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 walk through it.
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,