"It's yours."
"You'll be all right?"
She nodded. "Eventually I'll be a way station on the Highways, I
suppose. Can you make it alone, Steve? Or would you rather wait until my
parents are cured? You could still use a telepath, you know."
"Think it's safe for me to wait?"
"It's been four months. Another week or two--?"
"All right. And in the meantime I'll practice getting along with this
new body of mine."
We left it there. I roamed the house with Farrow, helping her with her
parents. I gradually learned how to control the power of my new muscles;
learned how to walk among normal people without causing their attention;
and one day succeeded in shaking hands with a storekeeper without giving
away my secret.
Eventually Nurse Farrow's parents came out of their treatment and we
spent another couple of days with them.
We left them too soon, I'm sure, but they seemed willing that we take
off. They'd set up a telephone system for getting supplies so that
they'd not have to go into town until they learned how to handle their
bodies properly, and Farrow admitted that there was little more that we
could do.
So we took off because we all knew that time was running out. Even
though both sides had left us alone while I was immobilized, both sides
must have a time-table good enough to predict my eventual cure. In fact,
as I think about it now, both sides must have been waiting along the
outer edges of some theoretical area waiting for me to emerge, since
they couldn't come plowing in without giving away their purpose.
So we left in Farrow's car and once more hit the big broad road.
We drove towards Texas until we came upon a Highway, and then turned
along it looking for a way station. I wanted to get in touch with the
Highways. I wanted close communication with the Harrisons and the rest
of them, no matter what. Eventually we came upon a Sign with a missing
spoke and turned in.
The side road wound in and out, leading us back from the Highway towards
the conventional dead area. The house was a white structure among a
light thicket of trees, and as we came close to it, we met a man busily
tilling the soil with a tractor plow.
Farrow stopped her car. I leaned out and started to call, but something
stopped me.
"He is no Mekstrom, Steve," said Farrow in a whisper.
"But this is a way station, according to the road sign."
"I know. But it isn't, according to him. He doesn't know any more about
Mekstrom's Disease than you did before you met Catherine."
"Then what the devil is wrong?"
"I don't know. He's perceptive, but not too well trained. Name's William
Carroll. Let me do the talking, I'll drop leading remarks for you to
pick up."
The man came over amiably. "Looking for someone?" he asked cheerfully.
"Why, yes," said Gloria. "We're sort of mildly acquainted with
the--Mannheims who used to live here. Sort of friends of friends of
theirs, just dropped by to say hello, sort of," she went on, covering up
the fact that she'd picked the name of the former occupant out of his
mind.
"The Mannheims moved about two months ago," he said. "Sold the place to
us--we got a bargain. Don't really know, of course, but the story is
that one of them had to move for his health."
"Too bad. Know where they went?"
"No," said Carroll regretfully. "They seem to have a lot of friends.
Always stopping by, but I can't help 'em any."
#So they moved so fast that they couldn't even change their Highway
Sign?# I thought worriedly.
Farrow nodded at me almost imperceptibly. Then she said to Carroll,
"Well, we won't keep you. Too bad the Mannheims moved, without leaving
an address."
"Yeah," he said with obvious semi-interest. He eyed his half-plowed
field and Farrow started her car.
We started off and he turned to go back to his work. "Anything?" I
asked.
"No," she said, but it was a very puzzled voice. "Nothing that I can put
a finger on."
"But what?"
"I don't know much about real estate deals," she said. "I suppose that
one family could move out and another family move in just in this short
a time."
"Usually they don't let farmlands lie fallow," I pointed out. "If
there's anything off color here, it's the fact that they changed their
residence without changing the Highway sign."
"Unless," I suggested brightly, "this is the coincidence. Maybe this
sign is really one that got busted."
Farrow turned her car into the main highway and we went along it. I
could have been right about the spoke actually being broken instead of
removed for its directing purpose. I hoped so. In fact I hoped so hard
that I was almost willing to forget the other bits of evidence. But then
I had to face the truth because we passed another Highway Sign and, of
course, its directional information pointed to that farm. The signs on
our side of the highway were upside down; indicating that we were
leaving the way station. The ones that were posted on the left hand side
were rightside up, indicating that the drive was approaching a way
station. That cinched it.
#Well,# as I told both Farrow and me, #one error doesn't create a trend.
Let's take another look!#
One thing and another, we would either hit another way station before we
got to Homestead, or we wouldn't. Either one could put us wise. So we
took off again with determination and finally left that side of
erroneous Highway Signs when we turned onto Route 66. We weren't on
Route 66 very long because the famous U.S. Highway sort of trends to the
Northeast and Homestead was in a Southern portion of Texas. We left
Route 66 at Amarillo and picked up U.S. 87, which leads due South.
Not many miles out of Amarillo we came up another set of Highway Signs
that pointed us on to the South. I tried to remember whether this
section led to Homestead by a long route, but I hadn't paid too much
attention to the maps when I'd had the chance and therefore the facts
eluded me.
We'd find out, Farrow and I agreed, and then before we could think much
more about it, we came upon a way station sign that pointed in to
another farmhouse.
"Easy," I said.
"You bet," she replied, pointing to the rural-type mailbox alongside the
road.
I nodded. The box was not new but the lettering on the side was. "Still
wet," I said with a grunt.
Farrow slowed her car as we approached the house and I leaned out and
gave a cheerful hail. A woman came out of the front door and waved at
us.
"I'm trying to locate a family named Harrison," I called. "Lived around
here somewhere."
The woman looked thoughtful. She was maybe thirty-five or so, clean but
not company-dressed. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek and a
smile on her face and she looked wholesome and honest.
"Why, I don't really know," she said. "That name sounds familiar, but it
is not an uncommon name."
"I know," I said uselessly. Farrow nudged me on the ankle with her toe
and then made a swift sign for "P" in the hand-sign code.
"Why don't you come on in?" invited the woman. "We've got an area
telephone directory here. Maybe--?"
Farrow nudged me once more and made the sign of "M" with her swift
fingers. We had hit it this time; here was a woman perceptive and a
Mekstrom residing in a way station. I took a mild dig at her hands and
there was no doubt of her.
A man's head appeared in the doorway above the woman; he had a hard face
and he was tall and broad shouldered but there was a smile on his face
that spread around the pipe he was biting on. He called, "Come on in and
take a look."
Farrow made the sign of "T" and "M" and that told me that he was a
telepath. She hadn't needed the "M" sign because I'd taken a fast
glimpse of his hide as soon as he appeared. Parrying for time and
something evidential, I merely said, "No, we'd hate to intrude. We were
just asking."
The man said, "Oh, shucks, Mister. Come on in and have a cup of coffee,
anyway." His invitation was swift enough to set me on edge.
I turned my perception away from him and took a fast cast at the
surrounding territory. There was a mildly dead area along the lead-in
road to the left; it curved around in a large arc and the other horn of
this horseshoe shape came up behind the house and stopped abruptly just
inside of their front door. The density of this area varied, the end in
which the house was built was so total that I couldn't penetrate, while
the other end that curved around to end by the road tapered off in
deadness until it was hard to define the boundary.
If someone were pulling a flanking movement around through that
horseshoe to cut off our retreat, it would become evident very soon.
A swift thought went through my mind: #Farrow, they're Mekstroms and
he's a telepath and she's a perceptive, and they know we're friendly if
they're Highways. If they're connected with Scholar Phelps and his--#
The man repeated, "Come on in. We've some mail to go to Homestead that
you can take if you will."
Farrow made no sound. She just seesawed her car with three rapid
back-and-forth jerks that sent showers of stones from her spinning
wheels. We whined around in a curve that careened the car up on its
outside wheels. Then we ironed out and showered the face of the man with
stones from the wheels as we took off. The shower of dust and stones
blinded him, and kept him from latching onto the tail of the car and
climbing in. We left him behind, swearing and rubbing dirt from his
eyes.
We whipped past the other end of the horseshoe area just as a jeepster
came roaring down out of the thickened part into the region where my
perception could make out the important things (Like three burly gents
wearing hunting rifles, for instance.) They jounced over the rough
ground and onto the lead-in road just behind us; another few seconds of
gab with our friends and they'd have been able to cut us off.
"Pour it on, Farrow!"
I knew I was a bit of a cowboy, but Farrow made me look like a
tenderfoot. We rocketed down the winding road with our wheels riding up
on either side like the course in a toboggan run and Farrow rode that
car like a test pilot in a sudden thunderstorm.
I was worried about the hunting rifles, but I need not have been
concerned. We were going too fast to make good aim, and their jeepster
was not a vehicle known for its smooth riding qualities. They lost one
character over a rough bounce and he went tail over scalp into the grass
along the way. He scared me by leaping to his feet, grabbing the rifle
and throwing it up to aim. But before he could squeeze off a round we
were out of the lead-in road and on the broad highway.
Once on the main road again, Farrow put the car hard down by the nose
and we outran them. The jeepster was a workhorse and could have either
pulled over the house or climbed the wall and run along the roof, but it
was not made for chase.
"That," I said, "seems to be that."
"Something is bad," agreed Farrow.
"Well, I doubt that they'll be able to clean out a place as big as
Homestead. So let's take our careful route to Homestead and find out
precisely what the devil is cooking."
"Know the route?"
"No, but I know where it is on the map and we can figure it out from--"
"Steve, stop. Take a very careful and delicate view over to the right."
"Digging for what?"
"Another car pacing us along a road on the other side of that field."
I tried and failed. Then I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes
and tried again. On this second try I got a very hazy perception of a
large moving mass that could only have been a car. In the car I received
a stronger impression of weapons. It was the latter that cinched it.
I hauled out my roadmap and turned it to Texas. I thumbed the sectional
maps of Texas until I located the sub-district through which we were
passing and then I identified this section of U.S. 87 precisely. There
was another road parallel and a half mile to the right, a dirt road
according to the map-legend. It intersected our road a few miles ahead.
My next was a thorough covering of the road behind; as I expected
another car was pacing us just beyond the range of my perception for
anything but a rifle aimed at my hide.
Pacing isn't quite the word, I use it in the sense of their keeping up
with us. Fact is that all of us were going about as fast as we could go,
with safety of tertiary importance. Anyway, they were pacing us and
closing down from that parallel road on the right.
I took a fast and very careful scanning of the landscape to our left but
couldn't find anything. I spent some time at it then, but still came up
with a blank.
#Turn left at that feeder road a mile ahead,# I thought at Farrow and
she nodded.
There was one possibility that I did not like to face. We had definitely
detected pursuit to our right and behind, but not to our left. This did
not mean that the left-side was not covered. It was quite likely that
the gang to the rear were in telepathic touch with a network of other
telepaths, the end of which mental relay link was far beyond range, but
as close in touch with our position and action as if we'd been in sight.
The police make stake-out nets that way, but the idea is not exclusive.
I recall hazing an eloping couple that way once.
But there was nothing to do but to take the feeder road to the left,
because the devil we could see was more dangerous than the devil we
couldn't.
Farrow whipped into the side road and we tore along with only a slight
slowing of our headlong speed. I ranged ahead, worried, suspicious of
everything, scanning very carefully and strictly on the watch for any
evidence of attempted interception.
I caught a touch of danger converging up from the South on a series of
small roads. This I did not consider dangerous after a fast look at my
roadmap because this series of roads did not meet our side road for a
long time and only after a lot of turning and twisting. So long as we
went Easterly, we were okay from that angle.
The gang behind, of course, followed us, staying at the very edge of my
range.
"You'll have to fly, Farrow," I told her. "If that gang to our South
stays there, we'll not be able to turn down Homestead way."
"Steve, I'm holding this crate on the road by main force and awkwardness
as it is."
But she did step it up a bit, at that. I kept a cautious and suspicious
watchout, worrying in the back of my mind that someone among them might
turn up with a jetcopter. So long as the sky remained clear--
As time went on, I perceived that the converging car to the South was
losing ground because of the convolutions of their road. Accordingly we
turned to the South, making our way around their nose, sort of, and
crossing their anticipated course to lead South. We hit U.S. 180 to the
West of Breckenridge, Texas and then Farrow really poured on the coal.
The idea was to hit Fort Worth and lose them in the city where fun,
games, and telepath-perceptive hare-and-hounds would be viewed dimly by
the peaceloving citizens. Then we'd slope to the South on U.S. 81, cut
over to U.S. 75 somewhere to the South and take 75 like a cannonball
until we turned off on the familiar road to Homestead.
Fort Worth was a haven and a detriment to both sides. Neither of us
could afford to run afoul of the law. So we both cut down to sensible
speeds and snaked our way through the town, with Farrow and me probing
the roads to the South in hope of finding a clear lane.
There were three cars pacing us, cutting off our retreat Southward. They
hazed us forward to the East like a dog nosing a bunch of sheep towards
pappy's barn.
Then we were out of Forth Worth and on U.S. 180. We whipped into Dallas
and tried the same circumfusion as before and we were as neatly barred.
So we went out of Dallas on U.S. 67 and as we left the city limits, we
poured on the oil again, hoping to get around them so that we could turn
back South towards Homestead.
"Boxed," I said.
"Looks like it," said Farrow unhappily.
I looked at her. She was showing signs of weariness and I realized that
she'd been riding this road for hours. "Let me take it," I said.
"We need your perception," she objected. "You can't drive and keep a
ranging perception, Steve."
"A lot of good a ranging perception will do once you drop for lack of
sleep and we tie us up in a ditch."
"But--"
"We're boxed," I told her. "We're being hazed. Let's face it, Farrow.
They could have surrounded us and glommed us any time in the past six
hours."
"Why didn't they?" she asked.
"You ask that because you're tired," I said with a grim smile. "Any
bunch that has enough cars to throw a barrier along the streets of
cities like Forth Worth and Dallas have enough manpower to catch us if
they want to. So long as we drive where they want us to go, they won't
cramp us down."
"I hate to admit it."
"So do I. But let's swap, Farrow. Then you can use your telepathy on
them maybe and find out what their game is."
She nodded, pulled the car down to a mere ramble and we swapped seats
quickly. As I let the crate out again, I took one last, fast dig of the
landscape and located the cars that were blocking out the passageways to
the South, West, and North, leaving a nice inviting hole to the
Easterly-North way. Then I had to haul in my perception and slap it
along the road ahead, because I was going to ramble far and fast and see
if I could speed out of the trailing horseshoe and cut out around the
South horn with enough leeway to double back towards Homestead.
"Catch any plans from them?" I asked Farrow.
There was no answer. I looked at her. Gloria Farrow was semi-collapsed
in her seat, her eyes closed gently and her breath coming in long,
pleasant swells. I'd known she was tired, but I hadn't expected this
absolute ungluing. A damned good kid, Farrow.
At that last thought, Farrow moved slightly in her sleep and a wisp of a
smile crossed her lips briefly. Then she turned a bit and snuggled down
in the seat and really hit the slumber-path.
A car came roaring at me with flashing headlamps and I realized that
dusk was coming. I didn't need the lights, but oncoming drivers did, so
I snapped them on. The beams made bright tunnels in the light and we
went along and on and on and on, hour after hour. Now and then I caught
a perceptive impression the crescent of cars that were corralling us
along U.S. 67 and not letting us off the route.
I hauled out my roadmap and eyed the pages as I drove by perception.
U.S. 67 led to St. Louis and from there due North. I had a hunch that by
the time we played hide and seek through St. Louis and got ourselves
hazed out to their satisfaction, I'd be able to give a strong guess as
to our ultimate destination.
I settled down in my seat and just drove, still hoping to cut fast and
far around them on my way to Homestead.