It was a dead area, all right. My perception came to a barrier that made
it fade from full perception to not being able to perceive anything in a
matter of yards. It always gives me an eerie feeling when I approach a
dead area and find that I can see a building clearly and not be able to
cast my perception beyond a few feet.
I kept on backing up into the fringe of that dead area until I was deep
within the edge and it took all my concentration to perceive the road a
few feet ahead of my rear wheels so that I could steer. I was inching
now, coming back like a blind man feeling his way. We were within about
forty feet of the ranch house when Miss Farrow yelped:
"They're surrounding us, Steve!"
My hands whipped into action and my heavy right foot came down on the
gas-pedal. The car shuddered, howled like a wounded banshee, and then
leaped forward with a roar.
A man sprang out of the bushes and stood in front of the car like a
statue with his hand held up. Miss Farrow screamed something
unintelligible and clutched at my arm frantically. I threw her hand off
with a snarl, kept my foot rammed down hard and hit the man dead center.
The car bucked and I heard metal crumple angrily. We lurched, bounced
viciously twice as my wheels passed over his floundering body, and then
we were racing like complete idiots along a road that should not have
been covered at more than twenty. The main road came into sight and I
sliced the car around with a screech of the rear tires, controlled the
deliberate skid with some fancy wheel-work and some fast digging of the
surrounding dangers.
Then we were tearing along the broad and beautifully clear concrete with
the speedometer needle running into the one-fifteen region.
"Steve," said Miss Farrow breathlessly, "That man you hit--"
In a hard voice I said, "He was getting to his feet when I drove out of
range."
"I know," she said in a whimper. "I was in his mind. He was not hurt!
God! Steve--what are we up against?" Her voice rose to a wail.
"I don't know, exactly," I said. "But I know what we're going to do."
"But Steve--what can we do?"
"Alone or together, very little. But we can bring one person more out
along these Highways and then convince a fourth and a fifth and a
fiftieth and a thousandth. By then we'll be shoved back off the stage
while the big wheels grind painfully slow but exceedingly meticulous."
"That'll take time."
"Certainly. But we've got a start. Look how long it took getting a start
in the first place."
"But what is their purpose?" she asked.
"That I can't say. I can't say a lot of things, like how, and why and
wherefore. But I know that now we have a front tooth in this affair
we're not going to let go." I thought for a moment. "I could use
Thorndyke; he'd be the next guy to convince if we could find him. Or
maybe Catherine, if we could find her. The next best thing is to get
hold of that F.B.I. Team that called on me. There's a pair of
cold-blooded characters that seem willing to sift through a million tons
of ash to find one valuable cinder. They'll listen. I--"
Miss Farrow looked at her watch; I dug it as she made the gesture.
#Eleven o'clock.#
"Going to call?" she asked.
"No," I said. "It's too late. It's one in New York now and the F.B.I.
Team wouldn't be ready for a fast job at this hour."
"So?"
"I have no intention of placing a 'When you are ready' call to a number
identified with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Not when a full
eight hours must elapse between the call and a reply. Too much can
happen to us in the meantime. But if I call in the morning, we can
probably take care of ourselves well enough until they arrive if we stay
in some place that is positively teeming with citizens. Sensible?"
"Sounds reasonable, Steve."
I let the matter drop at that; I put the go-pedal down to the floor and
fractured a lot of speed laws until we came to Denver.
We made Denver just before midnight and drove around until we located a
hotel that filled our needs. It was large, which would prevent overt
operations on the part of the 'enemy' and it was a dead area, which
would prevent one of them from reading our minds while we slept, and so
enable them to lay counterplans against us.
The bellhop gave us a knowing leer as we registered separately, but I
was content to let him think what he wanted. Better that he get the
wrong idea about us than the right one. He fiddled around in Miss
Farrow's room on the ninth, bucking for a big tip--not for good service,
but for leaving us alone, which he did by demonstrating how big a
nuisance he could be if not properly rewarded. But finally he got tired
of his drawer-opening and lamp-testing and towel-stacking, and escorted
me up to the twelfth. I led him out with a five spot clutched in his
fist and the leer even stronger.
If he expected me to race downstairs as soon as he was out of ear-shot,
he was mistaken, for I hit the sack like the proverbial ton of crushed
mortar. It had been literally weeks since I'd had a pleasant, restful
sleep that was not broken by fitful dreams and worry-insomnia. Now that
we had something solid to work on, I could look forward to some concrete
action instead of merely feeling pushed around.