Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

onceover as he passed. Inside the gates, the impassive Russian guards didn’t bother to flicker an eyelid.

At the reception desk in the immense entrada, he identified himself. “I’d like to see Colonel Frol Eivazov.”

“I am afraid⁠—” the clerk began stiffly.

“I suppose you have him on the records as Kliment Eivazov.”

The clerk had evidently touched a concealed button. A door opened and a junior embassy official approached them.

Larry restated his desire. The other began to open his mouth in denial, then shrugged. “Just a moment,” he said.

He was gone a full twenty minutes. When he returned, he said briefly, “This way, please.”

Frol Eivazov was in an inner office, in full uniform. He came to his feet when Larry Woolford entered and said to the clerk, “That will be all, Vova.” He was a tall man, as Slavs go, but heavy of build and heavy of face.

He shook hands with Larry. “It’s been a long time,” he said in perfect English. “That conference in Warsaw, wasn’t it? Have a chair, Mr. Woolford.”

Larry took the offered chair and said, “How in the world did you expect to get by with this nonsense? We’ll have you declared persona non grata in a matter of hours.”

“It’s not important,” Eivazov shrugged. “I have found what I came to find. I was about to return to report nyway.”

“We won’t do anything to hinder you, colonel,” Larry said dryly.

Eivazov snapped his fingers. “It’s all amusing,” he said. “In our country we would quickly deal with this Movement nonsense. You Americans with your pseudo-democracy, your labels without reality, your⁠—”

Larry said wearily, “Please, Frol, I promise not to convert you if you promise not to convert me. Needless to say, my department isn’t happy about your presence in this country. You’ll be watched from now on. We’ve been busy with other matters⁠ ⁠…”

Here the Russian laughed.

“… Or we’d already have flushed you.” He allowed his voice to go curious. “We’ve wondered about your interest in this phase of our internal affairs.”

The Russian agent let his façade slip over farther, his heavy lips sneering. “We are interested in all phases of your antiquated socioeconomic system, Mr. Woolford. In the present peaceful economic competition between East and West, we would simply loathe to see anything happen to your present culture.” He hesitated deliberately. “If you can call it a culture.”

Larry said, unprovoked, “If I understand you correctly, you are not in favor of the changes the Movement advocates.”

The Russian shrugged hugely. “I doubt if they are possible of achievement. The organization is a sloppy one. Revolutionary? Nonsense,” he scoffed. “They have no plans to change the government. No plans for overthrowing the regime. Ultimately, what this country needs is true Communism. This so-called Movement doesn’t have that as its eventual goal. It is laughable.”

Larry said, interestedly, “Then perhaps you’ll tell me what little you’ve found out about the group.”

“Why not?” The Russian pursed his lips. “They are composed of impractical idealists. Scientists, intellectuals, a few admitted scholars and even a few potential leaders. Their sabotage of your Department of Records was an amusing farce, but, frankly, I have been unable to discover the purpose of their interest in rockets. For a time I contemplated the possibility that they had a scheme to develop a nuclear bomb, and to explode it over Greater Washington in the belief that in the resulting confusion they might seize power. But, on the face of it their membership is incapable of such an effort.”

“Their interest in rockets?” Larry said softly.

“Yes, as you’ve undoubtedly discovered, half the rocket technicians of your country seem to have joined with them. We got the tip through”⁠—the Russian cleared his throat⁠—“several of our converts who happen to be connected with your space efforts groups.”

“Is that so?” Larry said. “I wondered what you thought about their interest in money.”

It was the other’s turn to look blank. “Money?” he said.

“That’s right. Large quantities of money.”

The Russian said, frowning, “I suppose most citizens in your capitalist countries are interested largely in money. One of your basic failings.”

Driving back to the office, Larry Woolford let it pile up on him.

Ernest Self had been a specialist in solid fuel for rockets. When Larry had questioned Professor Voss that worthy had particularly stressed his indignation at how Professor Goddard, the rocket pioneer, had been treated by his contemporaries. Franklin Nostrand had been employed as a technician on rocket research at Madison Air Laboratories. It was too darn much for coincidence.

And now something else that had been nagging away at the back of his mind suddenly came clear.

Susan Self had said that she and her father had seen the precision dancers at the New Roxy Theater in New York and later the Professor had said they were going to spend the money on chorus girls. Susan had got it wrong. The Rockettes⁠—the precision chorus girls. The Professor had said they were going to spend the money on rockets, and Susan had misunderstood.

But billions of dollars expended on rockets? How? But, above all, to what end?

If he’d only been able to hold onto Susan, or her father; or to Voss or Nostrand, for that matter. Someone to work on. But each had slipped through his fingers.

Which brought something else up from his subconscious. Something which had been tugging at him.

At the office, Irene Day was packing her things as he entered. Packing as though she was leaving for good.

“What goes on?” Larry growled. “I’m going to be needing you. Things are coming to a head.”

She said, a bit snippishly, Larry thought, “Miss Polk, in the Boss’ office, said for you to see her as soon as you came in, Mr. Woolford.”

“Oh?”

He made his way to LaVerne’s office, his attention actually on the ideas churning in his mind.

She looked up when he entered.

Larry said, “The Boss wanted to see me?”

LaVerne ducked her head, as though embarrassed. “Not exactly, Larry.”

He gestured with his thumb in the direction of his own cubicle office. “Irene just said you wanted me.”

LaVerne looked up into his face. “The Boss and Mr. Foster,