telephone buzzed, shattering the silence of the huge office.
“Hello, Jerry? This is Floyd Gunn in Pittsburgh. Krenner’s escaped!”
“I know. I just heard. Any word?”
“None yet. We got some inside dope from one of the men in the prison that he has an outside escape route, and that he’s been digging up all the information he could find in the past three months or so about the Roads. But I wanted to warn you.” The policeman’s voice sounded distant and unreal. “He promised to get you, Jerry. I’m ordering you and your home heavily guarded—”
“Guards won’t do any good,” said Markson, heavily. “Krenner will get me if you don’t get him first. Do everything you can.”
The policeman’s voice sounded more cheerful. “At any rate, he’s in the eastern part of the state now. He has four hundred miles to travel before he can get to you. Unless he has a ‘copter, or somehow gets on the Roads, he can’t get to you for a day or so. We’re doing everything we can.”
Markson hung up the receiver heavily. Twenty-seven years of peace since that devil had finally murdered his way out of his life. And now he was back again. A terrible mistake for a partner, a man with no reason, a man who could not understand the difference between right and wrong. A man with ruthless ambition, who turned on his partner when honesty got in his way, and murdered his partner’s wife in rage when his own way of business was blocked. A man so twisted with rage that he threatened on the brink of capital punishment to tear Markson’s heart out, yet Markson had saved him from the chair. An appeal, some money, some influence, had snatched him from death’s sure grasp, so he could come back to kill again. And a man with such diabolical good fortune that he could now come safely to Markson, and hunt him out, and carry out the fancied revenge that his twisted mind demanded.
Markson took the visiphone in hand again and dialed a number. The face of a young girl appeared. “Hi, dad. Did you see the news report?”
“Yes, I saw it. I want you to round up Jerry and Mike and take the ‘copter out to the summer place on Nantucket. Wait for me there. I don’t know how soon I can make it, but I don’t want you here now. Leave immediately.”
The girl knew better than to argue with her father. “Dad, is there any chance—?”
“There’s lots of chance. That’s why I want you away from here.”
He flipped off the connection, and sighed apprehensively. Now to wait. The furnaces had to keep going, the steel had to be turned out, one way or another. He’d have to stay. And hope. Perhaps the police would get him—
*
The elderly lady sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, shivering. “We’ll be glad to help you, but you won’t hurt us, will you?”
“Shut up,” said Krenner. The gray plastic of his pistol gleamed dully in the poor light of the farm kitchen. “Get that foot dressed, with tight pressure and plenty of ‘mycin. I don’t want it to bleed, and I don’t want an infection.” The woman hurried her movements, swiftly wrapping the swollen foot.
The man lifted a sizzling frying pan from the range, flipping a hamburger onto a plate. He added potatoes and carrots. “Here’s the food,” he said sullenly. “And you might put the gun away. We don’t have weapons, and we don’t have a ‘phone.”
“You have legs,” snapped Krenner. “Now shut up.”
The woman finished the dressing. “Try it,” she said. The convict stood up by the chair, placing his weight on the foot gingerly. Pain leaped through his leg, but it was a clean pain. He could stand it. He took a small map from his pocket. “Any streams or gorges overland between here and Garret Valley?”
The farmer, shook, his head. “No.”
“Give me some clothes, then. No, don’t leave. The ones you have on.”
The farmer slipped out of his clothes silently, and Krenner dropped the prison grays in the corner.
“You’ll keep your mouths shut about this,” he stated flatly.
“Oh, yes, you can count on us,” exclaimed the woman, eyeing the gun fearfully. “We won’t tell a soul.”
“I’ll say you won’t,” said Krenner, his fingers tightening on the gun. The shots were muted and flat in the stillness of the kitchen.
An hour later Krenner broke through the underbrush, crossed a rutted road, and pushed on over the ridge. His cruel face was dripping with perspiration. “It should be the last ridge,” he thought. “I’ve gone a good, three miles—” The morning sun was bright, filtering down through the trees, making beautiful wet patterns on the damp ground. The morning heat was just beginning, but the food and medications had made progress easy. He pulled himself up onto a rock ledge, over to the edge, and felt his heart stop cold as he peered down into the valley below.
A dark blue police ‘copter nestled on the valley floor next to the sleek gray one. It must have just arrived, for the dark uniforms of the police were swarming around the gray machine He saw the pink face and the sporty clothes of the occupant as he came down the ladder, his hands in the air.
Too late! They’d caught Sherman!
He lay back shaking.
Impossible! He had to have Sherman. They couldn’t possibly have known, unless somehow they had foreseen, or heard—. His mind seethed with helpless rage. Without Sherman he was stuck. No way to reach Markson, no way to settle that score—unless possibly—.
The Roads.
He’d heard about them. Way back in 1967 when he’d gone up, the roads were underway. A whole system of Rolling Roads was proposed then, and the first had already been built, between Pittsburgh and the Lakes. A crude affair, a conveyor belt system, running at a steady seventy-five miles per hour, carrying only ore and freight.
But in the passing years reports had filtered through the prison walls. New men, coming “up for a visit” had brought tales, gross exaggerations, of the Rolling Roads grown huge, a tremendous system building itself up, crossing hills and valleys in unbroken lines, closed in from weather and hijackers, fast and smooth and endless. Criss-crossing the nation, they had said, in never-slowing belts of passengers and freight livestock. The Great Triangle had been first, from Chicago to St. Louis to Old New York, and back to Chicago. Now every town, every village had its small branch, its entrance to the Rolling Roads, and once a man got on the Roads, they had said, he was safe until he tried to get off.
Clearly the memory of the reports filtered through Krenner’s mind. The great Central Roads run from Old New York to Chicago, through New Washington and Pittsburgh—
Markson was in Pittsburgh—
Krenner started down through the underbrush, travelling south by the sun, the urgency of his mission spurring him on against the pain of his foot, the difficulty of the terrain over which he travelled. He was too far north. Somewhere to the south he’d find the Roads. And once on the Roads, he’d find a way to get off—
*
He stopped at the brink of the hill and gasped in amazement.
They ran across
