Short Fiction, Mack Reynolds [best book reader txt] 📗

“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 cooperate 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 paperwork 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 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 assign 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 assignment.”

“Well, bring her back again, will you? I want her 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 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 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. 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.”

Walt Foster said, “OK 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 associating 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,