“Larry,” she said, “you better get over here right away.” “What’s up, LaVerne?” “This Movement,” she said, “it seems to have started moving! The Boss says to get over here soonest.” ------------------------------------- The top of his car was retracted. Larry Woolford slammed down the walk of his auto-bungalow and vaulted over the side and into the seat. He banged the start button, dropped the lift lever, depressed the thrust pedal and took off at maximum acceleration. He took the police level for maximum speed and was in downtown Greater Washington in flat minutes. So the Movement had started moving. That could mean almost anything. It was just enough to keep him stewing until he got to the Boss and found out what was going on. He turned his car over to a parker and made his way to the entrance utilized by the second-grade department officials. In another year, or at most two, he told himself all over again, he’d be using that other door. He had an intuitive feeling that if he licked this current assignment it’d be the opening wedge he needed and he’d wind up in a status bracket unique for his age. LaVerne looked up when he hurried into her anteroom. She evidently had two or three calls going on at once, taking orders from one phone, giving them in another. Something was obviously erupting. She didn’t speak to him, merely nodded her head at the inner office. In the Boss’ office were six or eight others besides Larry’s superior. Their expressions and attitudes ran from bewilderment to shock. They weren’t the men you’d expect to have such reactions. At least not those that Larry Woolford recognized. Three of them, Ben Ruthenberg, Bill Fraina and Dave Moskowitz were F.B.I. men with whom Larry had worked on occasion. One of the others he recognized as being a supervisor with the C.I.A. Walt Foster, Larry’s rival in the Boss’ affections, was also present. The Boss growled at him, “Where in the heavens have you been, Lawrence?” “Following our leads on this so-called Movement, sir,” Larry told him. “What’s going on?” Ruthenberg, the Department of Justice man, grunted sour amusement. “So-called Movement, isn’t exactly the correct phrase. It’s a Movement, all right.” The Boss said, “Please dial Records and get your dossier, Lawrence. That’ll be the quickest way to bring you up on developments.” Mystified, but already with a growing premonition, Larry dialed Records. Knowing his own classification code, he had no need of Information this time. He got the hundred-word brief and stared at it as it filled the screen. The only items really correct were his name and present occupation. Otherwise his education was listed as grammar school only. His military career had him ending the war as a General of the Armies, and his criminal career record included four years on Alcatraz for molesting small children.