Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

“Planned for. This message will go o through and my number-two man will step

into my shoes. The name is Hobart-runs a feed store on Pelham Street.”

Morgan nodded. “Should have known you had it

worked out. Well, what we don’t know-” He was interrupted by Cleve, reporting.

“He got away, Boss.”

“Why didn’t you go after him?”

“Half the roof came down when Dad chucked the grenade. Tunnel’s choked with

rock. Found a place where I could see but couldn’t crawl through. He’s not in the

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tunnel.”

“How about Dad?”

“He’s all right. Got clipped on the head with a splinter but not really

hurt.”

Morgan stopped two of the women hurrying past, intent on preparations for

withdrawal. “Here-Jean, and you, Mrs. Bowen. Go take care of Dad Carter and tell Art

to get back here fast. Shake a leg!”

When Art reported Morgan said, “You and Cleve go out and find Benz. Assume

that he is heading for Barclay. Stop him and bring him in if you can. Otherwise kill

him. Art is in charge. Get going.” He turned to McCracken. “Now for a message.” He

fumbled in his pocket for paper, found the poster notice that McCracken had given

him, tore off a piece, and started to write. He showed it to McCracken. “How’s

that?” he asked.

The message warned Hobart of Benz and asked him to try to head him off. It

did not tell him that the Barclay Free Company was moving but did designate the

“post office” through which next contact would be expected-the men’s rest room of

the bus station.

“Better cut out the post office,” McCracken advised. “Hobart knows it and we

may contact him half a dozen other ways. But I’d like to ask him to get my family

out of sight. Just tell him that we are sorry to hear that Aunt Dinah is dead.”

“Is that enough?”

Yes.

“Okay.” Morgan made the changes, then called, “Margie! Put this in code and

tell Jerry to get it out fast. Tell him it’s the strike-out edition. He can knock

down his sets as soon as it’s out.”

“Okay, boss.” Margie had no knowledge of cryptography. Instead she had

command of jive talk, adoléscent slang, and high school double-talk which would be

meaningless to any but another American bobbysoxer. At the other end a

fifteen-year-old interpreted her butchered English by methods which impressed her

foster parents as being telepathy-but it worked.

The fifteen-year-old could be trusted. Her entire family, save herself, had

been in Los Angeles on Final Sunday.

Art and Cleve had no trouble picking up Benz’s trail. His tracks were on the

tailings spilling down from the main entrance to the mine. The earth and rock had

been undisturbed since the last heavy rain; Benz’s flight left clear traces.

But trail was cold by more than twenty minutes; they had left the mine by

the secret entrance a quarter of a mile from where Benz had made his exit.

Art picked it up where Benz had left the tailings and followed it through

brush with the woodsmanship of the Eagle Scout he had been. From the careless signs

he left behind Benz was evidently in a hurry and heading by the shortest route for

the highway. The two followed him as fast as they could cover ground, discarding

caution for speed.

They checked just before entering the highway. “See anything?” asked Cleve.

‘ ‘ l\lo . ~

“Which way would he go?”

“The Old Man said to head him off from Barclay.”

“Yeah, but suppose he headed south instead? He used to work in Wickamton. He

might head that way.”

“The Boss said to cover Barclay. Let’s go.”

They had to cache their guns; from here on it would be their wits and their

knives. An armed American on a highway would be as conspicuous as a nudist at a

garden party.

Their object now was speed; they must catch up with him, or get ahead of him

and waylay him.

Nine miles and two and a half hours later-one

hundred and fifty minutes of dog trot, with time lost lying in the roadside brush

when convoys thundered past-they were in the outskirts of Barclay. Around a bend,