Day After Tomorrow

XIV

The top of his car was retracted. Larry Woolford slammed down the walk of his auto-bungalow and vaulted over the side and into the seat. He banged the start button, dropped the lift lever, depressed the thrust peddle and took off at maximum acceleration.

He took the police level for maximum speed and was in downtown Greater Washington in flat minutes.

So the Movement had started moving. That could mean almost anything. It was just enough to keep him stewing until he got to the Boss and found out what was going on. He turned his car over to a parker and made his way to the entrance utilized by the second-grade department officials. In another year, or at most 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’d be the opening wedge he needed and he’d wind up in a status bracket unique for his age. Yes, if he could just bring this Movement to bay, he’d have it made.

LaVerne looked up when he hurried into her anteroom. She seemingly had two or three calls going on at once, taking orders from one phone, giving them in another. Something was obviously erupting. She didn’t speak to him, merely nodding her head at the inner office. He had never seen the efficient LaVerne Polk in this much of a dither. She was invariably cool and collected, no matter what the crisis. And this was a department of crises. The shit must have really hit the fan, he decided.

In the Boss’ office were six or eight others besides Larry’s ultimate superior. Their expressions and attitudes ran from bewilderment to shock. They weren’t the men you’d expect to have such reactions. At least not those that Larry recognized. Three of them, Ben Ruthenberg, Bill Fraina and Dave Moskowitz were F.B.I, men, of high echelon, and with whom Larry had worked on occasion. One of the others he recognized as being a supervisor with the C.I.A. Walt Foster, Larry’s rival for the affections of the Boss, was also present, his disgustingly fawning face—given Larry’s viewpoint—continually on the superior.

The Boss growled at Larry, “Where in the name of heavens have you been, Lawrence?”

Larry tried to rise to the occasion manfully. “Following out leads on this so-called Movement, sir,” he said. “Thin results, so far. What’s going on?”

Ruthenberg, the Department of Justice man, grunted sour amusement at that. “So-called Movement isn’t exactly the term, not the correct phrase. It’s a Movement, all right, all right. I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.”

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.