by Jeff Sutton
All traffic on the highway and side roads was being stopped, ostensibly to warn the drivers of the war games but in reality to inspect the vehicles. That became evident when it was revealed that the cargoes of trucks were also being inspected. The commentators had speculated on it during the day. With soldiers still pouring into the area, he sensed that the real search was yet to come. Tomorrow, he thought, and tomorrow was so close.
Where could he hide Barlo? The question had nagged him all day. There'd be no safety in his house or in Linda's, and he felt certain that the Jackson barn and every inch of the grove by which it stood would be thoroughly combed before another day had passed. Neither could he smuggle him out of the restricted area; and if he could, where could he take him? He hadn't the slightest idea but felt it imperative that he speak with Barlo, decide on a course of action.
Perhaps Barlo could figure out a way.
Abruptly he cocked his head to listen, caught by a sense of danger. Only the chirrup of crickets and the low hum of tires on the highway reached his ears. He gazed at the black shadow of the grove, in the faint starlight discerning the whitish streaks that marked the old barn.
What had alerted him? Turning slowly, he scrutinized the night on all sides, saw no indication of danger. Despite that, the sense of alarm remained
unabated. Something was out there! He knew it for a certainty. Swallowing hard, he tried to imagine what that something might be.
Finally he forced himself to move ahead, his nerves taut with anticipation. The sound of insects had never seemed so loud, the distant screech of a night bird so forlorn. Familiar stimuli touched his senses with a clarity he'd never before experienced. His eyes, darting from side to side, evoked strange imagery from the shadows. If only he had Barlo's eyes, he could see in the night!
The blob that was the eucalyptus grove reached higher and higher; the ghost-white barn raced Page 57
out to meet him. He was but a few dozen yards from it when a sound from behind brought him whirling around. His heart hammering, he peered into the night. An Army patrol? The vigilantes? He felt his tension grow. A light in one of the distant houses blinked. While gazing at it, it blinked again. Someone or something had passed between him and the light!
Someone was in the field!
He crouched lower, searching the blackness. A long minute passed and then another before he was rewarded with movement -- a dark shadow that for an instant glided against the blacker shadows beyond. He had the impression of other movement slightly off to the side. He was being followed! Fighting his fear, he realized that his followers were making no attempt to catch him, otherwise they long since would have closed the distance between them. The alternative was that he was being used as a guide to Barlo. That made more sense. But who were they? Not that it really mattered; the important thing was that they not find Barlo.
Gradually he altered his course until he was walking parallel with the edge of the grove. The whitish barn slid past a dozen or so yards to his left.
Would his followers see the barn, suspect it had been his destination?
Stemming the urge to look behind, he pondered what he should do. To turn back toward his house would be a dead giveaway.
Toby? The small voice in his brain brought him up sharply, then he resumed his stride.
I'm being followed.
Five men, reported Barlo. I can sense their thoughts.
Five? He was appalled. The vigilantes?
No. There was a brief pause. They are agents of some kind.
The FBI? His apprehension soared.
FBI? No, they are...GRU, that's it. I draw that quite clearly from one of their minds. Their leader, I believe.
GRU? Toby tried to place the initials.
William Clayton, that's the leader's name, but he's also Igor Kuznetsov.
It's what your people call a split personality. It's strange, because he thinks of himself as Igor Kuznetsov, yet the name is buried so deep...
Kuznetsov? Toby interrupted.
Russian, explained Barlo. They want me very badly.
Russian! Toby repeated the word in his mind with a feeling of doom.
Russians...after Barlo! They must be spies, must know about the star drive! He felt panic rise inside him.
Keep walking, instructed Barlo. They won't bother you as long as they believe you're leading them to where I am.
But...
Swing back toward your house, not too sharp a circle.
If I do, they'll know something happened to make me change my mind, he protested.
You have to turn back. The vigilantes are in the valley.
"The vigilantes!" He repeated the words aloud, felt a stab of dismay.
Everything was closing in. But the vigilantes weren't as dangerous as the men following him; not if they were Russians. The Russians behind and the
vigilantes ahead -- he was grasping worriedly for some means of escape when a tiny hope flared in his mind. He nourished it, assessing the possibilities before he asked, Where are they?
In the field. I believe -- yes, I'm certain -- they plan to search the Jansen barn and yours. Cleator feels certain that I'm at one place or the other. Barlo's thoughts flowed to him, accompanied by a mental picture of the vigilante leader and his men riding slowly in single file, their black clothes blending with the night.
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Where in the field? he asked insistently. During the long silence that followed, he sensed that Barlo was probing his mind, testing the hope that flourished there. He could all but feel the alien's invasion -- the eerie sense of a second presence. He wondered at Barlo's calmness at such a time.
Russians! He shuddered.
Finally Barlo cautioned, There is danger.
I have to know!
To the west, beyond the grove. The answer held reluctance.
Stay hidden, urged Toby. A sound came from behind that reminded him of a boot scuffing a rock. Stifling the impulse to glance backward, he increased his pace. Russian! It seemed inconceivable, yet it didn't. Not if the Russians knew about the star drive. And they were Russians! Barlo had picked that directly from their minds. How had they gotten to the valley so quickly? He'd have to ask.
Another sound from behind brought the uneasy impression that his pursuers were drawing closer. But they wouldn't bother him, not as long as he kept walking -- not while they thought he was beading them to Barlo's hiding place.
As the shadowy grove slid to his rear, he turned toward the western hills. Although his eyes had long since become fully dark-adapted, he could discern little in the blackness ahead. The night was immense. Once or twice he slackened his step, trying to discern how close his followers might be. He heard only the familiar hum of insect wings.
Were the Russians armed? The question smote him suddenly, brought a new wave of fear. He hadn't considered that. But they would be, if not with rifles, then certainly with small arms. He couldn't imagine them taking such a desperate chance otherwise. He wanted to ask Barlo but refrained, fearful that the alien might try to deter him from his plan.
Ahead, suddenly, he sensed movement. The vigilantes? His step faltered but momentarily as he searched the darkness. Shadows within shadows -- he saw only a strange shifting of the dark blobs of night. Had his followers sensed the same thing? He forced himself to keep moving at the same pace.
A whispered call from somewhere ahead was followed by an abrupt stillness, a cessation of movement. For a moment the black field gave the impression of a vast emptiness through which he walked alone. He had the absurd impression that Barlo had miraculously managed to dispose of the men behind, of the men ahead.
His hands grew clammy, and a small vein at the base of his throat commenced to pulse with the regularity of a metronome. Each pulse was a drumbeat in his ears. A horse whinnied softly.
"Halt!" a voice ahead crackled.
"Colonel Cleator!" shouted Toby. Caught with a sudden fear, he dashed forward.
"It's the Adam boy," someone excl
aimed hoarsely.
"Russians!" yelled Toby. "They're following me!"
"Russians!" a voice bellowed.
A flashlight went on, pinned Toby in its beam. Other lights illuminated the night, swept the field behind him. He crouched and whirled, saw a solitary figure standing in a cone of silver as if transfixed. Abruptly the figure
turned and ran. Off to the side two other figures were racing toward a clump of trees.
"After them!" a nasal voice shouted. The pounding of hooves sent tremors through the ground.
Immense shadows took form in the darkness, loomed larger and larger while the flashlight beams bobbed to the movements of the horses.
A dark-clad figure swept past him and then another and another. A rifle cracked, its reverberations bouncing back from the nearby hills. The flat bark of an answering shot came from somewhere ahead.
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Toby watched, gripped by a terrible fascination. The first figure caught in the beam half turned in flight, extended an arm. Toby sensed rather than saw that he held a weapon. A sharp crack reached his ears, followed by the louder crash of a rifle; the figure staggered and fell. A vigilante fought his horse to a standstill before leaping off alongside him. The other riders were now close behind the other two racing figures. Toby saw they'd never reach the trees.
Three Russians, but there had been five! Where were the other two? He glanced nervously around, struck by the thought that they might still be hiding nearby. Abruptly he darted in the direction from which the vigilantes had come, then circled and headed back toward the Jackson barn. His breath was whistling harshly in his throat when he reached the trees. Barlo! Barlo! he called silently.
They're not following. The alien's unexpected answer held a calming effect. You're safe.
You're not, Toby declared anxiously. Those shots will bring the whole Army. Movement in front of the barn resolved itself into the alien's slight form. His violet eyes glowed in the night.
The trees should be safe enough, he observed.
Not now. Toby glanced around worriedly. The shortest route to his house lay directly across the field, but it was also the most exposed. By circling the grove behind Linda's, they could hook onto the road that ran to the general store, then cut off on the lane that led to his place. If anyone came, they could hide in the drainage ditch. He outlined the plan.
No, answered Barlo.
The Army's bound to come, Toby warned. A shout in the distance brought his head up. In his mind's eye he had a vision of the black-clad vigilantes thundering toward him. Hurry, he urged.
The barn then, not your house, insisted Barlo.
Okay, the barn. Fearing further protest, Toby started toward the grove that sheltered the Jansen house. The alien glided like a shadow at his side.
Toby circled the eucalyptus, halting when they reached the dirt road. Up ahead, where it curved, his view was obscured by trees. Sense anything? he asked nervously.
There's a profusion of thoughts all around us.
Where? Toby asked tersely.
Behind us, ahead, off to the sides. I suspect they're your Army patrols.
Barlo drew a deep breath. Your world is quite pleasant when the sun is down.
We'd better hurry. Toby tried to quell the jittery feeling in the pit of his stomach as they started down the road. The soldiers would comb every inch of the valley. When they learned about the Russians, it would be that much worse.
A vehicle, warned Barlo. Toby jerked his head up as the headlights of a car came into view around the curve. A red light blinked on the roof. The sheriff! He halted, perplexed. If the sheriff were hurrying to investigate the shots, he ought to be warned about the Russians: He suddenly realized that the oncoming beams were sweeping up fast. Hide in the brush, he urged.
A spotlight flashed on, catching them briefly in its glare as they scrambled toward the ditch. The car slid to a screeching halt, and the sheriff
leaped out.
"Toby!" he shouted. Toby halted sheepishly, gesturing to the alien to remain hidden as he returned to the edge of the road. "You all right, son?"
the sheriff called.
"I'm all right." He blinked in the harsh beam of the sheriff's flashlight.
"Call your friend," the sheriff instructed. A shadow moved, and the alien emerged into the cone of light, standing silently by Toby's side. The sheriff's hand hovered near his holster as he studied the strange figure in the reddish garb. "From the ship?" he asked finally. His eyes remained fixed Page 60
on the alien.
"He's my friend," answered Toby. "His name's Barlo."
"Barlo?" The sheriff cocked his head. "How'd you learn his name?"
"Well, he can talk." He fidgeted uneasily.
"He can? How'd he learn the language so soon?"
"From me."
"Smart, eh?" The sheriff studied the slight figure. "Where you from, Barlo?"
"Another world." The alien's large violet eyes regarded the sheriff intently.
"Mars or one of those other planets?" If the sheriff was surprised, he carefully concealed it.
"The planet of another star."
"Another star," echoed the sheriff. Momentarily he was silent, as if trying to absorb the impact of what he must have felt. Finally he said, "Our moon trips don't seem like much, do they?"
Barlo said gravely, "The moons are usually the first stepping stones."
"I suspect so." The sheriff turned his face to the sky, squinting as if looking into a bright sun.
"What's it like up there?"
"Each sun, each planet, each race is different."
"More than one is inhabited?"
"Many thousands are inhabited," explained the alien.
"That a fact?" The sheriff's eyes held skepticism. "You've been to them?"
"To many of them." Barlo nodded.
"Must be wild up there."
"Wild?" Barlo took the time to discern his meaning. "We all live in peace and harmony. That's essential."
"That probably lets us out," the sheriff observed.
"All things change."
"In time perhaps." The sheriff looked off into the darkness. "What was the shooting all about?"
Toby hesitated.
Tell him, urged Barlo.
"The vigilantes were chasing some Russians," he blurted. Sensing the sheriff's incredulity, he hastily explained what had happened. When he finished, the sheriff's eyes rested speculatively on Barlo's face. "What made you believe they were Russians?" he asked.
"I read their minds."
"You...read minds?"
"It's normal among my people," admitted Barlo.
"It ain't right." The sheriff shook his head slowly. "No man should be able to look into another man's mind."
"He doesn't, except in an emergency," Toby said hurriedly.
"That a fact?"
"We try not to," answered Barlo.
"What about the Russians?" asked Toby, trying to change the subject.
"I'll put out an alert," the sheriff promised. "Not that anyone will believe me."
"They're probably headed for Mexico, if they got away," Toby said darkly. "All but one. I saw him get shot."
"Then Cleator had better hope he was a Russian." His gaze lingered on the alien. "Guess I'd better take you in."
"Why?" cried Toby. "He hasn't broken any laws."
"'Cept maybe immigration...and vagrancy."
"That's silly!"
"Lots of laws are, son. Actually, I was thinking of his own safety --
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what we call protective custody."
"I'm not greatly worried," the alien interrupted. "No?" The sheriff peered at him. "How about Toby? He could have gotten shot tonight. I don't want the same thing to happen again."
"That does worry me, of course."
"I can take care of myself," declared Toby.
"Sure, sure." The sheriff chuckled. "What would Gramp say if he knew what you were up to?"
"He knows."<
br />
"He does?" The sheriff cocked his head.
"He plays pinochle with Barlo."
"That a fact?" The sheriff switched his gaze to the alien. "Where'd you learn to play pinochle?"
"Toby's grandfather was kind enough to teach me," explained Barlo.
"The old coot! He's always lookin' for someone to beat."
"Gramp usually loses," offered Toby.
"That a fact?" This time the sheriff did appear surprised. He weighed the alien critically before continuing, "I still think you'd be safer with me."
"He's going to stay at our place." Toby spoke insistently, hoping to overrule the sheriff's objections.
"No." Barlo shook his head. "That could endanger your family."
"He's right," the sheriff agreed.
The alien lifted his head, his violet eyes suddenly unmoving. "They're coming," he said.
"The vigilantes?" Toby felt apprehensive.
"And the others, two or three. I can sense their thoughts. Lots of thoughts," he added. He looked around in the darkness, his small face thoughtful.
"If they're Russians, Cleator will go to Congress," answered the sheriff sourly. "You'd better hop in the back of the car, keep hidden till we see what it's all about." He stepped back and opened the rear door, closing it when the alien disappeared inside. Turning off the car lights, he doused his flashlight and returned to Toby's side. Together they peered into the darkness. In a short while they heard the unmistakable sounds of horses.
"Sharp critter," the sheriff murmured. "Reckon he's reading my mind?"
Toby shook his head. Shadows loomed at the edge of the grove, turned out onto the narrow road. The creak of leather came faintly through the still air.
The sheriff remained as immobile as if carved of stone. Toby had the sensation of sitting on a bomb waiting for it to explode. Abruptly, the movement ceased and the night grew still. A beam shot out, pinning them in its harsh light.
"The sheriff and the kid," a hoarse voice exclaimed.
The sheriff turned on his flashlight, sweeping the beam slowly across the faces of the eight or nine men who flanked Cleator on either side. "Douse your lights," he snapped.
