The limousine zoomed north out of Newport, turned down a gravel road, kept a rendezvous with a helicopter that was waiting in a pasture.
The purpose of Malachi Constant’s switch from the limousine to the helicopter was to prevent anyone’s following him, to prevent anyone’s discovering who the bearded and bespectacled visitor to the Rumfoord estate had been.
No one knew where Constant was.
Neither the chauffeur nor the pilot knew the true identity of their passenger. Constant was Mr. Jonah K. Rowley to both.
“Mist’ Rowley, suh — ?” said the chauffeur, as Constant stepped out of the limousine.
“Yes?” said Constant.
“Wasn’t you scared, suh?” said the chauffeur.
“Scared?” said Constant, sincerely puzzled by the question. “Of what?”
“Of what?” said the chauffeur incredulously. “Why, of all them crazy people who liked to lynch us.”
Constant smiled and shook his head. Not once in the midst of the violence had he expected to be hurt. “It hardly helps to panic, do you think?” he said. In his own words he recognized Rumfoord’s phrasing — even a little of Rumfoord’s aristocratic yodel.
“Man — you must have some kind of guardian angel — lets you keep cool as a cucumber, no matter what,” said the chauffeur admiringly.
This comment interested Constant, for it described well his attitude in the midst of the mob. He took the comment at first as an analogy — as a poetic description of his mood. A man who had a guardian angel would certainly have felt just as Constant had — “Yes, suh!” said the chauffeur. “Sumpin’ sure must be lookin’ out for you!”
Then it hit Constant: This was exactly the case.
Until that moment of truth, Constant had looked upon his Newport adventure as one more drug-induced hallucination — as one more peyotl party — vivid, novel, entertaining, and of no consequence whatsoever.
The little door had been a dreamy touch . . . the dry fountain another . . . and the huge painting of the all white touch-me-not little girl with the all white pony . . . and the chimney-like room under the spiral staircase . . . and the photograph of the three sirens on Titan . . . and Rumfoord’s prophecies . . . and the discomfiture of Beatrice Rumfoord at the top of the stairs . . .
Malachi Constant broke into a cold sweat. His knees threatened to buckle and his eyelids came unhinged. He was finally understanding that every bit of it had been real! He had been calm in the midst of the mob because he knew he Wasn’t going to die on Earth.
Something was looking out for him, all right.
And whatever it was, it was saving his skin for —
Constant quaked as he counted on his fingers the points of interest on the itinerary Rumfoord had promised him.
Mars.
Then Mercury.
Then Earth again.
Then Titan.
Since the itinerary ended on Titan, presumably that was where Malachi Constant was going to die. He was going to die there!
What had Rumfoord been so cheerful about?
Constant shuffled over to the helicopter, rocked the great, ramshackle bird as he climbed inside.
“You Rowley?” said the pilot.
“That’s right,” said Constant.
“Unusual first name you got, Mr. Rowley,” said the pilot.
“Beg your pardon?” said Constant nauseously. He was looking through the plastic dome of the cockpit cover — looking up into the evening sky. He was wondering if there could possibly be eyes up there, eyes that could see everything he did. And if there were eyes up there, and they wanted him to do certain things, go certain places — how could they make him?
Oh God — but it looked thin and cold up there!
“I said you’ve got an unusual first name,” said the pilot.
“What name’s that?” said Constant, who had forgotten the foolish first name he had chosen for his disguise.
“Jonah,” said the pilot.
Fifty-nine days later, Winston Niles Rumfoord and his loyal dog Kazak materialized again. A lot had happened since their last visit.
For one thing, Malachi Constant had sold out all his holdings in Galactic Spacecraft, the corporation that had the custody of the great rocket ship called The Whale. He had done this to destroy every connection between himself and the only known means of getting to Mars. He had put the proceeds of the sale into MoonMist Tobacco.