Chapter 4

It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumbling walk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself. A few more minutes and you can lie down ... rest...

The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blacker square. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached inside for a grip with my good hand.

Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slipped along the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation. I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was a confused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from the city all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep--

I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as a gout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing between the cars. I caught the clear thought:

“God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right--”

I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, went out, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poled steer.

It was easy--if I could only stay awake.

I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a dark corner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personality fraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warn me of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slide down into darkness.

The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my eyes, saw yellow sunlight in a bar across the litter on the floor. The power truss creaked, pulling at my arm. My broken leg was throbbing its indignation at the treatment it had received--walking brace and all--and the burned arm was yelling aloud for more of that nice dope that had been keeping it from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like a badly embalmed mummy--except that I was hungry. I had been a fool not to fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in the shallows off Key Largo, but things had been happening too fast.

I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner I had coerced into rendezvousing with me before shells started dropping around us. If the gunners on the cruiser ten miles away had had any luck, they would have finished me--and the hapless fisherman--right then. We rode out a couple of near misses, before I put the cruiser’s gunnery crew off the air.

At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car--with driver. He dropped me at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in town for groceries. He’d never believe he’d seen me.

Now I’d had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act of the farce.

I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly unclamped it, then rigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I tied the arm to my side as inconspicuously as possible. I didn’t disturb the bandages.

I needed new clothes--or at least different ones--and something to cover my shaved skull. I couldn’t stay hidden forever. The yard cop had recognized me at a glance.

I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn’t unduly worried--at the moment. The watchman probably hadn’t convinced anyone he’d actually seen me. Maybe he hadn’t been too sure himself.

The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept to the door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few low buildings in the distance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyes and let my awareness stretch out.

“--lousy job. What’s the use? Little witch in the lunch room ... up in the hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey... “

I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I saw through his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, the listless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards of the platform. I turned him, and saw the dingy glass of the telegraph window, a sagging screen door with a chipped enameled cola sign.

I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind a linoleum-topped counter, a coarse-skinned teen-age girl with heavy breasts and wet patches under her arms looked up without interest as the door banged.

My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the waxed-paper-wrapped sandwiches under a glass cover. “I’ll take ‘em all. And candy bars, and cigarettes. And give me a big glass of water.”

“Better git out there and look after yer train,” the girl said carelessly. “When’d you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden?”

“Put it in a bag. Quick.”

“Look who’s getting bossy--”

My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper bag, began stuffing food in it. The girl stared at him, then pushed him back. “You git back around that counter!”

She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear.

“That’ll be one eighty-five. Cash.”

My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pocket, dropped them on the counter and waited while the girl filled a glass. He picked it up and started out.

“Hey! Where you goin’ with my glass?”

The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the boxcar. He slid the loose door back a few inches against the slack latch, pushed the bag inside, placed the glass of water beside it, then pulled off his grimy railroader’s cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The girl watched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the train started up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heard him say: “Friend o’ mine in there--just passin’ through.”

I was discovering that it wasn’t necessary to hold tight control over every move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he would rationalize his behavior, fill in the details--and never know that the original idea hadn’t been his own.

I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a cigarette and lay back. So far so good. The crates in the car were marked “U. S. Naval Aerospace Station, Bayou Le Cochon”. With any luck I’d reach New Orleans in another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included a raid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomorrow. That could wait.

It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the car at a siding in the swampy country a few miles out of New Orleans. I wasn’t feeling good, but I had a stake in staying on my feet. I still had a few miles in me. I had my supplies--a few candy bars and some cigarettes--stuffed in the pockets of the tattered issue coverall. Otherwise, I was unencumbered. Unless you wanted to count the walking brace on my right leg and the sling binding my arm.

I picked my way across mushy ground to a pot-holed black-top road, started limping toward a few car lights visible half a mile away. It was already hot. The swamp air was like warmed-over subway fumes. Through the drugs, I could feel my pulse throbbing in my various wounds. I reached out and touched the driver’s mind; he was thinking about shrimps, a fish-hook wound on his left thumb and a girl with black hair. “Want a lift?” he called.