Once again, he was fleeing.
_Always on the run_, he thought bitterly, as the mutant horse flashed
over the prairie, its six legs pistoning as it drew away from Winslow's
men.
The City had been considerate; the City had been kind. The
teardrop-vehicle had not deposited him sprawling at Winslow's feet, and
for that mercy Kesley had to be grateful.
The four implacable robots had carried him effortlessly toward the
opening door; the uncomplaining horse had already been led through the
opening and into the waiting vehicle. Still yelling, Kesley had been
crammed into the silvery vehicle, and it had started away from the
confines of the City.
Winslow's men were advancing steadily. The City had ejected Kesley to
save its own titanium skin, its own guts of transistors and cryotrons.
He was ejected from the vehicle and left in the midst of the hot sands,
with Winslow's men still a distant green-and-gold blur on the horizon.
For a moment Kesley had stood there uncertainly, staring back at the
City that had cast him forth; then, mounting his wobbly-legged horse,
he began to ride.
He headed north, back the way he came. Winslow had obviously pursued
him through Illinois, perhaps tracked him from Mutie City to the Colony
to Wiener--but the City had avoided disaster by ejecting him.
Now, northward.
Returning to the Colony was out of the question for many reasons.
Returning to Iowa would probably be fatal--Loren and Lester, good
subjects of the Duke, would turn the fugitive in without giving the
matter a minute's thought. South America was as dangerous a place as
Winslow's lands, and the Empires beyond the sea were impossible to
reach. There was little traffic between the Americas and either Asia,
Europe, Africa, or Australasia, and none whatsoever with Antarctica.
If he allowed Winslow to catch up with him, it would mean sure death.
But one solution presented itself. _I'll return to Mutie City_, he
thought, spurring the bony beast on. _That's one place where Winslow
won't dare to come in after me._
Kesley squirmed in the saddle and peered around. Men were breaking off
from the column of horsemen and were starting to follow him.
He gave the reins another tug. Whatever it was the City had fed the
animal, it was propelling the beast like gasoline. The mutant was
covering ground in a rocketlike fashion. But Kesley knew the pace could
never last.
And, sure enough, the mutie began to falter after another half mile,
to drop back and lose ground. Four of Winslow's men were still on the
trail; Kesley computed that he was somewhere near the Oklahoma border,
and hoped no border guards would trouble him as he passed into the
adjoining province.
He had a knife and a truncheon; the pursuers probably had pistols. He
wouldn't last long once they caught him. They'd gun him down on the
spot.
And he'd never know why.
* * * * *
The horse gave out shortly after high noon. Kesley managed to guide the
winded beast into a thicket off the main road, and dismounted there,
crouching in hiding while the mutie gasped for breath and shook its
sweating sides.
Before long the four pursuers arrived on the scene. For an instant
Kesley thought they would simply keep riding past, but he heard voices
commenting that the trail of hoof-prints ended up here. He tensed,
knowing they would soon be searching the bushes for him.
"You go that way," someone said.
Kesley tethered his tired horse and backed away a little deeper into
the underbrush. Several minutes passed.
Then a figure in the green-and-gold Ducal uniform appeared, a tall,
dark-complected man with bare, burly arms. He clutched a drawn pistol
in one hand.
"Hey, here's his horse--" he started to say, and Kesley leaped. His
attack was the sudden, quick strike and withdrawal of the forest
serpent; he sprang from the bushes, clubbed downward with the
truncheon, withdrew again as the man fell. He waited a minute; then,
seeing none of the other three approaching, Kesley quietly stole out
and seized the fallen man's pistol. Now he was armed.
Cupping his hand over his mouth to muffle his voice, he shouted, "I
got him in here!" Then he ducked back behind a thick-boled tree.
"We're coming, Gar!"
Three more uniformed figures stepped into the clearing. Kesley squeezed
the trigger three times and they fell, their faces frozen in utter
astonishment. Kesley felt suddenly unclean; he had murdered three men,
injured a fourth. And those three did not know why _they_ had died,
either.
He freed his own horse and slapped the weary mutant on the flank. "Go
ahead, fella. You're free. You've done your job." He could take his
pick from the four Ducal thoroughbreds waiting on the highway.
Sadly he stepped over the fallen bodies. The man he had clubbed was
still breathing; he lay in a sticky pool of his companions' mingled
blood. Kesley knelt, saw the ugly, raw wound on the man's skull, the
welling blood matting the dark hair. Wedged in the soldier's sash was a
grimy, folded piece of thick paper. Kesley drew it forth.
It was on Ducal stationery, with the familiar heraldic watermark
that he had seen on so many tax vouchers in his farming days. The
inscription, in large, dark, slightly smudged type, was a simple one: