will have accomplished its purpose. That people will be forced to utilize their judgement, rather than depend upon social-labels.”
Larry didn’t follow that, but he had no time to go further now. He said, still evenly soft, “And when is the Movement going to do this?”
LaVerne moved comfortably, sleepily, “The trucks go out to distribute the money tonight. The rockets are waiting. The firing will take place in a few days.”
“And where is the Professor now?” Larry was doing his best to keep urgency from his voice.
“Where the money and trucks are hidden, darling. What difference does it make?”
“And where is that?”
“At the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation. It’s owned by one of the Movement’s members.”
He said, “Undoubtedly, there’s a password. What is it?”
“Judgement.”
Larry Woolford bounced to his feet. He looked down at her, then over at the phone. In three quick steps he was over to it. He grasped its wires and yanked them from the wall, silencing it. He slipped into the tiny elevator, locking the door to the den behind him.
As the door slid closed, her voice wailed, still sleepily husky, “Larry, darling, where are you…”
He ran down the walk of the house, vaulted into the car and snapped on its key. He slammed down the lift lever, kicked the thrust pedal and was thrown back against the seat by the acceleration.
Even while he was climbing, he flicked on the radio-phone, called Personal Service for the location of the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation.
Fifteen minutes later, he parked a block away from his destination, noting with satisfaction that it was still an hour or more to go until dark. His intuition, working doubletime now, told him that they’d probably wait until nightfall to start their money-laden trucks rolling.
He hesitated momentarily before turning on the phone and dialing the Boss’ home address.
When the other’s face faded in, it failed to display pleasure when the caller’s identity was established. His superior growled, “Confound it, Woolford, you know my privacy is to be respected. This phone is to be used only in extreme emergency.”
“Yes, Sir,” Larry said briskly. “It’s the Movement. They’re moving again.”
The other’s face darkened still further. “You’re not on that assignment any longer, Woolford. Walter Foster has taken over and I’m sympathetic to his complaints that you’ve proven more of a hinderance than anything else.”
Larry ignored his words. “Sir, I’ve tracked them down. Professor Voss is at the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation here in the Alexandria section of town. Any moment now, they’re going to start distributing all of that counterfeit money on some scatterbrained plan to disrupt the country’s exchange system.”
Suddenly alert, the department chief snapped, “Where are you, Woolford?”
“Outside the garages, Sir. But I’m going in now.”
“You stay where you are,” the other snapped. “I’ll have every department man and every Secret Service man in town over there within twenty minutes. You hang on. Those people are lunatics and probably desperate.”
Inwardly, Larry Woolford grinned. He wasn’t going to lose this opportunity to finish up the job with him on top. He said, flatly, “Sir, we can’t chance it. They might escape. I’m going in!”
He flicked off the set, dialed again and raised Sam Sokolski.
“Sam,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’ve cornered the Movement’s leader and am going in for the finish. Maybe some of you journalist boys better get over here. Tri-Di, too.” He gave the other the address and flicked off before there were any questions.
XX
From the dash compartment he brought a heavy automatic and checked the clip. He jacked a cartridge into the barrel and put the gun in his hip pocket, then left the car and walked toward the garages. Time was running out now.
He strode into the only open door, without shifting pace. Two men were posted nearby, neither of them truckmen by appearance. They looked at him in surprise.
Larry clipped out, “The password is
One of them frowned questioningly, but the other was taken up with the urgency in Woolford’s voice. He nodded a direction. “He’s over there in the office.”
Now ignoring them completely, Larry strode past the low rows of sealed delivery vans toward the office.
He pushed the door open, entered and closed it behind him.
Professor Peter Voss was seated at a paper-littered desk. There was a cot with a rumpled army blanket in a corner of the room, some soiled clothing and two or three dirty dishes on a tray. The room was being lived in, obviously.
At the agent’s entry, the little man looked up and blinked in distress through his heavy lenses.
Larry snapped, “You’re under arrest, Voss.”
The Professor was, on the face of it, dismayed, but he said in as vigorous a voice as he could muster, “Nonsense! On what charge?”
“Counterfeiting, among many. Your whole scheme has fallen apart, Voss. You and your Movement, so-called, are finished.”
The Professor’s eyes darted. To Larry Woolford’s surprise, the Movement’s leader was alone in here. Undoubtedly, he was awaiting others, drivers of the trucks, technicians involved in the rockets, other subordinates. But right now he was alone.
If Larry correctly diagnosed the situation, Voss was playing for time, waiting for the others. Good enough, so was Larry Woolford. Had the Professor only known it, a shout would have brought at least two of his followers on the run and the government agent would have had his troubles.
Woolford played along. “Just what is this fantastic scheme of yours for raining down money over half the country, Voss? The very insanity of it proves your whole outfit is composed of a bunch of nonconformist weirds.”
The Professor was indignant—and stalling for time. He said, “Nonconformists is correct! He who conforms in an incompetent society is an incompetent himself.”
Larry stood, his legs apart and hands on hips. He shook his head in simulated pity at the angry little man. “What’s all this about raining money down over the country?”
“Don’t you see?” the other said. “The perfect method for disrupting our present system of social-labels. With billions of dollars, perfect counterfeit, strewing the streets, the fields, the trees, the housetops, available for anyone to pick up, all social currency becomes worthless. Utterly unuseable. And it’s no use to attempt to print more with another design, because we can duplicate it as well. Our experts are the world’s best, we’re not a bunch of sulking criminals, but capable, trained, dedicated men.
“Very well! We will have made it absolutely impossible to have any form of mass-produced social currency.”
Larry stared at him. “It would completely foul the whole business system. You’d have chaos!”
“At first. Private individuals, once the value of money was seen to be zero, would have lost the amount of cash they had on hand. But banks and such institutions would lose little. They have accurate records that show the actual values they held at the time our money rains down.”
Larry was bewildered. “But what are you getting at? What do you expect to accomplish?”
The Professor, on his favorite subject, said triumphantly, “The only form of currency that can be used under these conditions is the personal check. It’s not mass-produced, and mass-production can’t duplicate it. It’s immune to the attack. Business has to go on or people will starve, so personal checks will have to replace paper money. Credit cards and traveler’s checks won’t do. We can counterfeit them too, and will, if necessary. Realize of course that hard money will still be valid, but it can’t be utilized for any but small transactions. Try taking enough silver
