolerance.” + +It came to Lawrence Woolford that his superior had achieved to his +prominent office not through any fluke. He knew what he was talking about. + +The Boss wound it up. “If there was such an organization as this Movement, +then this department would know about it. You don’t keep a revolutionary +movement secret. It doesn’t make sense to even try. Even if it is forced +underground, it makes as much noise as it can.” + +His trouble shooter cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re right, sir.” He +added hesitantly. “We could always give Susan Self a few drops of +Scop-Serum, sir.” + +The Boss scowled disapprovingly. “You know how the Supreme Court ruled on +that, Lawrence. And particularly since the medics revealed its effect on +reducing sexual inhibitions. No, Mr. Hackett and Secret Service will have +to get the truth out of the girl by some other means. At any rate, it is +out of our hands.” + +Larry came to his feet. “Well, then, I’ll resume my vacation, eh?” + +His chief took up a report from his desk an frowned at it, his attention +already passing to other matters. He grunted, “Clear it with LaVerne, +please. Tell her I said to take another week to make up for our intruding +on you in this manner.” + + ------------------------------------- + +In the back of his head, Larry Woolford had misgivings. For one thing, +where had the kid, who on the face of her performance was no great brain +even as sixteen or seventeen old’s go, picked up such ideas as the fact +that people developed prejudices against words like revolution and +propaganda? + +However, he was clear of it now. Let Steve Hackett and his people take +over. He, Lawrence Woolford, was due for a quick return to Astor, Florida +and the bass fishing on the St. John’s River. + +He stopped at LaVerne’s desk and gave her his address to be, now that his +vacation was resumed. + +She said, smiling up at him. “Right. The boss already told me to get in +touch with Secret Service and let them know we’re pulling out. What +happened to Susan Self?” + +Larry looked at her. “How’d you know about Susan?” + +Her tone was deprecating. “Remember? You had me cut some tapes on you and +that hulking Steve Hackett grilling the poor kid.” + +Larry snorted. “Poor kid, yet. With her tastes for living-it-up, and that +father she has, she’ll probably spend the rest of her life getting in +Steve’s hair as a counterfeit pusher.” + +“What are they going to do with her? She’s just a child.” + +The agent shrugged. “I feel sorry for her, too, LaVerne. Steve’s got her +in a suite at the Greater Washington Hilton, until things are cleared up. +They don’t want the newspapers to get wind of this until they’ve got that +inventor father of hers and whatever he’s cooked up to turn out perfect +reproductions of Uncle Sam’s money. Look, I won’t be leaving until +tomorrow. What’d you say we go out on the town tonight?” + +“Why, Larry Woolford! How nice of you to ask me. Poor Little, Non-U me. +What do you have in mind? I understand Mort Lenny’s at one of the night +clubs.” + +Larry winced. “You know what he’s been saying about the administration.” + +She smiled sweetly at him. + +Larry said, “Look, we could take in the Brahms concert, then—” + +“Do you like Brahms? I go for popular music myself. Preferably the sort of +thing they wrote back in the 1930s. Something you can dance to, something +you know the words to. Corny, they used to call it. Remember ‘Sunny Side +of the Street,’ and ‘Just the Way You Look Tonight’.” + +Larry winced again. He said, “Look, I admit, I don’t go for concerts +either but it doesn’t hurt you to—” + +“I know,” she said sweetly. “It doesn’t hurt for a bright young bureaucrat +to be seen at concerts.” + +“How about Dixieland?” he said. “It’s all the thing now.” + +“I like corn. Besides, my wardrobe is all out of style. Paris, London, and +Rome just got in a huddle a couple of weeks ago and antiquated everything +I own. You wouldn’t want to be seen with a girl a few weeks out of date, +would you?” + +“Oh, now, LaVerne, get off my back.” He thought about it. “Look, you must +have _something_ you could wear.” + +“Get out of here, you vacant minded conformist! I _like_ Mort Lenny, he +makes me laugh; I _hate_ vodka martinis, they give me sour stomach; I +don’t _like_ the current women’s styles, nor the men’s either.” LaVerne +spun back to her auto-typer and began to dictate into it. + +Larry glared down at her. “All right. O.K. What _do_ you like?” + +She snapped back irrationally, “I like what _I_ like.” + +He laughed at her in ridicule. + +This time she glared at him. “That makes more sense than you’re capable of +assimilating, Mr. Walking Status Symbol. My likes and dislikes aren’t +dictated by someone else. If I like corny music, I’ll listen to it and the +devil with Brahms or Dixieland or anything else that somebody else tells +me is all the thing!” + +He turned on his heel angrily. “O.K., O.K., it takes all sorts to make a +world, weirds and all.” + +“One more label to hang on people,” she snarled after him. “Everything’s +labels. Be sure and never come to any judgments of your own!” + +What a woman! He wondered why he’d ever bothered to ask her for a date. +There were so many women in this town you waded through them, and here he +was exposing himself to be seen in public with a girl everybody in the +department knew was as weird as they came. It didn’t do your standing any +good to be seen around with the type. He wondered all over again why the +Boss tolerated her as his receptionist-secretary. + +He got his car from the parking lot and drove home at a high level. +Ordinarily, the distance being what it was, he drove in the lower and +slower traffic levels but now his frustration demanded some expression. + + ------------------------------------- + +Back at his suburban auto-bungalow, he threw all except the high priority +switch and went on down into his small second cellar den. He didn’t really +feel like a night on the town anyway. A few vodka martinis under his belt +and he’d sleep late and he wanted to get up in time for an early start for +Florida. Besides, in that respect he agreed with the irritating wench. +Vermouth was never meant to mix with Polish vodka. He wished that Sidecars +would come back. + +In his den, he shucked off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and shuffled +into Moroccan slippers. He went over to his current reading rack and +scowled at the paperbacks there. His culture status books were upstairs +where they could be seen. He pulled out a western, tossed it over to the +cocktail table that sat next to his chair, and then went over to the bar. + +Up above in his living room, he had one of the new autobars. You could +dial any one of more than thirty drinks. Autobars were all the rage. The +Boss had one that gave a selection of a hundred. But what difference did +it make when nobody but eccentric old-timers or flighty blondes drank +anything except vodka martinis? He didn’t like autobars anyway. A well +mixed drink is a personal thing, a work of competence, instinct and art, +not something measured to the drop, iced to the degree, shaken or stirred +to a mathematical formula. + +Out of the tiny refrigerator he brought a four-ounce cube of frozen +pineapple juice, touched the edge with his thumbnail and let the ultra +thin plastic peel away. He tossed the cube into his mixer, took up a +bottle of light rum and poured in about two ounces. He brought an egg from +the refrigerator and added that. An ounce of whole milk followed and a +teaspoon of powdered sugar. He flicked the switch and let the +conglomeration froth together. + +He poured it into a king-size highball glass and took it over to his +chair. Vodka martinis be damned, he liked a slightly sweet long drink. + +He sat down in the chair, picked up the book and scowled at the cover. He +ought to be reading that Florentine history of Machiavelli’s, especially +if the Boss had got to the point where he was quoting from the guy. But +the heck with it, he was on vacation. He didn’t think much of the Italian +diplomat of the Renaissance anyway; how could you be that far back without +being dated? + +He couldn’t get beyond the first page or two. + +And when you can’t concentrate on a Western, you just can’t concentrate. + +He finished his drink, went over to his phone and dialed _Department of +Records_ and then _Information_. When the bright young thing answered, he +said, “I’d like the brief on an Ernest Self who lives on Elwood Avenue, +Baltimore section of Greater Washington. I don’t know his code number.” + +She did things with switches and buttons for a moment and then brought a +sheet from a delivery chute. “Do you want me to read it to you, sir?” + +“No, I’ll scan it,” Larry said. + +Her face faded to be replaced by the brief on Ernest Self. + +It was astonishingly short. _Records_ seemed to have slipped up on this +occasion. A rare occurrence. He considered requesting the full dossier, +then changed his mind. Instead he dialed the number of the _Sun-Post_ and +asked for its science columnist. + +Sam Sokolski’s puffy face eventually faded in. + +Larry said to him sourly, “You drink too much. You can begin to see the +veins breaking in your nose.” + +Sam looked at him patiently. + +Larry said, “How’d you like to come over and toss back a few tonight?” + +“I’m working. I thought you were on vacation.” + +Larry sighed. “I am,” he said. “O.K., so you can’t take a night off and +lift a few with an old buddy.” + +“That’s right. Anything else, Larry?” + +“Yes. Look, have you ever heard of an inventor named Ernest Self?” + +“Sure I’ve heard of him. Covered a hassle he got into some years ago. A +nice guy.” + +“I’ll bet,” Larry said. “What does he invent, something to do with +printing presses, or something?” + +“Printing presses? Don’t you remember the story about him?” + +“Brief me,” Larry said. + +“Well—briefly does it—it got out a couple of years ago that some of our +rocketeers had bought a solid fuel formula from an Italian research outfit +for the star probe project. Paid them a big hunk of Uncle’s change for it. +So Self sued.” + +Larry said, “You’re being _too_ brief. What d’ya mean, he sued? Why?” + +“Because he claimed he’d submitted the same formula to the same agency a +full eighteen months earlier and they’d turned him down.” + +“Had he?” + +“Probably.” + +Larry didn’t get it. “Then why’d they turn him down?” + +Sam said, “Oh, the government boys had a good alibi. Crackpots turn up all +over the place and you have to brush them off. Every cellar scientist who +comes along and says he’s got a new super-fuel developed from old coffee +grounds can’t be given the welcome mat. Something was wrong with his math +or something and they didn’t pay much attention to him. Wouldn’t even let +him demonstrate it. But it was the same formula, all right.” + +Larry Woolford was scowling. “Something wrong with his math? What kind of +a degree does he have?” + +Sam grinned in memory. “I got a good quote on that. He doesn’t have any +degree. He said he’d learned to read by the time he’d reached high school +and since then he figured spending time in classrooms was a matter of +interfering with his education.” + +“No wonder they turned him down. No degree at all. You can’t get anywhere +in science like that.” + +Sam said, “The courts rejected his suit but he got a certain amount of +support here and there. Peter Voss, over at the university, claims he’s +one of the great intuitive scientists, whatever that is, of our +generation.” + +“Who said that?” + +“Professor Voss. Not that it makes any difference what he says. Another +crackpot.” + +After Sam’s less than handsome face was gone from the phone, Larry walked +over to the bar with his empty glass and stared at the mixer for several +minutes. He began to make himself another flip, but cut it short in the +middle, put down the ingredients and went back to the phone to dial +_Records_ again. + +He went through first the brief and then the full dossier on Professor +Peter Luther Voss. Aside from his academic accomplishments, particularly +in the fields of political economy and international law, and the dozen or +so books accredited to him, there wasn’t anything particularly noteworthy. +A bachelor in his fifties. No criminal record of any kind, of course, and +no military career. No known political affiliations. Evidently a strong +predilection for Thorstein Veblen’s theories. And he’d been a friend of +Henry Mencken back when that old nonconformist was tearing down +contemporary society seemingly largely for the fun involved in the +tearing. + +On the face of it, the man was no radical, and the term “crackpot” which +Sam had applied was hardly called for. + +Larry Woolford went back to the bar and resumed the job of mixing his own +version of a rum flip. + +But his heart wasn’t in it. _The Professor_, Susan had said. + + ------------------------------------- + +Before he’d gone to bed the night before, Larry Woolford had ordered a +seat on the shuttle jet for Jacksonville and a hover-cab there to take him +to Astor, on the St. Johns River. And he’d requested to be wakened in +ample time to get to the shuttleport. + +But it wasn’t the saccharine pleasant face of the Personal Service +operator which confronted him when he grumpily answered the phone in the +morning. In fact, the screen remained blank. + +Larry decided that sweet long drinks were fine, but that anyone who took +several of them in a row needed to be candied. He grumbled into the phone, +“All right, who is it?” + +A Teutonic voice chuckled and said, “You’re going to have to decide +whether or not you’re on vacation, my friend. At this time of day, why +aren’t you at work?” + +Larry Woolford was waking up. He said, “What can I do for you, +Distelmayer?” The German merchant-of-espionage wasn’t the type to make +personal calls. + +“Have you forgotten so soon, my friend?” the other chuckled. “It was I who +was going to do you a favor.” He hesitated momentarily, before adding, “In +possible return for future—” + +“Yeah, yeah,” Larry said. He was fully awake now. + +The German said slowly, “You asked if any of your friends from, ah, abroad +were newly in the country. Frol Eivazov has recently appeared on the +scene.” + +Eivazov! In various respects, Larry Woolford’s counterpart. Hatchetman for +the _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_. Woolford had met him on occasion when +they’d both been present at international summit meetings, busily working +at counter-espionage for their respective superiors. Blandly shaking hands +with each other, blandly drinking toasts to peace and international +co-existence, blandly sizing each other up and wondering if it’d ever come +to the point where one would _blandly_ treat the other to a hole in the +head, possibly in some dark alley in Havana or Singapore, Leopoldville or +Saigon. + +Larry said sharply, “Where is he? How’d he get in the country?” + +“My friend, my friend,” the German grunted good-humoredly. “You know +better than to ask the first question. As for the second, Frol’s command +of American-English is at least as good as your own. Do you think his +_Komissiya_ less capable than your own department and unable to do him up +suitable papers so that he could be, perhaps, a ‘returning tourist’ from +Europe?” + +Larry Woolford was impatient with himself for asking. He said now, “It’s +not important. If we want to locate Frol and pick him up, we’ll probably +not have too much trouble doing it.” + +“I wouldn’t think so,” the other said humorously. “Since 1919, when they +were first organized, the so-called Communists in this country, from the +lowest to the highest echelons, have been so riddled with police agents +that a federal judge in New England once refused to prosecute a case +against them on the grounds that the party was a United States government +agency.” + +Larry was in no frame of mind for the other’s heavy humor. “Look, Hans,” +he said, “what I want to know is what Frol is over here for.” + +“Of course you do,” Hans Distelmayer said, unable evidently to keep note +of puzzlement from his voice. “Larry,” he said, “I assume your people know +of the new American underground.” + +“_What_ underground?” Larry snapped. + +The professional spy chief said, his voice strange, “The Soviets seem to +have picked up an idea somewhere, possibly through their membership in +this country, that something is abrewing in the States. That a change is +being engineered.” + +Larry stared at the blank phone screen. + +“What kind of a change?” he said finally. “You mean a change to the Soviet +system?” Surely not even the self-deluding Russkies could think it +possible to overthrow the American socio-economic system in favor of the +Soviet brand. + +“No, no, no,” the German chuckled. “Of course not. It’s not of their +working at all.” + +“Then what’s Frol Eivazov’s interest, if they aren’t engineering it?” + +Distelmayer rumbled his characteristic chuckle with humor. “My dear +friend, don’t be naive. Anything that happens in America is of interest to +the Soviets. There is delicate peace between you now that they have +changed their direction and are occupying themselves largely with the +economic and agricultural development of Asia and such portions of the +world as have come under their hegemony, and while you put all efforts +into modernizing the more backward countries among your satellites.” + +Larry said automatically, “Our allies aren’t satellites.” + +The spy-master went on without contesting the statement. “There is +immediate peace but surely governmental officials on both sides keep +careful watch on the internal developments of the other. True, the current +heads of the Soviet Complex would like to see the governments of all the +Western powers changed—but only if they are changed in the direction of +communism. They are hardly interested in seeing changes made which would +strengthen the West in the, ah, Battle For Men’s Minds.” + +Larry snorted his disgust. “What sort of change in government would +strengthen the United States in—” + +The German interrupted smoothly, “Evidently, that’s what Frol seems to be +here for, Larry. To find out more about this movement and—” + +“This _what_?” Larry blurted. + +“The term seems to be _movement_.” + +Larry Woolford held a long silence before saying, “And Frol is actually +here in this country to buck this ... this movement.” + +“Not necessarily,” the other said impatiently. “He is here to find out +more about it. Evidently Peking and Moscow have heard just enough to make +them nervous.” + +Larry said, “You have anything more, Hans?” + +“I’m afraid that’s about it.” + +“All right,” Larry said. He added absently, “Thanks, Hans.” + +“Thank me some day with deeds, not with words,” the German chuckled. + + ------------------------------------- + +Larry Woolford looked at his watch and grimaced. He was either going to +get going now or forget about doing any fishing in Florida this afternoon. + +Grudgingly, he dialed the phone company’s Personal Service and said to the +impossibly cheerful blonde who answered, “Where can I find Professor Peter +Voss who teaches over at the University in Baltimore? I don’t want to talk +with him, just want to know where he’ll be an hour from now.” + +While waiting for his information, he dressed, deciding inwardly that he +hated his job, the department in which he was employed, the Boss and +Greater Washington. On top of that, he hated himself. He’d already been +taken off this assignment, why couldn’t he leave it lay? + +The blonde rang him back. Professor Peter Voss was at home. He had no +classes today. She gave him the address. + +Larry Woolford raised his car from his auto-bungalow in the Brandywine +suburb and headed northwest at a high level for the old Baltimore section +of the city. + +The Professor’s house, he noted, was of an earlier day and located on the +opposite side of Paterson Park from Elwood avenue, the street on which +Susan Self and her father had resided. That didn’t necessarily hold +significance, the park was a large one and the Professor’s section a +well-to-do neighborhood, while Self’s was just short of a slum these days. + +He brought his car down to street level, and parked before the scholar’s +three-story, brick house. Baltimore-like, it was identical to every other +house in the block; Larry wondered vaguely how anybody ever managed to +find his own place when it was very dark out. + +There was an old-fashioned bell at the side of the entrance and Larry +Woolford pushed it. There was no identification screen in the door, +evidently the inhabitants had to open up to see who was calling, a tiring +chore if you were on the far side of the house and the caller nothing more +than a salesman. + +It was obviously the Professor himself who answered. + +He was in shirtsleeves, tieless and with age-old slippers on his +stockingless feet. He evidently hadn’t bothered to shave this morning and +he held a dog-earred pamphlet in his right hand, his forefinger tucked in +it to mark his place. He wore thick-lensed, gold-rimmed glasses through +which he blinked at Larry Woolford questioningly, without speaking. +Professor Peter Voss was a man in his mid fifties, and, on the face of it, +couldn’t care less right now about his physical appearance. + +A weird, Larry decided immediately. He wondered at the University, one of +the nation’s best, keeping on such a figure. + +“Professor Voss?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.” He brought forth his +identification. + +The Professor blinked down at it. “I see,” he said. “Won’t you come in?” + +The house was old, all right. From the outside, quite acceptable, but the +interior boasted few of the latest amenities which made all the difference +in modern existence. Larry was taken back by the fact that the phone which +he spotted in the _entrada_ hadn’t even a screen—an old model for speaking +only. + +The Professor noticed his glance and said dryly, “The advantages of +combining television and telephone have never seemed valid to me. In my +own home, I feel free to relax, as you can observe. Had I a screen on my +phone, it would be necessary for me to maintain the same appearance as I +must on the streets or before my classes.” + +Larry cleared his throat without saying anything. This was a weird one, +all right. + +The living room was comfortable in a blatantly primitive way. Three or +four paintings on the walls which were probably originals, Larry decided, +and should have been in museums. Not an abstract among them. A Grant Wood, +a Marin, and that over there could only be a Grandma Moses. The sort of +things you might keep in your private den, but hardly to be seen as +culture symbols. + +The chairs were large, of leather, and comfortable and probably belonged +to the period before the Second War. Peter Voss, evidently, was little +short of an exhibitionist. + +The Professor took up a battered humidor. “Cigar?” he said. “Manila. Hard +to get these days.” + +A cigar? Good grief, the man would be offering him a chaw of tobacco next. + +“Thanks, no,” Larry said. “I smoke a pipe.” + +“I see,” the Professor said, lighting his stogie. “Do you really like a +pipe? Personally, I’ve always thought the cigar by far the most +satisfactory method of taking tobacco.” + +What can you say to a question like that? Larry ignored it, as though it +was rhetorical. Actually, he smoked cigarettes in the privacy of his den. +A habit which was on the proletarian side and not consistent with his +status level. + +He said, to get things under way, “Professor Voss, what is an intuitive +scientist?” + +The Professor exhaled blue smoke, shook out the old-time kitchen match +with which he’d lit it, and tossed the matchstick into an ashtray. +“Intuitive scientist?” + +“You once called Ernest Self a great intuitive scientist.” + +“Oh, Self. Yes, indeed. What is he doing these days?” + +Larry said wryly, “That’s what I came to ask you about.” + +The Professor was puzzled. “I’m afraid you came to the wrong place, Mr. +Woolford. I haven’t seen Ernest for quite a time. Why?” + +“Some of his researches seem to have taken him rather far afield. +Actually, I know practically nothing about him. I wonder if you could fill +me in a bit.” + +Peter Voss looked at the ash on the end of his cigar. “I really don’t know +the man that well. He lives across the park. Why don’t—” + +“He’s disappeared,” Larry said. + +The Professor blinked. “I see,” he said. “And in view of the fact that you +are a security officer, I assume under strange circumstances.” Larry +Woolford said nothing and the Professor sank back into his chair and +pursed his lips. “I can’t really tell you much. I became interested in +Self two or three years ago when gathering materials for a paper on the +inadequate manner in which our country rewards its inventors.” + +Larry said, “I’ve heard about his suit against the government.” + +The Professor became more animated. “Ha!” he snorted. “One example among +many. Self is not alone. Our culture is such that the genius is smothered. +The great contributors to our society are ignored, or worse.” + +Larry Woolford was feeling his way. Now he said mildly, “I was under the +impression that American free enterprise gave the individual the best +opportunity to prove himself and that if he had it on the ball he’d get to +the top.” + +“Were you really?” the Professor said snappishly. “And did you know that +Edison died a comparatively poor man with an estate somewhere in the +vicinity of a hundred thousand dollars? An amount that might sound like a +good deal to you or me, but, when you consider his contributions, +shockingly little. Did you know that Eli Whitney realized little, if +anything, from the cotton gin? Or that McCormick didn’t invent the reaper +but gained it in a dubious court victory? Or take Robert Goddard, one of +the best examples of modern times. He developed the basics of rocket +technology—gyroscopic stabilizers, fuel pumps, self-cooling motors, +landing devices. He died in 1945 leaving behind twenty-two volumes of +records that proved priceless. What did he get out of his researches? +Nothing. It was fifteen years later that his widow won her suit against +the government for patent infringements!” + + [Illustration.] + +Larry held up a hand. “Really,” he said. “My interest is in Ernest Self.” + +The Professor relaxed. “Sorry. I’m afraid I get carried away. Self, to get +back to your original question, is a great intuitive scientist. +Unfortunately for him, society being what it is today, he fits into few +grooves. Our educational system was little more than an irritation to him +and consequently he holds no degrees. Needless to say, this interfered +with his gaining employment with the universities and the large +corporations which dominate our country’s research, not to mention +governmental agencies. + +“Ernest Self holds none of the status labels that count. The fact that he +is a genius means nothing. He is supposedly qualified no more than to hold +a janitor’s position in laboratories where his inferiors conduct +experiments in fields where he is a dozenfold more capable than they. No +one is interested in his genius, they want to know what status labels are +pinned to him. Ernest has no respect for labels.” + + ------------------------------------- + +Larry Woolford figured he was picking up background and didn’t force a +change of subject. “Just what do you mean by intuitive scientist?” + +“It’s a term I have used loosely,” the Professor admitted. “Possibly a +scientist who makes a break-through in his field, destroying formerly held +positions—in Self’s case, without the math, without the accepted theories +to back him. He finds something that works, possibly without knowing why +or how and by using unorthodox analytical techniques. An intuitive +scientist, if I may use the term, is a thorn in the side of our +theoretical physicists laden down with their burden of a status label but +who are themselves short of the makings of a Leonardo, a Newton, a +Galileo, or even a Nicholas Christofilos.” + +“I’m afraid that last name escapes me,” Larry said. + +“Similar to Self’s case and Robert Goddard’s,” Voss said, his voice +bitter. “Although his story has a better ending. Christofilos invented the +strong-focusing principle that made possible the multi-billion-volt +particle accelerators currently so widely used in nuclear physics +experimentation. However, he was nothing but a Greek elevator electrical +system engineer and the supposed experts turned him down on the grounds +that his math was faulty. It seems that he submitted the idea in +straight-algebra terms instead of differential equations. He finally won +through after patenting the discovery and rubbing their noses in it. +Previously, none of the physics journals would publish his paper—he didn’t +have the right status labels to impress them.” + +Larry said, almost with amusement, “You seem to have quite a phobia +against the status label, as you call it. However, I don’t see how as +complicated a world as ours could get along without it.” + +The Professor snorted his contempt. “Tell me,” he said, “to which class do +you consider yourself to belong?” + +Larry Woolford shrugged. “I suppose individuals in my bracket are usually +thought of as being middle-middle class.” + +“And you have no feeling of revolt in having such a label hung on you? +Consider this system for a moment. You have lower-lower, middle-lower, and +upper-lower; then you have lower-middle, middle-middle, upper-middle; then +you have lower-upper, middle-upper, and finally we achieve to upper-upper +class. Now tell me, when we get to that rarified category, who do we find? +Do we find an Einstein, a Schweitzer, a Picasso; outstanding scientists, +humanitarians, the great writers, artists and musicians of our day? +Certainly not. We find ultra-wealthy playboys and girls, a former king and +his duchess who eke out their income by accepting fees to attend parties, +the international born set, bearers of meaningless feudalistic titles. +These are your upper-upper class!” + +Larry laughed. + +The Professor snapped, “You think it funny? Let me give you another +example of our status label culture. I have a friend whom I have known +since childhood. I would estimate that Charles has an I.Q. of +approximately 90, certainly no more. His family, however, took such +necessary steps as were needed to get Charles through public school. No +great matter these days, you’ll admit, although on occasion he needed a +bit of tutoring. On graduation, they recognized that the really better +schools might be a bit difficult for Charles so he was entered in a +university with a good name but without—shall we say?—the highest of +scholastic ratings. Charles plodded along, had some more tutoring, +probably had his thesis ghosted, and eventually graduated. At that point +an uncle died and left Charles an indefinite amount to be used in +furthering his education to any extent he wished to go. Charles, motivated +probably by the desire to avoid obtaining a job and competing with his +fellow man, managed to wrangle himself into a medical school and +eventually even graduated. Since funds were still available, he continued +his studies abroad, largely in Vienna.” + +The Professor wound it up. “Eventually, he ran out of schools, or his +uncle’s estate ran out—I don’t know which came first. At any rate, my +friend Charles, laden down with status labels, is today practicing as a +psychiatrist in this fair city of ours.” + +Larry stared at him blankly. + +The Professor said snappishly, “So any time you feel you need to have your +brains unscrambled, you can go to his office and expend twenty-five +dollars an hour or so. His reputation is of the highest.” The Professor +grunted his contempt. “He doesn’t know the difference between an aspirin +tablet and a Rorschach test.” + +Larry Woolford stirred in his chair. “We seem to have gotten far off the +subject. What has this got to do with Self?” + +The Professor seemed angry. “I repeat, I’m afraid I get carried away on +this subject. I’m in revolt against a culture based on the status label. +It eliminates the need to judge a man on his merits. To judge a person by +the clothes he wears, the amount of money he possesses, the car he drives, +the neighborhood in which he lives, the society he keeps, or even his +ancestry, is out of the question in a vital, growing society. You wind up +with nonentities as the leaders of your nation. In these days, we can’t +afford it.” + +He smiled suddenly, rather elfishly, at the security agent. “But +admittedly, this deals with Self only as one of many victims of a culture +based on status labels. Just what is it you wanted to know about Ernest?” + +“When you knew him, evidently he was working on rocket fuels. Have you any +idea whether he later developed a method of producing perfect +counterfeit?” + +The Professor said, “Ernest Self? Surely you are jesting.” + +Larry said unhappily, “Then here’s another question. Have you ever heard +him mention belonging to a movement, or, I think, he might word it _The +Movement_.” + +“Movement?” the Professor said emptily. + +“Evidently a revolutionary group interested in the overthrow of the +government.” + +“Good heavens,” the Professor said. “Just a moment, Mr. Woolford. You +interrupted me just as I was having my second cup of coffee. Do you mind +if I—” + +“Certainly not,” Woolford shook his head. + +“I simply can’t get along until after my third cup,” the Professor said. +“You just wait a moment and I’ll bring the pot in here.” + +He left Larry to sit in the combined study and living room while he +shuffled off in his slippers to the kitchen. Larry Woolford decided that +in his school days he’d had some far out professors himself, but it would +really be something to study under this one. Not that the old boy didn’t +have some points, of course. Almost all nonconformists base their +particular peeves on some actuality, but in this case, what was the +percentage? How could you buck the system? Particularly when, largely, it +worked. + + ------------------------------------- + +The Professor returned with an old-fashioned coffeepot, two cups, and +sugar and cream on a tray. He put them on a side table and said to Larry, +“You’ll join me? How do you take it?” + +Larry still had the slightest of hang-overs from his solitary drinking of +the night before. “Thanks. Make it black,” he said. + +The Professor poured, served, then did up a cup for himself. He sat back +in his chair and said, “Now, where were we? Something about a +revolutionary group. What has that to do with counterfeiting?” + +Larry sipped the strong coffee. “It seems there might be a connection.” + +The Professor shook his head. “It’s hard to imagine Ernest Self being +connected with a criminal pursuit.” + +Larry said carefully, “Susan seemed to be of the opinion that you knew +about a large amount of counterfeit currency that this Movement had on +hand and that you were in favor of spending it upon chorus girls.” + +The Professor gaped at him. + +Larry chuckled uncomfortably. + +Professor Voss said finally, his voice very even, “My dear sir, I am +afraid that I evidently can be of little assistance to you.” + +“Admittedly, it doesn’t seem to make much sense.” + +“Susan—you mean that little sixteen year old?—said _I_ was in favor of +spending counterfeit money on chorus girls?” + +Larry said unhappily, “She used the term _the Professor_.” + +“And why did you assume that the title must necessarily allude to me? Even +if any of the rest of the fantastic story was true.” + +Larry said, “In my profession, Professor Voss, we track down every +possible clue. Thus far, you are the only professor of whom we know who +was connected with Ernest Self.” + +Voss said stiffly, “I can only say, sir, that in my estimation Mr. Self is +a man of the highest integrity. And, in addition, that I have never spent +a penny on a chorus girl in my life and have no intention of beginning, +counterfeit or otherwise.” + +Larry Woolford decided that he wasn’t doing too well and that he’d need +more ammunition if he was going to return to this particular attack. He +was surprised that the old boy hadn’t already ordered him from the house. + +He finished the coffee preparatory to coming to his feet. “Then you think +it’s out of the question, Ernest Self belonging to a revolutionary +organization?” + +The Professor protested. “I didn’t say that at all. Mr. Self is a man of +ideals. I can well see him belonging to such an organization.” + +Larry Woolford decided he’d better hang on for at least a few more words. +“You don’t seem to think, yourself, that a subversive organization is +undesirable in this country.” + +The Professor’s voice was reasonable. “Isn’t that according to what it +means to subvert?” + +“You know what I mean,” Woolford said in irritation. “I don’t usually +think of revolutionists, even when they call themselves simply members of +a _movement_, as exactly idealists.” + +“Then you’re wrong,” the Professor said definitely, pouring himself +another cup of coffee. “History bears out that almost invariably +revolutionists are men of idealism. The fact that they might be either +right or wrong in their revolutionary program is beside the point.” + +Larry Woolford began to say, “Are you sure that you aren’t interested in +this _move—_” + +But it was then that the knockout drops hit him. + + ------------------------------------- + +He came out of the fog feeling nausea and with his head splitting. He +groaned and opened one eye experimentally. + +Steve Hackett, far away, said, “He’s snapping out of it.” + +Larry groaned again, opened the other eye and attempted to focus. + +“What happened?” he muttered. + +“Now that’s an original question,” Steve said. + +Larry Woolford struggled up into a sitting position. He’d been stretched +out on a couch in the Professor’s combined living room and study. + +Steve Hackett, his hands on his hips, was looking down at him +sarcastically. There were two or three others, one of whom Larry vaguely +remembered as being a Secret Service colleague of Steve’s, going about and +in and out of the room. + +Larry said, his fingers pressing into his forehead, “My head’s killing me. +Damn it, what’s going on?” + +Steve said sarcastically, “You’ve been slipped a mickey, my cloak and +dagger friend, and the bird has flown.” + +“You mean the Professor? He’s a bird all right.” + +“Humor we get, yet,” Hackett said, his ugly face scowling. “Listen, I +thought you people had pulled out of this case.” + +Larry sat up and swung his two feet around to the floor. “So did I,” he +moaned, “but there were two or three things that bothered me and I thought +I’d tidy them up before leaving.” + +“You tidied them up all right,” Steve grumbled. “This Professor Voss was +practically the only lead I’ve been able to discover. An old friend of +Self’s. And you allowed him to get away before we even got here.” + +One of Hackett’s men came up and said, “Not a sign of him, Steve. He +evidently burned a few papers, packed a suitcase, and took off. His things +look suspiciously as though he was ready to go into hiding at a moment’s +notice.” + +Steve growled to him, “Give the place the works. He’s probably left some +clues around that’ll give us a line.” + +The other went off and Steve Hackett sat down in one of the leather chairs +and glowered at Larry Woolford. “Listen,” he said, “what did you people +want with Susan Self?” + +Larry shook his head for clarity and looked at him. “Susan? What are you +talking about? You don’t have any aspirin, do you?” + +“No. What’d you mean, what am I talking about? You called Betsy Hughes and +then sent a couple of men over to pick the Self kid up.” + +“Who’s Betsy Hughes?” + +Steve shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of knockout drops the old +boy gave you, but they sure worked. Betsy’s the operative we had minding +Susan Self over in the Greater Washington Hilton. About an hour ago you +got her on the phone, said your department wanted to question Susan, and +that you were sending two men over to pick her up. The two men turned up +with an order from you, and took the girl.” + +Larry stared at him. Finally he said, “What time is it?” + +“About two o’clock.” + +Larry said, “I came into this house in the morning, talked to the +Professor for about half an hour and then was silly enough to let him give +me some loaded coffee. He was such a weird old buzzard that it never +occurred to me he might be dangerous. At any rate, I’ve been unconscious +for several hours. I _couldn’t’ve_ called this Betsy Hughes operative of +yours.” + +It was Steve Hackett’s turn to stare. + +“You mean your department doesn’t have Susan Self?” + +“Not so far as I know. The Boss told me yesterday that we were pulling +out, that it was all in your hands. What would we want with Susan?” + +“Oh, great,” Steve snarled. “There goes our last contact. Ernest Self, +Professor Voss, and now Susan Self; they’ve all disappeared.” + +“Look,” Larry said unhappily, “let’s get me some aspirin and then let’s go +and see my chief. I have a sneaking suspicion our department is back on +this case.” + +Steve snorted sarcastically. “If you can foul things up this well when +you’re off the case, God only knows what you’ll accomplish using your +facilities on an all-out basis.” + + ------------------------------------- + +The Boss said slowly, “Whoever we are working against evidently isn’t +short of resources. Abducting that young lady was no simple matter.” The +career diplomat worked his lips in and out, in all but a pout. + +Larry Woolford, who’d taken time out to go home, shower, change clothes +and medicate himself out of his dope induced hangover, sat across the desk +from him, flanked by Steve Hackett. + +The Boss said sourly, “It would seem that I was in error. That our young +Susan Self was not spouting fantasy. There evidently actually is an +underground movement interested in changing our institutions.” He stirred +in his chair and his scowl went deeper. “And evidently working on a basis +never conceived of by subversive organizations of the past. The fact that +they have successfully remained secret even to this department is the +prime indication that they are attempting to make their revolutionary +changes in a unique manner.” + +Larry said, “The trouble is, we don’t even know what it is they want.” + +“However,” his superior said slowly, “we are beginning to get inklings.” + +Steve Hackett said, “What inklings, sir? This sort of thing might be +routine for you people, but my field is counterfeit. I, frankly, don’t +know what it’s all about.” + +The Boss looked at him. “We have a clue or two, Mr. Hackett. For one +thing, we know that this Movement of ours has no affiliations with the +Soviet Complex, nor, so far as we know, any foreign element whatsoever. If +we take Miss Self’s word, it is strictly an American phenomenon. From what +little we know of Ernest Self and Peter Voss they might be in revolt +against some of our current institutions but there is no reason to believe +them, ah, _un-American_ in the usually accepted sense of the word.” + +The two younger men looked at him as though he was joking. + +He shook his heavy head negatively. “Actually, what do we have on this +so-called Movement thus far? Aside from treating Lawrence, here, to some +knockout drops—and let us remember that Lawrence was present in the +Professor’s home without a warrant—all we have is the suspicion that they +have manufactured a quantity of counterfeit.” + +“A _quantity_ is right,” Steve Hackett blurted. “If we’re to accept what +that Self kid told us, they have a few billion dollars worth of perfect +bills on hand.” + +“A strange amount for counterfeiters to produce,” The Boss said +uncomfortably. “That is what puzzles me. Any revolutionary movement needs +funds. Remember Stalin as a young man? He used to be in charge of the +Bolshevik gang which robbed banks to raise funds for their underground +newspapers. But a billion dollars? What in the world can they expect to +need that amount for?” + +Larry said, “Sir, you keep talking as though these characters were a bunch +of idealistic do-gooders bleeding for the sake of the country. Actually, +from what we know, they’re nothing but a bunch of revolutionists.” + +The Boss was shaking his head. “You’re not thinking clearly, Lawrence. +Revolution, _per se_, is not illegal in the United States. Our +Constitution was probably the first document of its kind which allowed for +its own amendment. The men who wrote it provided for changing it either +slightly or _in toto_. Whenever the majority of the American people decide +completely to abandon the Constitution and govern themselves by new laws, +they have the right to do it.” + +“Then what’s the whole purpose of this department, sir?” Larry argued. +“Why’ve we been formed to combat foreign and domestic subversion?” + +His chief sighed. “You shouldn’t have to ask that, Lawrence. The present +government cannot oppose the will of the majority if it votes, by +constitutional methods, to make any changes it wishes. But we can, and do, +unmask the activities of anyone trying to overthrow the government by +force and violence. Any culture protects itself against that.” + +“What are we getting at, sir?” Steve Hackett said, impatiently. + +The Boss shrugged. “I’m trying to point out that so far as my department +is concerned, thus far we have little against this Movement. Secret +Service may have, what with this wholesale counterfeiting, even though +thus far they seem to have made no attempt to pass the currency they have +allegedly manufactured. We wouldn’t even know of it, weren’t it for our +young Susan pilfering an amount.” + +Larry said, desperately, “Sir, you just pointed out a few minutes ago that +this Movement is a secret organization trying to make changes in some +unique manner. In short, they don’t figure on using the ballot to put over +their revolution. That makes them as illegal as the Commies, doesn’t it?” + +The Boss said, “That’s the difficulty; we don’t know what they want. From +your conversations with Susan Self and especially Professor Voss, +evidently they think the country needs some basic changes. What these +changes are, and how they expect to accomplish them, we don’t know. Unless +a foreign government is involved, or unless they plan to alter our +institutions by violence, this department just doesn’t have much +jurisdiction.” + +Steve Hackett snorted, “Secret Service does! If those bales of money the +Self kid told us about are ever put into circulation, there’ll be hell to +pay.” + +The Boss sighed. “Well,” he said, “Lawrence can continue on the +assignment. If it develops in such manner as to indicate that this +department is justified in further investigation, we’ll put more men on +it. Meanwhile, it is obviously more a Secret Service matter. I am sorry to +intrude upon your vacation again, Lawrence.” + +On awakening in the morning, Larry Woolford stared glumly at the ceiling +for long moments before dragging himself from bed. This was, he decided, +the strangest assignment he’d ever been on. In his day he’d trekked +through South America, Common Europe, a dozen African states, and even +areas of Southern Asia, combatting Commie pressures here, fellow-traveler +organizations there, disrupting plots hatched in the Soviet Complex in the +other place. On his home grounds in the United States he’d covered +everything from out and out Soviet espionage, to exposing Communist +activities of complexions from the faintest of pinks to the rosiest +Trotskyite red. But, he decided he’d never expected to wind up after a +bunch of weirds whose sole actionable activity to date seemed to be the +counterfeiting of a fantastic amount of legal tender which thus far they +were making no attempt to pass. + +He got out of bed and went through the rituals of showering, shaving and +clothing, of coffee, sausage, and eggs, toast and more coffee. + +What amazed Larry Woolford was the shrug-it-off manner in which the Boss +seemed to accept this underground Movement and its admitted subversive +goals—whatever they were. Carry the Boss’ reasoning to its ultimate and +subversion was perfectly all right, just as it didn’t involve force and +violence. If he was in his chief’s position, he would have thrown the full +resources of the department into tracking down these crackpots. As it was, +he, Larry Woolford was the only operative on the job. + +He needed a new angle on which to work. Steve Hackett was undoubtedly +handling the tracing down of the counterfeit with all the resources of the +Secret Service. Possibly there was some way of detecting the source of the +paper they’d used. + +He finished his final cup of coffee in the living room and took up the +pipe he was currently breaking in. He loaded it automatically from a +humidor and lit it with his pocket lighter. Three drags, and he tossed it +back to the table, fumbled in a drawer and located a pack of cigarettes. +Possibly his status group was currently smoking British briars in public, +but, let’s face it, he hated the confounded things. + +He sat down before the phone and dialed the offices of the _Sun-Post_ and +eventually got Sam Sokolski who this time beat him to the punch. + +Sam said, “You shouldn’t drink alone. Listen, Larry, why don’t you get in +touch with Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s a great outfit.” + +“You ought to know,” Larry growled. “Look, Sam, as science columnist for +that rag you work for you probably come in touch with a lot of eggheads.” + +“Laddy-buck, you have said it,” Sam said. + +“Fine. Now look, what I want to know is have you ever heard—even the +slightest of rumors—about an organization called the Movement?” + +“What’d’ya mean, slightest of rumors? Half the weirds I run into are +interested in the outfit. Get two or three intellectuals, scientists, +technicians, or what have you, together and they start knocking themselves +out on the pros and cons of the Movement.” + +Larry Woolford stared at him. “Are you kidding, Sam?” + +The other was mystified. “Why should I kid you? As a matter of fact, I was +thinking of doing a column one of these days on Voss and this Movement of +his.” + +“_Voss_ and this movement of his!” + +“Sure,” Sam said, “he’s the top leader.” + +“Oh, great,” Larry growled. “Look, Sam, eventually there is probably a +story in this for you. Right now, though, we’re trying to keep the lid on +it. Could you brief me a little on this Movement? What are they trying to +put over?” + +“I seem to spend half my time briefing you in information any semi-moron +ought to be up on,” Sam said nastily. “However, _briefly_, they’re in +revolt against social-label judgments. They think it’s fouling up the +country and that eventually it’ll result in the Russkies passing us in all +the fields that really count.” + +“I keep running into this term,” Larry complained. “What do you mean, +social-label judgments, and how can they possibly louse up the country?” + +Sam said, “I was present a month or so ago when Voss gave an informal +lecture to a group of twenty or so. Here’s one of the examples he used. + +“Everybody today wants to be rated on a (1) personal, or, (2) social-label +basis, depending on which basis is to his greatest advantage. The Negro +who is a no-good, lazy, obnoxious person demands to be accepted because +Negroes should not be discriminated against. The highly competent, hard +working, honest and productive Negro wants to be accepted because he is +hard-working, honest and productive—and should be so accepted. + +“See what I mean? This social-label system is intended to relieve the +individual of the necessity of judging, and the consequences of being +judged. If you have poor judgment, and are forced to rely on your own +judgment, you’re almost sure to go under. So persons of poor judgment +support our social-label system. If you’re a louse, and are correctly +judged as being a louse, you’d prefer that the social dictum ‘Human beings +are never lice’ should apply.” + +Larry said, “What in the devil’s this got to do with the race between this +country and the Russkies?” + +Sam said patiently, “Voss and the Movement he leads contend that a +social-label system winds up with incompetents running the country in all +fields. Often incompetent scientists are in charge of our research; +incompetent doctors, in charge of our health; incompetent politicians run +our government; incompetent teachers, laden with social-labels, teach our +youth. Our young people are going to college to secure a degree, not an +education. It’s the label that counts, not the reality. + +“Voss contends that it’s getting progressively worse. That we’re sinking +into an equivalent of a ritual-taboo, tribal social-like situation. This +is the system the low-level human being wants, yearns for and seeks. A +situation in which no one’s judgment is of any use. Then _his_ lack of +judgment is no handicap. + +“According to members of the Movement, today the tribesman type is seeking +to reduce civilization back to ritual-taboo tribalism wherein no one man’s +judgment is of any value. The union wants advancement based on seniority, +not on ability and judgment. The persons with whom you associate socially +judge you by the amount of money you possess, the family from which you +come, the degrees you hold, by social-labels—not by your proven abilities. +Down with judgment! is the cry.” + +“It sounds awfully weird to me,” Larry grumbled in deprecation. + +Sam shrugged. “There’s a lot of sense in it. What the Movement wants is to +develop a socio-economic system in which judgment produces a maximum +advantage.” + +Larry said, “What gets me is that you talk as though half the country was +all caught up in debating this Movement. But I haven’t even heard of it, +neither has my department chief, nor any of my colleagues, so far as I +know. Why isn’t anything about it in the papers or on the TriD?” + +Sam said mildly, “As a matter of fact, I took in Mort Lenny’s show the +other night and he made some cracks about it. But it’s not the sort of +thing that’s even meant to become popular with the man in the street. To +put it bluntly, Voss and his people aren’t particularly keen about the +present conception of the democratic ideal. According to him, true +democracy can only be exercised by peers and society today isn’t composed +of peers. If you have one hundred people, twenty of them competent, +intelligent persons, eighty of them untrained, incompetent and less than +intelligent, then it’s ridiculous to have the eighty dictate to the +twenty.” + +Larry looked accusingly at his long-time friend. “You know, Sam, you sound +as though you approve of all this.” + +Sam said patiently, “I listen to it all, Larry my boy. I think Voss makes +a lot of sense. There’s only one drawback.” + +“And that is?” + +“How’s he going to put it over? This social-label system the Movement +complains about was bad enough ten years ago. But look how much worse it +is today. It’s a progressive thing. And, remember, it’s to the benefit of +the incompetent. Since the incompetent predominates, you’re going to have +a hard time starting up a system based on judgment and ability.” + +Larry thought about it for a moment. + +Sam said, “Look, I’m working, Larry. Was there anything else?” + +Larry said, “You wouldn’t know where I could get hold of Voss, would you?” + +“At his home, I imagine, or at the University.” + +“He’s disappeared. We’re looking for him.” + +Sam laughed. “Gone underground, eh? The old boy is getting romantic.” + +“Does he have any particular friends who might be putting him up?” + +Sam thought about it. “There’s Frank Nostrand. You know, that rocket +expert who was fired when he got in the big hassle with Senator McCord.” + + ------------------------------------- + +When Sam Sokolski had flicked off, Larry stared at the vacant phone screen +for a long moment, assimilating what the other had told him. He was +astonished that an organization such as the Movement could have spread to +the extent it evidently had through the country’s intellectual circles, +through the scientifically and technically trained, without his department +being keenly aware of it. + + [Illustration.] + +One result, he decided glumly, of labeling everything contrary to the +_status quo_ as _weird_ and dismissing it with contempt. Admittedly, that +would have been his own reaction only a week ago. + +Suppose that he’d been at a cocktail party, and had drifted up to a group +who were arguing about social-label judgments and the need to develop a +_movement_ to change society’s use of them. The discussion would have gone +in one ear, out the other, and he would have muttered inwardly, “Weirds,” +and have drifted on to get himself another vodka martini. + +Larry snorted and dialed the Department of Records. He’d never heard of +Frank Nostrand before, so he got Information. + +The bright young thing who answered seemed to have a harried expression +untypical of Records employees. Larry said to her, “I’d like the brief on +a Mr. Frank Nostrand who is evidently an expert on rockets. The only other +thing I know about him is that he recently got in the news as the result +of a controversy with Senator McCord.” + +“Just a moment, sir,” the bright young thing said. + +She touched buttons and reached into a delivery chute. When her eyes came +up to meet his again, they were more than ever harried. They were +absolutely confused. + +“Mr. Franklin Howard Nostrand,” she said, “currently employed by Madison +Air as a rocket research technician.” + +“That must be him,” Larry said. “I’m in a hurry, Miss. What’s his +background?” + +Her eyes rounded. “It says ... it says he’s an Archbishop of the Anglican +Church.” + +Larry Woolford looked at her. + +She looked back, pleadingly. + +Larry scowled and said, “His university degrees, please.” + +Her eyes darted to the report and she swallowed. “A bachelor in Home +Economics, sir.” + +“Look here, Miss, how could a Home Economics degree result in his becoming +either an Archbishop or a rocket technician?” + +“I’m sorry, sir. That’s what it says.” + +Larry was fuming but there was no point in taking it out on this junior +employee of the Department of Records. He snapped, “Just give me his +address, please.” + +She said agonizingly, “Sir, it says, Lhasa, Tibet.” + +A red light flicked at the side of his phone and he said to her, “I’ll +call you back. I’m getting a priority call.” + +He flicked her off, and flicked the incoming call in. It was LaVerne Polk. +She seemed to be on the harried side, too. + +“Larry,” she said, “you better get over here right away.” + +“What’s up, LaVerne?” + +“This Movement,” she said, “it seems to have started moving! The Boss says +to get over here soonest.” + + ------------------------------------- + +The top of his car was retracted. Larry Woolford slammed down the walk of +his auto-bungalow and vaulted over the side and into the seat. He banged +the start button, dropped the lift lever, depressed the thrust pedal and +took off at maximum acceleration. + +He took the police level for maximum speed and was in downtown Greater +Washington in flat minutes. + +So the Movement had started moving. That could mean almost anything. It +was just enough to keep him stewing until he got to the Boss and found out +what was going on. + +He turned his car over to a parker and made his way to the entrance +utilized by the second-grade department officials. In another year, or at +most two, he told himself all over again, he’d be using that other door. +He had an intuitive feeling that if he licked this current assignment it’d +be the opening wedge he needed and he’d wind up in a status bracket unique +for his age. + +LaVerne looked up when he hurried into her anteroom. She evidently had two +or three calls going on at once, taking orders from one phone, giving them +in another. Something was obviously erupting. She didn’t speak to him, +merely nodded her head at the inner office. + +In the Boss’ office were six or eight others besides Larry’s superior. +Their expressions and attitudes ran from bewilderment to shock. They +weren’t the men you’d expect to have such reactions. At least not those +that Larry Woolford recognized. Three of them, Ben Ruthenberg, Bill Fraina +and Dave Moskowitz were F.B.I. men with whom Larry had worked on occasion. +One of the others he recognized as being a supervisor with the C.I.A. Walt +Foster, Larry’s rival in the Boss’ affections, was also present. + +The Boss growled at him, “Where in the heavens have you been, Lawrence?” + +“Following our leads on this so-called Movement, sir,” Larry told him. +“What’s going on?” + +Ruthenberg, the Department of Justice man, grunted sour amusement. +“So-called Movement, isn’t exactly the correct phrase. It’s a Movement, +all right.” + +The Boss said, “Please dial Records and get your dossier, Lawrence. +That’ll be the quickest way to bring you up on developments.” + +Mystified, but already with a growing premonition, Larry dialed Records. +Knowing his own classification code, he had no need of Information this +time. He got the hundred-word brief and stared at it as it filled the +screen. The only items really correct were his name and present +occupation. Otherwise his education was listed as grammar school only. His +military career had him ending the war as a General of the Armies, and his +criminal career record included four years on Alcatraz for molesting small +children. + +Blankly, he faded the brief and dialed his full dossier. It failed to +duplicate the brief, but that was no advantage. This time he had an M.D. +degree from Johns Hopkins, but his military career listed him as a +dishonorable discharge from the navy where he’d served in the steward +department. His criminal record was happily nil, but his religion was +listed as Holy Roller. Political affiliations had him down as a member of +the Dixiecrats. + +The others were looking at him, most of them blankly, although there were +grins on the faces of Moskowitz and the C.I.A. man. + +Moskowitz said, “With a name like mine, yet, they have me a Bishop of the +Orthodox Greek Catholic Church.” + +Larry said, “What’s it all about?” + +Ruthenberg said unhappily, “It started early this morning. We don’t know +exactly when as yet.” Which didn’t seem to answer the question. + +Larry said, “I don’t get it. Obviously, the Records department is fouled +up in some manner. How, and why?” + +“How, we know,” the Boss rumbled disgustedly. “Why is another matter. +You’ve spent more time than anyone else on this assignment, Lawrence. +Perhaps you can tell us.” He grabbed up a pipe from his desk, tried to +light it noisily, noticed finally that it held no tobacco and threw it to +the desk again. “Evidently, a large group of these Movement individuals +either already worked in Records or wriggled themselves into key positions +in the technical end of the department. Now they’ve sabotaged the files.” + +“We’ve caught most of them already,” one of the F.B.I. men growled, “but +damn little good that does us at this point.” + +The C.I.A. supervisor made a gesture indicating that he gave it all up. +“Not only here but in Chicago and San Francisco as well. All at once. +Evidently perfectly rehearsed. Personnel records from coast to coast are +bollixed. Why?” + +Larry said slowly, “I think I know that now. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have +but I’ve been picking up odds and ends.” + +They all looked at him. + + ------------------------------------- + +Larry sat down and ran a hand back through his hair. “The general idea is +to change the country’s reliance on social-label judgments.” + +“On _what_,” the Boss barked. + +“On one person judging another according to social-labels. Voss and the +others—” + +“Who did you say?” Ruthenberg snapped. + +“Voss. Professor Peter Voss from the University over in Baltimore section. +He’s the ring leader.” + +Ruthenberg snapped to Fraina, “Get on the phone and send out a pick-up +order for him.” + +Fraina was on his feet. “What charge, Ben?” + +Ben Ruthenberg snorted. “Rape, or something. Get moving, we’ll figure out +a charge later. The guy’s a fruitcake.” + +Larry said wearily, “He’s evidently gone into hiding. I’ve been trying to +locate him. He managed to slip me some knockout drops and got away +yesterday.” + +The Boss looked at him in disgust. + +Ruthenberg said evenly, “We’ve had men go into hiding before. Get going, +Fraina.” + +Fraina left the office and the others looked back to Larry. + +The Boss said, “About this social-label nonsense—” + +Larry said, “They think the country is going to pot because of it. People +hold high office or places of responsibility not because of superior +intelligence, or even acquired skill, but because of the social-labels +they’ve accumulated, and these can be based on something as flimsy—from +the Movement’s viewpoint—as who your grandparents were, what school you +attended, how much seniority you have on the job, what part of town you +live in, or what tailor cuts your clothes.” + +Their expressions ran from scowls and frowns to complete puzzlement. + +Walt Foster grumbled, “What’s all this got to do with sabotaging the +country’s Records tapes?” + +Larry shrugged. “I don’t have the complete picture, but one thing is sure. +It’s going to be harder for a while to base your opinions on a quick +hundred-word brief on a man. Yesterday, an employer, considering hiring +somebody, could dial the man’s dossier, check it, and form his opinions by +the status labels the would-be employee could produce. Today, he’s damn +well going to have to exercise his own judgment.” + +LaVerne’s face lit up the screen on the Boss’ desk and she said, “Those +two members of the Movement who were picked up in Alexandria are here, +sir.” + +“Send them in,” the Boss rumbled. He looked at Larry. “The F.B.I. managed +to arrest almost everyone directly involved in the sabotage.” + +The two prisoners seemed more amused than otherwise. They were young men, +in their early thirties—well dressed and obviously intelligent. The Boss +had them seated side by side and glared at them for a long moment before +speaking. Larry and the others took chairs in various parts of the room +and added their own stares to the barrage. + +The Boss said, “Your situation is an unhappy one, gentlemen.” + +One of the two shrugged. + +The Boss said, “You can, ah, hedge your bets, by co-operating with us. It +might make the difference between a year or two in prison—and life.” + +One of them grinned and then yawned. “I doubt it,” he said. + +The Boss tried a slightly different tack. “You have no reason to maintain +a feeling of obligation to Voss and the others. You have obviously been +abandoned. Had they any feeling for you there would have been more +efficacious arrangements for your escape.” + +The more articulate of the two shrugged again. “We were expendable,” he +said. “However, it won’t be long before we’re free again.” + +“You think so?” Ruthenberg grunted. + +The revolutionist looked at him. “Yes, I do,” he said. “Six months from +now and we’ll be heroes since by that time the Movement will have been a +success.” + +The Boss snorted. “Just because you deranged the Records? Why that’s but +temporary.” + +“Not so temporary as you think,” the technician replied. “This country has +allowed itself to get deeply enmeshed in punch-card and tape records. Oh, +it made sense enough. With the population we have, and the endless files +that result from our ultra-complicated society, it was simply a matter +finally of developing a standardized system of records for the nation as a +whole. Now, for all practical purposes, _all_ of our records these days +are kept with the Department of Records, confidential as well as public +records. Why should a university, for instance, keep literally tons of +files, with all the expense and space and time involved, when it can +merely file the same records with the governmental department and have +them safe and easily available at any time? Now, the Movement has +completely and irrevocably destroyed almost all files that deal with the +social-labels to which we object. An excellent first step, in forcing our +country back into judgment based on ability and intelligence.” + +“First step!” Larry blurted. + +The two prisoners looked at him. “That’s right,” the quieter of the two +said. “This is just the first step.” + +“Don’t kid yourselves,” Ben Ruthenberg snapped at them. “It’s also the +last!” + +The two members of the Movement grinned at him. + + ------------------------------------- + +When the others had gone, the Boss looked at Larry Woolford. He said +sourly, “When this department was being formed, I doubt anyone had in mind +this particular type of subversion, Lawrence.” + +Larry grunted. “Give me a good old-fashioned Commie, any time. Look, sir, +what are the Department of Justice boys going to do with those prisoners?” + +“Hold them on any of various charges. We’ve conflicted with the F.B.I. in +the past on overlapping jurisdiction, but thank heavens for them now. +Their manpower is needed.” + +Larry leaned forward. “Sir, we ought to take all members of the Movement +we’ve already arrested, feed them a dose of Scop-Serum, and pressure them +to open up on the organization’s operations.” + +His superior looked at him, waiting for him to continue. + +Larry said urgently, “Those two we just had in here thought the whole +thing was a big joke. The first step, they called it. Sir, there’s +something considerably bigger than this cooking. Uncle Sam might pride +himself on the personal liberties guaranteed by this country, but unless +we break this organization, and do it fast, there’s going to be trouble +that will make this fouling of the records look like the minor matter +those two jokers seemed to think it.” + +The Boss thought about that. He said slowly, “Lawrence, the Supreme Court +ruled against the use of Scop-Serum. Not that it is over efficient, +anyway. Largely, these so-called truth serums don’t accomplish much more +than to lower resistance, slacken natural inhibitions, weaken the will.” + +“Sure,” Larry said. “But give a man a good dose of Scop-Serum and he’d +betray his own mother. Not because he’s helpless to tell a lie, but +because under the influence of the drug he figures it just isn’t important +enough to bother about. Sir, Supreme Court or not, I think those two ought +to be given Scop-Serum along with all other Movement members we’ve picked +up.” + +The Boss was shaking his head. “Lawrence, these men are not wide-eyed +radicals picked up in a street demonstration. They’re highly respected +members of our society. They’re educators, scientists, engineers, +technicians. Anything done to them is going to make headlines. Those that +were actually involved in the sabotage will have criminal charges brought +against them, but they’re going to get a considerable amount of publicity, +and we’re going to be in no position to alienate any of their +constitutional rights.” + +Larry stood up, approached his chief’s desk and leaned over it urgently. +“Sir, that’s fine, but we’ve got to move and move fast. Something’s up and +we don’t even know what! Take that counterfeit money. From Susan Self’s +description, there’s actually billions of dollars worth of it.” + +“Oh, come now, Lawrence. The child exaggerated. Besides, that’s a problem +for Steven Hackett and the Secret Service, we have enough on our hands as +it is. Forget about the counterfeit, Lawrence. I think I shall put you in +complete control of field work on this, to co-operate in liaison with Ben +Ruthenberg and the F.B.I. So far as we’re concerned, the counterfeit angle +belongs to Secret Service, we’re working on subversion, and until the +Civil Liberties Union or whoever else proves otherwise, we’ll consider +this Movement an organization attempting to subvert the country by illegal +means.” + +Larry Woolford made a hard decision quickly. He was shaking his head. +“Sir, I’d rather you gave the administrative end to someone else and let +me continue in the field. I’ve got some leads—I think. If I get bogged +down in interdepartmental red tape, and in paper work here at +headquarters, I’ll never get to the heart of this and I’m laying bets that +we either crack this within days or there are going to be some awfully big +changes in this country.” + +The Boss glared at him. “You mean you’re refusing this assignment, +Woolford. Confound it, don’t you realize it’s a promotion?” + +Larry was worriedly dogged. “Sir, I’d rather stay in the field.” + +“Very well,” the other snapped disgustedly, “I hope you deliver some +results, Woolford, otherwise I am afraid I won’t feel particularly happy +about your somewhat cavalier rejection of this opportunity.” He flicked on +the phone and snapped to LaVerne Polk, “Miss Polk, locate Walter Foster +for me. He is to take over our end of this Movement matter.” + +LaVerne said, “Yes, sir,” and her face was gone. + +The Boss looked up, still scowling. “What are you waiting for, Woolford?” + +“Yes, sir,” Larry said. It was just coming home to him now, what he’d +done. There possibly went his yearned for promotion in the department. +There went his chance of an upgrading in status. And Walt Foster, of all +people, in his place. + + ------------------------------------- + +At LaVerne’s desk, Larry stopped off long enough to say, “Did you ever +assign that secretary to me?” + +LaVerne shook her head at him. “She’s come and gone, Larry. She sat around +for a couple of days, after seeing you not even once, and then I gave her +another assignment.” + +“Well, bring her back again, will you? I want her to do up briefs for me +on all the information we accumulate on the Movement. It’ll be coming in +from all sides now. From the Press, from those members we’ve arrested, +from our F.B.I. pals, now that they’re interested, and so forth.” + +“I’ll give you Irene Day,” LaVerne said. “Where are you off to now, +Larry?” + +“Probably a wild goose chase,” Larry growled. “Which reminds me. Do me a +favor, LaVerne. Call Personal Service and find out where Frank Nostrand +is. He’s some kind of rocket technician at Madison Air Laboratories. I’ll +be in my office.” + +“Frank Nostrand,” LaVerne said briskly. “Will do, Larry.” + +Back in his own cubicle, Larry stood for a moment in thought. He was +increasingly aware of the uncomfortable feeling that time was running out +on them. That things were coming to a dangerous head. + +He stared down at the dozen or more books and pamphlets that his never +seen secretary had heaped up for him. Well, he certainly didn’t have time +for them now. + +He sat down at the desk and dialed an inter-office number. + +The harassed looking face of Walter Foster faded in. On seeing Larry +Woolford he growled accusingly, “My pal. You’ve let them dump this whole +thing into my lap.” + +Larry grinned at him. “Better you than me, old buddy. Besides, it’s a +promotion. Pull this off and you’ll be the Boss’ right-hand man.” + +“That’s a laugh,” Foster said. “It’s a madhouse. This Movement gang is as +weird as they come.” + +“I bleed for you,” Larry said. “However, here’s a tip. Frol Eivazov, of +the _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_ is somewhere in the country.” + +“Frol Eivazov!” Foster blurted. “What’ve the Commies got to do with this? +Is this something the Boss knows about?” + +“Haven’t had time to go into it with him,” Larry said. “However, it seems +that friend Frol is here to find out what the Movement is all about. +Evidently the big boys in Peking and Moscow are nervous about any changes +that might take place over here. I suggest you have him picked up, Walt.” + + [Illustration.] + +Walt Foster said, “O.K. I’ll put some people on it. Maybe the F.B.I. can +help.” + +Larry flicked off as he saw the red priority light on his phone shining. +He pushed it and LaVerne’s face faded in. + +She said, “This Franklin Nostrand you wanted to know about. He’s evidently +working at the laboratories over in Newport News, Larry. He’ll be on the +job until five this afternoon.” + +“Fine,” he said. Larry grinned at her. “When are we going to have that +date, LaVerne?” + +She made a face. “Some day when the program involves having fun instead of +parading around in the right places, driving the right model car, dressed +in exactly the right clothes, and above all associating with the right +people.” + +It was his turn to grimace. “I’m beginning to think you ought to sign up +with Voss and this Movement of his. You’d be right at home with his +weirds.” + +She stuck out her tongue at him, and flicked off. + +He looked at the empty screen and chuckled. He had half a mind to get a +record of their conversation, strip out just the section where she’d stuck +out her tongue, and then play it back to her. She’d be taken aback by +being confronted by her own image making faces at her. + +As he made his way to the parking lot for his car, something in their +conversation nagged at him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He +considered the girl, all over again. She had almost all the qualities he +looked for. She was attractive, without being overly so. He disliked women +out of the ordinarily beautiful, it became too much to live up to. She was +sharp, but not objectionably so. Not to the point of giving you an +inferiority complex. + +But, Holy Smokes, she’d never do as a career man’s wife. He could just see +the Boss’ ultraconservative better half inviting them to dinner. It would +happen exactly once, never again. + +He obtained his car, lifted it to one of the higher levels and headed for +Newport News. It was a half-hour trip and he wasn’t particularly expectant +of results. The tip Sam Sokolski had given him, wasn’t much to go by. +Evidently, Frank Nostrand was a friend of the Professor’s but that didn’t +necessarily mean he was connected with the movement, or that he knew Voss’ +whereabouts. + +He might have saved himself the trip. + +The bird had flown again. Not only was Frank Nostrand not at the Madison +Air Laboratories, but he wasn’t at home either. Larry Woolford, mindful of +his departmental chief’s words on the prestige these people carried, took +a full hour in acquiring a search warrant before breaking into the +Nostrand home. + +Nostrand was supposedly a bachelor, but the auto-bungalow, similar to +Larry Woolford’s own, showed signs of double occupancy, and there was +little indication that the guest had been a woman. + +Disgruntled, Larry Woolford dialed the offices, asked for Walt Foster. It +took nearly ten minutes before his colleague faded in. + +“I’m up to my eyebrows, Larry. What’d you want?” + +Larry gave him Frank Nostrand’s address. “This guy’s disappeared, Walt.” + +“So?” + +“He was a close friend of Professor Voss. I got a warrant to search his +house. It shows signs that he had a guest. Possibly it was the Professor. +Do you want to get some of the boys down here to go through the place? +Possibly there’s some clue to where they took off for. The Professor’s on +the run and he’s no professional at this. If we can pick _him_ up, I’ve +got a sneaking suspicion we’ll have the so-called Movement licked.” + +Walt Foster slapped a hand to his face in anguish. “You knew where the +Professor was hiding, and you tried to pick him up on your own and let him +get away. Why didn’t you discuss this with either the Boss or me? I’m in +charge of this operation! I would have had a dozen men down there. You’ve +fouled this up!” + +Larry stared at him. Already Walt Foster was making sounds like an enraged +superior. + +He said mildly, “Sorry, Walt. I came down here on a very meager tip. I +didn’t really expect it to pan out.” + +“Well, in the future, clear with either me or the Boss before running off +half cocked into something, Woolford. Yesterday, you had this whole +assignment on your own. Today, it’s no longer a minor matter. Our +department has fifty people on it. The F.B.I. must have five times as many +and that’s not even counting the Secret Service’s interest. It’s no longer +your individual baby.” + +“Sorry,” Larry repeated mildly. Then, “I don’t imagine you’ve got hold of +Frol Eivazov yet?” + +The other was disgusted. “You think we’re magicians? We just put out the +call for him a few hours ago. He’s no amateur. If he doesn’t want to be +picked up, he’ll go to ground and we’ll have our work cut out for us +finding him. I can’t see that it’s particularly important anyway.” + +“Maybe you’re right,” Larry said. “But you never know. He might know +things we don’t. See you later.” + +Walt Foster stared at him for a moment as though about to say something, +but then tightened his lips and faded off. + +Larry looked at the phone screen for a moment. “Did that phony expect me +to call him _sir_,” he muttered. + + ------------------------------------- + +The next two days dissolved into routine. + +Frustrated, Larry Woolford spent most of his time in his office digesting +developments, trying to find a new line of attack. + +For want of something else, he put his new secretary, a brightly efficient +girl, as style and status conscious as LaVerne Polk wasn’t, to work typing +up the tapes he’d had cut on Susan Self and the various phone calls he’d +had with Hans Distelmayer and Sam Sokolski. From memory, he dictated to +her his conversation with Professor Peter Voss. + +He carefully read the typed sheets over and over again. He continually had +the feeling in this case that there were loose ends dangling around. +Several important points he should be able to put his finger upon. + +On the morning of the third day he dialed Steve Hackett and on seeing the +other’s worried, pug-ugly face fade in on the phone, decided that if +nothing else the Movement was undermining the United States government by +dispensing ulcers to its employees. + +Steve growled, “What is it Woolford? I’m as busy as a whirling dervish in +a revolving door.” + +“This is just the glimmer of an idea, Steve. Look, remember that +conversation with Susan, when she described her father taking her to +headquarters?” + +“So?” Steve said impatiently. + +“Remember her description of headquarters?” + +“Go on,” Steve rapped. + +“What did it remind you of?” + +“What are you leading to?” + +“This is just a hunch,” Larry persisted, “but the way she described the +manner in which her father took her to headquarters suggests they’re in +the Greater Washington area.” + +Steve was staring at him disgustedly. How obvious could you get? + +Larry hurried on. “What’s the biggest business in this area, Steve?” + +“Government.” + +“Right. And the way she described headquarters of the Movement, was rooms, +after rooms, after rooms into which they’d stored the money.” + +“And?” + +Larry said urgently, “Steve, I think in some way the Movement has taken +over some governmental buildings, or storage warehouse. Possibly some +older buildings no longer in use. It would be a perfect hideout. Who would +expect a subversive organization to be in governmental buildings? All +they’d need would be a few officials here and there who were on their side +and—” + +Steve said wearily, “You couldn’t have thought of this two days ago.” + +Larry cut himself off sharply, “Eh?” + +Steve said, “We found their headquarters. One of their members cracked. +Ben Ruthenberg of the F.B.I. found he had a morals rap against him some +years ago and scared him into talking by threats of exposure. At any rate, +you’re right. They had established themselves in some government buildings +going back to Spanish-American War days. We’ve arrested eight or ten +officials that were involved.” + +“But the money?” + +“The money was gone,” Steve said bitterly. “But Susan was right. There had +evidently been room after room of it, stacked to the ceiling. Literally +billions of dollars. They’d moved out hurriedly, but they left kicking +around enough loose hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens and fives to give us +an idea. Look, Woolford, I thought you’d been pulled off this case and +that Walt Foster was handling it.” + +Larry said sourly, “I’m beginning to think so, too. They’re evidently not +even bothering to let me know about developments like this. See you later, +Steve.” + +The other’s face faded off. + +Larry Woolford looked across the double desk at Irene Day. “Look,” he +said, “when you’re offered a promotion, take it. If you don’t, someone +else will and you’ll be out in the cold.” + +Irene Day said brightly, “I’ve always know that, sir.” + +He looked at her. The typical eager beaver. Sharp as a whip. Bright as a +button. “I’ll bet you have,” he muttered. + +“I beg your pardon, Mr. Woolford?” + +The phone lit as LaVerne said, “The Boss wants to talk to you, Larry.” Her +face faded and Larry’s superior was scowling at him. + +He snapped, “Did you get anything on this medical records thing, +Woolford?” + +“Medical records?” Larry said blankly. + +The Boss grunted in deprecation. “No, I suppose you haven’t. I wish you +would snap into it, Woolford. I don’t know what has happened to you of +late. I used to think that you were a good field man.” He flicked off +abruptly. + +Larry dialed LaVerne Polk. “What in the world was the Boss just talking +about, LaVerne? About medical records?” + +LaVerne said, frowning, “Didn’t you know? The Movement’s been at it again. +They’ve fouled up the records of the State Medical Licensing bureaus, at +the same time sabotaging the remaining records of most, if not all, of the +country’s medical schools. They struck simultaneously, throughout the +country.” + +He looked at her, expressionlessly. + +LaVerne said, “We’ve caught several hundred of those responsible. It’s the +same thing. Attack of the social-label. From now on, if a man tells you +he’s an Ear, Eye and Throat specialist, you’d better do some investigation +before letting him amputate your tongue. You’d better use your judgment +before letting _any_ doctor you don’t really know about, work on you. It’s +a madhouse, Larry.” + + ------------------------------------- + +Larry Woolford, for long moments after LaVerne had broken the connection, +stared unseeingly at his secretary across from him until she stirred. + +He brought his eyes back to the present. “Another preliminary move, not +the important thing, yet. Not the big explosion they’re figuring on. Where +have they taken that money, and why?” + +Irene Day blinked at him. “I don’t know, I’m sure, sir.” + +Larry said, “Get me Mr. Foster on the phone, Irene.” + +When Walt Foster’s unhappy face faded in, Larry said, “Walt did you get +Frol Eivazov?” + +“Eivazov?” the other said impatiently. “No. We haven’t spent much effort +on it. I think this hunch of yours is like the other ones you’ve been +having lately, Woolford. Frol Eivazov was last reported by our operatives +as being in North Korea.” + +“It wasn’t a hunch,” Larry said tightly. “He’s in this country on an +assignment dealing with the Movement.” + +“Well, that’s your opinion,” Foster said snappishly. “I’m busy, Woolford. +See here, at present you’re under my orders on this job. In the way of +something to do, instead of sitting around in that office, why don’t you +follow up this Eivazov thing yourself?” He considered it a moment. “That’s +an order, Woolford. Even if you don’t locate him, it’ll keep you out of +our hair.” + +After the other was gone, Larry Woolford leaned back in his chair, his +face flushed as though the other had slapped it. In a way, he had. + +Larry said slowly, “Miss Day, dial me Hans Distelmayer. His offices are +over in the Belmont Building.” + +As always, the screen remained blank as the German spy master spoke. + +Larry said, “Hans, I want to talk to Frol Eivazov.” + +“Ah?” + +“I want to know where I can find him.” + +The German’s voice was humorously gruff. “My friend, my friend.” + +Larry said impatiently, “I’m not interested in arresting him at this time. +I want to talk to him.” + +The other said heavily. “This goes beyond favors, my friend. On the face +of it, I am not in business for my health. And what you ask is dangerous +from my viewpoint. You realize that upon occasion my organization does +small tasks for the Soviets....” + +“Ha!” Larry said bitterly. + +“... And,” the German continued, unruffled, “it is hardly to my interest +to gain the reputation of betraying my sometimes employers. Were you on an +assignment in, say, Bulgaria or Hungary, would you expect me to betray you +to the _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_?” + +“Not unless somebody paid you enough to make it worth while,” Larry said +dryly. + +“Exactly,” the espionage chief said. + +“Look,” Larry said. “Send your bill to this department, Hans. I’ve been +given carte blanche on this matter and I want to talk to Frol. Now, where +is he?” + +The German chuckled heavily. “At the Soviet Embassy.” + +“What! You mean they’ve got the gall to house their top spy right in—” + +Distelmayer interrupted him. “Friend Eivazov is currently accredited as a +military attaché and quite correctly. He holds the rank of colonel, you +know. He entered this country quite legally, the only precaution taken was +to use his second name, Kliment, instead of Frol, on his papers. +Evidently, your people passed him by without a second look. Ah, I +understand he went to the trouble of making some minor changes in his +facial appearance.” + +“We’ll expect your bill, Distelmayer,” Larry said. “Good-by.” + +He got up and reached for his hat, saying to Irene Day, “I don’t know how +long I’ll be gone.” He added, wryly, “If either Foster or the Boss try to +get in touch with me, tell them I’m carrying out orders.” + +He drove over to the Soviet Embassy, parked his car directly before the +building. + + ------------------------------------- + +The American plainclothesmen stationed near the entrance, gave him only a +quick onceover as he passed. Inside the gates, the impassive Russian +guards didn’t bother to flicker an eyelid. + +At the reception desk in the immense entrada, he identified himself. “I’d +like to see Colonel Frol Eivazov.” + +“I am afraid—” the clerk began stiffly. + +“I suppose you have him on the records as Kliment Eivazov.” + +The clerk had evidently touched a concealed button. A door opened and a +junior embassy official approached them. + +Larry restated his desire. The other began to open his mouth in denial, +then shrugged. “Just a moment,” he said. + +He was gone a full twenty minutes. When he returned, he said briefly, +“This way, please.” + +Frol Eivazov was in an inner office, in full uniform. He came to his feet +when Larry Woolford entered and said to the clerk, “That will be all, +Vova.” He was a tall man, as Slavs go, but heavy of build and heavy of +face. + +He shook hands with Larry. “It’s been a long time,” he said in perfect +English. “That conference in Warsaw, wasn’t it? Have a chair, Mr. +Woolford.” + +Larry took the offered chair and said, “How in the world did you expect to +get by with this nonsense? We’ll have you declared _persona non grata_ in +a matter of hours.” + +“It’s not important,” Eivazov shrugged. “I have found what I came to find. +I was about to return to report any way.” + +“We won’t do anything to hinder you, colonel,” Larry said dryly. + +Eivazov snapped his fingers. “It’s all amusing,” he said. “In our country +we would quickly deal with this Movement nonsense. You Americans with your +pseudo-democracy, your labels without reality, your—” + +Larry said wearily, “Please, Frol, I promise not to convert you if you +promise not to convert me. Needless to say, my department isn’t happy +about your presence in this country. You’ll be watched from now on. We’ve +been busy with other matters....” + +Here the Russian laughed. + +“... Or we’d already have flushed you.” He allowed his voice to go +curious. “We’ve wondered about your interest in this phase of our internal +affairs.” + +The Russian agent let his facade slip over farther, his heavy lips +sneering. “We are interested in all phases of your antiquated +socio-economic system, Mr. Woolford. In the present peaceful economic +competition between East and West, we would simply _loathe_ to see +anything happen to your present culture.” He hesitated deliberately. “If +you can call it a culture.” + +Larry said, unprovoked, “If I understand you correctly, you are not in +favor of the changes the Movement advocates.” + +The Russian shrugged hugely. “I doubt if they are possible of achievement. +The organization is a sloppy one. Revolutionary? Nonsense,” he scoffed. +“They have no plans to change the government. No plans for overthrowing +the regime. Ultimately, what this country needs is true Communism. This +so-called Movement doesn’t have that as its eventual goal. It is +laughable.” + +Larry said, interestedly, “Then perhaps you’ll tell me what little you’ve +found out about the group.” + +“Why not?” The Russian pursed his lips. “They are composed of impractical +idealists. Scientists, intellectuals, a few admitted scholars and even a +few potential leaders. Their sabotage of your Department of Records was an +amusing farce, but, frankly, I have been unable to discover the purpose of +their interest in rockets. For a time I contemplated the possibility that +they had a scheme to develop a nuclear bomb, and to explode it over +Greater Washington in the belief that in the resulting confusion they +might seize power. But, on the face of it their membership is incapable of +such an effort.” + +“Their interest in rockets?” Larry said softly. + +“Yes, as you’ve undoubtedly discovered, half the rocket technicians of +your country seem to have joined with them. We got the tip through”—the +Russian cleared his throat—“several of our converts who happen to be +connected with your space efforts groups.” + +“Is that so?” Larry said. “I wondered what you thought about their +interest in money.” + +It was the other’s turn to look blank. “Money?” he said. + +“That’s right. Large quantities of money.” + +The Russian said, frowning, “I suppose most citizens in your capitalist +countries are interested largely in money. One of your basic failings.” + + ------------------------------------- + +Driving back to the office, Larry Woolford let it pile up on him. + +Ernest Self had been a specialist in solid fuel for rockets. When Larry +had questioned Professor Voss that worthy had particularly stressed his +indignation at how Professor Goddard, the rocket pioneer, had been treated +by his contemporaries. Franklin Nostrand had been employed as a technician +on rocket research at Madison Air Laboratories. It was too darn much for +coincidence. + +And now something else that had been nagging away at the back of his mind +suddenly came clear. + +Susan Self had said that she and her father had seen the precision dancers +at the New Roxy Theater in New York and later the Professor had said they +were going to spend the money on chorus girls. Susan had got it wrong. The +Rockettes—the precision chorus girls. The Professor had said they were +going to spend the money on _rockets_, and Susan had misunderstood. + +But billions of dollars expended on rockets? How? But, above all, to what +end? + +If he’d only been able to hold onto Susan, or her father; or to Voss or +Nostrand, for that matter. Someone to work on. But each had slipped +through his fingers. + +Which brought something else up from his subconscious. Something which had +been tugging at him. + +At the office, Irene Day was packing her things as he entered. Packing as +though she was leaving for good. + +“What goes on?” Larry growled. “I’m going to be needing you. Things are +coming to a head.” + +She said, a bit snippishly, Larry thought, “Miss Polk, in the Boss’ +office, said for you to see her as soon as you came in, Mr. Woolford.” + +“Oh?” + +He made his way to LaVerne’s office, his attention actually on the ideas +churning in his mind. + +She looked up when he entered. + +Larry said, “The Boss wanted to see me?” + +LaVerne ducked her head, as though embarrassed. “Not exactly, Larry.” + +He gestured with his thumb in the direction of his own cubicle office. +“Irene just said you wanted me.” + +LaVerne looked up into his face. “The Boss and Mr. Foster, too, are +boiling about your authorizing that Distelmayer man to bill this +department for information he gave you. The Boss hit the roof. Something +about the Senate Appropriations Committee getting down on him if it came +out that we bought information from professional espionage agents.” + +Larry said, “It was information we needed, and Foster gave me the go ahead +on locating Frol Eivazov. Maybe I’d better see the Boss.” + +LaVerne said, “I don’t think he wants to see you, Larry. They’re up to +their ears in this Movement thing. It’s in the papers _now_ and nobody +knows what to do next. The President is going to make a speech on TriD, +and the Boss has to supply the information. His orders are for you to +resume your vacation. To take a month off and then see him when you get +back.” + +Larry sank down into a chair. “I see,” he said, “And at that time he’ll +probably transfer me to janitor service.” + +“Larry,” LaVerne said, almost impatiently, “why in the world didn’t you +take that job Walt Foster has now when the Boss offered it to you?” + +“Because I’m stupid, I suppose,” Larry said bitterly. “I thought I could +do more working alone than at an administrative post tangled in red tape +and bureaucratic routine.” + +She said, “Sorry, Larry.” She sounded as though she meant it. + +Larry stood up. “Well, tonight I’m going to hang one on, and tomorrow it’s +back to Florida.” He said in a rush, “Look LaVerne, how about that date +we’ve been talking about for six months or more?” + +She looked up at him. “I can’t stand vodka martinis.” + +“Neither can I,” he said glumly. + +“And I don’t get a kick out of prancing around, a stuffed shirt among +fellow stuffed shirts, at some goings-on that supposedly improves my +culture status.” + +Larry said “At the house I have every known brand of drinkable, and a +stack of ... what did you call it? ... corny music. We can mix our own +drinks and dance all by ourselves.” + +She tucked her head to one side and looked at him suspiciously. “Are your +intentions honorable?” + +“We can even discuss that later,” he said sourly. + +She laughed. “It’s a date, Larry.” + + ------------------------------------- + +He picked her up after work, and they drove to his Brandywine +auto-bungalow, largely quiet the whole way. + +At one point she touched his hand with hers and said, “It’ll work out, +Larry.” + +“Yeah,” he said sourly. “I’ve put ten years into ingratiating myself with +the Boss. Now, overnight, he’s got a new boy. I suppose there’s some moral +involved.” + +When they pulled up before his auto-bungalow, LaVerne whistled +appreciatively. “Quite a neighborhood you’re in.” + +He grunted. “A good address. What our friend Professor Voss would call one +more status symbol, one more social-label. For it I pay about fifty per +cent more rent than my budget can afford.” + +He ushered her inside and took her jacket. “Look,” he said, indicating his +living room with a sweep of hand. “See that volume of Klee reproductions +there next to my reading chair? That proves I’m not a weird. Indicates my +culture status. Actually, my appreciation of modern art doesn’t go any +further than the Impressionists. But don’t tell anybody. See those books +up on my shelves. Same thing. You’ll find everything there that _ought_ to +be on the shelves of any ambitious young career man.” + +She looked at him from the side of her eyes. “You’re really soured, +Larry.” + +“Come along,” he said. “I want to show you something.” + +He took her down the tiny elevator to his den. + +“How hypocritical can you get?” he asked her. “This is where I really +live. But I seldom bring anyone here. Wouldn’t want to get a reputation as +a weird. Sit down, LaVerne, I’ll make a drink. How about a Sidecar?” + +She sank onto the couch, kicked her shoes off and slipped her feet under +her. “I’d love one,” she said. + +His back to her, he brought brandy and cointreau from his liquor cabinet, +lemon and ice from the tiny refrigerator. + +“What?” LaVerne said mockingly. “No auto-bar?” + +“Upstairs with the rest of the status symbols,” Larry grunted. + +He put her drink before her and turned and went to the record player. + +“In the way of corny music, how do you like that old-timer, Nat Cole?” + +“King Cole? Love him,” LaVerne said. + +The strains of “For All We Know” penetrated the room. + +Larry sat down across from her, finished half his drink in one swallow. + +“I’m beginning to wonder whether or not this Movement doesn’t have +something,” he said. + +She didn’t answer that. They sat in silence for a while, appreciating the +drink. Nat Cole was singing “The Very Thought of You” now. Larry got up +and made two more cocktails. This time he sat next to her. He leaned his +head back on the couch and closed his eyes. + +Finally he said softly, “When Steve Hackett and I were questioning Susan, +there was only one other person who knew that we’d picked her up. There +was only one person other than Steve and me who could have warned Ernest +Self to make a getaway. Later on, there was only one person who could have +warned Frank Nostrand so that he and the Professor could find a new +hideout.” + +She said sleepily, “How long have you known about that, darling?” + +“A while,” Larry said, his own voice quiet. “I figured it out when I also +decided how Susan Self was spirited out of the Greater Washington Hilton, +before we had the time to question her further. Somebody who had access to +tapes made of me while I was making phone calls cut out a section and +dubbed in a voice so that Betsy Hughes, the Secret Service matron who was +watching Susan, was fooled into believing it was I ordering the girl to be +turned over to the two Movement members who came to get her.” + +LaVerne stirred comfortably and let her head sink onto his shoulder. +“You’re so warm and ... comfortable,” she said. + +Larry said softly, “What does the Movement expect to do with all that +counterfeit money, LaVerne?” + +She stirred against his shoulder, as though bothered by the need to talk. +“Give it all away,” she said. “Distribute it all over the country and +destroy the nation’s social currency.” + +It took him a long moment to assimilate that. + +“What have the rockets to do with it?” + +She stirred once again, as though wishing he’d be silent. “That’s how it +will be distributed. About twenty rockets, strategically placed, each with +a _warhead_ of a couple of tons of money. Fired to an altitude of a couple +of hundred miles and then the money is spewed out. In falling, it will be +distributed over cities and countryside, everywhere. Billions upon +billions of dollars worth.” + +Larry said, so softly as hardly to be heard, “What will that accomplish?” + +“Money is the greatest social-label of them all. The Professor believes +that through this step the Movement will have accomplished its purpose. +That people will be forced to utilize their judgment, rather than depend +upon social-labels.” + +Larry didn’t follow that, but he had no time to go further now. He said, +still evenly soft, “And when is the Movement going to do this?” + +La Verne moved comfortably. “The trucks go out to distribute the money +tonight. The rockets are waiting. The firing will take place in a few +days.” + +“And where is the Professor now?” + +“Where the money and the trucks are hidden, darling. What difference does +it make?” LaVerne said sleepily. + +“And where is that?” + +“At the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation. It’s owned by one of the +Movement’s members.” + +He said. “There’s a password. What is it?” + +“Judgment.” + +Larry Woolford bounced to his feet. He looked down at her, then over at +the phone. In three quick steps he was over to it. He grasped its wires +and yanked them from the wall, silencing it. He slipped into the tiny +elevator, locking the door to the den behind him. + +As the door slid closed, her voice wailed, still sleepily husky, “Larry, +darling, where are you—” + +He ran down the walk of the house, vaulted into the car and snapped on its +key. He slammed down the lift lever, kicked the thrust pedal and was +thrown back against the seat by the acceleration. + +Even while he was climbing, he flicked on the radio-phone, called Personal +Service for the location of the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation. + +Fifteen minutes later, he parked a block away from his destination, noting +with satisfaction that it was still an hour or more to go until dark. His +intuition, working doubletime now, told him that they’d probably wait +until nightfall to start their money-laden trucks to rolling. + +He hesitated momentarily before turning on the phone and dialing the Boss’ +home address. + +When the other’s face faded in, it failed to display pleasure when the +caller’s identity was established. His superior growled, “Confound it, +Woolford, you know my privacy is to be respected. This phone is to be used +only in extreme emergency.” + +“Yes, sir,” Larry said briskly. “It’s the Movement—” + +The other’s face darkened still further. “You’re not on that assignment +any longer, Woolford. Walter Foster has taken over and I’m sympathetic to +his complaints that you’ve proven more a hindrance than anything else.” + +Larry ignored his words, “Sir, I’ve tracked them down. Professor Voss is +at the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation garages here in the +Alexandria section of town. Any moment now, they’re going to start +distribution of all that counterfeit money on some scatterbrain plan to +disrupt the country’s exchange system.” + +Suddenly alert, the department chief snapped, “Where are you, Woolford?” + +“Outside the garages, sir. But I’m going in now.” + +“You stay where you are,” the other snapped. “I’ll have every department +man and every Secret Service man in town over there within twenty minutes. +You hang on. Those people are lunatics, and probably desperate.” + +Inwardly, Larry Woolford grinned. He wasn’t going to lose this opportunity +to finish up the job with him on top. He said flatly, “Sir, we can’t +chance it. They might escape. I’m going in!” He flicked off the set, +dialed again and raised Sam Sokolski. + +“Sam,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’ve cornered the Movement’s leader +and am going in for the finish. Maybe some of you journalist boys better +get on over here.” He gave the other the address and flicked off before +there were any questions. + + ------------------------------------- + +From the dash compartment he brought a heavy automatic, and checked the +clip. He put it in his hip pocket and left the car and walked toward the +garages. Time was running out now. + +He strode into the only open door, without shift of pace. Two men were +posted nearby, neither of them truckmen by appearance. They looked at him +in surprise. + +Larry clipped out, “The password is _Judgment_. I’ve got to see Professor +Voss immediately.” + +One of them frowned questioningly, but the other was taken up with the +urgency in Woolford’s voice. He nodded with his head. “He’s over there in +the office.” + +Now ignoring them completely, Larry strode past the long rows of sealed +delivery vans toward the office. + +He pushed the door open, entered and closed it behind him. + +Professor Peter Voss was seated at a paper-littered desk. There was a cot +with an army blanket in a corner of the room, some soiled clothing and two +or three dirty dishes on a tray. The room was being lived in, obviously. + +At the agent’s entry, the little man looked up and blinked in distress +through his heavy lenses. + +Larry snapped, “You’re under arrest, Voss.” + +The professor was obviously dismayed, but he said in as vigorous a voice +as he could muster, “Nonsense! On what charge?” + +“Counterfeiting, among many. Your whole scheme has fallen apart, Voss. You +and your Movement, so-called, are finished.” + +The professor’s eyes darted, left, right. To Larry Woolford’s surprise, +the Movement’s leader was alone in here. Undoubtedly, he was awaiting +others, drivers of the trucks, technicians involved in the rockets, other +subordinates. But right now he was alone. + +If Woolford correctly diagnosed the situation, Voss was playing for time, +waiting for the others. Good enough, so was Larry Woolford. Had the +Professor only known it, a shout would have brought at least two followers +and the government agent would have had his work cut out for him. + +Woodford played along. “Just what is this fantastic scheme of yours for +raining down money over half the country, Voss? The very insanity of it +proves your whole outfit is composed of a bunch of nonconformist weirds.” + +The Professor was indignant—and stalling for time. He said, +“Nonconformists is correct! He who conforms in an incompetent society is +an incompetent himself.” + +Larry stood, his legs apart and hands on hips. He shook his head in +simulated pity at the angry little man. “What’s all this about raining +money down over the country?” + +“Don’t you see?” the other said. “The perfect method for disrupting our +present system of social-labels. With billions of dollars, perfect +counterfeit, strewing the streets, the fields, the trees, available for +anyone to pick up, all social currency becomes worthless. Utterly +unusable. And it’s no use to attempt to print more with another design, +because we can duplicate it as well. Our experts are the world’s best, +we’re not a group of sulking criminals but capable, trained, dedicated +men. + +“Very well! We will have made it absolutely impossible to have any form of +mass-produced social currency.” + +Larry stared at him. “It would completely foul the whole business system! +You’d have chaos!” + +“At first. Private individuals, once the value of money was seen to be +zero, would have lost the amount of cash they had on hand. But banks and +such institutions would lose little. They have accurate records that show +the actual values they held at the time our money rains down.” + +Larry was bewildered. “But what are you getting at? What do you expect to +accomplish?” + +The Professor, on his favorite subject, said triumphantly, “The only form +of currency that can be used under these conditions is the _personal_ +check. It’s not mass produced, and mass-production can’t duplicate it. +It’s immune to the attack. Business has to go on, or people will starve—so +personal checks will have to replace paper money. Credit cards and +traveler’s checks won’t do—we can counterfeit them, too, and will, if +necessary. Realize of course that hard money will still be valid, but it +can’t be utilized practically for any but small transactions. Try taking +enough silver dollars to buy a refrigerator down to the store with you.” + +“But what’s the purpose?” Larry demanded, flabbergasted. + +“Isn’t it obvious? Our whole Movement is devoted to the destruction of +social-label judgments. It’s all very well to say: _You should not judge +your fellow men_ but when it comes to accepting another man’s personal +check, friend, you damn well have to! The bum check artist might have a +field day to begin with—but only to begin with.” + +Larry shook his head in exasperation. “You people are a bunch of +anarchists,” he accused. + +“No,” the Professor denied. “Absolutely not. We are the antithesis of the +anarchist. The anarchist says, ‘No man is capable of judging another.’ We +say, ‘Each man must judge his fellow, must demand proper evaluation of +him.’ To judge a man by his clothes, the amount of money he owns, the car +he drives, the neighborhood in which he lives, or the society he keeps, is +out of the question in a vital culture.” + +Larry said sourly, “Well, whether or not you’re right, Voss, you’ve lost. +This place is surrounded. My men will be breaking in shortly.” + +Voss laughed at him. “Nonsense. All you’ve done is prevent us from +accomplishing this portion of our program. What will you do after my +arrest? You’ll bring me to trial. Do you remember the Scopes’ Monkey Trial +back in the 1920s which became a world appreciated farce and made +Tennessee a laughingstock? Well, just wait until you get _me_ into court +backed by my organization’s resources. We’ll bring home to every thinking +person, not only in this country, but in the world, the fantastic +qualities of our existing culture. Why, +Mr.-Secret-Agent-of-Anti-Subversive-Activity you aren’t doing me an injury +by giving me the opportunity to have my day in court. You’re doing me a +favor. Newspapers, radios, TriD will give me the chance to expound my +program in the home of every thinking person in the world.” + +There was a fiery dedication in the little man’s eyes. “This will be my +victory, not my defeat!” + +There were sounds now, coming from the other rooms—the garages. Some +shouts and scuffling. Faintly, Larry Woolford could hear Steve Hackett’s +voice. + +He was staring at the Professor, his eyes narrower. + +The Professor was on his feet. He said in defiant triumph, “You think that +you’ll win prestige and honor as a result of tracking the Movement down, +don’t you, Mr. Woolford? Well, let me tell you, you won’t! In six months +from now, Mr. Woolford, you’ll be a laughingstock.” + +That did it. + +Larry said, “You’re under arrest. Turn around with your back to me.” + +The Professor snorted his contempt, turned his back and held up his hands, +obviously expecting to be searched. + +In a fluid motion, Larry Woolford drew his gun and fired twice. The other +with no more than a grunt of surprise and pain, stumbled forward to his +knees and then to the floor, his arms and legs akimbo. + +The door broke open and Steve Hackett, gun in hand, burst in. + +“Woolford!” he barked. “What’s up?” + +Larry indicated the body on the floor. “There you are, Steve,” he said. +“The head of the counterfeit ring. He was trying to escape. I had to shoot +him.” + +Behind Steve Hackett crowded Ben Ruthenberg of the F.B.I. and behind him +half a dozen others of various departments. + +The Boss came pushing his way through. + +He glared down at the Professor’s body, then up at Larry Woolford. + +“Good work, Lawrence,” he said. “How did you bring it off?” + +Larry replaced the gun in his holster and shrugged modestly. “The Polk +girl gave me the final tip-off, sir. I gave her some Scop-Serum in a drink +and she talked. Evidently, she was a member of the Movement.” + +The Boss was nodding wisely. “I’ve had my eye on her, Lawrence. An obvious +weird. But we will have to suppress that Scop-Serum angle.” He slapped his +favorite field man on the arm jovially. “Well, boy, this means promotion, +of course.” + +Larry grinned. “Thanks, sir. All in a day’s work. I don’t think we’ll have +much trouble with the remnants of this Movement thing. The pitch is to +treat them as counterfeiters, not subversives. Try them for that. Their +silly explanations of what they were going to do with the money will never +be taken seriously.” He looked down at the small corpse. “Particularly now +that their kingpin is gone.” + +A new wave of agents, F.B.I. men and prisoners washed into the room and +Steve Hackett and Larry were for a moment pushed back into a corner by +themselves. + +Steve looked at him strangely and said, “There’s one thing I’d like to +know: Did you really have to shoot him, Woolford?” + +Larry brushed it off. “What’s the difference? He was as weird as they +come, wasn’t he?” + +THE END + + + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STATUS QUO*** + + + +CREDITS + + +October 26, 2009 + + Project Gutenberg TEI edition 1 + Produced by Greg Weeks, David King, and the Online Distributed + Proofreading Team at <http://www.pgdp.net/>. + + + +A WORD FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG + + +This file should be named 30339-0.txt or 30339-0.zip. + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + + + http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/0/3/3/30339/ + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one — the old editions will be +renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one +owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and +you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission +and without paying copyright royalties. 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