In the space station, Forential sat in his cubicle in mental conference with the other aliens. Behind their flow of thoughts was the unreferred-to but ever-present fear for their own lives. Cowardice was taken for granted; it was so deeply a part of their own culture (if it wasn't somehow a racial characteristic) that it did not need to be acknowledged.
The aliens always let other races fight their wars of conquest.
Forential knew that his own personal existence might well hinge on the outcome of the next few hours. None of the aliens knew how much knowledge Julia possessed. Unlike the other mutants, she had not been kept in ignorance of the basic laws of nature. How dangerous she might be, they could only guess. Wasshecapable of attacking them?
Forential was physically ill; he wanted to flee. If he had had a ship capable of traveling interstellar distances, he would have embarked without delay. But the huge interstellar ship of his race would not be back for another thirty years. There was no escape from the space station; there was no place to go.
And if the earthlings were not destroyed, if the invasion of Earth failed, retaliation from the planet would not be long coming. Once the Earth located the space station (and Earth would, once Earth realized its existence) even human normals would be able to destroy it—one rocket with an atomic war head would do—long before the interstellar ship returned.
Walt could not fail; the invasion could not fail.
**Let's try to make peace with the earthings,** one of the aliens thought. **It's better than ... than exposingourselvesto physical violence!**
**That would be suicide: once they realized what we had been planning to do to them.**
**I don't trust them.**
**Let Forential send downallhis charges to kill the female!**
**Don't be hysterical!** the Elder thought hysterically.
Forential knew that to send down his charges first might alert Earth to the danger of invasion: twenty-seven saucer-ships would not go unnoticed. But even if they would, even if Earth remained unaware, such a course would completely disrupt the plan of conquest.
**She hasn't realized the menace yet,** the Elder thought. **Walt will kill her. Walt will kill her, won't he, Forential?**
**Yes.** If only one of us went to make sure, Forential thought. To help him ... no.... None of us would risk it. It's too dangerous.
The aliens did not have any equipment to make their single person ships invisible. It took bulky distortion machinery; the single person ships were too large to cover with mental shielding.
Twenty years ago, yes (Forential thought) we could have risked it. But now the radar screens around all the major countries are too tight. We could not, like Walt, destroy our ship. We would need it to return in.
**We must give him all the help we can,** Forential thought.
**We must.**
**We must.**
**Lycan,** the Elder thought. **Can you cut the power of your charges?**
**An extended period might have a bad psychological effect....**
**They won't realize the implication—that they're not Lyrians, that we control them—until too late.**
**If we could give Walt twelve hours,** Forential thought. **... we've got to give him every chance!**
**When do you think he'll be close to her?** the Elder asked.
Forential consulted his maps. He calculated rapidly.
**If he travels fast—if he has luck—by another five hours.**
**Lycan,** the Elder instructed, **continue with training until then. We'll cut off the greater transmitter five hours from now. Twelve hours should give Walt more than enough time to kill her. It will be mutant trying to kill an earth-normal. He can't fail!**
**He can't fail,** they echoed nervously.
**Will twelve hours be enough?**
**If he does, somehow, fail, we can't risk delaying the invasion more than that.**
**I will see that it doesn't delay the invasion,** Lycan promised. **I'll train them right through normalcy.**
Walt had arrived in Hollywood.Wait for me there.Julia (dressing carefully) projected to him.I'll be right over to get you.
She finished combing her hair. She went to her handbag, snapped it closed decisively, and slipped it over her arm. She was smiling.
On her way out of the room, she picked up the book on brain surgery that she hadn't yet had the chance to read. She skimmed through it in the taxi on the way to pick Walt up.
She paused a fraction of a second over one of the illustrations; in that time, she was able to memorize it. My brain, she thought, is different right there; but I can't see my own brain well enough to tell much; I want to look at his for a minute if I can.
Having finished the book, she held it primly in her lap, tapping impatiently on it with her fingers.
There's a lot of things funny about this boy, she thought. I've got to get more information about him. I've got a suspicion he's going to be in for a few surprises.
(It was less than an hour before the aliens would cut off the larger transmitter.)
When I first located him for sure, she thought, he was travelingmuchtoo fast; faster and higher than any experimental rocket I've ever heard of.
I've got to check on the old flying saucer reports, she thought. They're the only things I can remember reading about that were supposed to move that fast.
"This is him waiting up here," Julia said to the driver. "Just pull over to the curb."
A moment later, opening the door, she said, "Get in. I'm Julia."
"I'm Walt Johnson," he said, flexing his hands. "Let's go someplace where we can be alone."
"Well," she said. "It's good to see you, Walt." She extended her hand.
He had sealed off his thoughts. His hand was moist in hers; it responded uncertainly to her warm pressure. She drew him inside. She caught a wisp of thought that he was not quite able to conceal. "Back to the hotel," she told the driver.
Now I'msure, she thought, that he really tried to teleport me out of my hotel room. I wonder why he wanted to? Why should he want to kill me?
I'll have to keep an eye on him. But he's such a baby. He can't even control his emotions.
"Your clothing," she said, studying him with professional concern, "is all wrong. We'll just have to get some more. Some to fit your personality better. I'll do that tomorrow."
Anger crossed his face. He rubbed his hand over his knee and looked down at his trousers. "I like them," he said in a surly voice.
She was not afraid of him. She had no need to be. He was such an innocent!
Why, she thought, he doesn't seem to have any information to draw on hardly at all; he'll be harmless as long as I wish him so.
"I'm a Lyrian traitor, too," he said.
"You are?"
His accent. She could not remember any accent on Earth like that. He had not learned his English from an earthman. A Lyrian had taught him?
"What are you doing here?" he said.
Boy! she thought. Is his conversation naive! Keep him talking, girl!
She studied his face. She thought: Get 'em young and raise 'em to suit yourself, Julia.
She added up the facts she had already discovered. He was, like herself, a human mutant. (I must check, she thought, to see if there were any human babies missing during the last flying saucer scare twenty-four years ago, the year I was born.) The mutants had been collected at birth, but the collectors had overlooked her. Walt had traveled here from (where? Mars? Luna?) in order to rectify this oversight by putting her out of the way. Why? Obviously he owed allegiance to the collectors (Lyrians?) from whom he had probably learned—among other things—his atrocious accent. He was—
She had ignored his question, so he asked another one. "Where is the war?"
"War?" Julia repeated. She frowned delicately. "There's no war. Not right now. The international situation is getting better, I think." War? she asked herself. He's got a lot of misinformation about us.
She kept trying toseeinto the physical structure of his brain. Ah, she thought, yes. Right there—
A bridge there, all right.
It's probably an easy mutation, she thought. Probably latent in everyone's genes. The next development of man? (But how many centuries will it take for it to come out again?) How did the collectors produce the mutation in the first place—assuming they did produce (as well as harvest) it?
Could, she thought, a surgeon—operate, as it were—on an adult brain to produce the bridge?... I'll have to take up surgery. A few months to learn technique. I think I could. It's easy to heal, because of the subconscious pattern (the cellular pattern?) but to—operate—to change—to build into a different structure, so that would require experiments and study, perhaps actual knife work....
"Therehasto be a war," Walt said. "Forential told us there was."
"There isn't. Not now." Forential? A non-human? An alien?
"He told us," Walt said.
"He lied," Julia said.
"He doesn't lie."
Julia shrugged. Walt is a loyal follower, she thought. "There's no war. Maybe he meant there would be one shortly; maybe it was a premature announcement." Lord! do these aliens have some way of prodding the Russian bear? she thought. Or how the devil are they—Forentials, wherever they are—thinking of starting a war?
Walt refused to consider her denial. He did not look her in the face. "I like you," he said. He was desperate to change the subject. "Your smile. You're so ... so ..."nice. He thought the last word; he took the risk that she might peep his other thoughts. He was almost certain she could not; he hoped to peep hers if she thought a reply. Forential couldn't be a liar!
Julia knew they were both incorrect: his statement and his conviction. But she liked to hear him say he liked her. I guess, she thought, he's trying to lull my suspicions. Maybe I better lull his, too....
She smiled sweetly.
"You see, I've never seen a Lyrian female before," Walt said. "... except one on the ship just the other day; but just one, before."
Is Lyria supposed to be aplanet? she thought to herself. "You've never been to Lyria, then, have you?"
"... we were very young when we left."
He doesn't even know he's a native of Earth! Julia thought. "You know," she said, "I'll bet I know more about you than you think I do."
That brought a fear reaction from Walt.
You don't need to be afraid of me, Julia thought soothingly.
(She had scarcely half an hour left before the aliens shut off the big transmitter.)
"How soon.... When will we get to the hotel?"
"Soon, now," Julia said.
"We'll be alone?" Walt said.
"We'll have a chance to talk; there are a lot of things for us to talk about."
"Yes," he said. He began to rub his hands over one another. His growing excitement and his hatred bubbled just below the surface of his mind; Julia could feel the emotions without him being aware that she could.
My, she thought. He's going to take a lot of re-educating before he makes a very good husband.
When they entered the hotel room, Walt found his throat expanding with excitement.
Forential, he thought, will be pleased that I have killed her in secret. No one on Earth will ever know who she was killed by. When she is dead, I can slip out of the hotel and ... and invisible, I can steal food and drink and stay in empty rooms until the invasion comes; and when it does, then I can start teleporting earthlings and slaying them with my hands, and.... She doesn't suspect, he thought, that I am going to kill her in just a moment.
He complimented himself on how cleverly he had concealed his intentions.
Covertly he surveyed the room. The pitcher on the table? The chair? What with? A sudden numbing blow—like the blow Calvin delivered to John. Then, afterwards, hands, knees, fingers—and she will be dead.
He saw himself rising triumphant from her still body. Saw Forential (when, later, he heard of it) smiling approval, saw his mates listening awe struck.... His breath trembled in his throat; his arms ached to be moving.
"Won't you sit down?" she said.
I will wait until she is off guard, he thought. Smiling in anticipation, he sat down.
... she doesn't, he thought, seem like a traitor. Such bright, clear eyes. She seems, so nice, so trusting, so innocent. It was foolish to have been afraid of meeting her. She's small and harmless. I wish she weren't a traitor; maybe—
But Forential knows.
(How about the war? Why did Forential say there was a war?)
Forential knows. He said to kill her.
Julia, studying him with faint amusement, said "Have you looked at your brain? I have a picture of a human brain here. I want to show you how alike they are."
"Lyrians have a superficial resemblance to earthlings."
"Look at this. Very similar. The same, almost."
Walt shifted uneasily. Her eyes did not move from his face. What was she getting at?
"I wonder," she said, "why we ... Lyrians ... have had certain powers given to us just recently? Why, before, we were no different than earthlings?"
Walt frowned. He didn't want to think about it. He had a job to do.
"There's a—call it—a bridge in our minds. It's just recently been closed."
(It was ten minutes before the larger transmitter was to be turned off for twelve hours.)
Walt decided on the pitcher. The answer to her question was suddenly obvious. "That means we're ready to invade."
She watched him very closely. Her fingers tapped her knee. "... you said you were on a ship?"
It's almost time to kill her, he thought. I'm sorry, he wanted to say: but I really must. "Yes. A space station."
"How many of you are there?"
"Twenty-seven; twenty-eight, counting me."
"That's not many. Not enough." She bent forward. "You said you saw a Lyrian female on the ship. I think there's another group of Lyrians on the ship. I think they're going to invade first. That's the war your group is supposed to come in on the end of. You're going to be used as a clean-up group."
"Forential would have told us," Walt said.
"The question is:Why didn't he tell you?"
Walt realized how terribly sly and dangerous she was. She was too smart to be harmless. Suppose she should warn—but who could she warn? Earthlings? Could they get their atom bombs ready?
He felt his skin prickle.Look behind you!he thought to her. It had worked with the officer; it worked with her.
She turned.
Savagely, he grasped the pitcher with the mental fingers of teleportation. He hurled it as hard as he could at the back of her head.
Julia was ready for the blow. She had the molecules of the pitcher displaced before it was half way to her. It passed through her body easily and smashed against the far wall.
She turned quickly enough to avoid Walt's rush.
On her feet now, she wavered into partial displacement.
Snarling harshly, he advanced on her.
(There was less than five minutes remaining. One of the aliens hovered at the larger transmitter.)
He tried to grab her. His hand passed through her body.
She smiled.
He tried to adjust to her level of displacement. He choked. Quickly he realized what was wrong; he rectified the air so he could breathe. She changed to normal just as he sprang. He hurtled through her as through the air itself.
She turned to face him. He was panting. "When I was a kid," she said, "I used to throw rocks when I got mad."
Damn you!His fists clenched. He towered over her.
She did not have any more time to waste with him. 'That means,' he had said, 'we're ready to invade.'
How much time did she have? The full extent of the menace was gradually taking form in her mind. With an army of indoctrinated mutants.... Invasion! Murder! Destruction! For an instant she wanted to collapse and cry like a frightened little girl.
What am I going to do? what am I going to do? what am I going to do? she thought frantically.
I've got to see someone! I've got to convince someone—I've got to show people my mutant powers: they'll have to believe me! The President, the Army....
How much time?
She made a distortion field. Invisible, she rushed to the door. She paused, returned for her handbag. Holding it, she passed through the door.
I haven't got time to beat reason into his head, she thought. I'll tend to him later.
Half way down the stairs, she suddenly became visible.
Oh,damn! she thought. This happened once before. How long will it last this time?
A great chill exploded in her body.
... suppose—?
Now she ran in earnest. Her legs moved like pistons. The few patrons in the lobby glanced up in disapproval. At the door she almost bowled over a young man with a brown sack full of quarts of beer.
Once in the street, she stopped and darted frightened glances about her. It was growing dark. Neon winked. The street was unnatural and brittle under the artificial lights. Well dressed women, serious and unsmiling (serenely confident that they were being mistaken for movie stars) walked beside athletic escorts; sales girls and office clerks window shopped intently.
At the curb Julia almost danced with nervousness.
He can come upon me invisible! she thought. He can throw things! He can—!I can't even tell when he's near me!
She waved desperately for a cab.
"Cab! Cab!Taxi!"
It receded toward Vine Street.
Even now he's coming out of the hotel! she thought. Or he sees me from the Window!... I can't wait here; I'll have to run; I'll....
A chartreuse convertible with its top up drew to a stop in front of her. The driver opened the door by pressing a button on the dash. The upholstery was made of tiger skin. He smiled nervously. "Going down this way?"
She hesitated only an instant. "My God, yes!" she said.
"Get in."
She got in and slammed the door. "Let's go! mister."
"When you're in a hurry, these cabs ... you never can find one."
He wore a sports jacket, most of which was canary yellow. He had thin, delicate hands; his face was lean and sunless; his eyes were sad and misunderstood. The hands threaded the convertible into traffic.
Julia fidgeted. She kept glancing behind her.
"Somebody following you?"
Julia shuddered. "I hope not."
The driver waited. Julia did not amplify; she was half turned now, so she could see out the rear window.
"I had to talk to someone," the driver said apologetically. "I was driving along, and suddenly I had to talk to someone. You know how it is?... Then there you were; you seemed in such a hurry."
"I'm sure glad you stopped, mister!"
"I mean," the driver said intently, "I get wanting totalk. My name's Green. You may have heard of me. I produce pictures—motion pictures. I'm a producer."
How can I ever get away from Walt! Julia thought. He can run me down whenever he wants to!
"Nobody hears of producers," the driver said. "That's all right with me. Let other people take the credit. I don't like to call attention to myself." He brought out a monogrammed cigarette case and flicked it open. "Cigarette?"
"No, no, thank you." Julia twisted at the strap of her handbag.
"Who can you talk to, I mean really? Allthey'reafter is your money.... I'll tell you what I really want. I want a farm—no, don't laugh: it's the truth—a little piece of land. I want to settle down, you know. Most people don't understand how it is." He gazed sadly down Hollywood Boulevard. "To be famous, I mean."
Julia was scarcely listening. She bit her lip.
"My wife, now, she's an actress. In her next picture, she opens a beer can with her teeth. Not a bottle; anyone can open a bottle. She doesn't understand me. She's an actress." One of his delicate hands moved over the tiger skin toward Julia. "I'd like—sometimes to get away. Go away for a weekend. Some place where they'd never heard of A. P. Green, the big producer. You know. I wish—I honestly wish I weren't—some times."
The hand touched Julia's dress. She was too preoccupied to notice.
"... you have an interesting face. It's very, very expressive. I want to give you my card. I want you to come in for a test."
Julia moved away from him. All she could think about was Walt. Could he be in that car just behind? "... please ..." she said vaguely in protest.
He blinked his eyes; the hand retreated a few inches. "I've never talked to anyone like this before," he said. "But your face, your eyes.... When I saw you standing there—saw you were running from something—I knew you'd understand."
Julia swallowed stiffly. She pivoted to face him. "Listen mister. I need help. Would you drive me into L. A.? Fast, mister?"
He was hurt. He drew back. "I thought we could go.... I know a little place.... They know me there; we could eat, and—" He moved one hand pathetically.
Julia felt a flutter of thought. (There was still a tiny bit of residual power remaining; it was fading fast.) Walt was starting after her!
"Mister, for God's sake,can you drive me into L. A.? I've got to get some money out of the all-night bank!"
"... yes, of course, yes." He moved his lips without words. "I thought you'd understand. Your face.... Nobody does, really. How itis, I mean."
"Please hurry," she said. If I can just get a car before Walt catches me, she thought. That's the only way I can keep away from him. I've got to keep moving until I get my powers back; or until ... until ... what? Her lower lip trembled. She was cold and numb.Hurry!she wanted to shriek.
For a full minute Walt did not realize she was gone. When he did, he was relieved. He found himself trembling. Where did that demon go? Thank God she's gone; I—!
The thought of her, diminutive and infinitely superior, made him cringe. He was afraid of her. He wanted to cry.
Forential understands, Walt thought. If he were here now, he'd understand. He'd ... he'd tell me what to do.
Walt stared at the back of his hand.
Steady, he thought, steady. Try to relax. The shock ... it's not fair ... she knows so much....
Study the room; think of something else. The ship; I'd like to see Calvin's face again.... There's my face—in the mirror. It looks all right.
Forential will be angry. I shouldn't have let her get away. I should have—what should I have done? Could I have?
I could have....
He shook his head. No: that wouldn't have fooled her either.
Forential, what am I going to do now?
Walt sat down. He tried to think things out. I'm no good, he thought. The only thing I'm good for is to kill earthlings. I ought to be ashamed of myself.
... I'm alone, he thought. Things are going all wrong.
I've ... I've got to learn to depend on myself.
I've always depended too much on Forential.
I've always been told what to do, he thought. It's time for me to begin telling myself what to do.
He nodded his head at the truth of this. I'm on my own, he thought. Well, by God, it's time to face that! I'll stop her some way.
Forential is depending on me!
At last it occurred to him to try to locate Julia. He concentrated. He formed Julia's pattern in his mind. He sought to equate it with reality. For a moment of bleak despair, he felt nothing. Then the pattern and reality overlapped. He fixed her in space. He had her. She was fleeing in an automobile.
And—she had changed! She was now—as she had been once before—as impotent as an earthling.
He sprang to his feet. Elation filled him. A rising tide of confidence swept over him.
Damn, damn, damn! he thought in excited delight. She's mine now!
Julia, oh Julia, can you hear me?
She couldn't.
He could feel her fleeing.
I'll show her now, he thought with savage satisfaction.
Wait'll I catch you!
There'll be no nonsense about privacy this time! he promised himself. I'll kill her where ever I find her. Forential may not like it as well as—to hell with Forential!
Outside the hotel, in the crisp, fresh night air, Walt plunged into the crowd emptying from a theater, whose marquee, "Junkeroo", flashed lonesomely above the sidewalk.
I'll need a car to overtake her, he thought.
He remembered back to his first ride. I can operate one, he thought, if I can start it. It's easy.
Julia lies in that direction. I'll catch her in no time.
He heard a car door open behind him.
He spun on his heel and walked back to the car. The driver, settled behind the wheel, was just depressing the light stud when Walt cut in front of it and came abreast of the driver's side.
"You're the one I'm looking for," he said.
"Eh?"
"Move over!"
The owner was a heavy, middle aged man; he snorted and narrowed his eyes. "What's this baloney?"
"I'm taking this car."
"The hell you say!"
Walt pulled the door open, grabbed the man by the shirt and twisted. He set his feet and the man came sprawling out into the street.
Holding him, Walt slapped his face.
The man flailed wildly. He tried to jerk loose. His shoulders twisted. He tried with a knee, and Walt threw him to the pavement. A few startled passers-by turned to watch.
Walt picked the man up and thrust him into the car. The man's face was purple with rage. He tried to scream.
Walt displaced the air from his lungs. The man collapsed, gagging.
"Don't make any loud noises," Walt said.
The man choked and gasped with suddenly restored breath.
"... what ... what do you want?"
"How do you start this car?"
The man started to protest; the look on Walt's face made him think better of it. He told Walt how to start the car.
Walt followed instructions. He listened to the purr of the motor.
"What is the power? What makes it run?"
The owner wiped blood from his face. Sullenly, through swelling lips, he said, "... it's a combustion engine ... like all cars...."
Cautiously maneuvering the car into traffic, Walt said, "Tell me what you know about combustion engines."
Walt displaced air again. He put it back. "I asked you to tell me what you know about combustion engines."
The man kept dabbing at his lips.
Gasping, the man began to explain. He did not seem too sure of himself. Every other sentence, he faltered, and Walt had to prompt him sharply.
"This fuel ... this gas.... When the supply is used up, how does one obtain more?"
"From a ... gas station...."
I'll have to watch the fuel supply, Walt thought.
"They're ... they're on nearly every corner," the man said.
Walt nodded. I've got all I can from him, he thought. "Do you have a small, heavy object?"
The man licked his cut lip. His eyes were wide with terror. "Y—ye—yes."
"Produce it!"
The man brought out a cigarette lighter.
Teleporting, Walt jerked it from the man's hand and hit him behind the ear with it. With a sigh, the owner collapsed unconscious.
I'm doing all right, Walt thought. Now, if I can just find the right road to follow.
He concentrated on Julia.
He began to drive very fast, slipping in and out of traffic recklessly.
Six blocks later, he picked up the police car.
And three blocks after that, the police car was abreast of him, forcing him to the curb.
Annoyed, Walt brought the car to a stop. The police car angled in ahead of him. Walt waited confidently.
"Okay," the policeman said wearily, taking out his book of tickets and putting one foot on the running board. "Where's the fire?"
Walt said, "Fire?"
"Yeah. The speed limit in this town is thirty miles an hour. Where's the fire? Let's see your license."
Walt considered this information. He removed the air from this policeman's lungs; from the lungs of the policeman in the car. When they were very unconscious, he let them have air again. He experimented with a few buttons until he found the reverse. He backed up a few yards, circled out around the police car, and continued. The policemen were still unconscious.
Mr. Green, the producer, stopped in front of the bank. With hurried thanks, Julia scrambled out.
Pathetically he called after her: "But we could—"
Inside the revolving doors, she pattered across the inlaid floor to the teller's cage still open for business. If I can just get out of here alive! she thought. The high, vaulted ceiling—dim and shadowy above the cool lights—seemed to echo her thoughts: get out of here alive, get out alive, alive.
She gave her name crisply and fumbled in her handbag for identification.
"I want to withdraw my money."
"Yes, Miss. Your account is with this branch?"
"Yes." She handed her identification and her check book to him.
While she twisted nervously, he phoned to verify her account.
She could feel Walt creeping up on her. Her skin crawled. The revolving door was motionless.
That meant nothing. He could walkthroughit.
There was no easy way of telling how he would strike until the last moment. It would be so swift that she would never feel the blow at all.
She stared, fascinated, at the ink well across the room. She imagined it suddenly ripped out and hurled at her. She shivered. She tried to teleport it herself.
It did not move.
Cold sweat began to ooze from her pores. Brakes squealed in the street outside. She ran her hands along the carrying strap of her handbag. Her mouth was dry.
I'm too scared to spit! she thought. I've heard of that. I didn't believe it. It's true.
"For God's sake, hurry!"
"Yes, Miss," the teller said. He eyed her suspiciously.
How long can this go on? she thought despairingly. He'll be here in another minute!
"I have the amount. It's the same as your check stub shows," the teller said. "You want it all?"
"Yes."
"Just take this over to the table, there, and fill it in."
Oh, God! she thought.
She crossed to the table. Her hand was shaking. The free pen blotted. She ripped out the check and crumpled it into a ball. Her breathing was shallow. She found her own pen. Shakily she filled in another check.
The teller looked at it. He waved it dry. He held it up. "Just a, moment, Miss. I'd like to verify the signature."
Her nails dug into her palms. She moved her feet uneasily. She glanced toward the door.
She fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette. She found a stale pack, shook one out. She lit it with a safety match and extinguished the match with a nervous flick of her arm. She inhaled.
The invasion. For the first time since she'd left the hotel it reoccurred to her.
Oh, Lord! she thought. How much time before that! She dropped her cigarette and ground it out.
The clerk was bending over, comparing signatures.
I've got to do something about the invasion! I've got to tell somebody! But ... but ... how can I ever convince anyone?
They'd think I was crazy. They'd detain me for questioning. They'd lock me up. If they did, he could come upon me and I couldn't even run!
Her face was bloodless. If I had my powers back....
She began to pace. Two steps one way; two steps back; two steps the other way.
I could ... I could show them how to operate on a human to make the bridge; I could talk to a surgeon....
Could I?
Her mind was fuzzy. It was no longer easy to remember. So many compartments were no longer available.
Do I remember how? You ... you.... She concentrated with every fiber of her being.
"Your signature is shakey," the clerk said.
She whirled on him. Her lips trembled. She choked back hot words.
"I'm upset tonight," she said weakly.
He grunted.
If he catches me, she thought,I'll be dead.He'll kill me! I'll never be able to convince anyone then!
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
"How do you want the money?" the clerk asked.
"Any way! Any way!"
He began to count bills.
If I stand still, he'll catch me! she moaned to herself. Even now....
She glanced toward the door.
"There," the clerk said.
Trembling, she stuffed bills into her handbag. She raced for the entrance.
She burst from the revolving doors. She cried out to the taxi idling across the street. The driver started the motor. She ran across the street to the car.
"Take me to a car lot that's open!"
"Yes, Lady."
She fumbled out a bill and threw it at him. She settled back in the seat. "Hurry!"
He looked at the bill. "Yes, indeed." He started the car. "I sure will."
The cab whirled away and U-turned toward Vermont.
She felt better to be moving.
And ten minutes later she was arguing with a salesman.
"This will do," she insisted. "I don't want a triple-guarantee, a road test, a service check, a—"
"I'll have to make out a bill of sale."
"All I want to know is: Is the gas tank full?"
Indignantly, the salesman said: "Of course."
"Mail me the bill of sale! Tear it up! I don't care! Here—Here's my hotel." After thrusting the card on him, she began to count money.
"The keys are in the ignition. I'll get your extra set. The license—" He began to recount the money.
She got behind the wheel, snapped on the lights, pressed the ignition button. The motor coughed and roared.
She spun the car out of the lot. She was weak with relief.
Maybe I can outrun him!
I hope.
I've got to!
I'll get as far away as I can. Then I'll ... I'll have to take a chance waiting for an airplane. Then ... then ... when my money gives out....
I can't hope to run forever.
She shuddered.
Walt crawled out of the wreck. It seemed to be a miracle he was unhurt.
He had switched the car to automatic drive as he had seen the driver on the desert do; he had not known that there was no automatic-drive beam on that particular stretch of highway.
At the first curve—in a heart beat of time; too fast for him to avert it—the car had hurtled the road and plowed into the embankment.
Walt cursed and shook his head and closed his eyes tightly, gathering his thoughts.
A few minutes later a car with intensely bright headlights stopped to give assistance. Walt threw the driver out and slipped behind the wheel.
In a moment he knew that he had a powerful motor under him.
An hour later (two of the twelve hours were gone) Julia was still free. She had weaved and twisted across the city. She had crossed and recrossed the super-highways and the local speedways. She had fled up ramps and through under passes.
She had no way of telling how near Walt was; or what moment and from what direction death might strike. She did not believe that he could reach out through space to snatch her life; if he tried teleportation, she was steeled to resist. The lifeless, glittering windows, the dull glare of overhead and curb lights, the shuttle movement of traffic, the heavy, motionless air—all these combined into bristling menace. Her foot strained against the accelerator; her muscles ached over the wheel.
She hoped she had confused him. Now she streamed for the open highway. She settled the car into a traffic slot on the north-bound coast super-highway. She switched the car on automatic and tried to relax.
The road curved gently toward the west to pick up the coast line. Soon the moonlit breakers hissed on white sand beaches. The ocean lay dark and mysterious toward the far horizon.
She prayed that Walt would not guess for long minutes that she had left the city; that he would lose more precious minutes locating the super-highway.
San Francisco was six hours ahead of her.
Walt was continually losing himself in a maze of Los Angeles streets. Ones that seemed to promise to deliver him cross-town to interrupt Julia in her erratic course twined away in improper directions. Occasionally he neared her. But she darted away each time: as if with the primeval instinct of a hunted animal.
At last he stopped the car and cried to a pedestrian across the street: "Is there any place I can get a map of the city?"
"Ask inna filling station."
Walt snarled. And five minutes later he found the map. He memorized it carefully; it required scarcely more than a minute. During that time, he let his body rest and relax. He threw the map onto the driveway. He grew increasingly more confident of catching her as the information settled into his brain. He visualized the map.
He was ready for her now.
She was already on the super-highway. He left the filling station. He was in no hurry. He was waiting for her to return.
It soon became apparent that she would not.
He grunted and spun his car in her direction.
He lost several minutes in a traffic jam downtown. He got on the wrong lane in a clover leaf beyond the city limits. He had now passed beyond the boundaries of the map he had memorized. He took the ridge super-highway instead of the one Julia had taken. After twenty miles, he realized his mistake and had to cut over. He bounced along an east-west road that was so rough-surfaced he had to reduce his speed.
When he finally arrived on the proper highway he was almost an hour behind Julia.
He concentrated on understanding the physical assembly of the engine in front of him. He could teleport parts from it; he could hold other parts more tightly together by using the same power. But the engine was so very complex. There was (he could tell) something there—in the engine itself—that kept the power from being utilized. He could not locate the block.
He increased the speed by tightening the valves. But the required concentration was too great to be long maintained. It exhausted him and forced him to rest for a few miles. Then he tightened the valves again. The car moved forward in a sudden burst of speed.
In San Francisco Julia stopped long enough for a sandwich—long enough to gulp hot coffee—long enough to buy a box of "Wide-awakes." She checked airline schedules by phone.
The eastern flights were held up by weather over the Rockies. The next strato-jet to Hawaii was due to leave in thirty minutes; but she would have to wait to see if any reservations were canceled before she could be assured of a seat. There would not be another plane south for an hour and a half. One was leaving just then.
She told herself that the airport would become a cul-de-sac unless she could time it perfectly; she could not risk it.
She cruised the city until she had been there over an hour. She was loggy and exhausted.
She was afraid to remain any longer. He might head her off; he might trap her in a dead end street. Once on the straight of way, there was—at least—no danger of that. She left the city and headed north again.
Walt arrived ten minutes before she left. He came to a stop at an all night lunch. Invisible, he slipped through walls into the kitchen. He stole food, returned to his car with it, ate it. He drove to a gas station, keeping her position sharply in mind.
"Gas," he ordered the attendant.
The attendant began filling the tank.
"All the way full," Walt said. "I want a map of the city when you finish."
The attendant brought the map. Walt unfolded it.
Julia had left the city. Walt was not going to be fooled this time. But he wanted to memorize the city just in case she did double back.
"Is there ... a larger map? Of this whole area?"
The attendant brought him a California map. He memorized that one. He picked out Julia's route. He verified it.
"Pay up, now," the attendant said. "I gotta car waitin'. It's five sixty-seven altogether."
Walt reached through the rolled down window and seized the man. He jerked him forward and down; and, with the same motion, slammed his own weight against the inside of the unlocked door. The steel top of the opening door cracked the attendant across the forehead; he went limp. Walt let go of him, closed the door, and drove off.
By the time he sighted her car ahead of him on the highway, in the mist and fog of dawn, nearly eleven hours had elapsed since he had begun the pursuit. It had been only a half an hour before that he had located the governor and teleported it out of the engine.
Julia saw the bright lights behind her. They blinded her in the rear-view mirror until she knocked the mirror out of focus. She glanced at the speedometer. She was going as fast as the engine would permit.
She was weary from the beat of the motor and the ache of steady driving. Her body was drained of energy. The "Wide-awakes" seemed to be losing their effect. In spite of herself, she nodded. Too tired to think of anything else, she was thinking—almost dreaming, almost in half-slumber—of a steamy bath; of perfumed heat caressing her body; of soft, restful water lapping at her thighs.
Even the prospect of invasion had receded into some dim, dumb corner of her mind; it no longer concerned her. The demands of personal survival had pushed it aside; personal survival and the knowledge of her own incapacity to prevent, forestall, or counter it. And at last exhaustion had overcome even the demands of survival.
The brilliant lights behind began to pain upon her fatigue-soaked eyeballs. They shimmered in the windshield; they—
She realized they were gaining on her.
A car without a governor.
A crazy, reckless driver.
Walt!
Suddenly the fatigue vanished. Fear alerted her. She stiffened. Her heart pounded. She glanced behind her, squinting.
There was a sickening wrench at her body; she felt herself twisting, being sucked out of space.
Teleportation!
She grabbed the wheel. She was almost too weak to resist. She fought off the terrible, insistent fingers, she shrank away from them; she moaned.
Walt ceased the effort.
She was limp. She struggled to marshal her resources. Her will was not yet depleted so much that she could not fight back.
She concentrated on being where she was, in the car, on the highway. She felt a futile but exhilarating surge of victory.
Her hand trembled when she switched off the automatic-drive. The wheel under her hands began to vibrate. The car was sensitive to her control. It was alive and deadly and hurtling like a rocket.
I can't outrun him now! she thought. He has too much speed!
... I've got to get off the highway. I've got to take a side road toward the mountain. There'll be curves and twists and turns. They will cut his speed down. Maybe I can out drive him.
Side roads slipped by to her right and left.
She prepared to brake the car for the next cut-off slot.
It appeared far ahead; a dark slit on the left outlined by her rushing headlights.
She depressed the brake; the tires screamed.
The car skittered and fishtailed. She clung desperately to the wheel, battling the great chunk of metal with every ounce of her tiny body.
And somehow the car hurtled through the slot, across the other half of the highway, onto the hard topped, farm-to-market road that climbed toward the distant crest.
Walt's car, braking shrilly, hurtled past her and was lost in the night.
Julia stamped the accelerator viciously. Her car plunged forward.
Lonely trees and brush stood like decaying phantoms in the splatter of her headlights. Far ahead, winking down the mountain, she saw the headlights of another car—crawling toward her slowly, like twin fire flies, indolent after a night of pleasure. The road was pitted, and the car beneath her jolted.
It was then in the loneliness of the seldom traveled farm road that she noticed the gasoline gauge.
The gas remaining in the tank could not be sufficient to take her another ten miles. The peg rested solidly on the empty mark to the left.
She began to cry.
The tears almost blinded her; she jerked the car back, just in time, from a ditch. She held it toward the fearful darkness ahead. Dawn that purpled the east seemed lost forever from this road and this life.
The road climbed slowly; then steeply.
Behind her now the bright lights like great flames crept closer, burning everything. The lights had pursued her for only half an hour; it seemed an eternity. The road began a great bend around the first sharp thrust of mountain. She slowed.
The headlights were gaining.
She wanted to give up.
The motor coughed.
Walt was almost upon her; elation throbbed in his being. He had been driving on manual; he dared not risk automatic-drive, not since his wreck. He was not quite as alert as he might have been. The strain was beginning to slow his reactions.
The curve was sharper; ahead, a hair-pin turn. Walt swung out to pass her and force her to stop or plunge over the side into the deepening valley. It was the maneuver he had seen the policemen perform.
The headlights of the early farmer with a heavy load of milk suddenly exploded at the curve.
Julia gasped and slammed on her brakes.
Walt jerked his eyes from Julia's car an instant before the crash.
"Crazy God damned fool," the farmer said as he crawled painfully from the wreckage of his pick-up truck. "Crazy God damned fool!" He clutched at his arm; it was broken and bleeding. "Passing on a curve! God damned fool, passing on a curve!"
Julia had stopped her car. She ran toward the two wrecks.
"Any kid knows better, any two year old kid," the farmer said; he stared, unbelieving, at his arm. He sat down and was sick.
It was growing lighter. Mist lay over the valley. The air was damp with fading night.
Julia's feet made harsh clicks on the road.
At Walt's car she stopped. The farmer watched her with mute pain behind his eyes.
Reaction set in. She thought she was going to be sick, herself. She leaned against the wrecked car.
"We better get him out," the farmer said dully.
Julia nodded.
Between the two of them, they forced the door open and lifted Walt out to the pavement.
"Easy," the farmer said.
Julia stood over Walt's limp body. His jaw was broken and twisted to one side. His chest was bloody; blood trickled from his nose; his hair was matted with blood.
"He's still breathing," the farmer said hoarsely.
He looks so boyish, she thought. I can't believe ... he doesn't seem a killer. I hate whoever made a killer out of him.
Walt's chest rose and fell; his breath entered his body in tremulous gasps.
She wanted to bathe his face with cool water and rest his head on her lap. She wanted to ease his pain.
She turned away.
In the tool compartment of the wreck she located a tire iron. She brought it back.
Her hand was slippery around the icy metal.
He's dying anyway, she thought. It doesn't have to be my hand that kills him. Tears formed in her eyes.
Walt moaned.
Julia's hand tightened on the tire iron.
But the risk ... she thought: if he should wake up and heal himself ... he'll kill me. The world will never be warned of the invasion, then. It's his life against the world; his life against a billion lives.
She lifted the tire iron. She averted her eyes as she got ready to swing it savagely at his unprotected skull.
Cursing, the farmer reached out with his good hand and grabbed her upraised wrist. "My God, what are you trying to do?"
"I've ... I've got to kill him."
The farmer stepped between her and Walt.
"I've got to."
"Not while I'm here, Miss, you don't."
"Listen—!" she began. Then hopelessly, she let the arm holding the tire iron fall limply to her side. He wouldn't believe me if I told him, she thought.
Nobody will believe me; not a person on the planet. It's too fantastic: an invasion of earth. I've got to have some sort of proof to make them believe me.
No proof.
I can't let Walt die!she thought. He's the only proof I have. He's the only one who can convince anyone of the invasion.
He's got to live! she thought. I've got to get him to a hospital.
Walt's face was bloodless.
"... he's dying," the farmer said.
"But he can't die!" Julia cried desperately. "He can't die!"
"You're crazy," the farmer said evenly. "First you get ready to brain him with a tire iron and then you say he's got to live. Lady, if I hadn't stopped you when I did, he'd be dead as hell right now."
"I wasn't thinking; I didn't realize...."
Breath rattled in Walt's throat.
"Gas ... I'm out of gas," Julia said.
She ran to the wrecked truck. She jerked a milk can upright. She unscrewed the cap and emptied milk on the pavement.
With the tire iron she split the gas tank and caught as much of the sharp-smelling fluid as she could in the emptied can.
It sloshed loudly as she raced to her car with it. She fumbled the gas tank cap off. She was trembling so badly that she spilled almost as much as she poured into the opening. When the gas was all gone, she threw the milk can from her.
"I'll back up!" she cried to the farmer. "You'll have to help me get him into the back seat."
He'sgotto live, Julia thought. If the doctors can just bring him to consciousness, he can heal himself. When he realizes I've saved his life, maybe he'll listen to me. He's got to listen. I'll convince him, I'll reason with him. He'll be able to prove to everybody that there will be an invasion. When they see all the things he can do, they'll have to believe him....
They put Walt in the car. They handled him as gently as they could.
"He's almost gone," the farmer said.
"Get in front with me. You need a hospital, too."
The farmer slipped in beside her.
Julia spun the car around and plunged down the road toward the super-highway.
"Where's the nearest doctor?"
"Town eight miles down the road," the farmer said. He grimaced in pain. He coughed, and blood flecked his lips. He wiped off the blood and stared at it drying across the back of his hand. "I ... think I'm hurt inside." There was barely controlled hysteria in his voice. He coughed again and shuddered. "My wife, she wanted me ... to stay home this morning...." He shut his eyes tightly. "I've got to patch the roof." He opened his eyes and looked pleadingly at Julia. "I've got to patch the roof, don't you understand!"
"I'm driving as fast as I can. Which way do I turn down there?"
"... turn right."
"We'll be to a doctor just as soon as I can get there."
She slowed down and turned onto the concrete slab of the super-highway.
Then she slammed the car to a full stop; she backed up out of the line of traffic, back onto the cross road. She cut the motor.
Julia had felt the bridge in her mind snap shut. Instantly even the most obscure brain compartment was open to her. Fatigue vanished. She was alert; she was able to think with great clarity.
The lightning recovery ofherselfforced a series of ever widening implications to her attention; in a blinding flash of insight she was (perhaps actually for the first time) aware of the degree to which she could transform society.
Given time, she—she alone—like the magician Prospero inThe Tempestcould create some paradise of cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces and solemn temples and winding brooks and crisp channels and green lands that need never (the Calibans being transmuted by power beyond the lust for power) dissolve into air, thin air, leaving not a cloud behind.
If all the people were as she, the great globe of the world could become an enchanted island: with wars and bloodshed and prejudice and inhumanity forgotten.
Some such was her thought. It washed over her, the vision, and vanished in the acute reality of the moment. Such a dream was athwart the invasion plan of the aliens.
She was out of the car. She was opening the rear door. She stood at Walt's head. He'll have to help me, she thought, he has information I want.
She felt for the pattern of his body. She experienced it. Concentrating with the full force of the human brain, she began to mend the breaks and ruptures and wounds.
It took time.
Don't reheal his mutant bridge, she thought. Leave him defanged.
His jaw returned to its socket. The dried blood on his skin no longer led from vicious gashes: they had closed and were knitting.
She was finished. He was still unconscious.
Even as she turned to heal the farmer, a section of her brain drew conclusions from the fact she could be relieved of her powers. Some outside force was responsible for holding the bridge closed in her mind. It could be turned on and off.
But why, when the force controlling her bridge had vanished, had Walt's bridge remained intact? She reviewed all the information she had.
There are two compartments of mutants on the alien ship.
Then each compartment must have its own ... frequency. The aliens selected Walt, she thought, to kill me because his bridge operated on a different frequency than mine.
Speechless the farmer had watched her heal Walt; now he relaxed under the soothing fingers of her thought. Hefeltthe bone in his arm being made whole again.
He no longer needed to cough.
She tried to create a bridge in his brain; but she could not; it was outside the pattern. If she were to give him one, it would require surgery.
She was once again in the seat beside him.
"You're a, you're anangel," he said. Awe made his voice hollow. "I'll be God damned if you're not an honest to Jesus, real live angel."
"I'm human."
"... you couldn't be."
"Well, I am."
He frowned, "... lady, after what I just seen you do, I'll believe it if you say so. You just tell me, I'll believe it."
"I've got to get into San Francisco. I'll have to leave you. You can catch a ride or something."
He scrambled out of the car.
Impulsively Julia reached in her handbag for a bill. She found one. "Here," she said, thrusting it on him, "this is for your milk."
The farmer took it automatically. He put it in his wallet and put the wallet back in his overalls without bothering to watch what he was doing. He was watching her.
If they're all as easy to convert as he is ... she thought.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"What?" she said.
"If you're human, what am I?"
"We're notquitethe same," Julia said. "Maybe some day we will be...."
She wheeled onto the super-highway and headed toward San Francisco.
She switched on the automatic-drive and turned her attention to Walt.
She was unable to awaken him. After such a severe shock as he had experienced, his nervous system demanded rest; he no longer had the recuperative powers of a mutant.
Even if I alert Earth, she thought what can wedo? How can we prepare? I could ... but I'm only one. They'd gang up on me and kill me in a minute.... Earth will fight; at least we won't give up. I'll have to get us as ready as I can, and we'll fight.
I need Walt. What kind of weapons will we be up against? Where will the invasion strike first? When? He'll have scraps of information that I can put together to tell me more than he thinks he knows.
How can I convince him to help me?
... if I've figured it out right, there's got to be records somewhere. Birth certificates, things like that. If I'm right about babies being missing the year of the last big saucer scare, there's got to be birth certificates. I'll check newspaper files in San Francisco.
If I can just find Walt's birth certificate! That will convince him!
She thought about the space station floating somewhere in the sky; she tried to picture the aliens who manned it.
God knows how, she thought, but we'll fight!
In the space station, the aliens were in conference.
**There can't be any doubt but that she's dead,** Forential projected.
**Your Walt is a good one,** Lycan thought. **Best mutant on the ship.**
Jubilation flowed back and forth. The other aliens congratulated Forential.
**It was nothing,** Forential told them.
**I feel infinitely better, now that she's out of the way,** the Elder commented.
**We'll strike with the main force a day before we planned to,** Lycan told them. **That's best all around. We expect most trouble from the American Air Force. It will be least alert on a Sunday morning.**
In San Francisco Julia drew up in front of an unpretentious hotel on Polk Street. Walt, was still unconscious in the back seat.
After she arranged for a room, she returned to the car. She seized Walt at his arm pits and hauled him to the sidewalk. She held a tight distortion field around his body. He was dead weight against her. She draped one of his arms about her neck. When she began to walk, his feet shuffled awkwardly.
She felt as conspicuous as if she were smoking a pipe.
She wedged her body against the door of the hotel and dragged Walt inside. Although he was invisible, the effect of his body pulling down on hers was readily apparent. She half stumbled toward the elevator.
The clerk, a counterpart of the one she had had in Hollywood looked up in annoyance. He snorted through his nose. He eyed her narrowly. He seemed about to leave his position behind the desk.
Julia propped Walt against the wall and rang for the elevator. She smiled wanly in the direction of the clerk. Shaking his head and grunting his disapproval, he settled back in his chair.
Walt's heavy breathing was thunderous in her ear. She braced him with her hip when he started to slip to the floor.
The elevator came.
"Step up, please."
Straining against his weight, she hauled Walt's feet up over the edge of the cage. The feet scraped loudly on the floor.
The elevator operator raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. He cocked his head to one side. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, no," Julia said brightly. "Everything's fine."
The operator started the car. "A young lady ought to be careful in this town," he said. "A young lady oughtn't to drink so much." He shook his head sadly. "There's a case of rape in the papers nearly every day."
"... I'll be careful."
"They pick up young ladies in bars all the time. You never can tell about the men you're liable to meet, if you go in bars. You have to watch yourself in this town."
"Seven, please."
"Yes, ma'm."
The elevator stopped. Julia dragged Walt out.
"You mind what I say!" the operator called after her. "You be careful, now, and stay out of bars. You never can tell...."