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 what ?” Larry blurted.
“The term seems to be Movement.”
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.”
What can you say to a question like that? Larry ignored it, as though it was rhetorical. Actually, he smoked cigarettes in the privacy of his den, a habit which was on the proletarian side and not consistent with his status level.
He said, to get things under way, “Professor Voss,what is an intuitive scientist?”
The Professor exhaled blue smoke, shook out the old-time kitchen match with which he had lit up, and tossed the matchstick into an ashtray. “Intuitive scientist?”
“You once called Ernest Self a great intuitive scientist.”
“Oh, Self. Yes, indeed. What is he doing these days?”
Larry said, “That’s what I came to ask you about.”
The Professor was puzzled. “I’m afraid you came to the wrong place, Mr. Woolford. I haven’t seen Ernest Self for quite a time. Why?”
Larry said carefully, “Some of his researches seem to have taken him rather far afield. Actually, I know practically nothing about him. I wonder if you could fill me in a bit.”
Peter Voss looked at the ash on the end of his cigar. “I really don’t know the man that well. He lives across the park. Why don’t you—”
“He’s disappeared,” Larry saiu.
The Professor blinked. “I see,” he said. “And in view of the fact that you are a security officer, I assume under strange circumstances.” Larry Woolford said nothing to that and the Professor sank bank into his chair and pursed his lips. “I can’t really tell you much. I became interested in Self two or three years ago when gathering material for a paper on the inadequate manner in which our country rewards its inventors.”
Larry said, “I’ve heard about his suit against the government.”
The Professor became more animated. “Ha!” he snorted. “One example among many. Self is not alone. Our culture is such that the genius is smothered. The great contributors to our society are ignored, or worse.”
Larry Woolford was feeling his way. Now he said mildly, “I was under the impression that American free enterprise, or capitalism, if you will, gave the individual the best opportunity to prove himself and that if he had it on the ball he would get to the top, no matter what the obstacles.”