Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

out of sight, was the roadblock of the Invaders’ check station. The point was a

bottleneck; Benz must come this way if he were heading for Barclay.

“Is he ahead or behind us?” asked Cleve, peering out through bushes.

“Behind, unless he was picked up by a convoy-or sprouted wings. We’ll give

him an hour.”

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A horse-drawn hayrack lumbered up the road. Cleve studied it. Americans were

permitted no power vehicles except under supervision, but this farmer and his load

could go into town with only routine check at the road block. “Maybe we ought to

hide in that and look for him in town.”

“And get a bayonet in your ribs? Don’t be silly.”

“Okay. Don’t blow your top.” Cleve continued to watch the rig. “Hey,” he

said presently. “Get a load of that!”

“That” was a figure which dropped from the tail of the wagon as it started

around the bend, rolled to the ditch on the far side, and slithered out of sight.

“That was Joe!”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure! Here we go.”

“How?” Art objected. “Take it easy. Follow me.” They faded back two hundred

yards, to where they could cross the road on hands and knees through a drainage

pipe. Then they worked up the other side to where Benz had disappeared in weeds.

They found the place where he had been; grass and weeds were still

straightening up. The route he must have taken was evident-down toward the river

bank, then upstream to the city. There were drops of blood. “Dad must have missed

stopping him by a gnat’s whisker,” Cleve commented.

Bad job he didn t.

“Another thing-he said he was going to give himself up. I don’t think he is,

or he would have stayed

with the wagon and turned himself in at the check station. He’s heading for some

hideout. Who does he know in Barclay?”

“I don’t know. We’d better get going.”

“Wait a minute. If he touches off an alarm, they’ll shoot him for us. If he

gets by the ‘eyes,’ we’ve lost him and we’ll have to pick him up inside. Either way,

we don’t gain anything by blundering ahead. We’ve got to go in by the chute.”

Like all cities the Invader had consolidated, Barclay was girdled by

electric-eye circuits. The enemy had trimmed the town to fit, dynamiting and burning

where necessary to achieve unbroken sequence of automatic sentries. But the

“chute”-an abandoned and forgotten aqueduct-passed under the alarms. Art knew how to

use it; he had been in town twice since Final Sunday.

They worked back up the highway, crossed over, and took to the hills. Thirty

minutes later they were on the streets of Barclay, reasonably safe as long as they

were quick to step off the sidewalk for the occasional Invader.

The first “post office,” a clothesline near their exit, told them

nothing-the line was bare. They went to the bus station. Cleve studied the notices

posted for inhabitants while Art went into the men’s rest room. On the wall, defaced

by scrawlings of every sort, mostly vulgar, he found what he sought: “Killroy was

here.” The misspelling of Kilroy was the clue-exactly eighteen inches below it and

six to the right was an address: “1745 Spruce-ask for Mabel.”

He read it as 2856 Pine-one block beyond Spruce. Art passed the address to

Cleve, then they set out separately, hurrying to beat the curfew but proceeding with

caution-at least one of them must get through. They met in the backyard of the

translated address. Art knocked on the kitchen door. It was opened a crack by a

middle-aged man who did not seem glad to see them. “Well?”

“We’re looking for Mabel.”

“Nobody here by that name.”

“Sorry,” said Art. “We must have made a mistake.” He shivered. “Chilly out,”

he remarked. “The nights are getting longer.”

“They’ll get shorter by and by,” the man answered.

“We’ve got to think so, anyhow,” Art countered.

“Come in,” the man said. “The patrol may see you.” He opened the door and

stepped aside. “My name’s Hobart. What’s your business?”

“We’re looking for a man named Benz. He may have sneaked into town this

afternoon and found someplace to-“