Fraina left the office and the others looked back to Larry.
The Boss said, “About this social-label nonsense—”
Larry said, “They think the country is going to pot because of it. People hold high office or places of responsibility not because of superior intelligence, or even acquired skill, but because of the social-labels they've accumulated, and these can be based on something as flimsy—from the Movement's viewpoint—as who your grandparents were, what school you attended, how much seniority you have on the job, what part of town you live in, or what tailor cuts your clothes.”
Their expressions ran from scowls and frowns to complete puzzlement.
Walt Foster grumbled, “What's all this got to do with sabotaging the country's Records tapes?”
Larry shrugged. “I don't have the complete picture, but one thing is sure. It's going to be harder for a while to base your opinions on a quick hundred-word brief on a man. Yesterday, an employer, considering hiring somebody, could dial the man's dossier, check it, and form his opinions by the status labels the would-be employee could produce. Today, he's damn well going to have to exercise his own judgment.”
LaVerne's face lit up the screen on the Boss' desk and she said, “Those two members of the Movement who were picked up in Alexandria are here, sir.”
“Send them in,” the Boss rumbled. He looked at Larry. “The F.B.I. managed to arrest almost everyone directly involved in the sabotage.”
The two prisoners seemed more amused than otherwise. They were young men, in their early thirties—well dressed and obviously intelligent. The Boss had them seated side by side and glared at them for a long moment before speaking. Larry and the others took chairs in various parts of the room and added their own stares to the barrage.
The Boss said, “Your situation is an unhappy one, gentlemen.”