Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  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 a
nd 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.”

  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?”

  “The money was gone,” Steve said bitterly. “But Susan was right. There had evidently been room after room of it, stacked to the ceiling. Literally billions of dollars. They'd moved out hurriedly, but they left kicking around enough loose hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens and fives to give us an idea. Look, Woolford, I thought you'd been pulled off this case and that Walt Foster was handling it.”

  Larry said sourly, “I'm beginning to think so, too. They're evidently not even bothering to let me know about developments like this. See you later, Steve.”

  The other's face faded off.

  Larry Woolford looked across the double desk at Irene Day. “Look,” he said, “when you're offered a promotion, take it. If you don't, someone else will and you'll be out in the cold.”

  Irene Day said brightly, “I've always know that, sir.”

  He looked at her. The typical eager beaver. Sharp as a whip. Bright as a button. “I'll bet you have,” he muttered.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Woolford?”

  The phone lit as LaVerne said, “The Boss wants to talk to you, Larry.” Her face faded and Larry's superior was scowling at him.