Status Quo Part 12

"Does he have any particular friends who might be putting him up?"

Sam thought about it. "There's Frank Nostrand. You know, that rocket expert who was fired when he got in the big ha.s.sle with Senator McCord."

When Sam Sokolski had flicked off, Larry stared at the vacant phone screen for a long moment, a.s.similating what the other had told him. He was astonished that an organization such as the Movement could have spread to the extent it evidently had through the country's intellectual circles, through the scientifically and technically trained, without his department being keenly aware of it.

[Ill.u.s.tration.]

One result, he decided glumly, of labeling everything contrary to the _status quo_ as _weird_ and dismissing it with contempt. Admittedly, that would have been his own reaction only a week ago.

Suppose that he'd been at a c.o.c.ktail party, and had drifted up to a group who were arguing about social-label judgments and the need to develop a _movement_ to change society's use of them. The discussion would have gone in 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 of Frank Nostrand before, so he got Information.

The bright young thing who answered seemed to have a harried expression untypical of Records employees. Larry said to her, "I'd like the brief on a Mr. Frank Nostrand who is evidently an expert on rockets. The only other thing I know about him is that he recently got in the news as the result of a controversy with Senator McCord."

"Just a moment, sir," the bright young thing said.

She touched b.u.t.tons and reached into a delivery chute. When her eyes came up to meet his again, they were more than ever harried. They were absolutely confused.

"Mr. Franklin Howard Nostrand," she said, "currently employed by Madison Air as a rocket research technician."

"That must be him," Larry said. "I'm in a hurry, Miss. What's his background?"

Her eyes rounded. "It says ... it says he's an Archbishop of the Anglican Church."

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 Home Economics, sir."

"Look here, Miss, how could a Home Economics degree result in his becoming either 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 junior employee of the Department of Records. He snapped, "Just give me his address, 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'll call 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 says to get over here soonest."

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 b.u.t.ton, dropped the lift lever, depressed the thrust pedal 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 a.s.signment it'd be the opening wedge he needed and he'd wind up in a status bracket unique for his age.

LaVerne looked up when he hurried into her anteroom. She evidently 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 nodded her head at the inner office.

In the Boss' office were six or eight others besides Larry's superior.

Their expressions and att.i.tudes ran from bewilderment to shock. They weren't the men you'd expect to have such reactions. At least not those that Larry Woolford recognized. Three of them, Ben Ruthenberg, Bill Fraina and 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. Walt Foster, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"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 cla.s.sification code, he had no need of Information this time. He got the hundred-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. His military career had him ending the war as a General of the Armies, and his criminal career record included four years on Alcatraz for molesting small children.

Blankly, he faded the brief and dialed his full dossier. It failed to duplicate 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 a dishonorable discharge from the navy where he'd served in the steward department. His criminal record was happily nil, but his religion was listed as Holy Roller. Political affiliations had him down as a member of the Dixiecrats.

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.

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

Larry said, "What's it all about?"

Ruthenberg said unhappily, "It started early this morning. We don't know exactly when as yet." Which didn't seem to answer the question.

Larry said, "I don't get it. Obviously, the Records department is fouled up in some manner. How, and why?"