Status Quo Part 14

The Boss thought about that. He said slowly, "Lawrence, the Supreme Court ruled against the use of Scop-Serum. Not that it is over efficient, 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, these 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 const.i.tutional rights."

Larry stood up, approached his chief's 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's actually billions of dollars worth of it."

"Oh, come now, Lawrence. The child exaggerated. Besides, that's a problem for Steven Hackett and the Secret Service, we have enough on our hands as it is. Forget about the counterfeit, Lawrence. I think I shall put you in complete control of field work on this, to co-operate in liaison with Ben Ruthenberg and the F.B.I. So far as we're concerned, the counterfeit angle belongs to Secret Service, we're working on subversion, and until the Civil Liberties Union or whoever else proves otherwise, we'll consider this Movement an organization attempting to subvert 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 a.s.signment, Woolford. Confound it, don't you realize it's a promotion?"

Larry was worriedly dogged. "Sir, I'd rather stay in the field."

"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 the phone and snapped to LaVerne Polk, "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?"

"Yes, sir," Larry said. It was just coming home 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 a.s.sign that secretary to me?"

LaVerne shook her head at him. "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 a.s.signment."

"Well, bring her back again, will you? I want her to do up briefs for me on all the information we acc.u.mulate 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 Frank Nostrand is. He's some kind of rocket technician at Madison Air Laboratories. I'll be in my office."

"Frank 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 time for them now.

He sat down at the desk and dialed an inter-office number.

The hara.s.sed 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. Frol Eivazov, of the _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_ is somewhere in the country."

"Frol Eivazov!" Foster blurted. "What've the Commies got to do with this?

Is this something the Boss knows about?"

"Haven't had time to go into it with him," Larry said. "However, it seems that friend Frol 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. I suggest you have him picked up, Walt."

[Ill.u.s.tration.]

Walt Foster said, "O.K. I'll 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, LaVerne?"

She made a face. "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 a.s.sociating with the right people."

It was his turn to grimace. "I'm beginning to think you ought to sign up with Voss and this Movement of his. You'd be right at home with his weirds."

She stuck out her tongue at him, and flicked off.

He looked at the empty screen and chuckled. He had half a mind to get a record of their conversation, strip out just the section where she'd stuck out her tongue, and then play it back to her. She'd be taken aback by being confronted by her own image making faces at her.

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 the qualities he looked for. She was attractive, without being overly so. He disliked women 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 better half inviting them to dinner. It would happen exactly once, never again.

He obtained his car, lifted it to one of the higher levels and headed for Newport News. It was a half-hour trip and he wasn't particularly expectant of results. The tip Sam Sokolski had given him, wasn't much to go by.

Evidently, Frank Nostrand was a friend of the Professor's but that didn't necessarily mean he was connected with the movement, or that he knew Voss'

whereabouts.

He might have saved himself the trip.

The bird had flown again. 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, 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.

"I'm up to my eyebrows, Larry. What'd you want?"

Larry gave him Frank Nostrand's address. "This guy's disappeared, Walt."