Day After Tomorrow

XI

Before he had gone to bed the night before, Larry Woolford had ordered a seat on the shuttle jet for Jacksonville and a hover-cab there to take him to Astor, on the St. Johns River. And he’d requested to be wakened in ample time to get to the shuttle-port.

But it wasn’t the saccharine pleasant face of the Personal Service operator which confronted him when he grumpily answered the phone in the morning. In fact, the screen remained blank.

Larry decided that sweet long drinks were fine but that anyone who took several of them in a row needed to be candled. His mouth felt as though he had been eating dirty dish cloths, and he suspected he was bleeding to death through the eyes.

He grumbled into the phone, “All right. Who is it?”

A Teutonic voice chuckled and said, “You are going to have to decide whether or not you are on vacation, my friend. At this time of day, why aren’t you at work?”

Larry Woolford was waking up. He said, “What can I do for you, Distelmayer?” The German merchant of espionage wasn’t the type to make personal calls.

“Have you forgotten so soon, my friend?” the other chuckled. “It was I who was going to do you a favor.” He hesitated momentarily before adding, “In possible return for future favors on your part.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Larry said. He was fully awake now. “So the favor you’re doing me?”

The German said slowly, “You asked if any of your friends from, ah, abroad were newly in the country. Ilya Simonov has recently appeared on the scene.”

Simonov! In various respects, Larry Woolford’s counterpart. Chief hatchetman for the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya; right hand man of Minister Blagonravov. Woolford had met him on occasion when they had both been present at international summit meetings, busily working at counter-espionage for their respective superiors. Blandly shaking hands with each other, blandly smiling, blandly drinking toasts to peace and international coexistence, blandly sizing each other up and wondering if it’d ever come to the point where one would blandly treat the other to a hole in the head, possibly in some dark alley in Havana or Singapore, Leopoldville or Saigon.

Larry said sharply, “Where is he? How did he get into the country?”

“My friend, my friend,” the German grunted in heavy good humor. “You know better than to ask me the first question. As for the second, Ilya’s command of American-English is at least as good as your own. Do you think his Komissiya less capable than your own department and unable to do him up suitable papers so that he could be, perhaps, a ‘returning tourist’ from Europe?”

Larry Woolford was impatient with himself for having asked. He said now, “It’s not important. If we want to locate Ilya and pick him up, we’ll probably not have too much trouble doing it. We’ve caught him before.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” the other said humorously. “Since 1919, when they were first organized, the so-called Communists in this country from the lowest to the highest echelons, have been so riddled with police agents that a federal judge in New England once refused to prosecute a case against them on the grounds that the party was a United States government agency.”

Larry was in no frame of mind for the other’s heavy humor. “Look, Hans,” he said, “what I want to know is what Ilya is over here for.”

“Of course you do,” Hans Distelmayer said, unable evidently to keep a note of puzzlement from his voice. “Larry,” he said, “I assume your people know of the new American underground.”

“What underground?” Larry snapped.

The professional spy chief said, his voice strange, “The Soviets seem to have picked up an idea somewhere, possibly through their membership in this country, that something is abrewing in the States, that a change is being engineered.”

Larry stared at the blank phone screen.

“What kind of a change?” he said finally. “You mean a change to the Soviet system, to what they call communism, but which obviously isn’t?” Surely not even the self-deluding Russkies could think it possible to overthrow the American socioeconomic system in favor of the Soviet brand.

“No, no, no,” the German chuckled. “Of course not. It’s not of their working at all.”

“Then what’s Ilya Simonov’s interest, if they aren’t engineering it?”

Distelmayer rumbled his characteristic chuckle which held nothing in common with humor. “My dear friend, don’t be so naive. Anything that happens in America is of interest to the Soviets. There is delicate peace between you now that they have changed their direction and are occupying themselves largely with the economic and agricultural development of Asia and such portions of the world as have come under their hegemony while you put all efforts into modernizing the more backward countries among your satellites.”

Larry said automatically, “Our allies aren’t satellites.”

The spy-master went on without contesting the statement. “There is immediate peace but surely governmental officials on both sides keep careful watch on the internal developments of the other. True, the current heads of the Soviet Complex would like to see the governments of all the Western powers changed—but only if they are changed in the direction of communism. They are hardly interested in seeing changes made which would strengthen the West in the, ah, Battle for Men’s Minds.”

Larry snorted his disgust. “What sort of change in government would strengthen the United States in—”

The German interrupted smoothly, “Evidently, that’s what Ilya seems to be here for, Larry. To find out more about this Movement and—”

“This what ?” Larry blurted.

“The term seems to be Movement.”

Larry Woolford held a long silence before saying, “And Ilya is actually here in this country to buck this… this Movement?”

“Not necessarily,” the other said impatiently. “If I understand it correctly, he is here to find out more about it. Evidently Moscow and Peking both have heard just enough to make them nervous.”

Larry said, “You have anything more, Hans?”

“I’m afraid that’s about it at this point.”

“All right,” Larry said. He added, absently, “Thanks, Hans.”

“Thank me some day with deeds, rather than words,” the German chuckled.

Larry flicked the phone screen off, looked at his watch and grimaced. He was either going to get going now or forget about doing any fishing in Florida this afternoon.

Grudgingly, he dialed the phone company’s Personal Service and said to the impossibly cheerful blonde who answered, “Where can I find Professor Peter Voss who teaches over at the University in Baltimore? I don’t want to talk with him, but just want to know where he’ll be an hour from now.”

While waiting for his information, he dressed, deciding inwardly that he hated his job, the department in which he was employed, the Boss and Greater Washington. On top of that, he hated himself. He had already been taken off this assignment, why couldn’t he leave it lay?

The blonde rang him back. Professor Peter Voss was at home. He had no classes today. She gave him the address.

Larry Woolford raised his car from his auto-bungalow in the Brandywine suburb and headed northwest at a high level for the old Baltimore section of the city.

The Professor’s house, he noted, was of an earlier day and located on the opposite side of Paterson Park from Elwood Avenue, the street on which Susan Self and her father resided. That didn’t necessarily hold significance; the park was a large one and the Professor’s section a well-to-do neighborhood, while Self’s was just short of a slum these days.

He brought his car down to street level before the scholar’s three story brick house. Baltimore-like, it was identical to every other house in the block. Larry wondered vaguely how anybody ever managed to find his own place when it was very dark out—or very drunk out.

There was an old-fashioned bell at the side of the entrance and Larry Woolford pushed it. There was no identification screen on the door, which made it necessary for the inhabitants to open up to see who was calling, a tiring chore if you were on the far side of the house and the caller nothing more than a salesman.

It was obviously the Professor himself who answered.

He was in shirtsleeves, tieless and with age-old slippers on his stockingless feet. He evidently hadn’t bothered to shave this morning and he held a dog-earred pamplet in his right hand, his forefinger tucked in it to mark his place. He wore thick-lensed, gold rimmed glasses through which he blinked at Larry Woolford questioningly, without speaking. Professor Peter Voss was a man in his mid-fifties and, on the face of it, couldn’t care less right now about his physical appearance.

A weird, Larry decided immediately. He wondered at the University, one of the nations best, keeping such a figure on the faculty.

“Professor Voss?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.” He brought forth his wallet and opened it to display his badge.

The Professor blinked down at it. “I see,” he said. “Would you come in?”

The house was old, all right. From the outside, quite acceptable, but the interior boasted few of the latest amenities which made all the difference in modern existence. Larry was taken back by the fact that the phone which he spotted in the entrada hadn’t even a screen—an old model for voice only.

The Professor noticed his glance and said dryly, “The advantages of combining television and telephone have never seemed valid to me. In my own home, I feel free to relax, as you can observe. Had I a screen on my phone, it would be necessary for me to maintain the same appearance as I must on the screen or before my classes.”

Larry cleared his throat before saying anything. This was a weird, all right.

The living room was comfortable in a blatantly primitive way. Three or four paintings were on the walls and by the looks of them were originals, Larry decided, and should have been in museums. Not an abstract among them. A Grant Wood, a Marin and that over there could only be a Grandma Moses. The sort of thing you might keep in your private den, but hardly to be seen as culture symbols.

The chairs were large, of leather, and comfortable and probably belonged to the period before the Second World War. Peter Voss, obviously, was little short of an exhibitionist.

The Professor took up a battered humidor. “Cigar?” he said. “Manila. They’re hard to get these days.”

A cigar? Good grief, the man would be offering him a chaw of tobacco next.

“Thanks, no,” Larry said. “I smoke a pipe. An Irish briar, of course. British briars are out this year.”

“I see,” the Professor said, lighting his stogie. “Do you really like a pipe? Personally, I’ve always thought the cigar by far the most satisfactory method of taking tobacco.”

What can you say to a question like that? Larry ignored it, as though it was rhetorical. Actually, he smoked cigarettes in the privacy of his den, a habit which was on the proletarian side and not consistent with his status level.

He said, to get things under way, “Professor Voss,what is an intuitive scientist?”

The Professor exhaled blue smoke, shook out the old-time kitchen match with which he had lit up, and tossed the matchstick into an ashtray. “Intuitive scientist?”

“You once called Ernest Self a great intuitive scientist.”

“Oh, Self. Yes, indeed. What is he doing these days?”

Larry said, “That’s what I came to ask you about.”

The Professor was puzzled. “I’m afraid you came to the wrong place, Mr. Woolford. I haven’t seen Ernest Self for quite a time. Why?”

Larry said carefully, “Some of his researches seem to have taken him rather far afield. Actually, I know practically nothing about him. I wonder if you could fill me in a bit.”

Peter Voss looked at the ash on the end of his cigar. “I really don’t know the man that well. He lives across the park. Why don’t you—”

“He’s disappeared,” Larry saiu.

The Professor blinked. “I see,” he said. “And in view of the fact that you are a security officer, I assume under strange circumstances.” Larry Woolford said nothing to that and the Professor sank bank into his chair and pursed his lips. “I can’t really tell you much. I became interested in Self two or three years ago when gathering material for a paper on the inadequate manner in which our country rewards its inventors.”

Larry said, “I’ve heard about his suit against the government.”

The Professor became more animated. “Ha!” he snorted. “One example among many. Self is not alone. Our culture is such that the genius is smothered. The great contributors to our society are ignored, or worse.”

Larry Woolford was feeling his way. Now he said mildly, “I was under the impression that American free enterprise, or capitalism, if you will, gave the individual the best opportunity to prove himself and that if he had it on the ball he would get to the top, no matter what the obstacles.”

“Were you really?” the Professor said snappishly. “And did you know that Edison died a comparatively poor man with an estate somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred thousand dollars? An amount that might sound like a good deal to you or me, but, when you consider his contributions, shockingly little. Did you know that Eli Whitney realized little, if anything, from the cotton gin? Or that McCormack didn’t invent the reaper but gained it in a dubious court victory? Or take Robert Goddard, one of the best examples of modern times. He developed the basics of rocket technology—gyroscopic stabilizers, fuel pumps, self-cooling motors, landing devices. He died in 1945 leaving behind twenty-two volumes of records that proved priceless. What did he get out of his researches? Nothing. It was fifteen years later that his widow won her suit against the government for patent infringements.”

Larry held up a hand. “Really,” he said. “My interest is in Ernest Self.”

The Professor relaxed. “Sorry, Mr. Woolford, I’m afraid I get carried away on this subject. Self, to get back to your original question, is a great intuitive scientist. Unfortunately for him, society being what it is today, he fits into few grooves. Our educational system was little more than an irritation to him and consequently he holds no degrees. Needless to say, this interferred with his gaining employment with the universities and the large corporations which dominate our country’s research, not to mention governmental agencies.

“Ernest Self holds none of the status labels that count. The fact that he is a genius means nothing. He is supposedly qualified no more than to hold a janitor’s position in laboratories where his inferiors conduct experiments in fields where he is a dozenfold more capable than they. No one is interested in his genius, they want to know what status labels are pinned to him. Ernest Self has no respect for labels.”

Larry Woolford figured he was picking up background and didn’t change the subject. “Just what do you mean by an intuitive scientist?”

“It’s a term I have used loosely, I am afraid,” the Professor admitted. “Possibly a scientist who makes a breakthrough in his field, destroying formerly held positions—in Self’s case, without the math, without the accepted theories to back him. He finds something that works, possibly without knowing how or why, and by using unorthodox analytical techniques. An intuitive scientist, if I may use the term, is a thorn in the side of our theoretical physicists laden down with their burden of status labels but who are themselves short of the makings of a Leonardo, a Newton, a Galileo, or even a Nicholas Christofilos.”

“I’m afraid that last name escapes me,” Larry said.

“Similar to Self’s case and Robert Goddard’s,” Voss said, his voice bitter. “Although his story has a better ending. Christofilos invented the strong-focusing principle that made possible the multi-billion-volt particle accelerators currently so widely used in nuclear physics experimentation. However, he was nothing but a Greek electrical systems engineer and the supposed experts turned him down on the grounds that his math was faulty. It seems that he submitted the idea in straight-algebra terms instead of differential equations. He finally won through after patenting the discovery and rubbing their noses in it. Previously, none of the physics journals would publish his paper—he didn’t have the right status labels to impress them.”

Larry said, almost with amusement, “You seem to have quite a phobia against the status label, as you call it. However, I don’t see how as complicated a world as ours could get along without it.”

The Professor snorted his contempt of that opinion. “Tell me,” he said, “to which class do you consider yourself to belong? What social strata?”

Larry Woolford shrugged. “I suppose individuals in my bracket, with my education, and my job are usually thought of as being middle-middle class. Given luck, as I grow older possibly I’ll be able to work myself up to upper-middle class.”

The other snorted again. “And you have no feeling of revolt in having such a label hung on you? Consider this system for a moment. You have lower-lower, middle-lower, and upper lower. Then you have lower-middle, middle-middle, upper-middle. Then you have lower-upper, middle-upper, and finally we achieve to upper-upper class. Now tell me, when we get to that rarified category, who do we find? Do we find an Einstein, a Schweitzer, a Picasso; outstanding scientists, humanitarians, the great writers, artists and musicians of our day? Certainly not. We find ultra-wealthy playboys and girls, a former king and his duchess who eke out their income by accepting fees to attend parties. We find the international bum set, bearers of meaningless feudalistic titles, or we find millionaires and billionaires, who achieved their wealth by inheriting it. These are your upper-upper class!”

Larry laughed.

The professor snapped, “You think it funny? Let me give you another example of our status label culture. I have a friend whom I have known since childhood. I would estimate that Charles has an I.Q. of approximately 90, certainly no more. His family, however, took such necessary steps as were needed to get Charles through public school. No great matter these days, you’ll admit, although on occasion he needed a bit of tutoring to pass his grades. On graduation, they recognized that the really better schools might be a bit difficult for Charles so he was entered in a college with a good name but without—shall we say—the highest of scholastic ratings. Charles plodded along, had some more tutoring, probably had his thesis ghosted, and eventually graduated with his first degree. At that point an uncle died and left a rather strange will. He left Charles an indefinite amount of money to be used in furthering his education to any extent he wished to go. Charles, probably motivated by the desire to avoid obtaining a job and competing with his fellow man, managed to wrangle himself into a medical school and eventually even graduated. Since funds were still available, he continued his studies abroad, largely in Vienna.”

The Professor wound it up. “Eventually, he ran out of schools, or his uncle’s estate ran out—I don’t know which came first. At any rate, my friend Charles, laden down with status labels, is today practicing as a psychiatrist in this fair city of ours.”

Larry stared at him blankly.

The Professor said snappishly, “So any time you feel you need to have your brains unscrambled, you can go to his office and expend fifty dollars an hour or so. His reputation is of the highest.” The Professor grunted his contempt. “He doesn’t know the difference between an aspirin tablet and a Rorschach test.”

Larry Woolford stirred in his chair. “We seem to have gotten off the subject. What has all this got to do with Ernest Self?”

The Professor seemed angry. “I repeat, I’m afraid I get carried away on this subject. I’m in revolt against a culture based on the status label. It eliminates the need to judge a man on his merits. To judge a person by the clothes he wears, the amount of money he possesses, the car he drives, the neighborhood in which he lives, the society he keeps, or even his ancestry, is out of the question in a vital, growing society. You wind up with nonentities as the leaders of your nation. In these days, we can’t afford it.”

He smiled suddenly, rather elfishly, at the security agent. “But admittedly, this deals with Ernest Self only as one of many victims of a culture based on status labels. Just what was it you wanted to know about Ernest?”

Larry said, “When you knew him, evidently he was working on rocket fuels. Have you any idea whether or not he later developed a method of producing perfect counterfeit?”

The Professor said, “You mean counterfeit money? Ernest Self? Surely you are jesting.”

Larry said unhappily, “Then here’s another question. Have you ever heard him mention belonging to a movement, or, I think, he might word it The Movement.”

“Movement?” the Professor said, scowling.

“Evidently a revolutionary group interested in the overthrow of the government.”

“Good heavens,” the Professor said. “Just a moment, Mr. Woolford. You interrupted me just as I was having my second cup of coffee. Do you mind if I…”

“Certainly not,” Larry Woolford shook his head.

“I simply can’t get along until after my third cup,” the Professor said. “You just wait a moment and I’ll bring the pot in here.”

He left Larry to sit in the combined study and living room while he shuffled off in his slippers to the kitchen. Larry Woolford decided that in his school days he had had some far-out professors himself, but it would really be something to study under this one. Not that the old boy didn’t have some points, of course. Almost all nonconformists base their particular peeves on some actuality, but in this case, what was the percentage? How could you buck the system? Particularly when, largely, it worked.

The Professor returned with an old-fashioned coffeepot, two cups, and sugar and cream on a tray. He put them on a side table and said to Larry, “You’ll join me? How do you take it?”

Larry still had the slightest of hangovers from his solitary drinking of the night before. “Thanks. Make it black,” he said.

The Professor poured, served, then did up a cup for himself. He returned to his chair and said, “Now, where were we? Something about a revolutionary group. What has that to do with counterfeiting?”

Larry sipped the strong brew. “It seems that there might be some connection.”

The Professor shook his head. “It’s hard to imagine Ernest Self being connected with a criminal pursuit. It simply is not in his character.”

Larry said carefully, sipping at the still overly hot coffee, “Susan seemed to be of the opinion that you knew about a large amount of counterfeit currency that this Movement had on hand and that you were in favor of spending it on chorus girls.”

The Professor gaped at him.

Larry chuckled uncomfortably.

Professor Peter Voss said finally, his voice very even, “My dear sir, I am afraid that evidently I can be of little assistance to you.”

“Admittedly, it doesn’t seem to make much sense.”

“Susan—you mean that little sixteen-year-old?—said I was in favor of spending counterfeit money on chorus girls?”

Larry said, “She used the term The Professor.” He wasn’t at all happy about the way this was going.

“And why did you assume that the title must necessarily allude to me? Even if any of the rest of the fantastic story was true?”

Larry said, “In my profession, Professor Voss, we track down every possible clue. Thus far, you are the only professor of whom we know who was connected with Ernest Self.”

Voss said stiffly, “I can only say, sir, that in my estimation, Mr. Self is a man of the highest integrity. And, in addition, that I have never spent a penny on a chorus girl in my life and have no intention of beginning, counterfeit or otherwise.”

Larry Woolford decided that he wasn’t doing too well and that he’d need more ammunition if he was going to return to this particular attack. He was surprised that the old boy hadn’t already ordered him from the house. In which case, he would have to go, of course; he was here by invitation.

He finished the coffee, preparatory to coming to his feet. He said, “Then you think it is out of the question, Ernest Self belonging to a revolutionary organization?”

The Professor protested. “I didn’t say that at all. Mr. Self is a man of ideals. I can well see him belonging to such an organization.”

Larry Woolford decided that he’d better hang on for a few more words. “You don’t seem to think, yourself, that a subversive organization is undesirable in this country.”

The Professor’s voice was reasonable. “Isn’t that according to what it means to subvert?”

“You know what I mean,” Woolford said in irritation. “I don’t usually think of revolutionists, even when they call themselves simply members of a Movement, as exactly idealists.”

“Then you are wrong,” the Professor said definitely, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “History bears out that almost invariably revolutionists are men of idealism. The fact that they might be either right or wrong in their revolutionary program is beside the point. I cite in our own revolution such men as Jefferson. Robespierre we might abhor for the Reign of Terror, but he was an idealist. Even Lenin.”

Larry Woolford began to say, “Are you sure than you aren’t interested in this Move—”

Then the knockout drops hit him.