IV

It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumbling

walk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself. _A few more

minutes and you can lie down ... rest...._

The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blacker

square. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached inside

for a grip with my good hand.

Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slipped

along the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation.

I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was a

confused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from the

city all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep--

I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as a

gout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing between

the cars. I caught the clear thought:

"God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right--"

I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, went

out, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poled

steer.

It was easy--if I could only stay awake.

I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a dark

corner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personality

fraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warn

me of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slide

down into darkness.

* * * * *

The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my eyes, saw yellow

sunlight in a bar across the litter on the floor. The power truss

creaked, pulling at my arm. My broken leg was throbbing its indignation

at the treatment it had received--walking brace and all--and the burned

arm was yelling aloud for more of that nice dope that had been keeping

it from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like a

badly embalmed mummy--except that I was hungry. I had been a fool not

to fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in the shallows off

Key Largo, but things had been happening too fast.

I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner I had coerced

into rendezvousing with me before shells started dropping around us. If

the gunners on the cruiser ten miles away had had any luck, they would

have finished me--and the hapless fisherman--right then. We rode out a

couple of near misses, before I put the cruiser's gunnery crew off the

air.

At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car--with driver. He dropped

me at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in town

for groceries. He'd never believe he'd seen me.

Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act of

the farce.

I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, then

rigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side as

inconspicuously as possible. I didn't disturb the bandages.

I needed new clothes--or at least different ones--and something to

cover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay hidden forever. The yard cop had

recognized me at a glance.

I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn't unduly

worried--at the moment. The watchman probably hadn't convinced anyone

he'd actually seen me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself.

The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept to

the door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few low

buildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyes

and let my awareness stretch out.

"--_lousy job. What's the use? Little witch in the lunch room ... up in

the hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey...._"

I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I saw

through his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, the

listless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards of

the platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraph

window, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign.

I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-topped

counter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wet

patches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged.

My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrapped

sandwiches under a glass cover. "I'll take 'em all. And candy bars, and

cigarettes. And give me a big glass of water."

"Better git out there and look after yer train," the girl said

carelessly. "When'd you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden?"

"Put it in a bag. Quick."

"Look who's getting bossy--"

My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffing

food in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. "You git back

around that counter!"

She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear.

"That'll be one eighty-five. Cash."

My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped them

on the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked it

up and started out.

"Hey! Where you goin' with my glass?"

The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the boxcar. He slid the

loose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the bag

inside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimy

railroader's cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girl

watched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the train

started up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heard

him say: "Friend o' mine in there--just passin' through."

I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold tight control over

every move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he would

rationalize his behavior, fill in the details--and never know that the

original idea hadn't been his own.

I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and lay

back. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked "U. S. Naval

Aerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon". With any luck I'd reach New

Orleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included a

raid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomorrow. That could

wait.

* * * * *

It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a siding

in the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn't feeling

good, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few miles

in me. I had my supplies--a few candy bars and some cigarettes--stuffed

in the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I was

unencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my right

leg and the sling binding my arm.

I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road,

started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. It

was already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes.

Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my various

wounds. I reached out and touched the driver's mind; he was thinking

about shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl with

black hair. "Want a lift?" he called.

I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I pinched off his

budding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to follow

his thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick of

communications with others, instinctively reached out toward them.

An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a shabby marketing

district of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right with

the dark-haired girl. I spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it.

Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk, dressed in a

pinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latin

tailor--maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it was

an unsuccessful violet. The black string tie lent a dubious air of

distinction. I'd swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret.

The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figured

I'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope to pass for a

fisherman--I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd get by as a coffee-house

derelict.

I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded garments, grimy

vegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked wrought iron to cage a herd of

brontosauri, and fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver with

a wart.

"How much to the Delta National Laboratories?"

He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick.

"What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there."

"I'm a tourist," I said. "They told me before I left home not to miss

it."

He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped his

flag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out without

looking.

"How far is it?" I asked him.

"It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter."

"Pretty big place, I guess."

He didn't answer.

We went through a warehousing district, swung left along the

waterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-foot

cyclone fence with a locked gate.

"A buck ten," my driver said.

I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of low

buildings. "What's this?"

"This is the place you ast for. That'll be a buck ten, mister."

I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew.

He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at an

open gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me.

"You want I should drive in, sir?"

"I'll get out here."

He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with a hand under my good

elbow. "I'll get your change, sir," he said, reaching for his hip.

"Keep it."

"Thank YOU." He hesitated. "Maybe I oughta stick around. You know."

"I'll be all right."

"I hope so," he said. "A man like you--you and me--" he winked. "After

all, we ain't both wearing berets fer nothing."

"True," I said. "Consider your tip doubled. Now drive away into the

sunrise and forget you ever saw me."

* * * * *

He got into the car, beaming, and left. I turned and sized up the Delta

Labs.

There was nothing fancy about the place; it consisted of low brick and

steel buildings, mud, a fence and a guard who was looking at me.

I sauntered over. "I'm from Iowa City," I said. "Now, the rest of the

group didn't come--said they'd rather rest one day. But I like to see

it all. After all, I paid--"

"Just a minute," the guard said, holding up a palm. "You must be lost,

fella. This here ain't no tourist attraction. You can't come in here."

"This is the cameo works?" I said anxiously.

He shook his head. "Too bad you let your cab go. It's an hour yet till

the bus comes."

A dun-painted staff car came into view, slowed and swung wide to turn

in. I fingered the driver's mind. The car swerved, braked to a halt.

A portly man in the back seat leaned forward, frowning. I touched him.

He relaxed. The driver leaned across and opened the door. I went around

and got in. The guard was watching, open-mouthed.