by Fritz Leiber
sausage, and eggs, toast and more coffee.
What amazed Larry Woolford was the shrug-it-off manner in which the Bossseemed to accept this underground Movement and its admitted subversivegoals--whatever they were. Carry the Boss' reasoning to its ultimate andsubversion was perfectly all right, just as it didn't involve force andviolence. If he was in his chief's position, he would have thrown the fullresources 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 undoubtedlyhandling the tracing down of the counterfeit with all the resources of theSecret Service. Possibly there was some way of detecting the source of thepaper they'd used.
He finished his final cup of coffee in the living room and took up thepipe he was currently breaking in. He loaded it automatically from ahumidor and lit it with his pocket lighter. Three drags, and he tossed itback 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_ andeventually 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 intouch with Alcoholics Anonymous. It's a great outfit."
"You ought to know," Larry growled. "Look, Sam, as science columnist forthat 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 theslightest of rumors--about an organization called the Movement?"
"What'd'ya mean, slightest of rumors? Half the weirds I run into areinterested in the outfit. Get two or three intellectuals, scientists,technicians, or what have you, together and they start knocking themselvesout 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 wasthinking of doing a column one of these days on Voss and this Movement ofhis."
"_Voss_ and this movement of his!"
"Sure," Sam said, "he's the top leader."
"Oh, great," Larry growled. "Look, Sam, eventually there is probably astory in this for you. Right now, though, we're trying to keep the lid onit. Could you brief me a little on this Movement? What are they trying toput over?"
"I seem to spend half my time briefing you in information any semi-moronought to be up on," Sam said nastily. "However, _briefly_, they're inrevolt against social-label judgments. They think it's fouling up thecountry and that eventually it'll result in the Russkies passing us in allthe 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 informallecture 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-labelbasis, depending on which basis is to his greatest advantage. The Negrowho is a no-good, lazy, obnoxious person demands to be accepted becauseNegroes should not be discriminated against. The highly competent, hardworking, honest and productive Negro wants to be accepted because he ishard-working, honest and productive--and should be so accepted.
"See what I mean? This social-label system is intended to relieve theindividual of the necessity of judging, and the consequences of beingjudged. If you have poor judgment, and are forced to rely on your ownjudgment, you're almost sure to go under. So persons of poor judgmentsupport our social-label system. If you're a louse, and are correctlyjudged as being a louse, you'd prefer that the social dictum 'Human beingsare never lice' should apply."
Larry said, "What in the devil's this got to do with the race between thiscountry and the Russkies?"
Sam said patiently, "Voss and the Movement he leads contend that asocial-label system winds up with incompetents running the country in allfields. Often incompetent scientists are in charge of our research;incompetent doctors, in charge of our health; incompetent politicians runour government; incompetent teachers, laden with social-labels, teach ouryouth. Our young people are going to college to secure a degree, not aneducation. It's the label that counts, not the reality.
"Voss contends that it's getting progressively worse. That we're sinkinginto an equivalent of a ritual-taboo, tribal social-like situation. Thisis the system the low-level human being wants, yearns for and seeks. Asituation in which no one's judgment is of any use. Then _his_ lack ofjudgment is no handicap.
"According to members of the Movement, today the tribesman type is seekingto reduce civilization back to ritual-taboo tribalism wherein no one man'sjudgment is of any value. The union wants advancement based on seniority,not on ability and judgment. The persons with whom you associate sociallyjudge you by the amount of money you possess, the family from which youcome, 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 todevelop a socio-economic system in which judgment produces a maximumadvantage."
Larry said, "What gets me is that you talk as though half the country wasall 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 Iknow. 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 theother night and he made some cracks about it. But it's not the sort ofthing that's even meant to become popular with the man in the street. Toput it bluntly, Voss and his people aren't particularly keen about thepresent conception of the democratic ideal. According to him, truedemocracy can only be exercised by peers and society today isn't composedof peers. If you have one hundred people, twenty of them competent,intelligent persons, eighty of them untrained, incompetent and less thanintelligent, then it's ridiculous to have the eighty dictate to thetwenty."
Larry looked accusingly at his long-time friend. "You know, Sam, you soundas though you approve of all this."
Sam said patiently, "I listen to it all, Larry my boy. I think Voss makesa lot of sense. There's only one drawback."
"And that is?"
"How's he going to put it over? This social-label system the Movementcomplains about was bad enough ten years ago. But look how much worse itis today. It's a progressive thing. And, remember, it's to the benefit ofthe incompetent. Since the incompetent predominates, you're going to havea 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 rocketexpert who was fired when he got in the big hassle with Senator McCord."
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When Sam Sokolski had flicked off, Larry stared at the vacant phone screenfor a long moment, assimilating what the other had told him. He wasastonished that an organization such as the Movement could have spread tothe extent it evidently had through the country's intellectual circles,through the scientifically and technically trained, without his departmentbeing keenly aware of it.
[Illustration.]
One result, he decided glumly, of labeling everything contrary to th
e_status quo_ as _weird_ and dismissing it with contempt. Admittedly, thatwould have been his own reaction only a week ago.
Suppose that he'd been at a cocktail party, and had drifted up to a groupwho were arguing about social-label judgments and the need to develop a_movement_ to change society's use of them. The discussion would have gonein 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 ofFrank Nostrand before, so he got Information.
The bright young thing who answered seemed to have a harried expressionuntypical of Records employees. Larry said to her, "I'd like the brief ona Mr. Frank Nostrand who is evidently an expert on rockets. The only otherthing I know about him is that he recently got in the news as the resultof 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 cameup to meet his again, they were more than ever harried. They wereabsolutely confused.
"Mr. Franklin Howard Nostrand," she said, "currently employed by MadisonAir as a rocket research technician."
"That must be him," Larry said. "I'm in a hurry, Miss. What's hisbackground?"
Her eyes rounded. "It says ... it says he's an Archbishop of the AnglicanChurch."
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 HomeEconomics, sir."
"Look here, Miss, how could a Home Economics degree result in his becomingeither 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 junioremployee of the Department of Records. He snapped, "Just give me hisaddress, 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'llcall 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 saysto get over here soonest."
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The top of his car was retracted. Larry Woolford slammed down the walk ofhis auto-bungalow and vaulted over the side and into the seat. He bangedthe start button, dropped the lift lever, depressed the thrust pedal andtook off at maximum acceleration.
He took the police level for maximum speed and was in downtown GreaterWashington in flat minutes.
So the Movement had started moving. That could mean almost anything. Itwas just enough to keep him stewing until he got to the Boss and found outwhat was going on.
He turned his car over to a parker and made his way to the entranceutilized by the second-grade department officials. In another year, or atmost 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'dbe the opening wedge he needed and he'd wind up in a status bracket uniquefor his age.
LaVerne looked up when he hurried into her anteroom. She evidently had twoor three calls going on at once, taking orders from one phone, giving themin 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. Theyweren't the men you'd expect to have such reactions. At least not thosethat Larry Woolford recognized. Three of them, Ben Ruthenberg, Bill Frainaand 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. WaltFoster, 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 thistime. He got the hundred-word brief and stared at it as it filled thescreen. The only items really correct were his name and presentoccupation. Otherwise his education was listed as grammar school only. Hismilitary career had him ending the war as a General of the Armies, and hiscriminal career record included four years on Alcatraz for molesting smallchildren.
Blankly, he faded the brief and dialed his full dossier. It failed toduplicate 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 adishonorable discharge from the navy where he'd served in the stewarddepartment. His criminal record was happily nil, but his religion waslisted as Holy Roller. Political affiliations had him down as a member ofthe Dixiecrats.
The others were looking at him, most of them blankly, although there weregrins 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 theOrthodox Greek Catholic Church."
Larry said, "What's it all about?"
Ruthenberg said unhappily, "It started early this morning. We don't knowexactly when as yet." Which didn't seem to answer the question.
Larry said, "I don't get it. Obviously, the Records department is fouledup 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 tolight it noisily, noticed finally that it held no tobacco and threw it tothe desk again. "Evidently, a large group of these Movement individualseither already worked in Records or wriggled themselves into key positionsin 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, "butdamn 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 arebollixed. Why?"
Larry said slowly, "I think I know that now. Yesterday, I wouldn't havebut I've been picking up odds and ends."
They all looked at him.
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Larry sat down and ran a hand back through his hair. "The general idea isto change the country's reliance on social-label judgments."
"On _what_," the Boss barked.
"On one person judging another according to social-labels. Voss and theothers--"
"Who did you say?" Ruthenberg snapped.
"Voss. Professor Peter Voss from the University over in Baltimore section.He's the ring leader."
Ruthenberg snapped to Fraina, "Get on the phone and send out a pick-uporder for him."
Fraina was on his feet. "What charge, Ben?"
Ben Ruthenberg snorted. "Rape, or something. Get moving, we'll figure outa charge later. The guy's a fruitcake."
Larry said wearily, "He's evidently gone into hiding. I've been trying tolocate him. He managed to slip me some knockout drops and got awayyesterday."
The Boss looked at him in disgust.
Ruthenberg said evenly, "We've had men go into hiding before. Get going,Fraina."
Fraina left th
e office and the others looked back to Larry.
The Boss said, "About this social-label nonsense--"
Larry said, "They think the country is going to pot because of it. Peoplehold high office or places of responsibility not because of superiorintelligence, or even acquired skill, but because of the social-labelsthey've accumulated, and these can be based on something as flimsy--fromthe Movement's viewpoint--as who your grandparents were, what school youattended, how much seniority you have on the job, what part of town youlive in, or what tailor cuts your clothes."
Their expressions ran from scowls and frowns to complete puzzlement.
Walt Foster grumbled, "What's all this got to do with sabotaging thecountry's Records tapes?"
Larry shrugged. "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 quickhundred-word brief on a man. Yesterday, an employer, considering hiringsomebody, could dial the man's dossier, check it, and form his opinions bythe status labels the would-be employee could produce. Today, he's damnwell going to have to exercise his own judgment."
LaVerne's face
