“Isn’t it obvious? Our whole Movement is devoted to the destruction of social-label judgments. It’s all very well to say: _You should not judge your fellow men_ but when it comes to accepting another man’s personal check, friend, you damn well have to! The bum check artist might have a field day to begin with—but only to begin with.” Larry shook his head in exasperation. “You people are a bunch of anarchists,” he accused. “No,” the Professor denied. “Absolutely not. We are the antithesis of the anarchist. The anarchist says, ‘No man is capable of judging another.’ We say, ‘Each man must judge his fellow, must demand proper evaluation of him.’ To judge a man by his clothes, the amount of money he owns, the car he drives, the neighborhood in which he lives, or the society he keeps, is out of the question in a vital culture.” Larry said sourly, “Well, whether or not you’re right, Voss, you’ve lost. This place is surrounded. My men will be breaking in shortly.” Voss laughed at him. “Nonsense. All you’ve done is prevent us from accomplishing this portion of our program. What will you do after my arrest? You’ll bring me to trial. Do you remember the Scopes’ Monkey Trial back in the 1920s which became a world appreciated farce and made Tennessee a laughingstock? Well, just wait until you get _me_ into court backed by my organization’s resources. We’ll bring home to every thinking person, not only in this country, but in the world, the fantastic qualities of our existing culture. Why, Mr.-Secret-Agent-of-Anti-Subversive-Activity you aren’t doing me an injury by giving me the opportunity to have my day in court. You’re doing me a favor. Newspapers, radios, TriD will give me the chance to expound my program in the home of every thinking person in the world.” There was a fiery dedication in the little man’s eyes. “This will be my victory, not my defeat!” There were sounds now, coming from the other rooms—the garages. Some shouts and scuffling. Faintly, Larry Woolford could hear Steve Hackett’s voice. He was staring at the Professor, his eyes narrower. The Professor was on his feet. He said in defiant triumph, “You think that you’ll win prestige and honor as a result of tracking the Movement down, don’t you, Mr. Woolford? Well, let me tell you, you won’t! In six months from now, Mr. Woolford, you’ll be a laughingstock.” That did it. Larry said, “You’re under arrest. Turn around with your back to me.” The Professor snorted his contempt, turned his back and held up his hands, obviously expecting to be searched. In a fluid motion, Larry Woolford drew his gun and fired twice. The other with no more than a grunt of surprise and pain, stumbled forward to his knees and then to the floor, his arms and legs akimbo. The door broke open and Steve Hackett, gun in hand, burst in. “Woolford!” he barked. “What’s up?”