Status Quo by Mack Reynolds (good e books to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Mack Reynolds
Book online «Status Quo by Mack Reynolds (good e books to read TXT) 📗». Author Mack Reynolds
He took the police level for maximum speed and was in downtown Greater Washington in flat minutes.
So the Movement had started moving. That could mean almost anything. It was just enough to keep him stewing until he got to the Boss and found out what was going on.
He turned his car over to a parker and made his way to the entrance utilized by the second-grade department officials. In another year, or at most two, he told himself all over again, he'd be using that other door. He had an intuitive feeling that if he licked this current assignment it'd be the opening wedge he needed and he'd wind up in a status bracket unique for his age.
LaVerne looked up when he hurried into her anteroom. She evidently had two or three calls going on at once, taking orders from one phone, giving them in another. Something was obviously erupting. She didn't speak to him, merely nodded her head at the inner office.
In the Boss' office were six or eight others besides Larry's superior. Their expressions and attitudes ran from bewilderment to shock. They weren't the men you'd expect to have such reactions. At least not those that Larry Woolford recognized. Three of them, Ben Ruthenberg, Bill Fraina and Dave Moskowitz were F.B.I. men with whom Larry had worked on occasion. One of the others he recognized as being a supervisor with the C.I.A. Walt Foster, Larry's rival in the Boss' affections, was also present.
The Boss growled at him, “Where in the heavens have you been, Lawrence?”
“Following our leads on this so-called Movement, sir,” Larry told him. “What's going on?”
Ruthenberg, the Department of Justice man, grunted sour amusement. “So-called Movement, isn't exactly the correct phrase. It's a Movement, all right.”
The Boss said, “Please dial Records and get your dossier, Lawrence. That'll be the quickest way to bring you up on developments.”
Mystified, but already with a growing premonition, Larry dialed Records. Knowing his own classification code, he had no need of Information this time. He got the hundred-word brief and stared at it as it filled the screen. The only items really correct were his name and present occupation. Otherwise his education was [pg 044] listed as grammar school only. His military career had him ending the war as a General of the Armies, and his criminal career record included four years on Alcatraz for molesting small children.
Blankly, he faded the brief and dialed his full dossier. It failed to duplicate the brief, but that was no advantage. This time he had an M.D. degree from Johns Hopkins, but his military career listed him as a dishonorable discharge from the navy where he'd served in the steward department. His criminal record was happily nil, but his religion was listed as Holy Roller. Political affiliations had him down as a member of the Dixiecrats.
The others were looking at him, most of them blankly, although there were grins on the faces of Moskowitz and the C.I.A. man.
Moskowitz said, “With a name like mine, yet, they have me a Bishop of the Orthodox Greek Catholic Church.”
Larry said, “What's it all about?”
Ruthenberg said unhappily, “It started early this morning. We don't know exactly when as yet.” Which didn't seem to answer the question.
Larry said, “I don't get it. Obviously, the Records department is fouled up in some manner. How, and why?”
“How, we know,” the Boss rumbled disgustedly. “Why is another matter. You've spent more time than anyone else on this assignment, Lawrence. Perhaps you can tell us.” He grabbed up a pipe from his desk, tried to light it noisily, noticed finally that it held no tobacco and threw it to the desk again. “Evidently, a large group of these Movement individuals either already worked in Records or wriggled themselves into key positions in the technical end of the department. Now they've sabotaged the files.”
“We've caught most of them already,” one of the F.B.I. men growled, “but damn little good that does us at this point.”
The C.I.A. supervisor made a gesture indicating that he gave it all up. “Not only here but in Chicago and San Francisco as well. All at once. Evidently perfectly rehearsed. Personnel records from coast to coast are bollixed. Why?”
Larry said slowly, “I think I know that now. Yesterday, I wouldn't have but I've been picking up odds and ends.”
They all looked at him.
Larry sat down and ran a hand back through his hair. “The general idea is to change the country's reliance on social-label judgments.”
“On what,” the Boss barked.
“On one person judging another according to social-labels. Voss and the others—”
“Who did you say?” Ruthenberg snapped.
“Voss. Professor Peter Voss from the University over in Baltimore section. He's the ring leader.”
Ruthenberg snapped to Fraina, “Get on the phone and send out a pick-up order for him.”
Fraina was on his feet. “What charge, Ben?”
[pg 045]Ben Ruthenberg snorted. “Rape, or something. Get moving, we'll figure out a charge later. The guy's a fruitcake.”
Larry said wearily, “He's evidently gone into hiding. I've been trying to locate him. He managed to slip me some knockout drops and got away yesterday.”
The Boss looked at him in disgust.
Ruthenberg said evenly, “We've had men go into hiding before. Get going, Fraina.”
Fraina left the office and the others looked back to Larry.
The Boss said, “About this social-label nonsense—”
Larry said, “They think the country is going to pot because of it. People hold high office or places of responsibility not because of superior intelligence, or even acquired skill, but because of the social-labels they've accumulated, and these can be based on something as flimsy—from the Movement's viewpoint—as who your grandparents were, what school you attended, how much seniority you have on the job, what part of town you live in, or what tailor cuts your clothes.”
Their expressions ran from scowls and frowns to complete puzzlement.
Walt Foster grumbled, “What's all this got to do with sabotaging the country's Records tapes?”
Larry shrugged. “I don't have the complete picture, but one thing is sure. It's going to be harder for a while to base your opinions on a quick hundred-word brief on a man. Yesterday, an employer, considering hiring somebody, could dial the man's dossier, check it, and form his opinions by the status labels the would-be employee could produce. Today, he's damn well going to have to exercise his own judgment.”
LaVerne's face lit up the screen on the Boss' desk and she said, “Those two members of the Movement who were picked up in Alexandria are here, sir.”
“Send them in,” the Boss rumbled. He looked at Larry. “The F.B.I. managed to arrest almost everyone directly involved in the sabotage.”
The two prisoners seemed more amused than otherwise. They were young men, in their early thirties—well dressed and obviously intelligent. The Boss had them seated side by side and glared at them for a long moment before speaking. Larry and the others took chairs in various parts of the room and added their own stares to the barrage.
The Boss said, “Your situation is an unhappy one, gentlemen.”
One of the two shrugged.
The Boss said, “You can, ah, hedge your bets, by co-operating with us. It might make the difference between a year or two in prison—and life.”
One of them grinned and then yawned. “I doubt it,” he said.
The Boss tried a slightly different tack. “You have no reason to maintain a feeling of obligation to Voss and the others. You have obviously been abandoned. Had they any feeling for you there would have been more efficacious arrangements for your escape.”
[pg 046]The more articulate of the two shrugged again. “We were expendable,” he said. “However, it won't be long before we're free again.”
“You think so?” Ruthenberg grunted.
The revolutionist looked at him. “Yes, I do,” he said. “Six months from now and we'll be heroes since by that time the Movement will have been a success.”
The Boss snorted. “Just because you deranged the Records? Why that's but temporary.”
“Not so temporary as you think,” the technician replied. “This country has allowed itself to get deeply enmeshed in punch-card and tape records. Oh, it made sense enough. With the population we have, and the endless files that result from our ultra-complicated society, it was simply a matter finally of developing a standardized system of records for the nation as a whole. Now, for all practical purposes, all of our records these days are kept with the Department of Records, confidential as well as public records. Why should a university, for instance, keep literally tons of files, with all the expense and space and time involved, when it can merely file the same records with the governmental department and have them safe and easily available at any time? Now, the Movement has completely and irrevocably destroyed almost all files that deal with the social-labels to which we object. An excellent first step, in forcing our country back into judgment based on ability and intelligence.”
“First step!” Larry blurted.
The two prisoners looked at him. “That's right,” the quieter of the two said. “This is just the first step.”
“Don't kid yourselves,” Ben Ruthenberg snapped at them. “It's also the last!”
The two members of the Movement grinned at him.
When the others had gone, the Boss looked at Larry Woolford. He said sourly, “When this department was being formed, I doubt anyone had in mind this particular type of subversion, Lawrence.”
Larry grunted. “Give me a good old-fashioned Commie, any time. Look, sir, what are the Department of Justice boys going to do with those prisoners?”
“Hold them on any of various charges. We've conflicted with the F.B.I. in the past on overlapping jurisdiction, but thank heavens for them now. Their manpower is needed.”
Larry leaned forward. “Sir, we ought to take all members of the Movement we've already arrested, feed them a dose of Scop-Serum, and pressure them to open up on the organization's operations.”
His superior looked at him, waiting for him to continue.
Larry said urgently, “Those two we just had in here thought the whole thing was a big joke. The first step, they called it. Sir, there's something considerably bigger than this cooking. Uncle Sam might pride himself on the personal liberties guaranteed [pg 047] by this country, but unless we break this organization, and do it fast, there's going to be trouble that will make this fouling of the records look like the minor matter those two jokers seemed to think it.”
The Boss thought about that. He said slowly, “Lawrence, the Supreme Court ruled against the use of Scop-Serum. Not that it is over efficient, anyway. Largely, these so-called truth serums don't accomplish much more than to lower resistance, slacken natural inhibitions, weaken the will.”
“Sure,” Larry said. “But give a man a good dose of Scop-Serum and he'd betray his own mother. Not because he's helpless to tell a lie, but because under the influence of the drug he figures it just isn't important enough to bother about. Sir, Supreme Court or not, I think those two ought to be given Scop-Serum along with all other Movement members we've picked up.”
The Boss was shaking his head.
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