Pursuit Read online

long as others picked upthe chase.

  A sudden blast of heat struck down, and the air was golden and hazyabove him. He staggered sideways, blinded by the glare. The crowd wasscreaming in fear now, no longer holding him back. He felt the edge ofa subway entrance. There was no other choice. He ducked down thesteps, while his vision slowly returned, and risked a glance back atthe street--just as the whole entrance came down in a wreck of brokenwood and metal.

  A clap of thundering noise sounded above him, drowning the hoarsescreams of the people. The few persons in the station rushed for thefallen entrance, to mill about it crazily, just as a train pulled in.Hawkes started toward it, and then realized his pursuers would suspectthat. Whatever frightful weapon had been used against him hadback-fired on them--but they'd catch him at the next stop.

  * * * * *

  He found space at the end of the platform and dropped off, skirtingbehind the train, and avoiding the the high-voltage rails.

  The uptown platform held only three people, and they seemed to be toobusy at the other end, trying to see the wreckage, to notice him. Hevaulted onto it, and dashed into the men's room. The few contents ofhis coat pocket came out quickly, and he began to stuff them into histrousers. He shoved the coat into a garbage can, wet his hair andslicked it back, and opened his shirt collar. The change didn't makemuch of a disguise, but they wouldn't be expecting him to show up sonear where he entered.

  His skin prickled as he came out, but he fought down the sickness inhis stomach. A few drops of rain were beginning to fall, and the crowdaround the accident was thinning out. That might help him--or it mightprove more dangerous. He had to chance it.

  He stopped to buy a paper, maintaining an air of casual interest inthe crowd.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  The newsstand attendant jerked his eyes back from they excitementreluctantly. "Damned if I know. Someone, says a ball lightning camedown and broke over there. Caved in the entrance. Nobody's hurtseriously, they say. I was just stacking up to go home when I heard itgo off. Didn't see it. Just saw the entrance falling in."

  Hawkes picked up his change and turned back across Broadway,pretending he was studying the paper. The dateline showed it was July10, just seven months from the beginning of his memory lapse. Hecouldn't believe that there had been time enough for any group toinvent a heat-ray, if such a thing could exist. Yet nothing else wouldexplain the two sudden bursts of flame he had seen. Even if it couldbe invented, it would hardly be used in public for anything less thana National Emergency.

  What had happened in the seven blanked-out months?

  II

  The room was smelly and cheap, with dirty walls and no carpet on thefloor, but it was a relief after the hours of tramping and ridingabout the city. Hawkes sat on the rickety chair, letting the wetnessdry out of his clothes. He looked at the bed, trying to convincehimself he could strip and warm up there while his clothes dried. Butsomething in his head warned him that he couldn't--he'd have to beready to run again. The same urge had made him demand a room on theground floor, where he could escape through the window if they foundhim. They could never find him here--but they would! Sooner or later,whatever was after him would come!

  It had seemed simple enough, before. There had been three friends hecould trust. Seven months, he had felt, couldn't have killed theirfaith in him, no matter what he'd done. And perhaps he'd been right,though there'd been no chance to test it.

  He'd almost been caught at the first place. The two men outside hadseemed to be no more than a couple of friends awaiting for a bus. Onlythe approach of another man who resembled Hawkes had tipped him off,by the quick interest they had shown.

  The other places had also been posted--and beyond the third, he'd seenthe gray sedan with the running boards, parked back in the shadows,waiting.

  There had been less than ten dollars in his wallet, and most of thathad gone for cab fares. He'd barely had enough left for this dingyroom, the later edition of the newspaper, and the coffee and donutsthat lay beside him, half-consumed.

  He glanced toward the door, listening with quick fear as steps soundedon the stairs. Then he drew his breath in again, and reached for thenewspaper. But it told him as little as the first one had.

  This one mentioned the two mysterious explosions of "ball lightning"in a feature on the first page, but only as curiosities. They evengave his address and listed the apartment as being in his name, thoughapparently not currently occupied. But no other reference was made tohim, or to the chase.

  He shook his head at that. He couldn't see a newspaper-man refusing tomake a story of it, if there was any other news about him to whichthey could tie the burning of his apartment. Apparently it was not thepolice who were after him, and he hadn't been guilty of anything soordinary as murder.

  * * * * *

  Outside the window, a sudden scream sounded, and he jerked from thechair, reaching the door before he realized it was only a cat on theprowl. He shuddered, his old hatred of cats coming to the surface. Fora minute, he thought of shutting the window. But he couldn't cut offhis chance to retreat through the garbage-littered back-yard.

  He returned to his search, beginning an inventory of the fewbelongings that had been in his pocket. There was a notebook, and hescanned it rapidly. A few pages were missing, and most were blank.There was only a shopping list. That puzzled him for a minute--hecouldn't believe he'd taken to using lipstick as well as cigarettes,though both were listed in his handwriting. The notebook containednothing else.

  He stuffed it back into his pockets, along with his keyring. Therewere more keys than he'd expected, some of which were strange to him,but none held any mark that would identify them. He put a few penniesinto another pocket--his entire wealth, now, in a world where no moremoney would be available to him. He grimaced, dropping a comb into thesame pocket.

  Then there was only his wallet left. His identification card wasthere, unchanged. Behind it, where his wife's picture had always been,there was only a folded clipping. He drew it out, hoping for a clew.It was only an announcement of people killed in an airplane crash--andamong those found dead was Mrs. Wilbur Hawkes, of New York. It seemedthat Irma had never reached Reno for the divorce.

  He tried to feel some sorrow at that, but time must have healedwhatever hurt there had been, even though he couldn't remember. Shehad hated him ever since she'd found that he really wasn't willing toplease his father by becoming another of the vice-presidents in theold man's bank, with an unearned but fancy salary. He'd preferredteaching mathematics and dabbling with a bit of research into theprobable value of the ESP work being done at Duke University. He'dexplained why he hated banking; Irma had made it clear that she reallyneeded the mink coat no assistant professor could afford. It had beenstalemate--a bitter, seven-year stalemate, until she finally gave uphope and demanded a divorce.

  He threw the clipping away, and pulled out the final bit of paper. Itwas a rent receipt for a cold-water apartment on the poorer section ofWest End--from the price of eighteen dollars a month, it had to be acold-water place. He frowned, considering it. Apartment 12. That mightexplain why his own apartment had been unused, though it made littlesense to him. It would probably be watched by now, anyway.

  * * * * *

  He jerked to his feet at a sound on the window-sill, but it was only acat, eyeing the unfinished donut. He threw the food out, and the catdived after it. Hawkes waited for the touch of ice along his backboneto go away. It didn't.

  This time, he tried to ignore it. He picked up the paper and begangoing through it, looking for something that might give him someslight clew. But there was nothing there. Only a heading on an insidepage that stirred his curiosity.

  _Scientist Seeks Confinement_

  He glanced at it, noting that a Professor Meinzer, formerly of CityCollege, had appeared at Bellevue, asking to be put away in a paddedcell, preferably with a strait-jacket. The Professor had o
nlyexplained that he considered himself dangerous to society. No otherreason was found. Professor Meinzer had been doing private work,believed to relate to his theory that....

  The panic was back, thick in Hawkes' throat. He jerked back againstthe wall, his heart racing, while he tried to fight it down. There wasno sound from the hall or outside. He forced his eyes back to thepaper.

  And the paper was surrounded by a golden haze. It burst into amomentary flame as the haze flickered out. Hawkes dropped the ashesfrom his clammy hands. He hadn't been burned!

  _You can't escape. Run. They'll get you!_

  He heard the outside door open, as it had opened a hundred times. Butnow it could only mean that more were coming. He jerked for the openwindow.

  Something came sailing through the air to hit the sill. Hawkesscreamed weakly, far down in his throat, before his eyes couldregister the fact that it was only the cat again.

  Then the cat let out a horrible beginning of a sound, and its poor,half-starved body seemed to turn inside out, with a churning motionthat Hawkes could barely see. Blood and gore spattered from it,striking his face and clothes.

  He froze, unable to move. Either they were outside in the yard, orwhatever frightful weapon they used could work through a closed door.He tried to move, first one way, then the other. His feet remainedfrozen.

  Then steps sounded in the hallway, and he waited no longer. His legscame to sudden life, hurling him over the carcass of the cat andoutside. He went charging through the refuse, and then leaped andclawed his way over the fence. The alley was deserted, and he shotdown it, to swing right, and into another alley.

  It wasn't until his muscles began to fail that he could controlhimself enough to stop and stumble into a darkened spot among thegarbage cans, spent and gasping for breath.

  * * * * *

  There was no sign of anyone following. Hawkes had no idea of how theycould trace him--but he was beginning to suspect that nothing wasimpossible, judging by the results of their weapons. For the moment,though, he seemed to have shaken off pursuit. And the physical fatiguehad apparently eased some of his terror.

  What had shocked him into losing seven months out of his memory, andstill could drive him into absolute terror at the first sign of them?

  He couldn't go back to the room, and his own apartment was out of thequestion. The rain had stopped, mercifully, but he couldn't walk thestreets indefinitely, dirty and bedraggled as he was. He tried tothink of something to do, but all of his schemes took money which heno longer had.

  Finally, he arose wearily. Maybe the apartment for which he had therent receipt was watched--but he'd have to chance it. There was noplace else.

  He'd been accidentally heading toward it, and he continued now,sticking to the alleys until he reached West End Avenue. He tried tohurry, but the best his tired muscles could do was a slow shuffle.

  Light was beginning to show faintly in the sky, but it was still tooearly for more than a few cars and a chance pedestrian. At this hour,the avenue was used by only a few cruising cabs, heading toward bettersections. He shuffled along, trying to look like a man on his way homeafter too much night out. The cat blood on his clothes bothered him,until he tried weaving a little as he walked, imitating the drunks hehad seen often enough.

  He passed an all night diner, and fished for his pennies. But therewere several men inside. He went on, past Fifty-ninth Street, headingfor the apartment, which should be near Sixty-seventh.

  He was just reaching the top of the hill near Sixty-fourth when a graysedan sped along, heading downtown. There were running boards on it,and behind the wheel sat the slim young man who'd given chase toHawkes before.

  Hawkes tried to duck, but the sedan was already braking and swingingback. It was beside him before he could realize more than the oldclamor of his brain, telling him to run, that he couldn't escape.

  The car matched his speed, and the driver leaned far to the right."Will Hawkes," the young man called. "How about a lift?"

  The smile was pleasant, and the voice was casual, as if they were oldfriends. There was no gun in the man's hands. It might have been anyhonest offer of a ride.

  Hawkes braced himself, just as a patrol car turned onto the Avenueahead. He opened his mouth to scream, but his vocal cords were frozen.The young man followed his eyes to the patrol car, and frowned.

  Then the gray sedan lifted smoothly upwards to a height of twentyfeet, turned sharply in mid-air, lifted again, and seemed to make asmooth landing on top of a huge garage building!

  There had been no roar of jets and no evidence of any means ofpropulsion.

  * * * * *

  The patrol car went on down the Avenue, heading for the diner. Theofficers inside apparently had missed the whole affair.

  Hawkes' cowardly legs suddenly came unfrozen. He was conscious of themchurning madly. With an effort, he got partial control of himself,managing to focus on the house numbers.

  There were no watchers outside the number he wanted, though they couldhave been in rooms across the street. He had no choice, now. He leapedup the steps and into the hallway. His eyes darted around, spotting adoor that led out to the side, probably into an alley. He drew himselftogether, hiding behind the stairs.

  But there was no further pursuit for the moment. The fear that seemedto come before each attack was missing. Maybe it meant he was safe forthe moment--though it hadn't warned him of the car the young man wasdriving.

  Heat rays! Levitation! Hawkes dropped to his knees as fatigue andreaction caught up with him again, but his mind churned over the newevidence. As a mathematician, he was sure such things could not exist.If they did, there would have been extension of math well in advanceof the perfection of the machines, and he'd have known of it asspeculative theory, at least. Yet, without such evidence, the devicesapparently existed.

  The police weren't in on it, that much was certain. It was more than ahunt for a criminal. What had been going on during the months he hadmissed?

  His mind shuttled over the spy-thrillers he had seen. If some nationhad the secrets, and he had discovered them.... But the heat ray wouldnever have been used openly, then; they wouldn't tip their hand.Anyhow, the cold war was still going on, and that would have beenpointless when any nation had such power.

  And if the secret belonged to the United States, the young man wouldnever have levitated to avoid police at the greater risk of tippingoff anyone who saw that such things could be done.

  Nothing made sense--not even the crazy feeling of fear that had warnedhim on some occasions and failed him this last time. The onlyexplanation that was credible was the totally incredible idea thatsome life, alien to earth and with strange unearthly powers, was afterhim--or that he was insane.

  He fumbled through a pack of cigarettes until he located the last one,streaked with sweat that was still pouring down from his armpit, andlighted it. It was all answer-less--just as his sudden need forsmoking was.

  III

  Hawkes crushed out the cigarette and began climbing the wide stairsslowly. It was probably an ambush into which he was heading--butwithout this place, he had no chance of resting. He stared at thenumbers painted on the dirty red doors, and went on up a second flightof stairs. The number he wanted was at the end of the hall, dimlylighted. He dropped to the keyhole, but found it had been filled longago, probably when the Yale lock was installed.

  He put his ear against the door and listened. There was no sound frominside except a monotonous noise that must be water dripping from aleaky faucet. Finally, he climbed to his feet and reached for hiskeys. The third one he tried fitted, and the door swung open.

  He fumbled about, looking for a light switch, and finally struck amatch. The switch was a string hanging down from a bare bulb. Hepulled it, to find he stood inside one of the old monstrosities withwhich New York is filled--a combination kitchen and bathroom, with atiny closet for the toilet in one corner. There was an ice-box, adirty stove, a Franklin h
eater connected to the chimney, a small sink,and a rickety table with four folding chairs. In a closet, cheap chinashowed.

  He went through that, into the seven-by-twelve living room. There wasa cheap radio, a worn sofa, two more folding chairs and a big typingtable. The rug on the floor had been patched together. Then hebreathed more easily. Over the back of one of the chairs was a sportsjacket which he recognized as his own. He jerked it up suddenly andbegan going through the pockets, but they had already been emptied.

  It didn't matter--he no longer cared why he should be in a place sototally unlike any his usually neat habits would have led him to. Itwas his.

  Then, as he came into the bedroom, he hesitated. It was smaller thanthe living room, with a bed that took up half of one wall, and twodressers jammed into the remaining space. One corner held a cardboardcloset--and hanging on the hook was a man's raincoat and hat, both atleast five sizes too big for him. His eyes darted about, to find astrange mixture of things he remembered as his and possessions whichhe would never have owned. On one of the dressers was a smalltraveling case, filled with the cosmetics and appliances which only awoman would use.

  He jerked open the closet, and his nose told him before his eyes thatit held only female clothing! Yet on the shelf his old hat restedhappily.

  He could make no sense of it--the place looked as if several peoplelived in it, and yet it wasn't really fitted for anyone to spend hiswhole time there. There was none of the accumulation of property thatwould fit any permanent residence. He went out of the bedroom, passingthe typewriter desk. The typewriter was an old, standard Olympia--aGerman machine he'd refitted with the Dvorak keyboard which he hadlearned for greater efficiency. He was sure nobody else would want it.

  The dishes were dusty, and there was no food in the ice-box.

  * * * * *

  Now, though, it began to fit--a place where it was convenient to