"Steve, stop it!" cried Marian as soon as she could get her breath.
"Nuts," I growled. I took a long curve on the outside wheels and ironed
out again. "He isn't after our corpse, honey. He's after our hide. I
don't care for any."
The fourth shot went singing off the pavement to one side. It whined
into the distance making that noise that sets the teeth on edge and
makes one want to duck. I lowered the boom on the go pedal and tried to
make the meter read off the far end of the scale; I had a notion that
the guy behind might shoot the tires out if we were going slow enough so
that a blowout wouldn't cause a bad wreck; but he probably wouldn't do
it once I got the speed up. He was not after Marian. Marian could walk
out of any crack-up without a bruise, but I couldn't.
We went roaring around a curve. I fought the wheel into a nasty double
's' curve to swing out and around a truck, then back on my own side of
the road again to avoid an oncoming car. I could almost count the front
teeth of the guy driving the car as we straightened out with a coat of
varnish to spare. I scared everybody in all three vehicles, including
me.
Then I passed a couple of guys standing beside the road; one of them
waved me on, the other stood there peering past me down the road. As we
roared by, another group on the other side of the highway came running
out hauling a big old hay wagon. They set the wagon across the road and
then sloped into the ditch on either side of it.
I managed to dig the bare glimmer of firearms before I had to yank my
perception away from them and slam it back on the road in front. I was
none too soon, because dead ahead by a thousand feet or so, they were
hauling a second road block out.
Marian, not possessed of esper, cried out as soon as she read this new
menace in my mind. I rode the brakes easily and came to a stop long
before we hit it. In back sounded a crackle of rifle fire; in front,
three men came out waving their rifles at us.
I whipped the car back, spun it in a seesaw, and took off back towards
the first road block. Half way back I whirled my car into a rough
sideroad just as the left hand rear tire went out with a roar. The car
sagged and dragged me to a stop with my nose in a little ditch. The heap
hadn't stopped rocking yet before I was out and on the run.
"Steve!" cried Marian. "Come back!"
#To heck with it.# I kept right on running. Before me by a couple of
hundred yards was a thicket of trees; I headed that way fast. I managed
to sling a dig back; Marian was joining the others; pointing in my
direction. One of them raised the rifle but she knocked it down.
I went on running. It looked as though I'd be all right so long as I
didn't get in the way of an accidental shot. My life was once more
charmed with the fact that no one wanted me dead.
The thicket of woods was not as thick as I'd have liked. From a distance
they'd seemed almost impenetrable, but when I was running through them
towards the center, they looked pitifully thin. I could see light from
any direction and the floor of the woods was trimmed, the underbrush
cleaned out, and a lot of it was tramped down.
Ahead of me I perceived a few of them coming towards the woods warily,
behind me there was another gang closing in. I began to feel like the
caterpillar on the blade of grass in front of the lawn mower.
I tried to hide under a deadfall, knowing that it was poor protection
against rifle fire. I hauled out the Bonanza and checked the cylinder. I
didn't know which side I was going to shoot at, but that didn't bother
me. I was going to shoot at the first side that got close.
A couple of shots whipped by over my head, making noises like someone
snapping a bullwhip. I couldn't tell which direction they came from; I
was too busy trying to stuff my feet into a gopher hole under my
deadfall.
I cast around the thicket with my sense of perception and caught the
layout. Both sides were spread out, stalking forward like infantry
advancing through disputed ground. Now and then one of them would raise
his rifle and fire at some unexpected motion. This, I gathered, was more
nervousness than fighting skill because no group of telepaths and/or
perceptives would be so jittery on the trigger if they weren't basically
nervous. They should, as I did, have the absolute position of both the
enemy and their own side.
With a growing nervous sweat I dug their advances. They were avoiding my
position, trying to encircle me by making long semicircular marches,
hoping to get between me and the other side. This was a rough maneuver,
sort of like two telepaths playing chess. Both sides knew to a minute
exactly what the other had in mind, where he was, and what he was going
to do about his position. But they kept shifting, feinting and
counter-advancing, trying to gain the advantage of number or position so
that the other would be forced to retreat. It became a war of nerves; a
game of seeing who had the most guts; who could walk closer to the
muzzle of an enemy rifle without getting hit.
Their rifles were mixed; there were a couple of deer guns, a nice 35-70
Express that fired a slug slightly smaller than a panetella cigar, a few
shotguns, a carbine sports rifle that looked like it might have been a
Garand with the barrel shortened by a couple of inches, some revolvers,
one nasty-looking Colt .45 Automatic, and so on.
I shivered down in my little hideout; as soon as the shooting started in
earnest, they were going to clean out this woods but good. It was going
to be a fine barrage, with guns going off in all directions, because it
is hard to keep your head in a melee. Esper and telepathy go by the
board when shooting starts.
I still didn't know which side was which. The gang behind me were
friends of Marian Harrison; but that did not endear them to me any more
than knowing that the gang in front were from Scholar Phelps Medical
Center or some group affiliated with him. In the midst of it, I managed
to bet myself a new hat that old Scholar Phelps didn't really know what
was going on. He would be cagey enough to stay ignorant of any overt
strife or any other skullduggery that could be laid at his door.
Then on one edge of the woodsy section, two guys of equal damfool-factor
advanced, came up standing, and faced one another across fifty feet of
open woods. Their rifles came up and yelled at one another like a string
of firecrackers; they wasted a lot of powder and lead by not taking
careful aim. One of them emptied his rifle and started to fade back to
reload, the other let him have it in the shoulder. It spun the guy
around and dumped him on his spine. His outflung hand slammed his rifle
against a tree, which broke it. He gave a painful moan and started to
crawl back, his arm hanging limp-like but not broken. From behind me
came a roar and a peltering of shotgun pellets through the trees; it was
answered by the heavy bark of the 35-70 Express. I'm sure that in the
entire artillery present, the only rifle heavy enough to really damage
those Mekstroms was that Express, which would stop a charging rhino.
When you get down to facts, my Bonanza .375 packed a terrific wallop but
it did not have the shocking power of the heavy big-game rifle.
Motion caught my perception to one side; two of them had let go shotgun
blasts from single-shot guns. They were standing face to face swinging
their guns like a pair of axemen; swing, chop! swing, chop! and with
each swing their guns were losing shape, splinters from the butts, and
bits of machinery. Their clothing was in ribbons from the shotgun
blasts. But neither of them seemed willing to give up. There was not a
sign of blood; only a few places on each belly that looked shiny-like.
On the other side of me, one guy let go with a rifle that slugged the
other bird in the middle. He folded over the shot and his middle went
back and down, which whipped his head over, back, and down where it hit
the ground with an audible thump. The first guy leaped forward just as
the victim of his attack sat up, rubbed his belly ruefully, and drew a
hunting knife with his other hand. The first guy took a running dive at
the supine one, who swung the hunting knife in a vicious arc. The point
hit the chest of the man coming through the air but it stopped as though
the man had been wearing plate armor. You could dig the return shock
that stunned the knife-wielder's arm when the point turned. All it did
was rip the clothing. Then the pair of them were at it in a free-for-all
that made the woods ring. This deadly combat did not last long. One of
them took aim with a fist and let the other have it. The rifle shot
hadn't stopped him but the hard fist of another Mekstrom laid him out
colder than a mackerel iced for shipment.
The deadly 35-70 Express roared again, and there started a concentration
of troops heading towards the point of origin. I had a hunch that the
other side did not like anybody to be playing quite as rough as a
big-game gun. Someone might really get hurt.
By now they were all in close and swinging; now and then someone would
stand off and gain a few moments of breathing space by letting go with a
shotgun or knocking someone off of his feet with a carbine. There was
some bloodshed, too; not all these shots bounced. But from what I could
perceive, none of them were fatal. Just painful. The guy who'd been
stopped first with the rifle slug and then the other Mekstrom's fist was
still out cold and bleeding lightly from the place in his stomach. A bit
horrified, I perceived that the pellet was embedded about a half-inch
in. The two birds who'd been hacking at one another with the remains of
their shotguns had settled it barehanded, too. The loser was groaning
and trying to pull himself together. The shiny spots on his chest were
shotgun pellets stuck in the skin.
It was one heck of a fight.
Mekstroms could play with guns and knives and go around taking swings at
one another with hunks of tree or clubbed rifles, or they could stand
off and hurl boulders. Such a battlefield was no place for a guy named
Steve Cornell.
By now all good sense and fine management was gone. If I'd been spotted,
they'd have taken a swing at me, forgetting that I am no Mekstrom. So I
decided that it was time for Steve to leave.
I cast about me with my perception; the gang that Marian had joined had
advanced until they were almost even with my central position; there
were a couple of swinging matches to either side and one in front of me.
I wondered about Marian; somehow I still don't like seeing a woman
tangled up in a free-for-all. Marian was out of esper range, which was
all right with me.
I crawled out of my hideout cautiously, stood up in a low crouch and
began to run. A couple of them caught sight of me and put up a howl, but
they were too busy with their personal foe to take off after me. One of
them was free; I doubled him up and dropped him on his back with a slug
from my Bonanza .375. Somehow it did not seem rough or vicious to shoot
since there was nothing lethal in it. It was more like a game of cowboy
and Indian than deadly earnest warfare.
Then I was out and free of them all, out of the woods and running like a
deer. I cursed the car with its blown out tire; the old crate had been a
fine bus, nicely broken in and conveniently fast. But it was as useful
to me now as a pair of skids.
A couple of them behind me caught on and gave chase. I heard cries for
me to stop, which I ignored like any sensible man. Someone cut loose
with a roar; the big slug from the Express whipped past and went
_Sprang!_ off a rock somewhere ahead.
It only added a few more feet per second to my flight. If they were
going to play that rough, I didn't care to stay.
I fired an unaimed shot over my shoulder, which did no good at all
except for lifting my morale. I hoped that it would slow them a bit, but
if it did I couldn't tell. Then I leaped over a ditch and came upon a
cluster of cars. I dug at them as I approached and selected one of the
faster models that still had its key dangling from the lock.
I was in and off and away as fast as a scared man can move. They were
still yelling and fighting in the woods when I raced out of my range.
* * * * *
The heap I'd jumped was a Clinton Special with rock-like springs and a
low slung frame that hugged the ground like a clam. I was intent upon
putting as many miles as I could between me and the late engagement in
as short a time as possible, and the Clinton seemed especially apt until
I remembered that the figure 300 on the dial meant kilometers instead of
miles per hour. Then I let her out a bit more and tried for the end of
the dial. The Clinton tried with me, and I had to keep my esper
carefully aimed at the road ahead because I was definitely overdriving
my eyesight and reaction-time.
I was so intent upon making feet that I did not notice the jetcopter
that came swooping down over my head until the howl of its vane-jets
raised hell with my eardrums. Then I slowed the car and lifted my
perception at the same time for a quick dig.
The jetcopter was painted Policeman Blue and it sported a large
gold-leaf on its side, and inside the cabin were two hard-faced
gentlemen wearing uniforms with brass buttons and that Old Bailey look
in their eye. The one on the left was jingling a pair of handcuffs.
They passed over my head at about fifteen feet, swooped on past by a
thousand, and dropped a road-block bomb. It flared briefly and let out
with a billow of thick red smoke.
I leaned on the brakes hard enough to stand the Clinton up on its nose,
because if I shoved my front bumper through that cloud of red smoke it
was a signal for them to let me have it. I came to a stop about a foot
this side of the bomb, and the jetcopter came down hovering. Its vanes
blew the smoke away and the 'copter landed in front of my swiped Clinton
Special.
The policeman was both curt and angry. "Driver's ticket, registration,
and maybe your pilot's license," he snapped.
Well, that was _it_. I had a driver's ticket all right, _but_ it did not
permit me to drive a car that I'd selected out of a group willy nilly.
The car registration was in the glove compartment where it was supposed
to be, but what it said did not match what the driver's license claimed.
No matter what I said, there would be the Devil to pay.
"I'll go quietly, officer," I told him.
"Darn' white of you, pilot," he said cynically. He was scribbling on a
book of tickets and it was piling up deep. Speeding, reckless driving,
violation of ordinance something-or-other by number. Driving a car
without proper registration in the absence of the rightful owner (Check
for stolen car records) and so on and on and on until it looked like a
life term in the local jug.
"Move over, Cornell," he said curtly. "I'm taking you in."
I moved politely. The only time it pays to be arrogant with the police
is long after you've proved them wrong, and then only when you're facing
your mirror at home telling yourself what you should have said.
I was driven to court; escorted in by the pair of them and seated with
one on each side. The sign on the judge's table said: Magistrate
Hollister.
Magistrate Hollister was an elderly gentleman with a cast iron jaw and a
glance as cold as a bucket of snow. He dealt justice with a sharp-edged
shovel and his attitude seemed to be that everybody was either guilty as
charged or was contemplating some form of evil to be committed as soon
as he was out of the sight of Justice. I sat there squirming while he
piled the top on a couple whose only crime was parking overtime; I
itched from top to bottom while he slapped one miscreant in gaol for
turning left in violation of City Ordinance. His next attempt gave a ten
dollar fine for failing to come to a full and grinding halt at the sign
of the big red light, despite the fact that the criminal was esper to a
fine degree and dug the fact that there was no cross-traffic for a half
mile.
Then His Honor licked his chops and called my name.
He speared me with an icicle-eye and asked sarcastically: "Well, Mr.
Cornell, with what form of sophistry are you going to explain your
recent violations?"