Krenner started down through the underbrush, travelling south by the
sun, the urgency of his mission spurring him on against the pain of his
foot, the difficulty of the terrain over which he travelled. He was too
far north. Somewhere to the south he'd find the Roads. And once on the
Roads, he'd find a way to get off--
* * * * *
He stopped at the brink of the hill and gasped in amazement.
They ran across the wide valley like silver ribbons. The late afternoon
sunlight reflected gold and pink from the plasti-glass encasement,
concealing the rushing line of travel within the covering. Like twin
serpents, they lay across the hills, about a mile apart, the Road
travelling east, and the Road moving west. They stretched as far as he
could see. And he could see the white sign which said, "Merryvale
Entrance, Westbound, Three miles."
As he tramped, across the field he could hear the hum of the Roads grow
loud in his ears. An automatic, machinelike hum, a rhythm of motion.
Close to the westbound road he moved back eastward along it, toward the
little port which formed the entrance to it. And soon he saw the police
'copter which rested near the entrance, and the uniformed men with their
rifles, alert. Three of them.
Krenner fingered his weapon easily. It was almost dark; they would not
see him easily. He kept a small hill between himself and the police and
moved in within gunshot range. He could see the rocket-like car resting
on its single rail, waiting for a passenger to enter, to touch the
button which would activate the tiny rocket engines and move it forward,
ever and ever more swiftly until it reached the acceleration of the
Roads, and slid over, and became a part of the Road. Moving carefully,
he slipped from rock to rock, closer to the car and the men who guarded
it.
Suddenly the bay of a hound cut through the gloom. Two small brown dogs
with the men, straining at their leashes. He hadn't counted on that.
Swiftly he took cover and lined his sights with the blue uniforms.
Before they knew even his approximate location he had cut them down, and
the dogs also, and raced wildly down the remainder of the hill to the
car.
"Fare may be calculated from the accompanying charts, and will be
collected when your car has taken its place on the Roads," said a little
sign near the cockpit. Krenner studied the dashboard for a moment, then
jammed in the button marked "Forward," and settled back. The monorail
slid forward without a sound, and plunged into a tunnel in the hill. Out
the other side, with ever-increasing acceleration it slid in alongside
the gleaming silver ribbon, faster and faster. With growing apprehension
Krenner watched the speedometer mount, past two hundred, two hundred and
twenty, forty, sixty, eighty--at three hundred miles per hour the
acceleration force eased, and the car suddenly swerved to the left, into
a dark causeway. And then into the brightly lighted plasti-glass tunnel.
He was on the Roads!
Alongside the outside lane the little car sped, moving on an independent
rail, sliding gently past other cars resting on the middle lane. An
opening appeared, and Krenner's car slid over another notch, disengaged
its rail, and settled to a stop on the central lane of the Road. The
speedometer fell to nothing, for the car's motion was no longer
independent, but an integral part of the speeding Road itself. Three
hundred miles per hour on a constant, nonstop flight across the rolling
land.
A loudspeaker suddenly piped up in his car. "Welcome to the Roads," it
said. "Your fare collector will be with you in a short while. After he
has arrived, feel free to leave your car and be at ease on the Road
outside. Eating, resting, and sleeping quarters will be found at regular
intervals. You are warned, however, not to cross either the barriers to
the outside lanes, nor the barriers to the freight-carrying areas front
and rear. Pleasant travelling."
Krenner chuckled grimly, and settled down in his car, his automatic in
his hand. His fare collector would get a surprise. Down the Road a short
distance he saw the man approaching, wearing the green uniform of the
Roads. And then he stiffened. Three blue uniforms were accompanying him.
Opening the car door swiftly, he slipped out onto the soft carpeting of
the Road, and raced swiftly away from the approaching men.
They saw him when he started to run. Ahead he could see a crowd of
passengers around a dining area. A shout went up as he knocked a woman
down in his pell-mell flight, but he was beyond them in an instant. His
foot hindered him, and his pursuers were gaining. Suddenly before him he
saw a barrier--a four foot metal wall. No carpet beyond it, no
furnishings along the sides. A freight area! He hopped over the barrier
and plunged into the blackness of the freight tunnel as he heard the
shouts of his pursuers. "Stop! Come back! Stop or we'll shoot!"
They didn't shoot. In a moment Krenner came to the first freight
carrier, one of the standard metal containers resting on the steel of
the Road. He ran past it, and the next. The third and fourth were open
cars, stacked high with machinery. He ran on for several moments before
he glanced back.
They weren't following him any more. He could see them, far back, where
the light began, a whole crowd of people at the barrier he had crossed.
But no one followed him. Odd that they should stop. He centered his mind
more closely on his surroundings. Freight might conceal him to get him
off the Roads where no passenger station would ever let him through. He
climbed to the top of a nearby freight container and slipped down in.
Chunks of rock were under his feet, and he fell in a heap on the hard
bed. What possible kind of freight--? He slipped a lighter from his
pocket and snapped it on.
Coal! A normal freight load. He climbed back up and looked along the
road. No pursuit. An uneasy chill went through him--this was too easy.
To ride a coal car to safety, without a single man pursuing him--to
where? He examined the billing on the side of the car, and he forgot his
fears in the rush of excitement. The billing read, "Consignment: Coal,
twenty tons, Markson Foundries, via Pittsburgh private cutoff."
His car was carrying him to Markson!
His mind was full of the old, ugly hate, the fearful joy of the
impending revenge. Fortune's boy, he thought to himself. Even Sherman
could not have done so well, to ride the Rolling Roads, not just to
Pittsburgh, not to the mountains, but right to Markson's backyard! He
shivered with anticipation. Pittsburgh was only a few hundred miles
away, and at three hundred miles an hour--Krenner clenched his fists in
cruel pleasure. He hadn't long to wait.
* * * * *
An hour passed slowly. Krenner's leg was growing stiff after the
exertion of running. Still no sign of life. He eased his position, and
stiffened when he heard the little relay box above the consignment sheet
give a couple of sharp clicks.
Near the end! He hugged himself in excitement. What a neat trick, to
ride a consignment of coal to the very yards where Markson would be! The
coal yards which he might have owned, the furnaces, the foundry--. There
would be men there to receive the car from the line, well he could
remember the men, day and night, working and sweating in those yards and
mills! There would be men there to brake the car and empty it. He was in
old clothes, farm clothes--he would fit in so well; as soon as the car
slowed he could jump off, and simply join the other men. Or he could
shoot, if he had to. A little agility in getting out of the car, and a
little care in inquiring the way to Markson's office--
The car suddenly shifted to the outer lane. Krenner gripped a handle on
the inside and held tight. He felt the swerving motion, and suddenly the
car moved out of the tunnel into the open night air. He climbed up the
side and peered over the edge. There were five cars in the consignment;
he was on the last. Travelling almost at Road speed along the auxiliary
cutoff. Swiftly they moved along through the night, through the edge of
the Pittsburgh steel yards. Outside he fancied he could hear the rattle
of machinery in the yards, the shouts of the men at their work. Making
steel was a twenty-four hour proposition.
Then they were clear of the first set of yards. The car made another
switch, and Krenner's heart beat faster. A white sign along the side
said, "Private Property. Keep off. Markson Foundries Line." Soon now
they would come to a crunching halt. Men would be there, but his gun was
intact. No matter how many men he met, he had to get to Markson.
The car shuddered a little, but the acceleration continued. They were
rising high in the air now, above the foundries. He looked down, and
could see the mighty furnaces thrusting their slim necks to the sky.
A bolt of fear went through him. How far did the automatic system go?
Automatic loading of coal from the fields, automatic switching onto the
Rolling Roads. Automatic transfer of cars onto a private line which led
the cars to the foundries. Where did the automatic handling stop? Where
did the _men_ come into it? Twenty-seven-year-old concepts slid through
his mind, of how freight was carried, of how machines were tended, of
how steel was made. In a world of rapidly changing technology,
twenty-seven years can bring changes, in every walk of life, in every
form of production--