Within minutes, Hoover and Tolson were in the secret sub-basement of the FBI building. Filling the room was an enormous mass of electronic equipment. Technicians milled about, adjusting knobs and switches. A pair of man-sized plexiglas cylinders were suspended by machinery from the ceiling.
"Set the controls for Podunk, Texas," barked Hoover.
The two of them took their places under the cylinders. Hoover signaled to a technician, and the cylinders slowly lowered over them.
"It's a good thing the liberal press never found out about this matter transporter of yours," said Tolson.
Hoover nodded. The super-secret device had certainly made it easier to keep his private life out of the newspapers.
Clamps at the bottoms of the cylinders clacked shut. There was a crackling of plasma, a smell of ozone, and they were gone.

Hoover and Tolson materialized unseen in the deserted VFW hall of Podunk. The building -- indeed, the entire town -- was eerily silent.
"Where do you think everyone is?" asked Tolson.
Hoover mulled this over. "The commies usually round everybody up and take them to a place where they can be brainwashed. Someplace devoid of mental stimulation. Someplace humiliating. Someplace where their wills can be broken." He picked a scrap of paper off the floor and read it.
Tolson wracked his brain. "Community College?"
"No," said Hoover, shuddering. "It's far, far worse than that." He handed the piece of paper to Tolson. It was a flyer. "The godless bastards have taken the townspeople to a Square-Dance marathon."

They remained hidden until after dark. To stave off hunger, Hoover caught and killed a rat, which they ate raw. At last, with the crescent moon rising over the trees, they emerged from the VFW hall and crept through the alleys and side streets. Within minutes they were outside the back door of the high school gymnasium. A guard wearing a Red Army uniform was patrolling the entrance.
Motioning for Tolson to remain in the shadows, Hoover silently scrambled into a tree. When the guard passed beneath, Hoover dropped on him. There was a brittle crack of bone, and the guard was dead. Hoover dusted off his pants and signaled for Tolson to join him. They tiptoed through the back door.

Hoover and Tolson had seen a lot of terrible things in their years of public service. They had seen men disemboweled. They had seen men torn limb from limb. They had seen men wearing brown shoes with blue suits. But nothing could have prepared them for the horror that waited inside the high school gymnasium.
All the townspeople were staggering about in a zombie-like shuffle, linking arms and dosie-doeing to the hellish square-dance calls of a man dressed as a Commissar.
"My God," whispered Tolson.
"Quiet," said Hoover. "I'm trying to hear what the caller is saying."
Straining their ears, they could just make out the awful words:

Grab your partner, swing her round,
Devaluate the British Pound,
Do the same to the U.S. dollar,
Management makes workers holler.

Curtsy now, and bow real low,
Swing your partner, dosie-doe,
Shake your head and shake your ass,
The rich folk hate the working class.

Hoover noticed that Tolson was tapping his foot. "Snap out of it, man!" he hissed.
Tolson shuddered, shaking himself free of the evil chant. "What are we going to do?"
Hoover calmly appraised the situation. "Notice their eyes," he said.
"They look lackluster. Lifeless."
"Exactly. It's too late for them. I could dangle toaster ovens and Cadillacs in front of them from now 'till doomsday and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Let's get out of here."

They stood just outside the city limits, staring down at a town that had awakened from the American Dream into the Communist Nightmare. Dawn tinged the eastern horizon with an ironic shade of red. Hoover pulled a micro-communicator out of his back pocket.
"I wish there were some other way," said Tolson. "It seems so brutal."
"So do I, Clyde," said Hoover. "But we can't allow this contagion to spread. It would mean the end of everything we believe in."
Tolson scanned the sky. At last he caught sight of the flying wing, carrying its cargo of deadly nerve gas. "There it is," he said, pointing.
Hoover punched in a code sequence and activated the matter transporter.

It had been a busy day. While Tolson made sure that Podunk, Texas would no longer appear on any maps printed in the free world, Hoover had arranged for the accidental death of anyone that knew the town ever existed. They didn't get home until well after nine o'clock.
Hoover flopped onto the big king-size bed and sighed. "It used to be easier in the old days," he said. "A few hundred forged letters sent out every month, and no one was the wiser. It worked like a charm at Dachau."
"You could never justify that kind of postage outlay nowadays," said Tolson, handing him a martini. "Cheaper to just kill them. Damned budget cuts."
Hoover downed the drink in one gulp. He leaned back on the bed. "Shut up and kiss me," he said.