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, 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.”
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?”