A red light flicked at the side of his phone and he said to her, “I'll call you back. I'm getting a priority call.”
He flicked her off, and flicked the incoming call in. It was LaVerne Polk. She seemed to be on the harried side, too.
“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The top of his car was retracted.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.