“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
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.”
“
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
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
“The term seems to be
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.”
