Day After Tomorrow

by Mack Reynolds

  The Boss said, “Please dial Records and get your brief dossier, Lawrence. That will be the quickest manner in which to bring you up on developments.” His voice was grim.

  Mystified, but with a growing premonition already, Larry dialed the Department of Records. Knowing his own classification code, he had no need of Information this time. He got the hundred odd 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, an initial cruel cut. His military career had him ending the Asian War as a General of the Armies and his criminal career record included four years on Alcatraz for molesting small children. Alcatraz! Hadn’t it been closed down for years?

  Blankly, he faded the brief and dialed his full dossier. It failed to duplicate the brief, but that was no great advantage. This time he had a M.D. degree from Johns Hopkins, but his military career listed him as a dishonorable discharge from the Navy where he had served in the steward department. His criminal career consisted of being a pusher of heroin and his religion was listed as Holy Roller. Political affiliations had him down as a member of the British Tory party.

  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. He suspected that they had gone through similar routines.

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

  Larry said, hopelessly, “What in the name of whatever is if all about?”

  Ruthenberg said, resignation in voice, “It all started early this morning, so far as we know. As a matter of fact, we don’t exactly know what in the hell has happened.” Which didn’t seem to answer the question.

  Larry said, “I don’t get it. Obviously, the Department of Records is fouled up in some manner. How and why?”

  “How, we know, more or less,” 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 top 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 managed to sabotage the files.”

  “Weve caught most of them already,” one of the F.B.I. men growled, “but damn little good that does us at this stage of the game.”

  The C.I.A. supervisor made a gesture indicating that he gave it all up. He said, “Not only here, but it happened in Chicago and San Francisco as well. All at once. Evidently perfectly rehearsed. Personnel records from coast to coast are all bollixed. The question is, why?”

  Larry said slowly, “I think I know that now. Yesterday I wouldn’t have but I’ve been picking up odds and ends from here and there.”

  They all fixed their eyes on him.

  Larry sat down and ran a hand back through his hair. “The general idea is to change the country’s reliance on social-label judgements.”

  “On what?” the Boss barked.

  Larry viewed his chief. “Of one person judging another according to social-labels. Professor Voss and the others—”

  “Who did you say?” Ruthenberg interrupted with a snap.

  “Voss. Professor Peter Voss from the University over in the Baltimore section of town. He’s the ring leader, the brains behind the Movement.”

  Ruthenberg snapped to Fraina, “Get on the phone and send out a pick-up order for him.”

  Fraina was on his feet. “What kind of a charge do I lay on him, Ben?”

  Ben Ruthenberg said sarcastically, “Rape, or something. Get moving, well figure out a charge later. The guy’s a fruitcake.”

  Larry said wearily, “He’s already gone into hiding. I’ve been trying to locate him. He managed to slip me some knockout drops and got away yesterday.”

  The Boss looked at him in disgust. He said, “You mean a rank amateur managed to do you in?”

  There was no answer to that.

  Ruthenberg said, “We’ve had men go into hiding before. Get going, Fraina.”

  Fraina left the office and the others looked back to Larry, waiting for him to go on.

  The Boss said, “About this social-label nonsense—”

  Larry said, “They think the country is going to pot because of it. People hold high office or places of responsibility not because of superior intelligence, or even acquired skill, but because of the social-labels they’ve accumulated, and these can be based on something as flimsy—from the Movement’s viewpoint—as who your grandparents were, how much seniority you have on the job, what part of town you live in, or what tailor cuts your clothes.”

  Their expressions ran from scowls and frowns to complete puzzlement.

  Walt Foster, Larry’s neck and neck rival, grumbled, “What’s all this got to do with sabotaging the country’s Records? You sure you know what you’re talking about, Larry?”

  Larry shrugged as he said, “I don’t have the complete picture, but one thing is sure. It’s going to be harder for a while to base your opinions on a quick hundred-word brief on a man. Yesterday, an employer, considering hiring somebody, could dial the man’s dossier, check it, and form his opinions by the status labels the would-be employee could produce. Today, he’s damn well going to have to exercise his own judgement.”

  LaVerne’s face lit up the screen on the Boss’ desk and she said, “Those two members of the Movement who were picked up in Alexandria are here, sir.”

  “Send them in,” the Boss rumbled. He looked at Larry. “The F.B.I, managed to arrest almost everyone directly involved in the sabotage.”

  The two prisoners seemed more amused than otherwise. They were young men, in their early thirties—well-dressed and obviously intelligent. The Boss had them seated side by side and glared at them for a long moment before speaking. Larry and the others took chairs in various parts of the room and added their own stares to the barrage.

  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 cooperating with us. It might make the difference between a year or two in prison—and life.”

  One of them grinned and said, “I doubt it.”

  The Boss tried a slightly different approach. “You have no reason to maintain a feeling of obligation to Professor Voss and the others. You’ve been let down. 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, and were fully aware of it,” he said. “However, it won’t be long before we are out.”

  “You think so?” Ruthenberg grunted.

  The revolutionist looked at him. “Yes, I do,” he said. “Six months from now and we’ll be heroes. 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 allowed itself to get deeply immeshed 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 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 government and have them safe and easily available at any time? Now, the Movement has completely and irrevocably destroyed almost all the files that deal with the social-labels to which we object. An excellent first step,
in forcing our country back into judgement based on ability and intelligence.”

  “First step!” Larry blurted.

  The two prisoners looked at him in obvious amusement. “That’s right,” the quieter of the two said. “This is just the first step. You didn’t think we expected to achieve our purpose with nothing more than this, did you?”

  “Don’t kid yourselves,” Ben Ruthenberg bit out. “It’s also the last.”

  The two Members of the Movement grinned at him. Oh, they were enjoying themselves all right, all right.

  XV

  When the others had gone, the Boss looked at Larry Woolford. He said sourly, “When this department was being formed, I doubt that 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 two prisoners?”

  “Hold them on various charges, I assume. They should be able to dream up a multitude of them. 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’re already arrested, feed them a dose of Scop and pressure them to open up on the organization’s operations.”

  His superior squinted 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 dossier 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 as efficient as all that 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, those 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. Scop-Serum is a highly effective and dangerous aphrodisiac, as well as being a truth serum. If it came out that we’d used it, the trials might be thrown out of court.”

  Larry stood up, approached his chiefs 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 actually billions of dollars worth of it.”

  “Oh, come now, Lawrence. The child exaggerated. Besides, that’s a problem for Steve Hackett and the Secret Service, we have enough on our hands as it is. Forget about the counterfeit, Lawrence. I think I’ll put you in complete control of field work on this, to cooperate in liaison with Ben Ruthenberg and the F.B.I. So far as we’re concerned, the counterfeiting angle belongs to Secret Service. We’re working on subversion and until the Civil Liberties Union or whoever else proves otherwise, well consider the Movement an organization attempting to change 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 that it is a promotion?”

  Larry was worriedly dogged, “Sir, I’d rather stay in the field. I think it’s where I’ll be most useful.”

  “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 one of the phones and said, “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?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Larry said. It was just coming 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?”

  “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, or an equivalent. I want a girl 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 Franklin Nostrand is. He’s some kind of rocket technician at Madison Air Laboratories. Ill be in my office.”

  “Franklin 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 and pamphlets that his never seen secretary had heaped up for him. Well, he certainly didn’t have any time for reading now, about counterfeiting or anything else.

  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. Ilya Simonov, of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya is somewhere in the country.”

  “Ilya Simonov!” Foster blurted. “What’ve the Commies got to do with this? Is it something the Boss knows about?”

  “Haven’t had time to go into it with him,” Larry said. “However, it seems that friend Ilya 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. It might upset the applecart, or something. I suggest you have Ilya picked up, Walt.”

  Walt Foster said, “All right, I’ll make a note to 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 LaVe
rne’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, sweetie? I’ve always wanted to see how you looked in a nightgown, or, better still, out of one.”

  She made a face at him. “Ha! 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 Professor Voss and this Movement of his. You’d be right at home with his weirds. You’re a hard lay, LaVerne Polk, and I resent it.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and flicked off, after saying, “I’d only put out for a man—not a status symbol.”

  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 of the qualities he looked for in a woman. She was attractive, without being overly so. He disliked women who were 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 wife inviting them out to dinner. It would happen exactly once, never again. And Larry had been buttering up to the Boss’ better half for the better part of a decade now. He had won her over the hard way, and with just those status labels, status symbols, that the Movement was in such revolt against.

  He obtained his car, lifted it to one of the higher levels and headed for Newport News. The former naval base and maritime center was shortly to be assimiliated into Greater Washington but hadn’t quite made it yet. It was a half hour trip and he wasn’t particularly expectant of results. The tip Sam Sokolsld had given him wasn’t much to go by. Seemingly, Frank Nostrand was a friend of the Professor’s, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was connected with the Movement, or that he was aware of Professor Voss’ whereabouts.