Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  He snapped, “Did you get anything on this medical records thing, Woolford?”

  “Medical records?” Larry said blankly.

  The Boss grunted in deprecation. “No, I suppose you haven't. I wish you would snap into it, Woolford. I don't know what has happened to you of late. I used to think that you were a good field man.” He flicked off abruptly.

  Larry dialed LaVerne Polk. “What in the world was the Boss just talking about, LaVerne? About medical records?”

  LaVerne said, frowning, “Didn't you know? The Movement's been at it again. They've fouled up the records of the State Medical Licensing bureaus, at the same time sabotaging the remaining records of most, if not all, of the country's medical schools. They struck simultaneously, throughout the country.”

  He looked at her, expressionlessly.

  LaVerne said, “We've caught several hundred of those responsible. It's the same thing. Attack of the social-label. From now on, if a man tells you he's an Ear, Eye and Throat specialist, you'd better do some investigation before letting him amputate your tongue. You'd better use your judgment before letting any doctor you don't really know about, work on you. It's a madhouse, Larry.”

  ***

  Larry Woolford, for long moments after LaVerne had broken the connection, stared unseeingly at his secretary across from him until she stirred.

  He brought his eyes back to the present. “Another preliminary move, not the important thing, yet. Not the big explosion they're figuring on. Where have they taken that money, and why?”

  Irene Day blinked at him. “I don't know, I'm sure, sir.”

  Larry said, “Get me Mr. Foster on the phone, Irene.”

  When Walt Foster's unhappy face faded in, Larry said, “Walt did you get Frol Eivazov?”

  “Eivazov?” the other said impatiently. “No. We haven't spent much effort on it. I think this hunch of yours is like the other ones you've been having lately, Woolford. Frol Eivazov was last reported by our operatives as being in North Korea.”

  “It wasn't a hunch,” Larry said tightly. “He's in this country on an assignment dealing with the Movement.”

  “Well, that's your opinion,” Foster said snappishly. “I'm busy, Woolford. See here, at present you're under my orders on this job. In the way of something to do, instead of sitting around in that office, why don't you follow up this Eivazov thing yourself?” He considered it a moment. “That's an order, Woolford. Even if you don't locate him, it'll keep you out of our hair.”

  After the other was gone, Larry Woolford leaned back in his chair, his face flushed as though the other had slapped it. In a way, he had.

  Larry said slowly, “Miss Day, dial me Hans Distelmayer. His offices are over in the Belmont Building.”

  As always, the screen remained blank as the German spy master spoke.

  Larry said, “Hans, I want to talk to Frol Eivazov.”

  “Ah?”

  “I want to know where I can find him.”

  The German's voice was humorously gruff. “My friend, my friend.”

  Larry said impatiently, “I'm not interested in arresting him at this time. I want to talk to him.”

  The other said heavily. “This goes beyond favors, my friend. On the face of it, I am not in business for my health. And what you ask is dangerous from my viewpoint. You realize that upon occasion my organization does small tasks for the Soviets....”

  “Ha!” Larry said bitterly.

  “... And,” the German continued, unruffled, “it is hardly to my interest to gain the reputation of betraying my sometimes employers. Were you on an assignment in, say, Bulgaria or Hungary, would you expect me to betray you to the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya?”

  “Not unless somebody paid you enough to make it worth while,” Larry said dryly.

  “Exactly,” the espionage chief said.

  “Look,” Larry said. “Send your bill to this department, Hans. I've been given carte blanche on this matter and I want to talk to Frol. Now, where is he?”

  The German chuckled heavily. “At the Soviet Embassy.”

  “What! You mean they've got the gall to house their top spy right in—”

  Distelmayer interrupted him. “Friend Eivazov is currently accredited as a military attaché and quite correctly. He holds the rank of colonel, you know. He entered this country quite legally, the only precaution taken was to use his second name, Kliment, instead of Frol, on his papers. Evidently, your people passed him by without a second look. Ah, I understand he went to the trouble of making some minor changes in his facial appearance.”

  “We'll expect your bill, Distelmayer,” Larry said. “Good-by.”

  He got up and reached for his hat, saying to Irene Day, “I don't know how long I'll be gone.” He added, wryly, “If either Foster or the Boss try to get in touch with me, tell them I'm carrying out orders.”

  He drove over to the Soviet Embassy, parked his car directly before the building.

  ***

  The American plainclothesmen stationed near the entrance, gave him only a quick onceover as he passed. Inside the gates, the impassive Russian guards didn't bother to flicker an eyelid.

  At the reception desk in the immense entrada, he identified himself. “I'd like to see Colonel Frol Eivazov.”

  “I am afraid—” the clerk began stiffly.

  “I suppose you have him on the records as Kliment Eivazov.”

  The clerk had evidently touched a concealed button. A door opened and a junior embassy official approached them.

  Larry restated his desire. The other began to open his mouth in denial, then shrugged. “Just a moment,” he said.

  He was gone a full twenty minutes. When he returned, he said briefly, “This way, please.”

  Frol Eivazov was in an inner office, in full uniform. He came to his feet when Larry Woolford entered and said to the clerk, “That will be all, Vova.” He was a tall man, as Slavs go, but heavy of build and heavy of face.

  He shook hands with Larry. “It's been a long time,” he said in perfect English. “That conference in Warsaw, wasn't it? Have a chair, Mr. Woolford.”

  Larry took the offered chair and said, “How in the world did you expect to get by with this nonsense? We'll have you declared persona non grata in a matter of hours.”

  “It's not important,” Eivazov shrugged. “I have found what I came to find. I was about to return to report any way.”

  “We won't do anything to hinder you, colonel,” Larry said dryly.

  Eivazov snapped his fingers. “It's all amusing,” he said. “In our country we would quickly deal with this Movement nonsense. You Americans with your pseudo-democracy, your labels without reality, your—”

  Larry said wearily, “Please, Frol, I promise not to convert you if you promise not to convert me. Needless to say, my department isn't happy about your presence in this country. You'll be watched from now on. We've been busy with other matters....”

  Here the Russian laughed.

  “... Or we'd already have flushed you.” He allowed his voice to go curious. “We've wondered about your interest in this phase of our internal affairs.”

  The Russian agent let his facade slip over farther, his heavy lips sneering. “We are interested in all phases of your antiquated socio-economic system, Mr. Woolford. In the present peaceful economic competition between East and West, we would simply loathe to see anything happen to your present culture.” He hesitated deliberately. “If you can call it a culture.”

  Larry said, unprovoked, “If I understand you correctly, you are not in favor of the changes the Movement advocates.”

  The Russian shrugged hugely. “I doubt if they are possible of achievement. The organization is a sloppy one. Revolutionary? Nonsense,” he scoffed. “They have no plans to change the government. No plans for overthrowing the regime. Ultimately, what this country needs is true Communism. This so-called Movement doesn't have that as its eventual goal. It is laughable.”

  Larry said, interestedly, “
Then perhaps you'll tell me what little you've found out about the group.”

  “Why not?” The Russian pursed his lips. “They are composed of impractical idealists. Scientists, intellectuals, a few admitted scholars and even a few potential leaders. Their sabotage of your Department of Records was an amusing farce, but, frankly, I have been unable to discover the purpose of their interest in rockets. For a time I contemplated the possibility that they had a scheme to develop a nuclear bomb, and to explode it over Greater Washington in the belief that in the resulting confusion they might seize power. But, on the face of it their membership is incapable of such an effort.”

  “Their interest in rockets?” Larry said softly.

  “Yes, as you've undoubtedly discovered, half the rocket technicians of your country seem to have joined with them. We got the tip through”—the Russian cleared his throat—“several of our converts who happen to be connected with your space efforts groups.”

  “Is that so?” Larry said. “I wondered what you thought about their interest in money.”

  It was the other's turn to look blank. “Money?” he said.

  “That's right. Large quantities of money.”

  The Russian said, frowning, “I suppose most citizens in your capitalist countries are interested largely in money. One of your basic failings.”

  ***

  Driving back to the office, Larry Woolford let it pile up on him.

  Ernest Self had been a specialist in solid fuel for rockets. When Larry had questioned Professor Voss that worthy had particularly stressed his indignation at how Professor Goddard, the rocket pioneer, had been treated by his contemporaries. Franklin Nostrand had been employed as a technician on rocket research at Madison Air Laboratories. It was too darn much for coincidence.

  And now something else that had been nagging away at the back of his mind suddenly came clear.

  Susan Self had said that she and her father had seen the precision dancers at the New Roxy Theater in New York and later the Professor had said they were going to spend the money on chorus girls. Susan had got it wrong. The Rockettes—the precision chorus girls. The Professor had said they were going to spend the money on rockets, and Susan had misunderstood.

  But billions of dollars expended on rockets? How? But, above all, to what end?

  If he'd only been able to hold onto Susan, or her father; or to Voss or Nostrand, for that matter. Someone to work on. But each had slipped through his fingers.

  Which brought something else up from his subconscious. Something which had been tugging at him.

  At the office, Irene Day was packing her things as he entered. Packing as though she was leaving for good.

  “What goes on?” Larry growled. “I'm going to be needing you. Things are coming to a head.”

  She said, a bit snippishly, Larry thought, “Miss Polk, in the Boss' office, said for you to see her as soon as you came in, Mr. Woolford.”

  “Oh?”

  He made his way to LaVerne's office, his attention actually on the ideas churning in his mind.

  She looked up when he entered.

  Larry said, “The Boss wanted to see me?”

  LaVerne ducked her head, as though embarrassed. “Not exactly, Larry.”

  He gestured with his thumb in the direction of his own cubicle office. “Irene just said you wanted me.”

  LaVerne looked up into his face. “The Boss and Mr. Foster, too, are boiling about your authorizing that Distelmayer man to bill this department for information he gave you. The Boss hit the roof. Something about the Senate Appropriations Committee getting down on him if it came out that we bought information from professional espionage agents.”

  Larry said, “It was information we needed, and Foster gave me the go ahead on locating Frol Eivazov. Maybe I'd better see the Boss.”

  LaVerne said, “I don't think he wants to see you, Larry. They're up to their ears in this Movement thing. It's in the papers now and nobody knows what to do next. The President is going to make a speech on TriD, and the Boss has to supply the information. His orders are for you to resume your vacation. To take a month off and then see him when you get back.”

  Larry sank down into a chair. “I see,” he said, “And at that time he'll probably transfer me to janitor service.”

  “Larry,” LaVerne said, almost impatiently, “why in the world didn't you take that job Walt Foster has now when the Boss offered it to you?”

  “Because I'm stupid, I suppose,” Larry said bitterly. “I thought I could do more working alone than at an administrative post tangled in red tape and bureaucratic routine.”

  She said, “Sorry, Larry.” She sounded as though she meant it.

  Larry stood up. “Well, tonight I'm going to hang one on, and tomorrow it's back to Florida.” He said in a rush, “Look LaVerne, how about that date we've been talking about for six months or more?”

  She looked up at him. “I can't stand vodka martinis.”

  “Neither can I,” he said glumly.

  “And I don't get a kick out of prancing around, a stuffed shirt among fellow stuffed shirts, at some goings-on that supposedly improves my culture status.”

  Larry said “At the house I have every known brand of drinkable, and a stack of ... what did you call it? ... corny music. We can mix our own drinks and dance all by ourselves.”

  She tucked her head to one side and looked at him suspiciously. “Are your intentions honorable?”

  “We can even discuss that later,” he said sourly.

  She laughed. “It's a date, Larry.”

  ***

  He picked her up after work, and they drove to his Brandywine auto-bungalow, largely quiet the whole way.

  At one point she touched his hand with hers and said, “It'll work out, Larry.”

  “Yeah,” he said sourly. “I've put ten years into ingratiating myself with the Boss. Now, overnight, he's got a new boy. I suppose there's some moral involved.”

  When they pulled up before his auto-bungalow, LaVerne whistled appreciatively. “Quite a neighborhood you're in.”

  He grunted. “A good address. What our friend Professor Voss would call one more status symbol, one more social-label. For it I pay about fifty per cent more rent than my budget can afford.”

  He ushered her inside and took her jacket. “Look,” he said, indicating his living room with a sweep of hand. “See that volume of Klee reproductions there next to my reading chair? That proves I'm not a weird. Indicates my culture status. Actually, my appreciation of modern art doesn't go any further than the Impressionists. But don't tell anybody. See those books up on my shelves. Same thing. You'll find everything there that ought to be on the shelves of any ambitious young career man.”

  She looked at him from the side of her eyes. “You're really soured, Larry.”

  “Come along,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  He took her down the tiny elevator to his den.

  “How hypocritical can you get?” he asked her. “This is where I really live. But I seldom bring anyone here. Wouldn't want to get a reputation as a weird. Sit down, LaVerne, I'll make a drink. How about a Sidecar?”

  She sank onto the couch, kicked her shoes off and slipped her feet under her. “I'd love one,” she said.

  His back to her, he brought brandy and cointreau from his liquor cabinet, lemon and ice from the tiny refrigerator.

  “What?” LaVerne said mockingly. “No auto-bar?”

  “Upstairs with the rest of the status symbols,” Larry grunted.

  He put her drink before her and turned and went to the record player.

  “In the way of corny music, how do you like that old-timer, Nat Cole?”

  “King Cole? Love him,” LaVerne said.

  The strains of “For All We Know” penetrated the room.

  Larry sat down across from her, finished half his drink in one swallow.

  “I'm beginning to wonder whether or not this Movement doesn't have something,” he said.
>
  She didn't answer that. They sat in silence for a while, appreciating the drink. Nat Cole was singing “The Very Thought of You” now. Larry got up and made two more cocktails. This time he sat next to her. He leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.

  Finally he said softly, “When Steve Hackett and I were questioning Susan, there was only one other person who knew that we'd picked her up. There was only one person other than Steve and me who could have warned Ernest Self to make a getaway. Later on, there was only one person who could have warned Frank Nostrand so that he and the Professor could find a new hideout.”

  She said sleepily, “How long have you known about that, darling?”

  “A while,” Larry said, his own voice quiet. “I figured it out when I also decided how Susan Self was spirited out of the Greater Washington Hilton, before we had the time to question her further. Somebody who had access to tapes made of me while I was making phone calls cut out a section and dubbed in a voice so that Betsy Hughes, the Secret Service matron who was watching Susan, was fooled into believing it was I ordering the girl to be turned over to the two Movement members who came to get her.”

  LaVerne stirred comfortably and let her head sink onto his shoulder. “You're so warm and ... comfortable,” she said.

  Larry said softly, “What does the Movement expect to do with all that counterfeit money, LaVerne?”

  She stirred against his shoulder, as though bothered by the need to talk. “Give it all away,” she said. “Distribute it all over the country and destroy the nation's social currency.”

  It took him a long moment to assimilate that.

  “What have the rockets to do with it?”

  She stirred once again, as though wishing he'd be silent. “That's how it will be distributed. About twenty rockets, strategically placed, each with a warhead of a couple of tons of money. Fired to an altitude of a couple of hundred miles and then the money is spewed out. In falling, it will be distributed over cities and countryside, everywhere. Billions upon billions of dollars worth.”