Day After Tomorrow

by Mack Reynolds

  “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 electrical systems 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 of that opinion. “Tell me,” he said, “to which class do you consider yourself to belong? What social strata?”

  Larry Woolford shrugged. “I suppose individuals in my bracket, with my education, and my job are usually thought of as being middle-middle class. Given luck, as I grow older possibly I’ll be able to work myself up to upper-middle class.”

  The other snorted again. “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. We find the international bum set, bearers of meaningless feudalistic titles, or we find millionaires and billionaires, who achieved their wealth by inheriting it. 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 to pass his grades. On graduation, they recognized that the really better schools might be a bit difficult for Charles so he was entered in a college 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 with his first degree. At that point an uncle died and left a rather strange will. He left Charles an indefinite amount of money to be used in furthering his education to any extent he wished to go. Charles, probably motivated 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 fifty 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 off the subject. What has all this got to do with Ernest 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 Ernest Self only as one of many victims of a culture based on status labels. Just what was it you wanted to know about Ernest?”

  Larry said, “When you knew him, evidently he was working on rocket fuels. Have you any idea whether or not he later developed a method of producing perfect counterfeit?”

  The Professor said, “You mean counterfeit money? 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, scowling.

  “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,” Larry 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 had 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 hangovers 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 returned to his chair and said, “Now, where were we? Something about a revolutionary group. What has that to do with counterfeiting?”

  Larry sipped the strong brew. “It seems that there might be some connection.”

  The Professor shook his head. “It’s hard to imagine Ernest Self being connected with a criminal pursuit. It simply is not in his character.”

  Larry said carefully, sipping at the still overly hot coffee, “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 on chorus girls.”

  The Professor gaped at him.

  Larry chuckled uncomfortably.

  Professor Peter Voss said finally, his voice very even, “My dear sir, I am afraid that evidently I 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, “She used the term The Professor.” He wasn’t at all happy about the way this was going.

  “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 st
iffly, “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. In which case, he would have to go, of course; he was here by invitation.

  He finished the coffee, preparatory to coming to his feet. He said, “Then you think it is 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 that he’d better hang on for 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 are 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. I cite in our own revolution such men as Jefferson. Robespierre we might abhor for the Reign of Terror, but he was an idealist. Even Lenin.”

  Larry Woolford began to say, “Are you sure than you aren’t interested in this Move—”

  Then the knockout drops hit him.

  XII

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

  Steve Hackett’s voice said, “The cloddy is snapping out of it.” He sounded far away.

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

  “What happened?” he muttered.

  “Oh, great. What happened, he says. Now that’s an original question,” Steve said in disgust.

  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 three or four 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. And evidently, what a bird.”

  “You mean the Professor? He’s a bird all right.”

  “Leave us depart the field of humor,” 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 said, or rather 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 like he was ready to go into hiding at a moment’s notice.”

  Steve growled at him, “Give the place the works. Let’s hope he’s left some clues around that’ll give us a line.”

  The other went off and Steve Hackett sat down on 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 took the other in. He said, “Susan? What are you talking about? You don’t have any aspirin, do you?”

  “No. What do 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?” Larry Woolford complained. “I’ve never heard of her.”

  Steve shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of knockout drops the old boy gave you, but they sure as hell worked. Betsy’s the operative we put on to mind Susan Self 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. Now do you remember?”

  Larry gawked at him. Finally he said, “Listen, Steve, what time is it?”

  Steve looked at his watch. “It’s almost two o’clock.”

  Larry said, “I came into this house in the morning. I 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 that he might be dangerous. At any rate, I’ve been unconscious for several hours. I couldn’t have called this Betsy Hughes operative of yours, and I sure as hell didn’t write any order to turn Susan over to two men from our department.”

  It was Steve Hackett’s turn to stare. “Do you mean to tell me that you people don’t have Susan Self?”

  Larry shook his head, which he found to be a mistake since the motion increased his splitting headache. He said, “Not so far as I know. The Boss told me yesterday that we were pulling out, that it was all in your hands. What in the devil 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. And if they’ve gone to ground, we’ll have our work cut out finding them. None of them have a criminal record. We don’t even have their fingerprints.”

  “Look,” Larry said, suppressing a groan, “let’s get me some aspirin and then let’s go and see my chief. I have a sneaking suspicion that our department is back on this case.”

  Steve snorted his sarcasm. “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.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Larry told him.

  The Boss said slowly, “Whoever we are working against evidently isn’t short of resources. Abducting that young lady right out from under our noses was no simple matter. I hope the farce doesn’t ever get into the newspapers. Both of our departments would look awfully inefficient.” The career bureaucraft worked his lips in and out in the nearest thing to a pout his heavy face was capable of.

  Larry Woolford, who had taken the time 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 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 in 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, sir, that we don’t even know what it is they want.”

  “However,” his superior said slowly, “we are be—beginning to get some 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 its all about.”

  The Boss turned his eyes to the Secret Service man. “We have a clue or two, Mr. Hacket
t. For one thing, we know that this Movement of ours has no affiliation with the Soviet Complex, nor, so far as we know, any foreign element whatsover. 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 expected 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 and other activities. 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 shook 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 en toto. Whenever the majority of the American people decide completely to abandon the Constitution and govern themselves by new laws, no matter how revolutionary they might be by present standards, they have the right to do it.”