by Fritz Leiber
more with another design,because we can duplicate it as well. Our experts are the world's best,we're not a group of sulking criminals but capable, trained, dedicatedmen.
"Very well! We will have made it absolutely impossible to have any form ofmass-produced social currency."
Larry stared at him. "It would completely foul the whole business system!You'd have chaos!"
"At first. Private individuals, once the value of money was seen to bezero, would have lost the amount of cash they had on hand. But banks andsuch institutions would lose little. They have accurate records that showthe actual values they held at the time our money rains down."
Larry was bewildered. "But what are you getting at? What do you expect toaccomplish?"
The Professor, on his favorite subject, said triumphantly, "The only formof currency that can be used under these conditions is the _personal_check. It's not mass produced, and mass-production can't duplicate it.It's immune to the attack. Business has to go on, or people will starve--sopersonal checks will have to replace paper money. Credit cards andtraveler's checks won't do--we can counterfeit them, too, and will, ifnecessary. Realize of course that hard money will still be valid, but itcan't be utilized practically for any but small transactions. Try takingenough silver dollars to buy a refrigerator down to the store with you."
"But what's the purpose?" Larry demanded, flabbergasted.
"Isn't it obvious? Our whole Movement is devoted to the destruction ofsocial-label judgments. It's all very well to say: _You should not judgeyour fellow men_ but when it comes to accepting another man's personalcheck, friend, you damn well have to! The bum check artist might have afield day to begin with--but only to begin with."
Larry shook his head in exasperation. "You people are a bunch ofanarchists," he accused.
"No," the Professor denied. "Absolutely not. We are the antithesis of theanarchist. The anarchist says, 'No man is capable of judging another.' Wesay, 'Each man must judge his fellow, must demand proper evaluation ofhim.' To judge a man by his clothes, the amount of money he owns, the carhe drives, the neighborhood in which he lives, or the society he keeps, isout of the question in a vital culture."
Larry said sourly, "Well, whether or not you're right, Voss, you've lost.This place is surrounded. My men will be breaking in shortly."
Voss laughed at him. "Nonsense. All you've done is prevent us fromaccomplishing this portion of our program. What will you do after myarrest? You'll bring me to trial. Do you remember the Scopes' Monkey Trialback in the 1920s which became a world appreciated farce and madeTennessee a laughingstock? Well, just wait until you get _me_ into courtbacked by my organization's resources. We'll bring home to every thinkingperson, not only in this country, but in the world, the fantasticqualities of our existing culture. Why,Mr.-Secret-Agent-of-Anti-Subversive-Activity you aren't doing me an injuryby giving me the opportunity to have my day in court. You're doing me afavor. Newspapers, radios, TriD will give me the chance to expound myprogram in the home of every thinking person in the world."
There was a fiery dedication in the little man's eyes. "This will be myvictory, not my defeat!"
There were sounds now, coming from the other rooms--the garages. Someshouts and scuffling. Faintly, Larry Woolford could hear Steve Hackett'svoice.
He was staring at the Professor, his eyes narrower.
The Professor was on his feet. He said in defiant triumph, "You think thatyou'll win prestige and honor as a result of tracking the Movement down,don't you, Mr. Woolford? Well, let me tell you, you won't! In six monthsfrom now, Mr. Woolford, you'll be a laughingstock."
That did it.
Larry said, "You're under arrest. Turn around with your back to me."
The Professor snorted his contempt, turned his back and held up his hands,obviously expecting to be searched.
In a fluid motion, Larry Woolford drew his gun and fired twice. The otherwith no more than a grunt of surprise and pain, stumbled forward to hisknees and then to the floor, his arms and legs akimbo.
The door broke open and Steve Hackett, gun in hand, burst in.
"Woolford!" he barked. "What's up?"
Larry indicated the body on the floor. "There you are, Steve," he said."The head of the counterfeit ring. He was trying to escape. I had to shoothim."
Behind Steve Hackett crowded Ben Ruthenberg of the F.B.I. and behind himhalf a dozen others of various departments.
The Boss came pushing his way through.
He glared down at the Professor's body, then up at Larry Woolford.
"Good work, Lawrence," he said. "How did you bring it off?"
Larry replaced the gun in his holster and shrugged modestly. "The Polkgirl gave me the final tip-off, sir. I gave her some Scop-Serum in a drinkand she talked. Evidently, she was a member of the Movement."
The Boss was nodding wisely. "I've had my eye on her, Lawrence. An obviousweird. But we will have to suppress that Scop-Serum angle." He slapped hisfavorite field man on the arm jovially. "Well, boy, this means promotion,of course."
Larry grinned. "Thanks, sir. All in a day's work. I don't think we'll havemuch trouble with the remnants of this Movement thing. The pitch is totreat them as counterfeiters, not subversives. Try them for that. Theirsilly explanations of what they were going to do with the money will neverbe taken seriously." He looked down at the small corpse. "Particularly nowthat their kingpin is gone."
A new wave of agents, F.B.I. men and prisoners washed into the room andSteve Hackett and Larry were for a moment pushed back into a corner bythemselves.
Steve looked at him strangely and said, "There's one thing I'd like toknow: Did you really have to shoot him, Woolford?"
Larry brushed it off. "What's the difference? He was as weird as theycome, wasn't he?"
THE END
