Status Quo

ProfessorPeter Luther Voss. Aside from his academic accomplishments, particularlyin the fields of political economy and international law, and the dozen orso books accredited to him, there wasn't anything particularly noteworthy.A bachelor in his fifties. No criminal record of any kind, of course, andno military career. No known political affiliations. Evidently a strongpredilection for Thorstein Veblen's theories. And he'd been a friend ofHenry Mencken back when that old nonconformist was tearing downcontemporary society seemingly largely for the fun involved in thetearing.

  On the face of it, the man was no radical, and the term "crackpot" whichSam had applied was hardly called for.

  Larry Woolford went back to the bar and resumed the job of mixing his ownversion of a rum flip.

  But his heart wasn't in it. _The Professor_, Susan had said.

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  Before he'd gone to bed the night before, Larry Woolford had ordered aseat on the shuttle jet for Jacksonville and a hover-cab there to take himto Astor, on the St. Johns River. And he'd requested to be wakened inample time to get to the shuttleport.

  But it wasn't the saccharine pleasant face of the Personal Serviceoperator which confronted him when he grumpily answered the phone in themorning. In fact, the screen remained blank.

  Larry decided that sweet long drinks were fine, but that anyone who tookseveral of them in a row needed to be candied. He grumbled into the phone,"All right, who is it?"

  A Teutonic voice chuckled and said, "You're going to have to decidewhether or not you're on vacation, my friend. At this time of day, whyaren't you at work?"

  Larry Woolford was waking up. He said, "What can I do for you,Distelmayer?" The German merchant-of-espionage wasn't the type to makepersonal calls.

  "Have you forgotten so soon, my friend?" the other chuckled. "It was I whowas going to do you a favor." He hesitated momentarily, before adding, "Inpossible return for future--"

  "Yeah, yeah," Larry said. He was fully awake now.

  The German said slowly, "You asked if any of your friends from, ah, abroadwere newly in the country. Frol Eivazov has recently appeared on thescene."

  Eivazov! In various respects, Larry Woolford's counterpart. Hatchetman forthe _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_. Woolford had met him on occasion whenthey'd both been present at international summit meetings, busily workingat counter-espionage for their respective superiors. Blandly shaking handswith each other, blandly drinking toasts to peace and internationalco-existence, blandly sizing each other up and wondering if it'd ever cometo the point where one would _blandly_ treat the other to a hole in thehead, possibly in some dark alley in Havana or Singapore, Leopoldville orSaigon.

  Larry said sharply, "Where is he? How'd he get in the country?"

  "My friend, my friend," the German grunted good-humoredly. "You knowbetter than to ask the first question. As for the second, Frol's commandof American-English is at least as good as your own. Do you think his_Komissiya_ less capable than your own department and unable to do him upsuitable papers so that he could be, perhaps, a 'returning tourist' fromEurope?"

  Larry Woolford was impatient with himself for asking. He said now, "It'snot important. If we want to locate Frol and pick him up, we'll probablynot have too much trouble doing it."

  "I wouldn't think so," the other said humorously. "Since 1919, when theywere first organized, the so-called Communists in this country, from thelowest to the highest echelons, have been so riddled with police agentsthat a federal judge in New England once refused to prosecute a caseagainst them on the grounds that the party was a United States governmentagency."

  Larry was in no frame of mind for the other's heavy humor. "Look, Hans,"he said, "what I want to know is what Frol is over here for."

  "Of course you do," Hans Distelmayer said, unable evidently to keep noteof puzzlement from his voice. "Larry," he said, "I assume your people knowof the new American underground."

  "_What_ underground?" Larry snapped.

  The professional spy chief said, his voice strange, "The Soviets seem tohave picked up an idea somewhere, possibly through their membership inthis country, that something is abrewing in the States. That a change isbeing engineered."

  Larry stared at the blank phone screen.

  "What kind of a change?" he said finally. "You mean a change to the Sovietsystem?" Surely not even the self-deluding Russkies could think itpossible to overthrow the American socio-economic system in favor of theSoviet brand.

  "No, no, no," the German chuckled. "Of course not. It's not of theirworking at all."

  "Then what's Frol Eivazov's interest, if they aren't engineering it?"

  Distelmayer rumbled his characteristic chuckle with humor. "My dearfriend, don't be naive. Anything that happens in America is of interest tothe Soviets. There is delicate peace between you now that they havechanged their direction and are occupying themselves largely with theeconomic and agricultural development of Asia and such portions of theworld as have come under their hegemony, and while you put all effortsinto modernizing the more backward countries among your satellites."

  Larry said automatically, "Our allies aren't satellites."

  The spy-master went on without contesting the statement. "There isimmediate peace but surely governmental officials on both sides keepcareful watch on the internal developments of the other. True, the currentheads of the Soviet Complex would like to see the governments of all theWestern powers changed--but only if they are changed in the direction ofcommunism. They are hardly interested in seeing changes made which wouldstrengthen the West in the, ah, Battle For Men's Minds."

  Larry snorted his disgust. "What sort of change in government wouldstrengthen the United States in--"

  The German interrupted smoothly, "Evidently, that's what Frol seems to behere for, Larry. To find out more about this movement and--"

  "This _what_?" Larry blurted.

  "The term seems to be _movement_."

  Larry Woolford held a long silence before saying, "And Frol is actuallyhere in this country to buck this ... this movement."

  "Not necessarily," the other said impatiently. "He is here to find outmore about it. Evidently Peking and Moscow have heard just enough to makethem nervous."

  Larry said, "You have anything more, Hans?"

  "I'm afraid that's about it."

  "All right," Larry said. He added absently, "Thanks, Hans."

  "Thank me some day with deeds, not with words," the German chuckled.

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  Larry Woolford looked at his watch and grimaced. He was either going toget going now or forget about doing any fishing in Florida this afternoon.

  Grudgingly, he dialed the phone company's Personal Service and said to theimpossibly cheerful blonde who answered, "Where can I find Professor PeterVoss who teaches over at the University in Baltimore? I don't want to talkwith him, just want to know where he'll be an hour from now."

  While waiting for his information, he dressed, deciding inwardly that hehated his job, the department in which he was employed, the Boss andGreater Washington. On top of that, he hated himself. He'd already beentaken off this assignment, why couldn't he leave it lay?

  The blonde rang him back. Professor Peter Voss was at home. He had noclasses today. She gave him the address.

  Larry Woolford raised his car from his auto-bungalow in the Brandywinesuburb and headed northwest at a high level for the old Baltimore sectionof the city.

  The Professor's house, he noted, was of an earlier day and located on theopposite side of Paterson Park from Elwood avenue, the street on whichSusan Self and her father had resided. That didn't necessarily holdsignificance, the park was a large one and the Professor's section awell-to-do neighborhood, while Self's was just short of a slum these days.

  He brought his car down to street level, and parked before the scholar'sthree-story, brick house. Baltimore-like, it was identical to every otherhouse in the block; Larry wondered vague
ly how anybody ever managed tofind his own place when it was very dark out.

  There was an old-fashioned bell at the side of the entrance and LarryWoolford pushed it. There was no identification screen in the door,evidently the inhabitants had to open up to see who was calling, a tiringchore if you were on the far side of the house and the caller nothing morethan a salesman.

  It was obviously the Professor himself who answered.

  He was in shirtsleeves, tieless and with age-old slippers on hisstockingless feet. He evidently hadn't bothered to shave this morning andhe held a dog-earred