“Nonconformists is correct! He who conforms in an incompetent society is
an incompetent himself.”
Larry stood, his legs apart and hands on hips. He shook his head in
simulated pity at the angry little man. “What’s all this about raining
money down over the country?”
“Don’t you see?” the other said. “The perfect method for disrupting our
present system of social-labels. With billions of dollars, perfect
counterfeit, strewing the streets, the fields, the trees, available for
anyone to pick up, all social currency becomes worthless. Utterly
unusable. And it’s no use to attempt to print more with another design,
because we can duplicate it as well. Our experts are the world’s best,
we’re not a group of sulking criminals but capable, trained, dedicated
men.
“Very well! We will have made it absolutely impossible to have any form of
mass-produced social currency.”
Larry stared at him. “It would completely foul the whole business system!
You’d have chaos!”
“At first. Private individuals, once the value of money was seen to be
zero, would have lost the amount of cash they had on hand. But banks and
such institutions would lose little. They have accurate records that show
the actual values they held at the time our money rains down.”
Larry was bewildered. “But what are you getting at? What do you expect to
accomplish?”
The Professor, on his favorite subject, said triumphantly, “The only form
of currency that can be used under these conditions is the _personal_
check. It’s not mass produced, and mass-production can’t duplicate it.
It’s immune to the attack. Business has to go on, or people will starve—so
personal checks will have to replace paper money. Credit cards and
traveler’s checks won’t do—we can counterfeit them, too, and will, if
necessary. Realize of course that hard money will still be valid, but it
can’t be utilized practically for any but small transactions. Try taking
enough silver dollars to buy a refrigerator down to the store with you.”
“But what’s the purpose?” Larry demanded, flabbergasted.
“Isn’t it obvious? Our whole Movement is devoted to the destruction of
social-label judgments. It’s all very well to say: _You should not judge
your fellow men_ but when it comes to accepting another man’s personal
check, friend, you damn well have to! The bum check artist might have a
field day to begin with—but only to begin with.”
Larry shook his head in exasperation. “You people are a bunch of
anarchists,” he accused.
“No,” the Professor denied. “Absolutely not. We are the antithesis of the
anarchist. The anarchist says, ‘No man is capable of judging another.’ We
say, ‘Each man must judge his fellow, must demand proper evaluation of
him.’ To judge a man by his clothes, the amount of money he owns, the car
he drives, the neighborhood in which he lives, or the society he keeps, is
out of the question in a vital culture.”
Larry said sourly, “Well, whether or not you’re right, Voss, you’ve lost.
This place is surrounded. My men will be breaking in shortly.”
Voss laughed at him. “Nonsense. All you’ve done is prevent us from
accomplishing this portion of our program. What will you do after my
arrest? You’ll bring me to trial. Do you remember the Scopes’ Monkey Trial
back in the 1920s which became a world appreciated farce and made
Tennessee a laughingstock? Well, just wait until you get _me_ into court
backed by my organization’s resources. We’ll bring home to every thinking
person, not only in this country, but in the world, the fantastic
qualities of our existing culture. Why,
Mr.-Secret-Agent-of-Anti-Subversive-Activity you aren’t doing me an injury
by giving me the opportunity to have my day in court. You’re doing me a
favor. Newspapers, radios, TriD will give me the chance to expound my
program in the home of every thinking person in the world.”
There was a fiery dedication in the little man’s eyes. “This will be my
victory, not my defeat!”
There were sounds now, coming from the other rooms—the garages. Some
shouts and scuffling. Faintly, Larry Woolford could hear Steve Hackett’s
voice.
He was staring at the Professor, his eyes narrower.
The Professor was on his feet. He said in defiant triumph, “You think that
you’ll win prestige and honor as a result of tracking the Movement down,
don’t you, Mr. Woolford? Well, let me tell you, you won’t! In six months
from now, Mr. Woolford, you’ll be a laughingstock.”
That did it.
Larry said, “You’re under arrest. Turn around with your back to me.”
The Professor snorted his contempt, turned his back and held up his hands,
obviously expecting to be searched.
In a fluid motion, Larry Woolford drew his gun and fired twice. The other
with no more than a grunt of surprise and pain, stumbled forward to his
knees and then to the floor, his arms and legs akimbo.
The door broke open and Steve Hackett, gun in hand, burst in.
“Woolford!” he barked. “What’s up?”
Larry indicated the body on the floor. “There you are, Steve,” he said.
“The head of the counterfeit ring. He was trying to escape. I had to shoot
him.”
Behind Steve Hackett crowded Ben Ruthenberg of the F.B.I. and behind him
half a dozen others of various departments.
The Boss came pushing his way through.
He glared down at the Professor’s body, then up at Larry Woolford.
“Good work, Lawrence,” he said. “How did you bring it off?”
Larry replaced the gun in his holster and shrugged modestly. “The Polk
girl gave me the final tip-off, sir. I gave her some Scop-Serum in a drink
and she talked. Evidently, she was a member of the Movement.”
The Boss was nodding wisely. “I’ve had my eye on her, Lawrence. An obvious
weird. But we will have to suppress that Scop-Serum angle.” He slapped his
favorite field man on the arm jovially. “Well, boy, this means promotion,
of course.”
Larry grinned. “Thanks, sir. All in a day’s work. I don’t think we’ll have
much trouble with the remnants of this Movement thing. The pitch is to
treat them as counterfeiters, not subversives. Try them for that. Their
silly explanations of what they were going to do with the money will never
be taken seriously.” He looked down at the small corpse. “Particularly now
that their kingpin is gone.”
A new wave of agents, F.B.I. men and prisoners washed into the room and
Steve Hackett and Larry were for a moment pushed back into a corner by
themselves.
Steve looked at him strangely and said, “There’s one thing I’d like to
know: Did you really have to shoot him, Woolford?”
Larry brushed it off. “What’s the difference? He was as weird as they
come, wasn’t he?”
THE END