Status Quo
by Mack 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.