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?”