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