Mack Reynolds - Day After Tomorrow

“Oh, great,” Steve snarled. “There goes our last contact. Ernest Self, Professor Voss, and now Susan Self; they’ve all disappeared. And if they’ve gone to ground, we’ll have our work cut out finding them. None of them have a criminal record. We don’t even have their fingerprints.”

“Look,” Larry said, suppressing a groan, “let’s get me some aspirin and then let’s go and see my chief. I have a sneaking suspicion that our department is back on this case.”

Steve snorted his sarcasm. “If you can foul things up this well when you’re off the case, God only knows what you’ll accomplish using your facilities on an all-out basis.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Larry told him.

The Boss said slowly, “Whoever we are working against evidently isn’t short of resources. Abducting that young lady right out from under our noses was no simple matter. I hope the farce doesn’t ever get into the newspapers. Both of our departments would look awfully inefficient.” The career bureaucraft worked his lips in and out in the nearest thing to a pout his heavy face was capable of.

Larry Woolford, who had taken the time to go home, shower, change clothes and medicate himself out of his dope induced hangover, sat across the desk from him, flanked by Steve Hackett.

The Boss said sourly, “It would seem that I was in error. That our young Susan Self was not spouting fantasy. There evidently is an underground movement interested in changing our institutions.” He stirred in his chair and his scowl went deeper. “And evidently working on a basis never conceived of by subversive organizations in the past. The fact that they have successfully remained secret even to this department is the prime indication that they are attempting to make their revolutionary changes in a unique manner.”

Larry said, “The trouble is, sir, that we don’t even know what it is they want.”

“However,” his superior said slowly, “we are be—beginning to get some inklings.”

Steve Hackett said, “What inklings, sir? This sort of thing might be routine for you people, but my field is counterfeit. I, frankly, don’t know what its all about.”

The Boss turned his eyes to the Secret Service man. “We have a clue or two, Mr. Hackett. For one thing, we know that this Movement of ours has no affiliation with the Soviet Complex, nor, so far as we know, any foreign element whatsover. If we take Miss Self’s word, it is strictly an American phenomenon. From what little we know of Ernest Self and Peter Voss they might be in revolt against some of our current institutions but there is no reason to believe them, ah, un-American in the usually accepted sense of the word.”

The two younger men looked at him as though he was joking.

He shook his heavy head negatively. “Actually, what do we have on this so-called Movement thus far? Aside from treating Lawrence, here, to some knockout drops—and let us remember that Lawrence was present in the Professor’s home without a warrant—all we have is the suspicion that they have manufactured a quantity of counterfeit.”

“A quantity is right,” Steve Hackett blurted. “If we’re expected to accept what that Self kid told us, they have a few billion dollars worth of perfect bills on hand.”

A strange amount for counterfeiters to produce,” the Boss said uncomfortably. “That is what puzzles me. Any revolutionary movement needs funds. Remember Stalin as a young man? He used to be in charge of the Bolshevik gang which robbed banks to raise funds for their underground newspapers and other activities. But a billion dollars? What in the world can they expect to need that amount for?”

Larry said, “Sir, you keep talking as though these characters were a bunch of idealistic do-gooders bleeding for the sake of the country. Actually, from what we know, they’re nothing but a bunch of revolutionists.”

The Boss shook his head. “You’re not thinking clearly, Lawrence. Revolution, per se, is not illegal in the United States. Our Constitution was probably the first document of its kind which allowed for its own amendment. The men who wrote it provided for changing it either slightly or en toto . Whenever the majority of the American people decide completely to abandon the Constitution and govern themselves by new laws, no matter how revolutionary they might be by present standards, they have the right to do it.”

“Then what’s the whole purpose of this department, sir?” Larry argued. “Why have we been formed to combat foreign and domestic subversion?”

His chief sighed. “You shouldn’t have to ask that, Lawrence. The present government cannot oppose the will of the majority if it votes, by constitutional methods, to make any changes it wishes. But we can, and do, unmask the activities of anyone trying to overthrow the government by force and violence, or any other method not consistent with the Constitution. Any culture protects itself against that.”

“What are we getting at, sir?” Steve Hackett said, impatient.

The Boss shrugged lardly shoulders. “I’m trying to point out that so far as my department is concerned, thus far we have little against this Movement. Secret Service may have, what with this wholesale counterfeiting, even though thus far they seem to have made no attempt to pass the currency they have allegedly manufactured. We wouldn’t even know of it, if it weren’t for our young Susan pilfering an amount.”

Larry said, desperately, “Sir, you just pointed out a few minutes ago that this Movement is a secret organization trying to make changes in the government in some unique manner. In short, they don’t figure on using the ballot to put over their revolution. That makes them as illegal as the Commies, doesn’t it?”

The Boss said, “That’s the difficulty; we don’t know what they want. From your conversations with Susan Self and especially with Professor Voss, evidently they think the country needs some basic changes. What these changes are, and how they expect to accomplish them, we don’t know. Unless a foreign government is involved, or unless they plan to alter our institutions by violence, this department simply doesn’t have much jurisdiction.”

Steve Hackett snorted. “Secret Service has! If those bales of money are ever put into circulation, there’ll be hell to pay.”

The Boss sighed, “Well,” he said, “Lawrence can continue on the assignment. If it develops that this department is justified in further investigation, we’ll put more men on it. Meanwhile, it is obviously more a Secret Service matter. I am sorry to instrude upon your vacation again, Lawrence.”

“Not at all, sir,” Larry said nobly. It didn’t do his credit with the old man any harm to make sacrifices for the sake of the department.

On awakening in the morning, Larry Woolford stared glumly at the ceiling for long moments before dragging himself from bed. This was, he decided, the damnedest assignment he’d ever been on. In his day he had trekked through South America, Common Europe, a dozen African states, and even areas of Southern Asia, combatting Commie pressures here, fellow-traveler organizations there, disruptive plots hatched in the Soviet Complex in another place. On his home grounds in the United States he’d covered everything from out and out Soviet espionage to exposing Communist activities of complexions from the faintest of pinks to the rosiest Trotskyite red. But, he decided, he’d never expected to wind up after a bunch of weirds whose sole actionable activity to date seemed to be the counterfeiting of a fantastic amount of legal tender which thus far they were making no attempt to pass.

He got out of bed and went through the rituals of showering, shaving and dressing, of coffee, sausages and eggs, toast and more coffee.