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, adolescent 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 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.
“No.”
“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