Day After Tomorrow

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 LaVerne’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.

He might have saved himself the trip.

The bird had flown again. In fact, two birds had flown. Not only was Frank Nostrand not at the Madison Air Laboratories, but he wasn’t at home, either. Larry Woolford, mindful of his departmental chief’s words on the prestige these people carried, and the need to avoid hanky-panky when they were involved, took a full hour in acquiring a search warrant before breaking into the Nostrand home.

Nostrand was supposedly a bachelor, but the auto-bungalow, similar to Larry Woolford’s own, showed signs of double occupancy, and there was little indication that the guest had been a woman.

Disgruntled, Larry Woolford dialed the offices, asked for Walt Foster. It took nearly ten minutes before his colleague faded in.

He said, snappishly, “I’m up to my eyebrows, Larry. What in the hell do you want?”

Larry gave him Frank Nostrand’s address. “This guy has disappeared, Walt.”

“So?”

“He was a close friend of Professor Voss. I got a warrant to search his house. It shows signs he had a guest. Possibly it was the Professor. Do you want to get some of the boys down here to go through the place? Possibly there’s some sort of clue to where they took off for. The Professor’s on the run and he’s no professional at this. If we can pick him up, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion we’ll have the so-called Movement licked. It’s as though you’d picked up Lenin, at the beginnings of the Bolshevik revolution.”

Walt Foster slapped a hand to his face in anguish. “You knew where the Professor was hiding, and you tried to pick him up on your own and let him get away. Why didn’t you discuss this with either the Boss or me? I’m in charge of this operation! I would have had a dozen men down there. You’ve really fouled this one up, Woolford!”

Larry stared at him. Already Walt Foster was making sounds like an enraged superior.

He said mildly, “Sorry, Walt. I came down here on a very meager tip. I didn’t really expect it to pan out. It was one chance in a million.”

“Well, in the future, for crissakes, clear it with either me or the Boss before running off half-cocked into something, Woolford. Yesterday, you had this whole assignment on your own. Today, it’s no longer a minor matter. Our department alone has two hundred people on it, in Greater Washington alone. The F.B.I. must have five times that many and that’s not even counting the Secret Service’s interest. It’s no longer your individual baby.”

“Sorry,” Larry repeated. Then, “I don’t imagine you’ve got hold of Ilya Simonov yet.”

The other was disgusted. “Do you think we’re magicians? We just put out the call for him a few hours ago. He’s no amateur. If he doesn’t want to be picked up, and he obviously doesn’t, he’ll go to ground and we’ll have our work cut out for us finding him. I can’t see that it’s particularly important anyway.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Larry said. “But you never know. He might have learned some things that we’re not up on. See you later, Walt.”

Walter Foster stared at him for a moment as though about to say something, but then tightened his lips and faded off.

Larry looked at the phone screen for a moment. “Did that phony expect me to call him sir? he muttered.