Part 40 (1/2)

Farrow nodded at me almost imperceptibly. Then she said to Carroll, ”Well, we won't keep you. Too bad the Mannheims moved, without leaving an address.”

”Yeah,” he said with obvious semi-interest. He eyed his half-plowed field and Farrow started her car.

We started off and he turned to go back to his work. ”Anything?” I asked.

”No,” she said, but it was a very puzzled voice. ”Nothing that I can put a finger on.”

”But what?”

”I don't know much about real estate deals,” she said. ”I suppose that one family could move out and another family move in just in this short a time.”

”Usually they don't let farmlands lie fallow,” I pointed out. ”If there's anything off color here, it's the fact that they changed their residence without changing the Highway sign.”

”Unless,” I suggested brightly, ”this is the coincidence. Maybe this sign is really one that got busted.”

Farrow turned her car into the main highway and we went along it. I could have been right about the spoke actually being broken instead of removed for its directing purpose. I hoped so. In fact I hoped so hard that I was almost willing to forget the other bits of evidence. But then I had to face the truth because we pa.s.sed another Highway Sign and, of course, its directional information pointed to that farm. The signs on our side of the highway were upside down; indicating that we were leaving the way station. The ones that were posted on the left hand side were rightside up, indicating that the drive was approaching a way station. That cinched it.

#Well,# as I told both Farrow and me, #one error doesn't create a trend.

Let's take another look!#

One thing and another, we would either hit another way station before we got to Homestead, or we wouldn't. Either one could put us wise. So we took off again with determination and finally left that side of erroneous Highway Signs when we turned onto Route 66. We weren't on Route 66 very long because the famous U.S. Highway sort of trends to the Northeast and Homestead was in a Southern portion of Texas. We left Route 66 at Amarillo and picked up U.S. 87, which leads due South.

Not many miles out of Amarillo we came up another set of Highway Signs that pointed us on to the South. I tried to remember whether this section led to Homestead by a long route, but I hadn't paid too much attention to the maps when I'd had the chance and therefore the facts eluded me.

We'd find out, Farrow and I agreed, and then before we could think much more about it, we came upon a way station sign that pointed in to another farmhouse.

”Easy,” I said.

”You bet,” she replied, pointing to the rural-type mailbox alongside the road.

I nodded. The box was not new but the lettering on the side was. ”Still wet,” I said with a grunt.

Farrow slowed her car as we approached the house and I leaned out and gave a cheerful hail. A woman came out of the front door and waved at us.

”I'm trying to locate a family named Harrison,” I called. ”Lived around here somewhere.”

The woman looked thoughtful. She was maybe thirty-five or so, clean but not company-dressed. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek and a smile on her face and she looked wholesome and honest.

”Why, I don't really know,” she said. ”That name sounds familiar, but it is not an uncommon name.”

”I know,” I said uselessly. Farrow nudged me on the ankle with her toe and then made a swift sign for ”P” in the hand-sign code.

”Why don't you come on in?” invited the woman. ”We've got an area telephone directory here. Maybe--?”

Farrow nudged me once more and made the sign of ”M” with her swift fingers. We had hit it this time; here was a woman perceptive and a Mekstrom residing in a way station. I took a mild dig at her hands and there was no doubt of her.

A man's head appeared in the doorway above the woman; he had a hard face and he was tall and broad shouldered but there was a smile on his face that spread around the pipe he was biting on. He called, ”Come on in and take a look.”

Farrow made the sign of ”T” and ”M” and that told me that he was a telepath. She hadn't needed the ”M” sign because I'd taken a fast glimpse of his hide as soon as he appeared. Parrying for time and something evidential, I merely said, ”No, we'd hate to intrude. We were just asking.”