Professor Leonard LaVaux lived in a small bungalow in a section of town which had never pretended to more than middle-class status. The lawn could have used a bit more care, and the roses more cutting back, but the place had an air of being comfortably lived in.
Warren Casey was in one of his favored disguises, that of a newspaperman. This time he bore a press camera, held by its strap. There was a gadget bag over one shoulder. He knocked, leaned on the door jamb, assumed a bored expression and waited.
Professor LaVaux seemed a classical example of stereotyping. Any producer would have hired him for a scholar’s part on sight. He blinked at the pseudo-journalist through bifocals.
Casey said, “The Star, Professor. Editor sent me to get a few shots.”
The professor was puzzled. “Photographs? But I don’t know of any reason why I should be newsworthy at this time.”
Casey said, “You know how it is. Your name gets in the news sometimes. We like to have something good right on hand to drop in. Editor wants a couple nice shots in your study. You know, like reading a book or something.”
“I see,” the professor said. “Well, well, of course. Reading a book, eh? What sort of book? Come in, young man.”
“Any book will do,” Casey said with journalistic cynicism. “It can be Little Red Riding Hood, far as I’m concerned.”
“Yes, of course,” the professor said. “Silly of me. The readers would hardly be able to see the title.”
The professor’s study was a man’s room. Books upon books, but also a king-size pipe rack, a small portable bar, two or three really comfortable chairs and a couch suitable for sprawling upon without removal of shoes.
LaVaux took one of the chairs, waved the supposed photographer to another. “Now,” he said. “What is procedure?”
Casey looked about the room, considering. “You live here all alone?” he said, as though making conversation while planning his photography.
“A housekeeper,” the professor said.
“Maybe we could work her in on a shot or two.”
“I’m afraid she’s out now.”
Casey took a chair the other had offered. His voice changed tone. “Then we can come right to business,” he said.
The professor’s eyes flicked behind the bifocals. “I beg your pardon?”
Warren Casey said, “You’ve heard of the Pacifists, Professor?”
“Why . . . why, of course. An underground, illegal organization.” The professor added, “Quite often accused of assassination and other heinous crimes, although I’ve been inclined to think such reports exaggerated, of course.”
“Well, don’t,” Casey said curtly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m a Pacifist operative, Professor LaVaux, and I’ve been assigned to warn you to discontinue your present research or your life will be forfeit.”
The other gaped, unable to adapt his mind to the shift in identity.
Warren Casey said, “You’re evidently not knowledgeable about our organization, Professor. I’ll brief you. We exist for the purpose of preventing further armed conflict upon this planet. To secure that end, we are willing to take any measures. We are ruthless, Professor. My interest is not to convert you, but solely to warn you that, unless your present research is ended, you are a dead man.”
The professor protested. “See here, I’m a scientist, not a politician. My work is in pure research. What engineers, the military and eventually the government do with applications of my discoveries is not my concern.”
“That’s right,” Casey nodded agreeably. “Up to this point, you, like many of your colleagues, have not concerned yourself with the eventual result of your research. Beginning now, you do, Professor, or we will kill you. You have one week to decide.”
“The government will protect me!”
Casey shook his head. “No, Professor. Only for a time, even though they devote the efforts of a hundred security police. Throughout history, a really devoted group, given sufficient numbers and resources, could always successfully assassinate any person, in time.”
“That was the past,” the professor said, unconvinced. “Today, they can protect me.”
Casey was still shaking his head. “Let me show you just one tool of our trade.” He took up his camera and removed the back. “See this little device? It’s a small, spring-powered gun which projects a tiny, tiny hypodermic needle through the supposed lens of this dummy camera. So tiny is the dart that when it imbeds itself in your neck, hand, or belly, you feel no more than a mosquito bite.”
The professor was motivated more by curiosity than fear. He bent forward to look at the device. “Amazing,” he said. “And you have successfully used it?”
“Other operatives of our organization have. There are few, politicians in particular, who can escape the news photographer. This camera is but one of our items of equipment, and with it an assassin has little trouble getting near his victim.”
The professor shook his head in all but admiration. “Amazing,” he repeated. “I shall never feel safe with a photographer again.”
Warren Casey said, “You have no need for fear, Professor, if you abandon your current research.”
Leonard LaVaux said, “And I have a week to decide? Very well, in a week’s time I shall issue notice to the press either that I have given up my research, or that I have been threatened by the Pacifists and demand protection.”
Casey began to stand, but the professor raised a hand. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The Pacifist looked at the other warily.
LaVaux said, “You’re the first member of your organization to whom I’ve ever spoken.”
“I doubt it,” Casey said.
“Ah? Very secret, eh? Members are everywhere, but undetected. Then how do you recruit new membership? Being as illegal as you are, of course, the initial approach must be delicate indeed.”
“That’s right,” Casey nodded. “We take every precaution. A prospect isn’t approached until it is obvious he is actually seeking an answer to the problem of outlawing war. Many persons, Professor, come to our point of view on their own. They begin discussing the subject, seeking answers, seeking fellows who think along the same line.”
The professor was fascinated. “But even then, of course, mistakes must be made and some of your membership unmasked to the authorities.”
“A hazard always faced by an underground.”
“And then,” the professor said triumphantly, “your whole organization crumbles. One betrays the next, under police coercion.”
Casey laughed sourly. “No. That’s not it. We profit by those who have gone before. The history of underground organizations is a long one, Professor. Each unit of five pacifists know only those belonging to their own unit, and one coordinator. The coordinators, in turn, know only four other coordinators with whom they work, plus a section leader, who knows only four other section leaders with whom he works, and so forth right to the top officials of the organization.”
“I see,” the professor murmured. “So an ordinary member can at most betray four others, of course. But when the police capture a coordinator?”
“Then twenty-five persons are endangered,” Casey admitted. “And occasionally it happens. But we have tens of thousands of members, Professor, and new ones coming in daily. We grow slightly faster than they seem able to catch us.”
The professor switched subjects. “Well, no one would accuse you of being a patriot, certainly.”
Casey contradicted him. “It’s a different type of patriotism. I don’t identify myself with this Hemisphere.”
The other’s eyebrows went up. “I see. Then you are a Polarian?”
Casey shook his head. “Nor do I identify myself with them. Our patriotism is to the human race, Professor. This is no longer a matter of nation, religion or hemisphere. It is a matter of species survival. We are not interested in politics, socioeconomic systems or ideology, other than when they begin to lead to armed conflict between nations.”