Part 4

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_ Larry Woolford figured he was picking up background and didn't force a change of subject. "Just what do you mean by intuitive scientist?"

"It's a term I have used loosely," the Professor admitted. "Possibly a scientist who makes a break-through in his field, destroying formerly held positions--in Self's case, without the math, without the accepted theories to back him. He finds something that works, possibly without knowing why or how and by using unorthodox analytical techniques. An intuitive scientist, if I may use the term, is a thorn in the side of our theoretical physicists laden down with their burden of a status label but who are themselves short of the makings of a Leonardo, a Newton, a Galileo, or even a Nicholas Christofilos."

"I'm afraid that last name escapes me," Larry said.

"Similar to Self's case and Robert Goddard's," Voss said, his voice bitter. "Although his story has a better ending. Christofilos invented the strong-focusing principle that made possible the multi-billion-volt particle accelerators currently so widely used in nuclear physics experimentation. However, he was nothing but a Greek elevator electrical system engineer and the supposed experts turned him down on the grounds that his math was faulty. It seems that he submitted the idea in straight-algebra terms instead of differential equations. He finally won through after patenting the discovery and rubbing their noses in it. Previously, none of the physics journals would publish his paper--he didn't have the right status labels to impress them."

Larry said, almost with amusement, "You seem to have quite a phobia against the status label, as you call it. However, I don't see how as complicated a world as ours could get along without it."

The Professor snorted his contempt. "Tell me," he said, "to which class do you consider yourself to belong?"

Larry Woolford shrugged. "I suppose individuals in my bracket are usually thought of as being middle-middle class."

"And you have no feeling of revolt in having such a label hung on you? Consider this system for a moment. You have lower-lower, middle-lower, and upper-lower; then you have lower-middle, middle-middle, upper-middle; then you have lower-upper, middle-upper, and finally we achieve to upper-upper class. Now tell me, when we get to that rarified category, who do we find? Do we find an Einstein, a Schweitzer, a Picasso; outstanding scientists, humanitarians, the great writers, artists and musicians of our day? Certainly not. We find ultra-wealthy playboys and girls, a former king and his duchess who eke out their income by accepting fees to attend parties, the international born set, bearers of meaningless feudalistic titles. These are your upper-upper class!"

Larry laughed.

The Professor snapped, "You think it funny? Let me give you another example of our status label culture. I have a friend whom I have known since childhood. I would estimate that Charles has an I.Q. of approximately 90, certainly no more. His family, however, took such necessary steps as were needed to get Charles through public school. No great matter these days, you'll admit, although on occasion he needed a bit of tutoring. On graduation, they recognized that the really better schools might be a bit difficult for Charles so he was entered in a university with a good name but without--shall we say?--the highest of scholastic ratings. Charles plodded along, had some more tutoring, probably had his thesis ghosted, and eventually graduated. At that point an uncle died and left Charles an indefinite amount to be used in furthering his education to any extent he wished to go. Charles, motivated probably by the desire to avoid obtaining a job and competing with his fellow man, managed to wrangle himself into a medical school and eventually even graduated. Since funds were still available, he continued his studies abroad, largely in Vienna."

The Professor wound it up. "Eventually, he ran out of schools, or his uncle's estate ran out--I don't know which came first. At any rate, my friend Charles, laden down with status labels, is today practicing as a psychiatrist in this fair city of ours."

Larry stared at him blankly.

The Professor said snappishly, "So any time you feel you need to have your brains unscrambled, you can go to his office and expend twenty-five dollars an hour or so. His reputation is of the highest." The Professor grunted his contempt. "He doesn't know the difference between an aspirin tablet and a Rorschach test."

Larry Woolford stirred in his chair. "We seem to have gotten far off the subject. What has this got to do with Self?"

The Professor seemed angry. "I repeat, I'm afraid I get carried away on this subject. I'm in revolt against a culture based on the status label. It eliminates the need to judge a man on his merits. To judge a person by the clothes he wears, the amount of money he possesses, the car he drives, the neighborhood in which he lives, the society he keeps, or even his ancestry, is out of the question in a vital, growing society. You wind up with nonentities as the leaders of your nation. In these days, we can't afford it."

He smiled suddenly, rather elfishly, at the security agent. "But admittedly, this deals with Self only as one of many victims of a culture based on status labels. Just what is it you wanted to know about Ernest?"

"When you knew him, evidently he was working on rocket fuels. Have you any idea whether he later developed a method of producing perfect counterfeit?"

The Professor said, "Ernest Self? Surely you are jesting."

Larry said unhappily, "Then here's another question. Have you ever heard him mention belonging to a movement, or, I think, he might word it The Movement."

"Movement?" the Professor said emptily.

"Evidently a revolutionary group interested in the overthrow of the government."

"Good heavens," the Professor said. "Just a moment, Mr. Woolford. You interrupted me just as I was having my second cup of coffee. Do you mind if I--"

"Certainly not," Woolford shook his head.

"I simply can't get along until after my third cup," the Professor said. "You just wait a moment and I'll bring the pot in here."

He left Larry to sit in the combined study and living room while he shuffled off in his slippers to the kitchen. Larry Woolford decided that in his school days he'd had some far out professors himself, but it would really be something to study under this one. Not that the old boy didn't have some points, of course. Almost all nonconformists base their particular peeves on some actuality, but in this case, what was the percentage? How could you buck the system? Particularly when, largely, it worked.

The Professor returned with an old-fashioned coffeepot, two cups, and sugar and cream on a tray. He put them on a side table and said to Larry, "You'll join me? How do you take it?"

Larry still had the slightest of hang-overs from his solitary drinking of the night before. "Thanks. Make it black," he said.

The Professor poured, served, then did up a cup for himself. He sat back in his chair and said, "Now, where were we? Something about a revolutionary group. What has that to do with counterfeiting?"

Larry sipped the strong coffee. "It seems there might be a connection."

The Professor shook his head. "It's hard to imagine Ernest Self being connected with a criminal pursuit."

Larry said carefully, "Susan seemed to be of the opinion that you knew about a large amount of counterfeit currency that this Movement had on hand and that you were in favor of spending it upon chorus girls."

The Professor gaped at him.

Larry chuckled uncomfortably.

Professor Voss said finally, his voice very even, "My dear sir, I am afraid that I evidently can be of little assistance to you."

"Admittedly, it doesn't seem to make much sense."

"Susan--you mean that little sixteen year old?--said I was in favor of spending counterfeit money on chorus girls?"

Larry said unhappily, "She used the term the Professor."

"And why did you assume that the title must necessarily allude to me? Even if any of the rest of the fantastic story was true."

Larry said, "In my profession, Professor Voss, we track down every possible clue. Thus far, you are the only professor of whom we know who was connected with Ernest Self."

Voss said stiffly, "I can only say, sir, that in my estimation Mr. Self is a man of the highest integrity. And, in addition, that I have never spent a penny on a chorus girl in my life and have no intention of beginning, counterfeit or otherwise."

Larry Woolford decided that he wasn't doing too well and that he'd need more ammunition if he was going to return to this particular attack. He was surprised that the old boy hadn't already ordered him from the house.

He finished the coffee preparatory to coming to his feet. "Then you think it's out of the question, Ernest Self belonging to a revolutionary organization?"

The Professor protested. "I didn't say that at all. Mr. Self is a man of ideals. I can well see him belonging to such an organization."

Larry Woolford decided he'd better hang on for at least a few more words. "You don't seem to think, yourself, that a subversive organization is undesirable in this country."

The Professor's voice was reasonable. "Isn't that according to what it means to subvert?"

"You know what I mean," Woolford said in irritation. "I don't usually think of revolutionists, even when they call themselves simply members of a movement, as exactly idealists."

"Then you're wrong," the Professor said definitely, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "History bears out that almost invariably revolutionists are men of idealism. The fact that they might be either right or wrong in their revolutionary program is beside the point."

Larry Woolford began to say, "Are you sure that you aren't interested in this move--"

But it was then that the knockout drops hit him.

He came out of the fog feeling nausea and with his head splitting. He groaned and opened one eye experimentally.

Steve Hackett, far away, said, "He's snapping out of it."

Larry groaned again, opened the other eye and attempted to focus.

"What happened?" he muttered.

"Now that's an original question," Steve said.

Larry Woolford struggled up into a sitting position. He'd been stretched out on a couch in the Professor's combined living room and study.

Steve Hackett, his hands on his hips, was looking down at him sarcastically. There were two or three others, one of whom Larry vaguely remembered as being a Secret Service colleague of Steve's, going about and in and out of the room.

Larry said, his fingers pressing into his forehead, "My head's killing me. Damn it, what's going on?"

Steve said sarcastically, "You've been slipped a mickey, my cloak and dagger friend, and the bird has flown."

"You mean the Professor? He's a bird all right."

"Humor we get, yet," Hackett said, his ugly face scowling. "Listen, I thought you people had pulled out of this case."

Larry sat up and swung his two feet around to the floor. "So did I," he moaned, "but there were two or three things that bothered me and I thought I'd tidy them up before leaving."

"You tidied them up all right," Steve grumbled. "This Professor Voss was practically the only lead I've been able to discover. An old friend of Self's. And you allowed him to get away before we even got here."

One of Hackett's men came up and said, "Not a sign of him, Steve. He evidently burned a few papers, packed a suitcase, and took off. His things look suspiciously as though he was ready to go into hiding at a moment's notice."

Steve growled to him, "Give the place the works. He's probably left some clues around that'll give us a line."

The other went off and Steve Hackett sat down in one of the leather chairs and glowered at Larry Woolford. "Listen," he said, "what did you people want with Susan Self?"

Larry shook his head for clarity and looked at him. "Susan? What are you talking about? You don't have any aspirin, do you?"

"No. What'd you mean, what am I talking about? You called Betsy Hughes and then sent a couple of men over to pick the Self kid up."

"Who's Betsy Hughes?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know what kind of knockout drops the old boy gave you, but they sure worked. Betsy's the operative we had minding Susan Self over in the Greater Washington Hilton. About an hour ago you got her on the phone, said your department wanted to question Susan, and that you were sending two men over to pick her up. The two men turned up with an order from you, and took the girl."

Larry stared at him. Finally he said, "What time is it?"

"About two o'clock."

Larry said, "I came into this house in the morning, talked to the Professor for about half an hour and then was silly enough to let him give me some loaded coffee. He was such a weird old buzzard that it never occurred to me he might be dangerous. At any rate, I've been unconscious for several hours. I couldn't've called this Betsy Hughes operative of yours."

It was Steve Hackett's turn to stare.

"You mean your department doesn't have Susan Self?"

"Not so far as I know. The Boss told me yesterday that we were pulling out, that it was all in your hands. What would we want with Susan?"

"Oh, great," Steve snarled. "There goes our last contact. Ernest Self, Professor Voss, and now Susan Self; they've all disappeared."

"Look," Larry said unhappily, "let's get me some aspirin and then let's go and see my chief. I have a sneaking suspicion our department is back on this case."

Steve snorted sarcastically. "If you can foul things up this well when you're off the case, God only knows what you'll accomplish using your facilities on an all-out basis."

The Boss said slowly, "Whoever we are working against evidently isn't short of resources. Abducting that young lady was no simple matter." The career diplomat worked his lips in and out, in all but a pout.

Larry Woolford, who'd taken time out to go home, shower, change clothes and medicate himself out of his dope induced hangover, sat across the desk from him, flanked by Steve Hackett.

The Boss said sourly, "It would seem that I was in error. That our young Susan Self was not spouting fantasy. There evidently actually is an underground movement interested in changing our institutions." He stirred in his chair and his scowl went deeper. "And evidently working on a basis never conceived of by subversive organizations of the past. The fact that they have successfully remained secret even to this department is the prime indication that they are attempting to make their revolutionary changes in a unique manner."

Larry said, "The trouble is, we don't even know what it is they want."

"However," his superior said slowly, "we are beginning to get inklings."

Steve Hackett said, "What inklings, sir? This sort of thing might be routine for you people, but my field is counterfeit. I, frankly, don't know what it's all about."

The Boss looked at him. "We have a clue or two, Mr. Hackett. For one thing, we know that this Movement of ours has no affiliations with the Soviet Complex, nor, so far as we know, any foreign element whatsoever. If we take Miss Self's word, it is strictly an American phenomenon. From what little we know of Ernest Self and Peter Voss they might be in revolt against some of our current institutions but there is no reason to believe them, ah, un-American in the usually accepted sense of the word."

The two younger men looked at him as though he was joking.

He shook his heavy head negatively. "Actually, what do we have on this so-called Movement thus far? Aside from treating Lawrence, here, to some knockout drops--and let us remember that Lawrence was present in the Professor's home without a warrant--all we have is the suspicion that they have manufactured a quantity of counterfeit."

"A quantity is right," Steve Hackett blurted. "If we're to accept what that Self kid told us, they have a few billion dollars worth of perfect bills on hand."

"A strange amount for counterfeiters to produce," The Boss said uncomfortably. "That is what puzzles me. Any revolutionary movement needs funds. Remember Stalin as a young man? He used to be in charge of the Bolshevik gang which robbed banks to raise funds for their underground newspapers. But a billion dollars? What in the world can they expect to need that amount for?"

Larry said, "Sir, you keep talking as though these characters were a bunch of idealistic do-gooders bleeding for the sake of the country. Actually, from what we know, they're nothing but a bunch of revolutionists."

The Boss was shaking his head. "You're not thinking clearly, Lawrence. Revolution, per se, is not illegal in the United States. Our Constitution was probably the first document of its kind which allowed for its own amendment. The men who wrote it provided for changing it either slightly or in toto. Whenever the majority of the American people decide completely to abandon the Constitution and govern themselves by new laws, they have the right to do it."

"Then what's the whole purpose of this department, sir?" Larry argued. "Why've we been formed to combat foreign and domestic subversion?"

His chief sighed. "You shouldn't have to ask that, Lawrence. The present government cannot oppose the will of the majority if it votes, by constitutional methods, to make any changes it wishes. But we can, and do, unmask the activities of anyone trying to overthrow the government by force and violence. Any culture protects itself against that."

"What are we getting at, sir?" Steve Hackett said, impatiently.

The Boss shrugged. "I'm trying to point out that so far as my department is concerned, thus far we have little against this Movement. Secret Service may have, what with this wholesale counterfeiting, even though thus far they seem to have made no attempt to pass the currency they have allegedly manufactured. We wouldn't even know of it, weren't it for our young Susan pilfering an amount."

Larry said, desperately, "Sir, you just pointed out a few minutes ago that this Movement is a secret organization trying to make changes in some unique manner. In short, they don't figure on using the ballot to put over their revolution. That makes them as illegal as the Commies, doesn't it?"

The Boss said, "That's the difficulty; we don't know what they want. From your conversations with Susan Self and especially Professor Voss, evidently they think the country needs some basic changes. What these changes are, and how they expect to accomplish them, we don't know. Unless a foreign government is involved, or unless they plan to alter our institutions by violence, this department just doesn't have much jurisdiction."

Steve Hackett snorted, "Secret Service does! If those bales of money the Self kid told us about are ever put into circulation, there'll be hell to pay."

The Boss sighed. "Well," he said, "Lawrence can continue on the assignment. If it develops in such manner as to indicate that this department is justified in further investigation, we'll put more men on it. Meanwhile, it is obviously more a Secret Service matter. I am sorry to intrude upon your vacation again, Lawrence."

On awakening in the morning, Larry Woolford stared glumly at the ceiling for long moments before dragging himself from bed. This was, he decided, the strangest assignment he'd ever been on. In his day he'd trekked through South America, Common Europe, a dozen African states, and even areas of Southern Asia, combatting Commie pressures here, fellow-traveler organizations there, disrupting plots hatched in the Soviet Complex in the other place. On his home grounds in the United States he'd covered everything from out and out Soviet espionage, to exposing Communist activities of complexions from the faintest of pinks to the rosiest Trotskyite red. But, he decided he'd never expected to wind up after a bunch of weirds whose sole actionable activity to date seemed to be the counterfeiting of a fantastic amount of legal tender which thus far they were making no attempt to pass.

He got out of bed and went through the rituals of showering, shaving and clothing, of coffee, sausage, and eggs, toast and more coffee.

What amazed Larry Woolford was the shrug-it-off manner in which the Boss seemed to accept this underground Movement and its admitted subversive goals--whatever they were. Carry the Boss' reasoning to its ultimate and subversion was perfectly all right, just as it didn't involve force and violence. If he was in his chief's position, he would have thrown the full resources of the department into tracking down these crackpots. As it was, he, Larry Woolford was the only operative on the job.

He needed a new angle on which to work. Steve Hackett was undoubtedly handling the tracing down of the counterfeit with all the resources of the Secret Service. Possibly there was some way of detecting the source of the paper they'd used.

He finished his final cup of coffee in the living room and took up the pipe he was currently breaking in. He loaded it automatically from a humidor and lit it with his pocket lighter. Three drags, and he tossed it back to the table, fumbled in a drawer and located a pack of cigarettes. Possibly his status group was currently smoking British briars in public, but, let's face it, he hated the confounded things.

He sat down before the phone and dialed the offices of the Sun-Post and eventually got Sam Sokolski who this time beat him to the punch.

Sam said, "You shouldn't drink alone. Listen, Larry, why don't you get in touch with Alcoholics Anonymous. It's a great outfit."

"You ought to know," Larry growled. "Look, Sam, as science columnist for that rag you work for you probably come in touch with a lot of eggheads."

"Laddy-buck, you have said it," Sam said.

"Fine. Now look, what I want to know is have you ever heard--even the slightest of rumors--about an organization called the Movement?"

"What'd'ya mean, slightest of rumors? Half the weirds I run into are interested in the outfit. Get two or three intellectuals, scientists, technicians, or what have you, together and they start knocking themselves out on the pros and cons of the Movement."

Larry Woolford stared at him. "Are you kidding, Sam?"

The other was mystified. "Why should I kid you? As a matter of fact, I was thinking of doing a column one of these days on Voss and this Movement of his."

"Voss and this movement of his!"

"Sure," Sam said, "he's the top leader."

"Oh, great," Larry growled. "Look, Sam, eventually there is probably a story in this for you. Right now, though, we're trying to keep the lid on it. Could you brief me a little on this Movement? What are they trying to put over?"

"I seem to spend half my time briefing you in information any semi-moron ought to be up on," Sam said nastily. "However, briefly, they're in revolt against social-label judgments. They think it's fouling up the country and that eventually it'll result in the Russkies passing us in all the fields that really count."

"I keep running into this term," Larry complained. "What do you mean, social-label judgments, and how can they possibly louse up the country?"

Sam said, "I was present a month or so ago when Voss gave an informal lecture to a group of twenty or so. Here's one of the examples he used.

"Everybody today wants to be rated on a (1) personal, or, (2) social-label basis, depending on which basis is to his greatest advantage. The Negro who is a no-good, lazy, obnoxious person demands to be accepted because Negroes should not be discriminated against. The highly competent, hard working, honest and productive Negro wants to be accepted because he is hard-working, honest and productive--and should be so accepted.

"See what I mean? This social-label system is intended to relieve the individual of the necessity of judging, and the consequences of being judged. If you have poor judgment, and are forced to rely on your own judgment, you're almost sure to go under. So persons of poor judgment support our social-label system. If you're a louse, and are correctly judged as being a louse, you'd prefer that the social dictum 'Human beings are never lice' should apply."

Larry said, "What in the devil's this got to do with the race between this country and the Russkies?"

Sam said patiently, "Voss and the Movement he leads contend that a social-label system winds up with incompetents running the country in all fields. Often incompetent scientists are in charge of our research; incompetent doctors, in charge of our health; incompetent politicians run our government; incompetent teachers, laden with social-labels, teach our youth. Our young people are going to college to secure a degree, not an education. It's the label that counts, not the reality.

"Voss contends that it's getting progressively worse. That we're sinking into an equivalent of a ritual-taboo, tribal social-like situation. This is the system the low-level human being wants, yearns for and seeks. A situation in which no one's judgment is of any use. Then his lack of judgment is no handicap.

"According to members of the Movement, today the tribesman type is seeking to reduce civilization back to ritual-taboo tribalism wherein no one man's judgment is of any value. The union wants advancement based on seniority, not on ability and judgment. The persons with whom you associate socially judge you by the amount of money you possess, the family from which you come, the degrees you hold, by social-labels--not by your proven abilities. Down with judgment! is the cry."

"It sounds awfully weird to me," Larry grumbled in deprecation.

Sam shrugged. "There's a lot of sense in it. What the Movement wants is to develop a socio-economic system in which judgment produces a maximum advantage."

Larry said, "What gets me is that you talk as though half the country was all caught up in debating this Movement. But I haven't even heard of it, neither has my department chief, nor any of my colleagues, so far as I know. Why isn't anything about it in the papers or on the TriD?"

Sam said mildly, "As a matter of fact, I took in Mort Lenny's show the other night and he made some cracks about it. But it's not the sort of thing that's even meant to become popular with the man in the street. To put it bluntly, Voss and his people aren't particularly keen about the present conception of the democratic ideal. According to him, true democracy can only be exercised by peers and society today isn't composed of peers. If you have one hundred people, twenty of them competent, intelligent persons, eighty of them untrained, incompetent and less than intelligent, then it's ridiculous to have the eighty dictate to the twenty."

Larry looked accusingly at his long-time friend. "You know, Sam, you sound as though you approve of all this."

Sam said patiently, "I listen to it all, Larry my boy. I think Voss makes a lot of sense. There's only one drawback."

"And that is?"

"How's he going to put it over? This social-label system the Movement complains about was bad enough ten years ago. But look how much worse it is today. It's a progressive thing. And, remember, it's to the benefit of the incompetent. Since the incompetent predominates, you're going to have a hard time starting up a system based on judgment and ability."

Larry thought about it for a moment.

Sam said, "Look, I'm working, Larry. Was there anything else?"

Larry said, "You wouldn't know where I could get hold of Voss, would you?"

"At his home, I imagine, or at the University."

"He's disappeared. We're looking for him."

Sam laughed. "Gone underground, eh? The old boy is getting romantic."

"Does he have any particular friends who might be putting him up?"

Sam thought about it. "There's Frank Nostrand. You know, that rocket expert who was fired when he got in the big hassle with Senator McCord."

When Sam Sokolski had flicked off, Larry stared at the vacant phone screen for a long moment, assimilating what the other had told him. He was astonished that an organization such as the Movement could have spread to the extent it evidently had through the country's intellectual circles, through the scientifically and technically trained, without his department being keenly aware of it.

One result, he decided glumly, of labeling everything contrary to the status quo as weird and dismissing it with contempt. Admittedly, that would have been his own reaction only a week ago.

Suppose that he'd been at a cocktail party, and had drifted up to a group who were arguing about social-label judgments and the need to develop a movement to change society's use of them. The discussion would have gone in one ear, out the other, and he would have muttered inwardly, "Weirds," and have drifted on to get himself another vodka martini.

Larry snorted and dialed the Department of Records. He'd never heard of Frank Nostrand before, so he got Information.

The bright young thing who answered seemed to have a harried expression untypical of Records employees. Larry said to her, "I'd like the brief on a Mr. Frank Nostrand who is evidently an expert on rockets. The only other thing I know about him is that he recently got in the news as the result of a controversy with Senator McCord."

"Just a moment, sir," the bright young thing said.

She touched buttons and reached into a delivery chute. When her eyes came up to meet his again, they were more than ever harried. They were absolutely confused.

"Mr. Franklin Howard Nostrand," she said, "currently employed by Madison Air as a rocket research technician."

"That must be him," Larry said. "I'm in a hurry, Miss. What's his background?"

Her eyes rounded. "It says ... it says he's an Archbishop of the Anglican Church."

Larry Woolford looked at her.

She looked back, pleadingly.

Larry scowled and said, "His university degrees, please."

Her eyes darted to the report and she swallowed. "A bachelor in Home Economics, sir."

"Look here, Miss, how could a Home Economics degree result in his becoming either an Archbishop or a rocket technician?"

"I'm sorry, sir. That's what it says."

Larry was fuming but there was no point in taking it out on this junior employee of the Department of Records. He snapped, "Just give me his address, please."

She said agonizingly, "Sir, it says, Lhasa, Tibet."

A red light flicked at the side of his phone and he said to her, "I'll call you back. I'm getting a priority call."

He flicked her off, and flicked the incoming call in. It was LaVerne Polk. She seemed to be on the harried side, too.

"Larry," she said, "you better get over here right away."

"What's up, LaVerne?"

"This Movement," she said, "it seems to have started moving! The Boss says to get over here soonest."

The top of his car was retracted. Larry Woolford slammed down the walk of his auto-bungalow and vaulted over the side and into the seat. He banged the start button, dropped the lift lever, depressed the thrust pedal and took off at maximum acceleration.

He took the police level for maximum speed and was in downtown Greater Washington in flat minutes.

So the Movement had started moving. That could mean almost anything. It was just enough to keep him stewing until he got to the Boss and found out what was going on.

He turned his car over to a parker and made his way to the entrance utilized by the second-grade department officials. In another year, or at most two, he told himself all over again, he'd be using that other door. He had an intuitive feeling that if he licked this current assignment it'd be the opening wedge he needed and he'd wind up in a status bracket unique for his age.

LaVerne looked up when he hurried into her anteroom. She evidently had two or three calls going on at once, taking orders from one phone, giving them in another. Something was obviously erupting. She didn't speak to him, merely nodded her head at the inner office.

In the Boss' office were six or eight others besides Larry's superior. Their expressions and attitudes ran from bewilderment to shock. They weren't the men you'd expect to have such reactions. At least not those that Larry Woolford recognized. Three of them, Ben Ruthenberg, Bill Fraina and Dave Moskowitz were F.B.I. men with whom Larry had worked on occasion. One of the others he recognized as being a supervisor with the C.I.A. Walt Foster, Larry's rival in the Boss' affections, was also present.

The Boss growled at him, "Where in the heavens have you been, Lawrence?"

"Following our leads on this so-called Movement, sir," Larry told him. "What's going on?"

Ruthenberg, the Department of Justice man, grunted sour amusement. "So-called Movement, isn't exactly the correct phrase. It's a Movement, all right."

The Boss said, "Please dial Records and get your dossier, Lawrence. That'll be the quickest way to bring you up on developments."

Mystified, but already with a growing premonition, Larry dialed Records. Knowing his own classification code, he had no need of Information this time. He got the hundred-word brief and stared at it as it filled the screen. The only items really correct were his name and present occupation. Otherwise his education was listed as grammar school only. His military career had him ending the war as a General of the Armies, and his criminal career record included four years on Alcatraz for molesting small children.

Blankly, he faded the brief and dialed his full dossier. It failed to duplicate the brief, but that was no advantage. This time he had an M.D. degree from Johns Hopkins, but his military career listed him as a dishonorable discharge from the navy where he'd served in the steward department. His criminal record was happily nil, but his religion was listed as Holy Roller. Political affiliations had him down as a member of the Dixiecrats.

The others were looking at him, most of them blankly, although there were grins on the faces of Moskowitz and the C.I.A. man.

Moskowitz said, "With a name like mine, yet, they have me a Bishop of the Orthodox Greek Catholic Church."

Larry said, "What's it all about?"

Ruthenberg said unhappily, "It started early this morning. We don't know exactly when as yet." Which didn't seem to answer the question.

Larry said, "I don't get it. Obviously, the Records department is fouled up in some manner. How, and why?"

"How, we know," the Boss rumbled disgustedly. "Why is another matter. You've spent more time than anyone else on this assignment, Lawrence. Perhaps you can tell us." He grabbed up a pipe from his desk, tried to light it noisily, noticed finally that it held no tobacco and threw it to the desk again. "Evidently, a large group of these Movement individuals either already worked in Records or wriggled themselves into key positions in the technical end of the department. Now they've sabotaged the files."

"We've caught most of them already," one of the F.B.I. men growled, "but damn little good that does us at this point."

The C.I.A. supervisor made a gesture indicating that he gave it all up. "Not only here but in Chicago and San Francisco as well. All at once. Evidently perfectly rehearsed. Personnel records from coast to coast are bollixed. Why?"

Larry said slowly, "I think I know that now. Yesterday, I wouldn't have but I've been picking up odds and ends."

They all looked at him. _

Read next: Part 5

Read previous: Part 3

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