But she fled.
The manager of the restaurant was staring suspiciously at Burckhardt,
who sank back in his seat and tried to look inconspicuous. He hadn't
insulted the girl! Maybe she was just a very strictly reared young
lady, he thought--in spite of the long bare legs under the cellophane
skirt--and when he addressed her, she thought he was a masher.
Ridiculous idea. Burckhardt scowled uneasily and picked up his menu.
"Burckhardt!" It was a shrill whisper.
Burckhardt looked up over the top of his menu, startled. In the seat
across from him, the little man named Swanson was sitting, tensely
poised.
"Burckhardt!" the little man whispered again. "Let's get out of here!
They're on to you now. If you want to stay alive, come on!"
There was no arguing with the man. Burckhardt gave the hovering
manager a sick, apologetic smile and followed Swanson out. The little
man seemed to know where he was going. In the street, he clutched
Burckhardt by the elbow and hurried him off down the block.
"Did you see her?" he demanded. "That Horn woman, in the phone booth?
She'll have them here in five minutes, believe me, so hurry it up!"
* * * * *
Although the street was full of people and cars, nobody was paying any
attention to Burckhardt and Swanson. The air had a nip in it--more
like October than June, Burckhardt thought, in spite of the weather
bureau. And he felt like a fool, following this mad little man down
the street, running away from some "them" toward--toward what? The
little man might be crazy, but he was afraid. And the fear was
infectious.
"In here!" panted the little man.
It was another restaurant--more of a bar, really, and a sort of
second-rate place that Burckhardt had never patronized.
"Right straight through," Swanson whispered; and Burckhardt, like a
biddable boy, side-stepped through the mass of tables to the far end
of the restaurant.
It was "L"-shaped, with a front on two streets at right angles to each
other. They came out on the side street, Swanson staring coldly back
at the question-looking cashier, and crossed to the opposite sidewalk.
They were under the marquee of a movie theater. Swanson's expression
began to relax.
"Lost them!" he crowed softly. "We're almost there."
He stepped up to the window and bought two tickets. Burckhardt trailed
him in to the theater. It was a weekday matinee and the place was
almost empty. From the screen came sounds of gunfire and horse's
hoofs. A solitary usher, leaning against a bright brass rail, looked
briefly at them and went back to staring boredly at the picture as
Swanson led Burckhardt down a flight of carpeted marble steps.
They were in the lounge and it was empty. There was a door for men and
one for ladies; and there was a third door, marked "MANAGER" in gold
letters. Swanson listened at the door, and gently opened it and peered
inside.
"Okay," he said, gesturing.
Burckhardt followed him through an empty office, to another door--a
closet, probably, because it was unmarked.
But it was no closet. Swanson opened it warily, looked inside, then
motioned Burckhardt to follow.
It was a tunnel, metal-walled, brightly lit. Empty, it stretched
vacantly away in both directions from them.
Burckhardt looked wondering around. One thing he knew and knew full
well:
No such tunnel belonged under Tylerton.
* * * * *
There was a room off the tunnel with chairs and a desk and what looked
like television screens. Swanson slumped in a chair, panting.
"We're all right for a while here," he wheezed. "They don't come here
much any more. If they do, we'll hear them and we can hide."
"Who?" demanded Burckhardt.
The little man said, "Martians!" His voice cracked on the word and the
life seemed to go out of him. In morose tones, he went on: "Well, I
think they're Martians. Although you could be right, you know; I've
had plenty of time to think it over these last few weeks, after they
got you, and it's possible they're Russians after all. Still--"
"Start from the beginning. Who got me when?"
Swanson sighed. "So we have to go through the whole thing again. All
right. It was about two months ago that you banged on my door, late at
night. You were all beat up--scared silly. You begged me to help
you--"
"_I_ did?"
"Naturally you don't remember any of this. Listen and you'll
understand. You were talking a blue streak about being captured and
threatened, and your wife being dead and coming back to life, and all
kinds of mixed-up nonsense. I thought you were crazy. But--well, I've
always had a lot of respect for you. And you begged me to hide you and
I have this darkroom, you know. It locks from the inside only. I put
the lock on myself. So we went in there--just to humor you--and along
about midnight, which was only fifteen or twenty minutes after, we
passed out."
"Passed out?"
Swanson nodded. "Both of us. It was like being hit with a sandbag.
Look, didn't that happen to you again last night?"
"I guess it did," Burckhardt shook his head uncertainly.
"Sure. And then all of a sudden we were awake again, and you said you
were going to show me something funny, and we went out and bought a
paper. And the date on it was June 15th."
"June 15th? But that's today! I mean--"
"You got it, friend. It's _always_ today!"
It took time to penetrate.
Burckhardt said wonderingly, "You've hidden out in that darkroom for
how many weeks?"
"How can I tell? Four or five, maybe. I lost count. And every day the
same--always the 15th of June, always my landlady, Mrs. Keefer, is
sweeping the front steps, always the same headline in the papers at
the corner. It gets monotonous, friend."