On awakening in the morning, Larry Woolford stared glumly at the ceiling for long moments before dragging himself from bed. This was, he decided, the strangest assignment he’d ever been on. In his day he’d trekked through South America, Common Europe, a dozen African states, and even areas of Southern Asia, combatting Commie pressures here, fellow-traveler organizations there, disrupting plots hatched in the Soviet Complex in the other place. On his home grounds in the United States he’d covered everything from out and out Soviet espionage, to exposing Communist activities of complexions from the faintest of pinks to the rosiest Trotskyite red. But, he decided he’d never expected to wind up after a bunch of weirds whose sole actionable activity to date seemed to be the counterfeiting of a fantastic amount of legal tender which thus far they were making no attempt to pass. He got out of bed and went through the rituals of showering, shaving and clothing, of coffee, sausage, and eggs, toast and more coffee. What amazed Larry Woolford was the shrug-it-off manner in which the Boss seemed to accept this underground Movement and its admitted subversive goals—whatever they were. Carry the Boss’ reasoning to its ultimate and subversion was perfectly all right, just as it didn’t involve force and violence. If he was in his chief’s position, he would have thrown the full resources of the department into tracking down these crackpots. As it was, he, Larry Woolford was the only operative on the job. He needed a new angle on which to work. Steve Hackett was undoubtedly handling the tracing down of the counterfeit with all the resources of the Secret Service. Possibly there was some way of detecting the source of the paper they’d used. He finished his final cup of coffee in the living room and took up the pipe he was currently breaking in. He loaded it automatically from a humidor and lit it with his pocket lighter. Three drags, and he tossed it back to the table, fumbled in a drawer and located a pack of cigarettes. Possibly his status group was currently smoking British briars in public, but, let’s face it, he hated the confounded things. He sat down before the phone and dialed the offices of the _Sun-Post_ and eventually got Sam Sokolski who this time beat him to the punch. Sam said, “You shouldn’t drink alone. Listen, Larry, why don’t you get in touch with Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s a great outfit.” “You ought to know,” Larry growled. “Look, Sam, as science columnist for that rag you work for you probably come in touch with a lot of eggheads.” “Laddy-buck, you have said it,” Sam said. “Fine. Now look, what I want to know is have you ever heard—even the slightest of rumors—about an organization called the Movement?”