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our generation." "Who said that?" "Professor Voss. Not that it makes any difference what he says. Another crackpot." After Sam's less than handsome face was gone from the phone, Larry walked over to the bar with his empty glass and stared at the mixer for several minutes. He began to make himself another flip, but cut it short in the middle, put down the ingredients and went back to the phone to dial _Records_ again. He went through first the brief and then the full dossier on Professor Peter Luther Voss. Aside from his academic accomplishments, particularly in the fields of political economy and international law, and the dozen or so books accredited to him, there wasn't anything particularly noteworthy. A bachelor in his fifties. No criminal record of any kind, of course, and no military career. No known political affiliations. Evidently a strong predilection for Thorstein Veblen's theories. And he'd been a friend of Henry Mencken back when that old nonconformist was tearing down contemporary society seemingly largely for the fun involved in the tearing. On the face of it, the man was no radical, and the term "crackpot" which Sam had applied was hardly called for. Larry Woolford went back to the bar and resumed the job of mixing his own version of a rum flip. But his heart wasn't in it. _The Professor_, Susan had said. ------------------------------------- Before he'd gone to bed the night before, Larry Woolford had ordered a seat on the shuttle jet for Jacksonville and a hover-cab there to take him to Astor, on the St. Johns River. And he'd requested to be wakened in ample time to get to the shuttleport. But it wasn't the saccharine pleasant face of the Personal Service operator which confronted him when he grumpily answered the phone in the morning. In fact, the screen remained blank. Larry decided that sweet long drinks were fine, but that anyone who took several of them in a row needed to be candied. He grumbled into the phone, "All right, who is it?" A Teutonic voice chuckled and said, "You're going to have to decide whether or not you're on vacation, my friend. At this time of day, why aren't you at work?" Larry Woolford was waking up. He said, "What can I do for you, Distelmayer?" The German merchant-of-espionage wasn't the type to make personal calls. "Have you forgotten so soon, my friend?" the other chuckled. "It was I who was going to do you a favor." He h
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