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 to talk. 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? All they’re after 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 it is, 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.
