They wouldn't be expecting him back before suppertime, and by that time he would be well away. They would have no Mind Touch to miss.
For the first half hour he experienced a feeling of elation, the first such sensation he had had since all this had started. He was finally doing something; he was making an attempt to fight back at his environment. Something with a purpose, and not mere unreasoning flight as that time in Chica.
Ah, for an old man he wasn't bad. He'd show them.
And then he stopped-He stopped in the middle of the highway, because something obtruded itself upon his notice, something he had forgotten.
There was the strange Mind Touch, the unknown Mind Touch; the one he had detected first when he had tried to reach the shining horizon and had been stopped by Arbin; the one that had been watching from the Ministerial Ground.
It was with him now-behind him and watching.
He listened closely-or, at least, he did that which was the equivalent of listening with regard to the Mind Touch. It came no closer, but it was fastened upon himself. It had within it watchfulness and enmity, but not desperation.
Other things became clear. The follower must not lose sight of him, and the follower was armed.
Cautiously, almost automatically, Schwartz turned, picking apart the horizon with eager eyes.
And the Mind Touch changed instantly.
It became doubtful and cautious, dubious as to its own safety, and the success of its own project, whatever that was. The fact of the follower's weapons became more prominent, as though he were speculating upon using it if trapped.
Schwartz knew that he himself was unarmed and helpless. He knew that the follower would kill him rather than allow him to get out of sight; kill him at the first false move...And he saw no one.
So Schwartz walked on, knowing that his follower remained close enough to kill him. His back was stiff in the anticipation of he knew not what. How does death feel?...How does death feel?...The thought jostled him in time to his steps, jounced in his mind, jiggled in his subconscious, until it went nearly past endurance.
He held onto the follower's Mind Touch as the one salvation. He would detect that instant's increase in tension that would mean that a weapon was being leveled, a trigger being pulled, a contact being closed. At that instant he would drop, he would run
But why? If it were the Sixty, why not kill him out of hand?
The time-slip theory was fading out in his mind; amnesia again. He was a criminal, perhaps-a dangerous man, who must be watched. Maybe he had once been a high official, who could not be simply killed but must be tried. Perhaps his amnesia was the method used by his unconscious to escape the realization of some tremendous guilt.
And so now he was walking down an empty highway toward a doubtful destination, with death walking at his back.
It was growing dark, and the wind had a dying chill to it. As usual, it didn't seem right. Schwartz judged it to be December, and certainly sunset at four-thirty was right for it, but the wind's chill was not the iciness of a midwestern winter.
Schwartz had long decided that the reason for the prevalent mildness was that the planet (Earth?) did not depend on the sun entirely for its heat. The radioactive soil itself gave off heat, small by the square foot but huge by the million square miles.
And in the darkness the follower's Mind Touch grew nearer. Still attentive, and keyed up to a gamble. In the darkness, following was harder. He had followed him that first night-toward the shiningness. Was he afraid to take the risk again?
"Hey! Hey, fella-"
It was a nasal, high-pitched voice. Schwartz froze.
Slowly, in one piece, he turned around. The small figure coming up to him waved its hand, but in the sunless time of day he could not make it out clearly. It approached, unhurrying. He waited.
"Hey, there. Glad to see you. It ain't much fun beating it along the road without company. Mind if I go along with you?"
"Hello," said Schwartz dully. It was the correct Mind Touch. It was the follower. And the face was familiar. It belonged to that hazy time, in Chica.
And then the follower gave every sign of recognition. "Say, I know you. Sure!...Don't you remember me?"
It was impossible for Schwartz to say whether under ordinary conditions, in another time, he might or might not have believed the other to be sincere. But now how could he avoid seeing that thin, ragged layer of synthetic recognition that overlay the deep currents of a Touch that told him-shouted at him-that the little man with the very sharp eyes had known him from the start? Knew him and had a death weapon ready for him, if necessary.
Schwartz shook his head.
"Sure," insisted the little man. "It was in the department store. I got you away from that mob." He seemed to double up in artificial laughter. "They thought you had Radiation Fever. You remember."
Schwartz did, too, vaguely-dimly. A man like this, for a few minutes, and a crowd, which had first stopped them and then parted for them.
"Yes," he said. "Pleased to meet you." It wasn't very brilliant conversation, but Schwartz could do no better, and the little man did not seem to mind.
"My name's Natter," he said, shoving out a limp hand at the other. "I didn't get a chance to talk much with you that first time-overlooked it in the crisis of things, you might say-but I'm sure glad to get a second chance...Let's have the mitt."
"I'm Schwartz." And he touched palms with the other, briefly.
"How come you're walking?" asked Natter. "Going somewheres?"
Schwartz shrugged. "Just walking."
"A hiker, huh? That's for me too. All year round I'm on the road-puts the old kibosh on the grummlies."