Larry said softly, “What does the Movement expect to do with all that counterfeit money, LaVerne?” She stirred against his shoulder, as though bothered by the need to talk. “Give it all away,” she said. “Distribute it all over the country and destroy the nation’s social currency.” It took him a long moment to assimilate that. “What have the rockets to do with it?” She stirred once again, as though wishing he’d be silent. “That’s how it will be distributed. About twenty rockets, strategically placed, each with a _warhead_ of a couple of tons of money. Fired to an altitude of a couple of hundred miles and then the money is spewed out. In falling, it will be distributed over cities and countryside, everywhere. Billions upon billions of dollars worth.” Larry said, so softly as hardly to be heard, “What will that accomplish?” “Money is the greatest social-label of them all. The Professor believes that through this step the Movement will have accomplished its purpose. That people will be forced to utilize their judgment, rather than depend upon social-labels.” Larry didn’t follow that, but he had no time to go further now. He said, still evenly soft, “And when is the Movement going to do this?” La Verne moved comfortably. “The trucks go out to distribute the money tonight. The rockets are waiting. The firing will take place in a few days.” “And where is the Professor now?” “Where the money and the trucks are hidden, darling. What difference does it make?” LaVerne said sleepily. “And where is that?” “At the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation. It’s owned by one of the Movement’s members.” He said. “There’s a password. What is it?” “Judgment.” Larry Woolford bounced to his feet. He looked down at her, then over at the phone. In three quick steps he was over to it. He grasped its wires and yanked them from the wall, silencing it. He slipped into the tiny elevator, locking the door to the den behind him. As the door slid closed, her voice wailed, still sleepily husky, “Larry, darling, where are you—” He ran down the walk of the house, vaulted into the car and snapped on its key. He slammed down the lift lever, kicked the thrust pedal and was thrown back against the seat by the acceleration. Even while he was climbing, he flicked on the radio-phone, called Personal Service for the location of the Greater Washington Trucking Corporation. Fifteen minutes later, he parked a block away from his destination, noting with satisfaction that it was still an hour or more to go until dark. His intuition, working doubletime now, told him that they’d probably wait until nightfall to start their money-laden trucks to rolling. He hesitated momentarily before turning on the phone and dialing the Boss’ home address.