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.