"He entered the town of Petersville a few minutes before the net
closed around the park. We burned the park level, but naturally found
nothing. He had already gone. An hour later we received a report from
a resident in Petersville, an official of the Stockpile Conservation
Department. The man from the past had come to his door, looking for
work. Winslow, the official, engaged him in conversation, trying to
hold onto him, but he escaped, driving his cart off. Winslow called
Security right away, but by then it was too late."
"Report to me as soon as anything more comes in. We must have him--and
damn soon." Reinhart snapped the screen off. It died quickly.
He sat back in his chair, waiting.
Cole saw the shadow of the Security ship. He reacted at once. A second
after the shadow passed over him, Cole was out of the cart, running
and falling. He rolled, twisting and turning, pulling his body as far
away from the cart as possible.
There was a blinding roar and flash of white light. A hot wind rolled
over Cole, picking him up and tossing him like a leaf. He shut his
eyes, letting his body relax. He bounced, falling and striking the
ground. Gravel and stones tore into his face, his knees, the palms of
his hands.
Cole cried out, shrieking in pain. His body was on fire. He was being
consumed, incinerated by the blinding white orb of fire. The orb
expanded, growing in size, swelling like some monstrous sun, twisted
and bloated. The end had come. There was no hope. He gritted his
teeth--
The greedy orb faded, dying down. It sputtered and winked out,
blackening into ash. The air reeked, a bitter acrid smell. His clothes
were burning and smoking. The ground under him was hot, baked dry,
seared by the blast. But he was alive. At least, for awhile.
Cole opened his eyes slowly. The cart was gone. A great hole gaped
where it had been, a shattered sore in the center of the highway. An
ugly cloud hung above the hole, black and ominous. Far above, the
wingless plane circled, watching for any signs of life.
Cole lay, breathing shallowly, slowly. Time passed. The sun moved
across the sky with agonizing slowness. It was perhaps four in the
afternoon. Cole calculated mentally. In three hours it would be dark.
If he could stay alive until then--
Had the plane seen him leap from the cart?
He lay without moving. The late afternoon sun beat down on him. He
felt sick, nauseated and feverish. His mouth was dry.
Some ants ran over his outstretched hand. Gradually, the immense black
cloud was beginning to drift away, dispersing into a formless blob.
The cart was gone. The thought lashed against him, pounding at his
brain, mixing with his labored pulse-beat. _Gone._ Destroyed. Nothing
but ashes and debris remained. The realization dazed him.
Finally the plane finished its circling, winging its way toward the
horizon. At last it vanished. The sky was clear.
Cole got unsteadily to his feet. He wiped his face shakily. His body
ached and trembled. He spat a couple times, trying to clear his mouth.
The plane would probably send in a report. People would be coming to
look for him. Where could he go?
To his right a line of hills rose up, a distant green mass. Maybe he
could reach them. He began to walk slowly. He had to be very careful.
They were looking for him--and they had weapons. Incredible weapons.
He would be lucky to still be alive when the sun set. His team and
Fixit cart were gone--and all his tools. Cole reached into his
pockets, searching through them hopefully. He brought out some small
screwdrivers, a little pair of cutting pliers, some wire, some solder,
the whetstone, and finally the lady's knife.
Only a few small tools remained. He had lost everything else. But
without the cart he was safer, harder to spot. They would have more
trouble finding him, on foot.
Cole hurried along, crossing the level fields toward the distant range
of hills.
The call came through to Reinhart almost at once. Dixon's features
formed on the vidscreen. "I have a further report, Commissioner."
Dixon scanned the plate. "Good news. The man from the past was sighted
moving away from Petersville, along highway 13, at about ten miles an
hour, on his horse-drawn cart. Our ship bombed him immediately."
"Did--did you get him?"
"The pilot reports no sign of life after the blast."
Reinhart's pulse almost stopped. He sank back in his chair. "Then he's
dead!"
"Actually, we won't know for certain until we can examine the debris.
A surface car is speeding toward the spot. We should have the complete
report in a short time. We'll notify you as soon as the information
comes in."
Reinhart reached out and cut the screen. It faded into darkness. Had
they got the man from the past? Or had he escaped again? Weren't they
ever going to get him? Couldn't he be captured? And meanwhile, the SRB
machines were silent, showing nothing at all.
Reinhart sat brooding, waiting impatiently for the report of the
surface car to come in.
* * * * *
It was evening.
"Come on!" Steven shouted, running frantically after his brother.
"Come on back!"
"Catch me." Earl ran and ran, down the side of the hill, over behind a
military storage depot, along a neotex fence, jumping finally down
into Mrs. Norris' back yard.
Steven hurried after his brother, sobbing for breath, shouting and
gasping as he ran. "Come back! You come back with that!"
"What's he got?" Sally Tate demanded, stepping out suddenly to block
Steven's way.
[Illustration]
Steven halted, his chest rising and falling. "He's got my intersystem
vidsender." His small face twisted with rage and misery. "He better
give it back!"
Earl came circling around from the right. In the warm gloom of evening
he was almost invisible. "Here I am," he announced. "What you going to
do?"
Steven glared at him hotly. His eyes made out the square box in Earl's
hands. "You give that back! Or--or I'll tell Dad."