Pursuit Page 3

stopin, but not a place to live. And perhaps he had been in the habit oflending it to others. Though why he shouldn't have used his ownapartment was something he still couldn't understand.

  But it was possible there was no record of this place.

  He began shucking off his shirt as he went back through the livingroom--until the marks on the rug caught his eyes. Something heavy hadrested there recently--there had been other desks about, or heavilyladen tables. And a bit of paper under the sofa could only have comefrom one of the complicated computing machines used in high-powermathematics. He scanned the fragment, making no sense of it, exceptthat it was esoteric enough to belong to any new branch of theory. Fora second, the heat-rays and levitations entered his head--but none ofthe symbols fitted such a branch of physical development.

  What had been going on here--and why had the machines been removed sorecently that their traces still looked fresh?

  He shook his head--and froze, as a key turned in the lock.

  There was no time for flight. She stood in the doorway, blinking atthe light before he could turn. She, of course, was the girl whom he'dbarely noticed when he knocked the couple down as he charged out ofhis apartment.

  Of course? He puzzled over that. He'd almost expected it--and yet, nowthat he looked more closely, he couldn't even be sure that she was thesame. She wore the same green jacket, but nothing else he could besure of, because he had no other memory of that girl. This one was twoinches shorter than he was, with dark red hair and the deepest blueeyes he had seen. She looked like an artist's conception of an Irishcolleen, except that her mouth was open half an inch, and she wasstudying him with the look of being about ready to scream.

  "Who are you?" He forced the words out at her.

  She shook her head, and then smiled doubtfully. "Ellen Ibanez,naturally. You startled me! But you must be Wilbur Hawkes, of course.Didn't you get my wire?"

  He watched her, but there had been no stumbling over his name, and noeffort to make it sound too casual. Apparently, the name meant nothingto her. He shook his head. "What wire?" Then he plunged ahead,quickly. "You've heard of amnesia? Good. Well, I've got it--partially.If you can tell me anything about myself before yesterday, Miss, I'llnever be anything but...."

  He choked on that, unable to finish. And behind the surface emotions,his mind was poised, sniffing for danger. There was no feeling of it,though he kept telling himself alternately that she had been the girlat the door and that she obviously had not been.

  He'd seen her before. The tilt of her head, that unmatchable hair....

  * * * * *

  "You poor man!" Her voice was all sympathy, and the bag she wascarrying dropped to the floor as she came over. "You mean you _really_can't remember--at all?"

  "Not for the last seven months!"

  She seemed surprised. "But that was when you answered myadvertisement. I never saw you--though you did call me, and your voicesounds familiar. You sent me the check, and I mailed you the key. Thatwas all."

  "But I must have given you references--told you something--"

  Again, she shook her head. "Nothing. You said you were a teacher atCCNY, but that you were quitting, and wanted a place to use as anoffice. You didn't care what it was like. That's all."

  Hawkes felt she was lying--but it could have been true. And in hispresent state, he probably believed everyone was other than theyseemed. He remembered the gray sedan rising to the roof--and the catturning inside out--

  Sickness hit at him. He groped back towards a chair, sinking into it.He'd almost found a refuge, and even hoped that he could find some ofthe missing past. Now....

  He must have partially fainted. He heard vague sounds, and then shewas putting something against his lips. It was bitter and hot, thoughit only remotely resembled coffee. He gulped it gratefully, not caringthat it was sweet and black. He saw the bottle of old coffee powder,caked with age, and heard the water boiling on the stove. Idly, hewondered whether he'd bought the jar originally or she had. Then hissenses snapped back.

  "Thanks," he muttered thickly. He groped his way to his feet, his headslowly clearing. "I guess I'd better go now."

  She forced him back into the chair. "You're in no condition to leavehere, Will Hawkes. Ugh! Your shoes are filthy. Let me help you ...there, isn't that better? Whatever you've been doing to yourself, youshould be ashamed. You're going straight to bed while I clean some ofthis up!"

  His head had sunk back on the table, and everything reached himthrough a thick fog. It wasn't right--girls didn't act that way tostrange men who looked as if they'd come from a Bowery fight. Girlsdidn't take a man's clothes off. Girls didn't....

  He let her half carry him into the bedroom, and tried to protest asshe put him between clean sheets. He stared at the view of hislavender shorts against the fresh whiteness, while things seemed faraway. He'd played with a girl named Ellen, once when he was eleven andshe was nine. She'd had bright copper hair, and her name hadbeen--what had it been? Not Ibanez. Bennett, that was it. EllenBennett.

  He must have said it aloud. She chuckled. "Of course, Will. Though Inever thought you'd be the same Will Hawkes. I knew it when I saw thatscar on your shoulder, where you cut yourself sliding down our cellardoor. Go to sleep."

  Sliding down, sliding down into clouds of sleep. Sleep! She'd druggedhim! Something in the coffee!

  * * * * *

  He jerked up, reaching for her, but she ducked aside, drawing on thetops to a pair of frilly pajamas. "Ellen, you--"

  "Shh!" She pulled a robe over the pajamas and lay down, outside theblankets. "Shh, Will. You have to sleep. You're _so_ tired, _so_sleepy...."

  Her voice was soothing, and the fingers along the base of his neck wasrelaxing. He reached out a last inquiring finger of doubt for thefeeling of danger, and couldn't find it. This was as wrong as theother things had been wrong--but his mind let go, and he was suddenlyasleep.

  He awoke slowly, with a thick feeling in his mouth. Drugged! And thesense of danger had failed him again! He swung over sharply, reachingfor her, but she was gone.

  His clothes lay beside him, neatly pressed, and he grabbed for them.There was a pair of socks, too large, but better than none. Hismuscles felt wrong as he began dressing, but the feeling wore away.The clock said that less than two hours had passed. If she'd put adrug in the coffee, it must have been one to which he was lesssensitive than the average. She'd probably never suspected that hewould waken.

  A trace of fear struck through him, but it was weaker than before, andit seemed normal enough, under the circumstances. He fumbled over theshoelaces, and then grabbed up his coat.

  She'd bring _them_ back! Maybe they'd used her as a spy!

  But he couldn't understand why she'd bothered to press his clothes.And the apartment still puzzled him. Even if her story was true, itsimply wasn't the sort of a place where a girl like her would live.Nor was it fixed as she might have arranged a place, even allowing forwhat he might have done to it in seven months.

  He reached automatically for the lock in the dim hall, and realizedhis hands knew the door, whatever else was true. Then he went out anddown the stairs. He heard a babble of kids' voices, part in Englishand part in a sort of Spanish. That meant that things were normal, tothe casual observer along the street. But he knew it was poor evidencethat things really were as they should be. He stood in the comparativedarkness of the hall, staring out. Nothing was wrong, so far as hecould see. He had to risk it.

  Hawkes shoved past the women on the steps and headed down West End,trying not to seem in a hurry. His eyes turned up to the roof of thegarage, but he could see nothing there; he'd half-expected that theslim young man would be parked up on the roof, waiting.

  * * * * *

  Then the fear began, mounting slowly. He jerked around quickly,scanning the street. For a second, he thought he saw the slim figure,but it was only a back turned to him, and it disappeared into abarber-shop. Probabl
y someone else.

  The fear mounted a little, and he found his steps quickening. He cutaround the corner, where men were crowded into a little restaurant. Hewas heading into a dead-end street, but there was an alley leadingfrom it. He had to keep off the main streets.

  Footsteps sounded behind him.

  He moved faster, and the footsteps also speeded up. He slowed, andthey kept on. Then they were nearly behind him, just as he reached thealley and jerked back into it, grabbing for a broken bottle he hadspotted.

  "Will!" It was a gasping wheeze. "Will! For God's sake, it's only me.I know everything--your amnesia. But let me explain!"

  It stopped him. He held the bottle carefully, as the fat figure of anold man stepped softly around the corner, fear written on