Day After Tomorrow

VII

Larry Woolford summed it up for the Boss later after Steve had returned and taken over.

His chief scowled his disbelief, and said, “The child is full of dreams, Lawrence. It comes from seeing an over-abundance of these Tri-Di shows. I have a girl the same age. I don’t know what is happening to the country. They have no sense of reality.”

Larry Woolford said mildly, “Well, she might be full of nonsense but she did have the fifties and she’s our only connection with whoever printed them, whether it’s a movement to overthrow the government, or what.”

The Boss said tolerantly, “Movement indeed. Obviously, her father produced them and she purloined a quantity before he was ready to attempt to pass them. Have you a run down on him as yet?”

“Susan Self says her father, Ernest Self, is an inventor. Steve Hackett is working on locating him.”

“He’s an inventor indeed. Evidently, he has invented a perfect counterfeiting device. However, that is the Secret Service’s headache, not ours. Do you wish to resume that vacation of yours, Lawrence?”

His operative twisted his face in a grimace. “Sure I do, sir, but I’m not happy about this. What happens if there really is an organization, a Movement, like she said? That brings it back under our jurisdiction, anti-subversion.”

The other shook his head tolerantly. “See here, Lawrence, when you begin scheming a social revolution you can’t plan on an organization composed of a small number of persons who keep their existence secret. In spite of what a good many persons seem to believe, revolutions are not accomplished by little groups of conspirators hiding in cellars and eventually overthrowing society by dramatically shooting the President, or King, or Czar, or whoever. Revolutions are precipitated by masses of people. People who have ample cause to be dissatisfied, possibly having been pushed to the brink of starvation, though other things can sometimes be the cause of revolt. Have you ever read Machiavelli?”

Niccolo Machiavelli was currently the thing to read.

Larry said with a certain dignity, “I’ve gone through ‘The Prince,’ the ‘Discourses’ and currently I’m amusing myself with his ‘History of Florence.’

“Anybody who can amuse himself reading Machiavelli,” the Boss said wryly, “has a macabre sense of humor. At any rate what I was alluding to was where he stated that the Prince cannot rule indefinitely in the face of the active opposition of his people. Therefore, the people always get a government that lies within the limits of their tolerance. It may be on one edge or the other of their limits of toleration—but it’s always within their tolerance zone.”

Larry frowned and said, “Well, what’s your point, sir?

The Boss said patiently, “I’m just observing that cultures aren’t overthrown by little handfuls of secret conspirators. You might eliminate a few individuals in that manner, in other words change the personnel of the government, but you aren’t going to alter a socio-economic system. That can’t be done until your people have been pushed outside their limits of tolerance. Very well then. A revolutionary organization must get out and propagandize. It has got to convince the people that they are being pushed beyond endurance. You have got to get the masses to moving. You have got to give speeches, print newspapers, books, pamphlets, you have got to send your organizers out to intensify interest in your program.”

Larry said, “I see what you mean. If this so-called Movement actually existed it couldn’t expect to get anywhere as long as it remained secret.”

The Boss nodded. “That is correct. The leaders of a revolutionary movement might be intellectuals, social scientists, scholars—in fact they usually are—take our own American Revolution with Jefferson, Madison, Franklin, Paine. Or the French Revolution with Robespierre, Danton, Marat. For that matter take Marx, Engels, Lenin. All were well educated intellectuals from the middle class. But the revolution itself, once it starts, comes from below, from the masses of people pushed beyond tolerance.”

It came to Lawrence Woolford that his superior had achieved his prominent office not through any fluke. He knew what he was talking about.

The Boss wound it up. “If there was such an organization as this Movement, then this department would know about it. You don’t keep a revolutionary movement secret. It doesn’t make sense to even try. Even if it is forced underground, it makes as much noise as it can.”

His troubleshooter cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re right, sir.” He added hesitantly, “We could always give Susan Self a few drops of Scop-Serum, sir.”

The Boss scowled disapprovingly. “You know how the Supreme Court ruled on that, Lawrence. And particularly since the medics revealed its effect on reducing sexual inhibitions. It’s one of the most effective aphrodisiacs ever come upon. No, Mr. Hackett and Secret Service will have to get the truth out of the girl by some other means. At any rate, it is out of our hands.”

Larry came to his feet. “Well, then, I’ll resume my vacation, eh?”

His chief took up a report from his desk and frowned at it, his attention already passing to other matters. He grunted, “Clear it with LaVerne, please. Tell her I said to take another week to make up for our intruding on you in this manner.”

In the back of his head, Larry Woolford had misgivings. For one thing, where had the kid, who on the face of her performance was no great brain even as teenagers go, picked up such ideas as the fact that people developed prejudices against words like revolution and propaganda?

However, he was clear of it now. Let Steve Hackett and his people take over. He, Lawrence Woolford, was due for a quick return to Astor, Florida and the bass fishing there which was, in his book, the best in the world. A ten-pound large-mouthed bass, practically unknown elsewhere, was an ordinary thing on the St. Johns. In his time, Larry had landed bass that went as high as fourteen pounds and they were by no means record breakers. He stopped at LaVerne’s desk and gave her his address to be, now that his vacation was resumed.

She said, smiling up at him, the warm smile that was LaVerne Polk when she wasn’t in one of her needling moods, “Right. The Boss told me to get in touch with Secret Service and let them know that we’re pulling out. What happened to Susan Self?”

Larry looked at her quizzically. “How do you know about Susan Self?”

Her tone was deprecating. “Don’t you remember? You had me cut some tapes on you and that hulking Steve Hackett grilling the poor kid.”

Larry snorted. “Poor kid, yet. With her tastes for living it up, and that father she has, she’ll probably spend the rest of her life getting in Steve’s hair as a counterfeit pusher.”

LaVerne didn’t like it. She said, “What are they going to do with her? She’s just a child.”

The agent shrugged. “I feel sorry for her, too, LaVerne. Steve’s got her over in one of our suites at the Greater Washington Hilton, until things are cleared up. They don’t want the newspapers to get wind of this until they’ve got that inventor father of hers and whatever he’s cooked up to turn out perfect reproductions of Uncle Sam’s money. Look, I won’t be leaving until tomorrow. What’d you say we get out on the town tonight?”

“Why, Larry Woolford,” she gushed. “How nice of you to ask me. What did you have in mind for a weird type like myself? I understand that Mort Lenny’s at one of the night clubs.”

Larry winced. “You know what he’s been saying about the administration. That so called stand-up comedian is one of the biggest weirds in town.” She smiled sweetly at him.

Larry said, “Look, we could take in the Brahms concert, then we could—”

Still sweetly, she said, “Do you like Brahms? I go for popular music myself. Preferably the sort of thing they wrote back in the 1930s. Something you can dance to; something you know the words to. Corny, they used to call it. Remember ‘Sunny Side of the Street,’ and ‘Just the Way You Look Tonight’?”

Larry winced again. He said, “Look, I admit, I don’t go for concerts either but it doesn’t hurt you to—”

“I know,” she said sweetly. “It doesn’t for a bright young bureaucrat to be seen at concerts.”

“How about Dixieland?” he said. “It’s rapidly becoming all the thing now.”

“I like corn. Besides, my wardrobe is all out of style. Paris, London and Rome just got in a huddle a couple of months ago and antiquated everything I own. You wouldn’t want to be seen with a girl a few weeks out of date, would you?”

“Oh, now, LaVerne, get off my back.” He thought about it. “Look, you must have something you could wear.”

“Get out of here, you vacant-minded conformist! I like Mort Lenny, he makes me laugh. I hate vodka martinis, they give me a sour stomach. I don’t like the current women’s styles, they look ridiculous and are uncomfortable. And I don’t like the men’s styles either; they’re too boyish.” LaVerne spun back to her auto-typer and began to dictate into it.

Larry glared down at her. “All right, okay. What do you like?”

She snapped back irrationally, “I like what I like.”

He laughed at her in ridicule.

This time it was she who glared at him. “That makes more sense than you’re capable of assimilating, Mr. Walking Status Symbol. My likes and dislikes aren’t dictated by someone else. If I like corny music, I’ll listen to it and the devil with Brahms or Dixieland or anything else that somebody else tells me is all the thing!”

He turned on his heel angrily. “Okay, okay, it takes all sorts to make a world, weirds and all.”

“One more label to hang on people,” she snarled after him. “Everything’s labels. Be sure and never come to any judgements of your own!”

What a woman! He wondered why he had ever bothered to ask her for a date. There were so many women in this town you waded through them. And most were happy and anxious to be laid. And here he was exposing himself to be seen in public with a girl that everybody in the department knew was as weird as they came. It didn’t do your standing any good to be seen around with the type. He wondered all over again why the boss tolerated her as his receptionist-secretary.

Well, he wouldn’t have minded screwing her. LaVerne Polk had one of the pertist bodies he’d ever admired.

He got his car from the parking lot and drove home on a high level. Ordinarily, the distance being what it was, he drove in the lower and slower traffic levels but now his frustration demanded some expression.