by Fritz Leiber
phase of our internalaffairs."
The Russian agent let his facade slip over farther, his heavy lipssneering. "We are interested in all phases of your antiquatedsocio-economic system, Mr. Woolford. In the present peaceful economiccompetition between East and West, we would simply _loathe_ to seeanything happen to your present culture." He hesitated deliberately. "Ifyou can call it a culture."
Larry said, unprovoked, "If I understand you correctly, you are not infavor of the changes the Movement advocates."
The Russian shrugged hugely. "I doubt if they are possible of achievement.The organization is a sloppy one. Revolutionary? Nonsense," he scoffed."They have no plans to change the government. No plans for overthrowingthe regime. Ultimately, what this country needs is true Communism. Thisso-called Movement doesn't have that as its eventual goal. It islaughable."
Larry said, interestedly, "Then perhaps you'll tell me what little you'vefound out about the group."
"Why not?" The Russian pursed his lips. "They are composed of impracticalidealists. Scientists, intellectuals, a few admitted scholars and even afew potential leaders. Their sabotage of your Department of Records was anamusing farce, but, frankly, I have been unable to discover the purpose oftheir interest in rockets. For a time I contemplated the possibility thatthey had a scheme to develop a nuclear bomb, and to explode it overGreater Washington in the belief that in the resulting confusion theymight seize power. But, on the face of it their membership is incapable ofsuch an effort."
"Their interest in rockets?" Larry said softly.
"Yes, as you've undoubtedly discovered, half the rocket technicians ofyour country seem to have joined with them. We got the tip through"--theRussian cleared his throat--"several of our converts who happen to beconnected with your space efforts groups."
"Is that so?" Larry said. "I wondered what you thought about theirinterest in money."
It was the other's turn to look blank. "Money?" he said.
"That's right. Large quantities of money."
The Russian said, frowning, "I suppose most citizens in your capitalistcountries are interested largely in money. One of your basic failings."
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Driving back to the office, Larry Woolford let it pile up on him.
Ernest Self had been a specialist in solid fuel for rockets. When Larryhad questioned Professor Voss that worthy had particularly stressed hisindignation at how Professor Goddard, the rocket pioneer, had been treatedby his contemporaries. Franklin Nostrand had been employed as a technicianon rocket research at Madison Air Laboratories. It was too darn much forcoincidence.
And now something else that had been nagging away at the back of his mindsuddenly came clear.
Susan Self had said that she and her father had seen the precision dancersat the New Roxy Theater in New York and later the Professor had said theywere going to spend the money on chorus girls. Susan had got it wrong. TheRockettes--the precision chorus girls. The Professor had said they weregoing to spend the money on _rockets_, and Susan had misunderstood.
But billions of dollars expended on rockets? How? But, above all, to whatend?
If he'd only been able to hold onto Susan, or her father; or to Voss orNostrand, for that matter. Someone to work on. But each had slippedthrough his fingers.
Which brought something else up from his subconscious. Something which hadbeen tugging at him.
At the office, Irene Day was packing her things as he entered. Packing asthough she was leaving for good.
"What goes on?" Larry growled. "I'm going to be needing you. Things arecoming to a head."
She said, a bit snippishly, Larry thought, "Miss Polk, in the Boss'office, said for you to see her as soon as you came in, Mr. Woolford."
"Oh?"
He made his way to LaVerne's office, his attention actually on the ideaschurning in his mind.
She looked up when he entered.
Larry said, "The Boss wanted to see me?"
LaVerne ducked her head, as though embarrassed. "Not exactly, Larry."
He gestured with his thumb in the direction of his own cubicle office."Irene just said you wanted me."
LaVerne looked up into his face. "The Boss and Mr. Foster, too, areboiling about your authorizing that Distelmayer man to bill thisdepartment for information he gave you. The Boss hit the roof. Somethingabout the Senate Appropriations Committee getting down on him if it cameout that we bought information from professional espionage agents."
Larry said, "It was information we needed, and Foster gave me the go aheadon locating Frol Eivazov. Maybe I'd better see the Boss."
LaVerne said, "I don't think he wants to see you, Larry. They're up totheir ears in this Movement thing. It's in the papers _now_ and nobodyknows what to do next. The President is going to make a speech on TriD,and the Boss has to supply the information. His orders are for you toresume your vacation. To take a month off and then see him when you getback."
Larry sank down into a chair. "I see," he said, "And at that time he'llprobably transfer me to janitor service."
"Larry," LaVerne said, almost impatiently, "why in the world didn't youtake that job Walt Foster has now when the Boss offered it to you?"
"Because I'm stupid, I suppose," Larry said bitterly. "I thought I coulddo more working alone than at an administrative post tangled in red tapeand bureaucratic routine."
She said, "Sorry, Larry." She sounded as though she meant it.
Larry stood up. "Well, tonight I'm going to hang one on, and tomorrow it'sback to Florida." He said in a rush, "Look LaVerne, how about that datewe've been talking about for six months or more?"
She looked up at him. "I can't stand vodka martinis."
"Neither can I," he said glumly.
"And I don't get a kick out of prancing around, a stuffed shirt amongfellow stuffed shirts, at some goings-on that supposedly improves myculture status."
Larry said "At the house I have every known brand of drinkable, and astack of ... what did you call it? ... corny music. We can mix our owndrinks and dance all by ourselves."
She tucked her head to one side and looked at him suspiciously. "Are yourintentions honorable?"
"We can even discuss that later," he said sourly.
She laughed. "It's a date, Larry."
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He picked her up after work, and they drove to his Brandywineauto-bungalow, largely quiet the whole way.
At one point she touched his hand with hers and said, "It'll work out,Larry."
"Yeah," he said sourly. "I've put ten years into ingratiating myself withthe Boss. Now, overnight, he's got a new boy. I suppose there's some moralinvolved."
When they pulled up before his auto-bungalow, LaVerne whistledappreciatively. "Quite a neighborhood you're in."
He grunted. "A good address. What our friend Professor Voss would call onemore status symbol, one more social-label. For it I pay about fifty percent more rent than my budget can afford."
He ushered her inside and took her jacket. "Look," he said, indicating hisliving room with a sweep of hand. "See that volume of Klee reproductionsthere next to my reading chair? That proves I'm not a weird. Indicates myculture status. Actually, my appreciation of modern art doesn't go anyfurther than the Impressionists. But don't tell anybody. See those booksup on my shelves. Same thing. You'll find everything there that _ought_ tobe on the shelves of any ambitious young career man."
She looked at him from the side of her eyes. "You're really soured,Larry."
"Come along," he said. "I want to show you something."
He took her down the tiny elevator to his den.
"How hypocritical can you get?" he asked her. "This is where I reallylive. But I seldom bring anyone here. Wouldn't want to get a reputation asa weird. Sit down, LaVerne, I'll make a drink. How about a Sidecar?"
She sank onto the couch, kicked her shoes off and slipped her feet underher. "I'd love one," she said.
<
br /> His back to her, he brought brandy and cointreau from his liquor cabinet,lemon and ice from the tiny refrigerator.
"What?" LaVerne said mockingly. "No auto-bar?"
"Upstairs with the rest of the status symbols," Larry grunted.
He put her drink before her and turned and went to the record player.
"In the way of corny music, how do you like that old-timer, Nat Cole?"
"King Cole? Love him," LaVerne said.
The strains of "For All We Know" penetrated the