Status Quo Part 17

"... Or we'd already have flushed you." He allowed his voice to go curious. "We've wondered about your interest in this phase of our internal affairs."

The Russian agent let his facade slip over farther, his heavy lips sneering. "We are interested in all phases of your antiquated socio-economic system, Mr. Woolford. In the present peaceful economic compet.i.tion between East and West, we would simply _loathe_ to see anything happen to your present culture." He hesitated deliberately. "If you can call it a culture."

Larry said, unprovoked, "If I understand you correctly, you are not in favor 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 overthrowing the regime. Ultimately, what this country needs is true Communism. This so-called Movement doesn't have that as its eventual goal. It is laughable."

Larry said, interestedly, "Then perhaps you'll tell me what little you've found out about the group."

"Why not?" The Russian pursed his lips. "They are composed of impractical idealists. Scientists, intellectuals, a few admitted scholars and even a few potential leaders. Their sabotage of your Department of Records was an amusing farce, but, frankly, I have been unable to discover the purpose of their interest in rockets. For a time I contemplated the possibility that they had a scheme to develop a nuclear bomb, and to explode it over Greater Was.h.i.+ngton in the belief that in the resulting confusion they might seize power. But, on the face of it their members.h.i.+p is incapable of such an effort."

"Their interest in rockets?" Larry said softly.

"Yes, as you've undoubtedly discovered, half the rocket technicians of your country seem to have joined with them. We got the tip through"-the Russian cleared his throat-"several of our converts who happen to be connected with your s.p.a.ce efforts groups."

"Is that so?" Larry said. "I wondered what you thought about their interest in money."

It was the other's turn to look blank. "Money?" he said.

"That's right. Large quant.i.ties of money."

The Russian said, frowning, "I suppose most citizens in your capitalist countries are interested largely in money. One of your basic failings."

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 Larry had questioned Professor Voss that worthy had particularly stressed his indignation at how Professor G.o.ddard, the rocket pioneer, had been treated by his contemporaries. Franklin Nostrand had been employed as a technician on rocket research at Madison Air Laboratories. It was too darn much for coincidence.

And now something else that had been nagging away at the back of his mind suddenly came clear.

Susan Self had said that she and her father had seen the precision dancers at the New Roxy Theater in New York and later the Professor had said they were going to spend the money on chorus girls. Susan had got it wrong. The Rockettes-the precision chorus girls. The Professor had said they were going to spend the money on _rockets_, and Susan had misunderstood.

But billions of dollars expended on rockets? How? But, above all, to what end?

If he'd only been able to hold onto Susan, or her father; or to Voss or Nostrand, for that matter. Someone to work on. But each had slipped through his fingers.

Which brought something else up from his subconscious. Something which had been tugging at him.

At the office, Irene Day was packing her things as he entered. Packing as though she was leaving for good.

"What goes on?" Larry growled. "I'm going to be needing you. Things are coming 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 ideas churning in his mind.

She looked up when he entered.

Larry said, "The Boss wanted to see me?"

LaVerne ducked her head, as though embarra.s.sed. "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, are boiling about your authorizing that Distelmayer man to bill this department for information he gave you. The Boss. .h.i.t the roof. Something about the Senate Appropriations Committee getting down on him if it came out that we bought information from professional espionage agents."

Larry said, "It was information we needed, and Foster gave me the go ahead on 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 to their ears in this Movement thing. It's in the papers _now_ and n.o.body knows 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 to resume your vacation. To take a month off and then see him when you get back."

Larry sank down into a chair. "I see," he said, "And at that time he'll probably transfer me to janitor service."

"Larry," LaVerne said, almost impatiently, "why in the world didn't you take 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 could do more working alone than at an administrative post tangled in red tape and 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's back to Florida." He said in a rush, "Look LaVerne, how about that date we'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 s.h.i.+rt among fellow stuffed s.h.i.+rts, at some goings-on that supposedly improves my culture status."

Larry said "At the house I have every known brand of drinkable, and a stack of ... what did you call it? ... corny music. We can mix our own drinks and dance all by ourselves."

She tucked her head to one side and looked at him suspiciously. "Are your intentions honorable?"

"We can even discuss that later," he said sourly.

She laughed. "It's a date, Larry."

He picked her up after work, and they drove to his Brandywine auto-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 with the Boss. Now, overnight, he's got a new boy. I suppose there's some moral involved."