XV
"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 ironedout again. "He isn't after our corpse, honey. He's after our hide. Idon't care for any."
The fourth shot went singing off the pavement to one side. It whinedinto the distance making that noise that sets the teeth on edge andmakes one want to duck. I lowered the boom on the go pedal and tried tomake the meter read off the far end of the scale; I had a notion thatthe guy behind might shoot the tires out if we were going slow enough sothat a blowout wouldn't cause a bad wreck; but he probably wouldn't doit once I got the speed up. He was not after Marian. Marian could walkout 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 ofthe road again to avoid an oncoming car. I could almost count the frontteeth of the guy driving the car as we straightened out with a coat ofvarnish to spare. I scared everybody in all three vehicles, includingme.
Then I passed a couple of guys standing beside the road; one of themwaved me on, the other stood there peering past me down the road. As weroared by, another group on the other side of the highway came runningout hauling a big old hay wagon. They set the wagon across the road andthen sloped into the ditch on either side of it.
I managed to dig the bare glimmer of firearms before I had to yank myperception away from them and slam it back on the road in front. I wasnone too soon, because dead ahead by a thousand feet or so, they werehauling a second road block out.
Marian, not possessed of esper, cried out as soon as she read this newmenace in my mind. I rode the brakes easily and came to a stop longbefore 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 towardsthe first road block. Half way back I whirled my car into a roughsideroad just as the left hand rear tire went out with a roar. The carsagged and dragged me to a stop with my nose in a little ditch. The heaphadn'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 ofhundred yards was a thicket of trees; I headed that way fast. I managedto sling a dig back; Marian was joining the others; pointing in mydirection. 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 Ididn't get in the way of an accidental shot. My life was once morecharmed with the fact that no one wanted me dead.
The thicket of woods was not as thick as I'd have liked. From a distancethey'd seemed almost impenetrable, but when I was running through themtowards the center, they looked pitifully thin. I could see light fromany direction and the floor of the woods was trimmed, the underbrushcleaned 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 thecaterpillar on the blade of grass in front of the lawn mower.
I tried to hide under a deadfall, knowing that it was poor protectionagainst rifle fire. I hauled out the Bonanza and checked the cylinder. Ididn't know which side I was going to shoot at, but that didn't botherme. I was going to shoot at the first side that got close.
A couple of shots whipped by over my head, making noises like someonesnapping a bullwhip. I couldn't tell which direction they came from; Iwas too busy trying to stuff my feet into a gopher hole under mydeadfall.
I cast around the thicket with my sense of perception and caught thelayout. Both sides were spread out, stalking forward like infantryadvancing through disputed ground. Now and then one of them would raisehis rifle and fire at some unexpected motion. This, I gathered, was morenervousness than fighting skill because no group of telepaths and/orperceptives would be so jittery on the trigger if they weren't basicallynervous. They should, as I did, have the absolute position of both theenemy and their own side.
With a growing nervous sweat I dug their advances. They were avoiding myposition, 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 minuteexactly what the other had in mind, where he was, and what he was goingto do about his position. But they kept shifting, feinting andcounter-advancing, trying to gain the advantage of number or position sothat the other would be forced to retreat. It became a war of nerves; agame of seeing who had the most guts; who could walk closer to themuzzle of an enemy rifle without getting hit.
Their rifles were mixed; there were a couple of deer guns, a nice 35-70Express that fired a slug slightly smaller than a panetella cigar, a fewshotguns, a carbine sports rifle that looked like it might have been aGarand 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 inearnest, they were going to clean out this woods but good. It was goingto be a fine barrage, with guns going off in all directions, because itis hard to keep your head in a melee. Esper and telepathy go by theboard when shooting starts.
I still didn't know which side was which. The gang behind me werefriends of Marian Harrison; but that did not endear them to me any morethan knowing that the gang in front were from Scholar Phelps MedicalCenter or some group affiliated with him. In the midst of it, I managedto bet myself a new hat that old Scholar Phelps didn't really know whatwas going on. He would be cagey enough to stay ignorant of any overtstrife or any other skullduggery that could be laid at his door.
Then on one edge of the woodsy section, two guys of equal damfool-factoradvanced, came up standing, and faced one another across fifty feet ofopen woods. Their rifles came up and yelled at one another like a stringof firecrackers; they wasted a lot of powder and lead by not takingcareful aim. One of them emptied his rifle and started to fade back toreload, the other let him have it in the shoulder. It spun the guyaround and dumped him on his spine. His outflung hand slammed his rifleagainst a tree, which broke it. He gave a painful moan and started tocrawl back, his arm hanging limp-like but not broken. From behind mecame a roar and a peltering of shotgun pellets through the trees; it wasanswered by the heavy bark of the 35-70 Express. I'm sure that in theentire artillery present, the only rifle heavy enough to really damagethose Mekstroms was that Express, which would stop a charging rhino.When you get down to facts, my Bonanza .375 packed a terrific wallop butit 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 shotgunblasts from single-shot guns. They were standing face to face swingingtheir guns like a pair of axemen; swing, chop! swing, chop! and witheach swing their guns were losing shape, splinters from the butts, andbits of machinery. Their clothing was in ribbons from the shotgunblasts. But neither of them seemed willing to give up. There was not asign 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 theother bird in the middle. He folded over the shot and his middle wentback and down, which whipped his head over, back, and down where it hitthe ground with an audible thump. The first guy leaped forward just asthe victim of his attack sat up, rubbed his belly ruefully, and drew ahunting knife with his other hand. The first guy took a running dive atthe supine one, who swung the hunting knife in a vicious arc. The pointhit the chest of the man coming through the air but it stopped as thoughthe man had been wearing plate armor. You could dig the return shockthat stunned the knife-wielder's arm when the point turned. All it didwas rip the clothing. Then the pair of them were at it in a free-for-allthat made the woods ring. This deadly combat did not last long. One ofthem took aim with a fist and let the other have it. The rifle shothadn't stopped him but the hard fist of a
nother Mekstrom laid him outcolder than a mackerel iced for shipment.
The deadly 35-70 Express roared again, and there started a concentrationof troops heading towards the point of origin. I had a hunch that theother side did not like anybody to be playing quite as rough as abig-game gun. Someone might really get hurt.
By now they were all in close and swinging; now and then someone wouldstand off and gain a few moments of breathing space by letting go with ashotgun or knocking someone off of his feet with a carbine. There wassome bloodshed, too; not all these shots bounced. But from what I couldperceive, none of them were fatal. Just painful. The guy who'd beenstopped first with the rifle slug and then the other Mekstrom's fist wasstill out cold and bleeding lightly from the place in his stomach. A bithorrified, I perceived that the pellet was embedded about a half-inchin. The two birds who'd been hacking at one another with the remains oftheir shotguns had settled it barehanded, too. The loser was groaningand trying to pull himself together. The shiny spots on his chest wereshotgun pellets stuck in the skin.
It was one heck of a fight.
Mekstroms could play with guns and knives and go around taking swings atone another with hunks of tree or clubbed rifles, or they could standoff and hurl boulders. Such a battlefield was no place for a guy namedSteve 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 Idecided that it was time for Steve to leave.
I cast about me with my perception; the gang that Marian had joined hadadvanced until they were almost even with my central position; therewere 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 womantangled up in a free-for-all. Marian was out of esper range, which wasall right with me.
I crawled out of my hideout cautiously, stood up in a low crouch andbegan to run. A couple of them caught sight of me and put up a howl, butthey were too busy with their personal foe to take off after me. One ofthem was free; I doubled him up and dropped him on his back with a slugfrom my Bonanza .375. Somehow it did not seem rough or vicious to shootsince there was nothing lethal in it. It was more like a game of cowboyand Indian than deadly earnest warfare.
Then I was out and free of them all, out of the woods and running like adeer. I cursed the car with its blown out tire; the old crate had been afine bus, nicely broken in and conveniently fast. But it was as usefulto me now as a pair of skids.
A couple of them behind me caught on and gave chase. I heard cries forme to stop, which I ignored like any sensible man. Someone cut loosewith 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 weregoing to play that rough, I didn't care to stay.
I fired an unaimed shot over my shoulder, which did no good at allexcept for lifting my morale. I hoped that it would slow them a bit, butif it did I couldn't tell. Then I leaped over a ditch and came upon acluster of cars. I dug at them as I approached and selected one of thefaster 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 werestill 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 alow slung frame that hugged the ground like a clam. I was intent uponputting as many miles as I could between me and the late engagement inas short a time as possible, and the Clinton seemed especially apt untilI remembered that the figure 300 on the dial meant kilometers instead ofmiles per hour. Then I let her out a bit more and tried for the end ofthe dial. The Clinton tried with me, and I had to keep my espercarefully aimed at the road ahead because I was definitely overdrivingmy eyesight and reaction-time.
I was so intent upon making feet that I did not notice the jetcopterthat came swooping down over my head until the howl of its vane-jetsraised hell with my eardrums. Then I slowed the car and lifted myperception at the same time for a quick dig.
The jetcopter was painted Policeman Blue and it sported a largegold-leaf on its side, and inside the cabin were two hard-facedgentlemen wearing uniforms with brass buttons and that Old Bailey lookin 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 athousand, and dropped a road-block bomb. It flared briefly and let outwith 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 itwas a signal for them to let me have it. I came to a stop about a footthis side of the bomb, and the jetcopter came down hovering. Its vanesblew the smoke away and the 'copter landed in front of my swiped ClintonSpecial.
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 notpermit 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 supposedto 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 abook of tickets and it was piling up deep. Speeding, reckless driving,violation of ordinance something-or-other by number. Driving a carwithout proper registration in the absence of the rightful owner (Checkfor stolen car records) and so on and on and on until it looked like alife 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 policeis long after you've proved them wrong, and then only when you're facingyour mirror at home telling yourself what you should have said.
I was driven to court; escorted in by the pair of them and seated withone on each side. The sign on the judge's table said: MagistrateHollister.
Magistrate Hollister was an elderly gentleman with a cast iron jaw and aglance as cold as a bucket of snow. He dealt justice with a sharp-edgedshovel and his attitude seemed to be that everybody was either guilty ascharged or was contemplating some form of evil to be committed as soonas he was out of the sight of Justice. I sat there squirming while hepiled the top on a couple whose only crime was parking overtime; Iitched from top to bottom while he slapped one miscreant in gaol forturning left in violation of City Ordinance. His next attempt gave a tendollar fine for failing to come to a full and grinding halt at the signof the big red light, despite the fact that the criminal was esper to afine degree and dug the fact that there was no cross-traffic for a halfmile.
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 yourrecent violations?"
I blinked.
He aimed a cold glance at the bailiff, who arose and read off thecharges against me in a deep, hollow intonation.
"Speak up!" he snapped. "Are you guilty or not guilty?"
"Guilty," I admitted.
He beamed a sort of self-righteous evil. It was easy to see that neverin his tenure of office had he ever encountered a criminal as hardenedand as vicious as I. Nor one who admitted to his turpitude so blandly. Ifelt it coming, and it made me itch, and I knew that if I tried toscratch His Honor would take the act as a personal affront. I foughtdown the crazy desire to scratch everything I could reach and it washard; about the time His Honor added a charge of endangering human lifeon the highway to the rest of my assorted crimes, the itch had localizedinto the ring finger of my left hand. That I could scratch by rubbing itagainst the seam of my trousers.
Then His Honor went on, delivering Lecture Number Seven on Crime,Delinquen
cy, and Grand Larceny. I was going to be an example, he vowed.I was assumed to be esper since no normal--that's the word he used,which indicated that the old bird was a blank and hated everybody whowasn't--human being would be able to drive as though he had eyes mounteda half mile in front of him. Not that my useless life was in danger, orthat I was actually not-in-control of my car, but that my actions madefor panic among normal--again he used it!--people who were not blessedwith either telepathy or perception by a mere accident of birth. Thelast one proved it; it was not an accident of birth so much as it wasproper training, to my way of thinking. Magistrate Hollister hatedpsi-trained people and was out to make examples of them.
He polished off his lecture by pronouncing sentence: "--and the Lawprovides punishment by a fine not to exceed one thousand dollars, or asentence of ninety days in jail--_or both_." He rolled the latter off asthough he relished the sound of the words.
I waited impatiently. The itch on my finger increased; I flung a fastdig at it but there was nothing there but Sophomore's Syndrome. Good oldnervous association. It was the finger that little Snoodles, thethree-month baby supergirl had munched to a faretheewell. Darned goodthing the kid didn't have teeth! But I was old Steve, the immune, thecarrier, the--
"Well, Mr. Cornell?"
I blinked. "Yes, your honor?"
"Which will it be? I am granting you the leniency of selecting whichpenalty you prefer."
I could probably rake up a thousand by selling some stock, personalpossessions, and draining my already-weakened bank account. The mostvaluable of my possessions was parked in a ditch with a blowout andprobably a bent frame and even so, I only owned about six monthlypayments worth of it.
"Your Honor, I will prefer to pay the fine--if you'll grant me time inwhich to go and collect--"
He rapped his desk with his gavel. "Mr. Cornell," he boomed angrily. "Athief cannot be trusted. Within a matter of minutes you could removeyourself from the jurisdiction of this court unless a binding penalty isplaced against your person. You may go on your search for money, butonly after posting bond--to the same amount as your fine!"
_Lenient--?_
"However, unless you are able to pay, I have no recourse but to exactthe prison sentence of ninety days. Bailiff--!"
I gave up. It even felt sort of good to give up, especially when theturn is called by someone too big to be argued with. No matter what, Iwas going to take ninety days off, during which I could sit and thinkand plan and wonder and chew my fingernails.
The itch in my finger burned again, deep this time, and not at all easyto satisfy by rubbing it against my trousers. I picked at it with thethumbnail and the nail caught something hard.
I looked down at the itching finger and sent my perception into it withas much concentration as I could.
My thumbnail had lifted a tiny circle no larger than the head of a pin.Blood was oozing from beneath the lifted rim, and I nervously picked offthe tiny patch of hard, hard flesh and watched the surface blood wellout into a tiny droplet. My perception told me the truth: It wasMekstrom's Disease and not a doubt. The Immune had caught it!
The bailiff tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Come along, Cornell!"
And I was going to have ninety days to watch that patch grow at theinexorable rate of one sixty-fourth of an inch per hour!
Highways in Hiding Page 15
