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 up-stream 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 back yard 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 —
“Yes, yes,” Hobart said impatiently. “He got in about an hour ago and he’s
holed up with a character named Moyland.” As he spoke he removed a half
loaf of bread from a cupboard, cut four slices, and added cold sausage,
producing two sandwiches. He did not ask if they were hungry; he simply
handed them to Art and Cleve.
“Thanks, pal. So he’s holed up. Haven’t you done anything about it? He has
got to be shut up at once or he’ll spill his guts.”
‘We’ve got a tap in on the telephone line. We had to wait for dark. You
can’t expect me to sacrifice good boys just to shut his mouth unless it’s
absolutely necessary.”
“Well, it’s dark now, and we’ll be the boys you mentioned. You can call
yours off.”
“Okay.” Hobart started pulling on shoes.
“No need for you to stick your neck out,” Art told him. “Just tell us where