Part 41 (1/2)
There was one possibility that I did not like to face. We had definitely detected pursuit to our right and behind, but not to our left. This did not mean that the left-side was not covered. It was quite likely that the gang to the rear were in telepathic touch with a network of other telepaths, the end of which mental relay link was far beyond range, but as close in touch with our position and action as if we'd been in sight.
The police make stake-out nets that way, but the idea is not exclusive.
I recall hazing an eloping couple that way once.
But there was nothing to do but to take the feeder road to the left, because the devil we could see was more dangerous than the devil we couldn't.
Farrow whipped into the side road and we tore along with only a slight slowing of our headlong speed. I ranged ahead, worried, suspicious of everything, scanning very carefully and strictly on the watch for any evidence of attempted interception.
I caught a touch of danger converging up from the South on a series of small roads. This I did not consider dangerous after a fast look at my roadmap because this series of roads did not meet our side road for a long time and only after a lot of turning and twisting. So long as we went Easterly, we were okay from that angle.
The gang behind, of course, followed us, staying at the very edge of my range.
”You'll have to fly, Farrow,” I told her. ”If that gang to our South stays there, we'll not be able to turn down Homestead way.”
”Steve, I'm holding this crate on the road by main force and awkwardness as it is.”
But she did step it up a bit, at that. I kept a cautious and suspicious watchout, worrying in the back of my mind that someone among them might turn up with a jetcopter. So long as the sky remained clear--
As time went on, I perceived that the converging car to the South was losing ground because of the convolutions of their road. Accordingly we turned to the South, making our way around their nose, sort of, and crossing their antic.i.p.ated course to lead South. We hit U.S. 180 to the West of Breckenridge, Texas and then Farrow really poured on the coal.
The idea was to hit Fort Worth and lose them in the city where fun, games, and telepath-perceptive hare-and-hounds would be viewed dimly by the peaceloving citizens. Then we'd slope to the South on U.S. 81, cut over to U.S. 75 somewhere to the South and take 75 like a cannonball until we turned off on the familiar road to Homestead.
Fort Worth was a haven and a detriment to both sides. Neither of us could afford to run afoul of the law. So we both cut down to sensible speeds and snaked our way through the town, with Farrow and me probing the roads to the South in hope of finding a clear lane.
There were three cars pacing us, cutting off our retreat Southward. They hazed us forward to the East like a dog nosing a bunch of sheep towards pappy's barn.
Then we were out of Forth Worth and on U.S. 180. We whipped into Dallas and tried the same circ.u.mfusion as before and we were as neatly barred.
So we went out of Dallas on U.S. 67 and as we left the city limits, we poured on the oil again, hoping to get around them so that we could turn back South towards Homestead.
”Boxed,” I said.
”Looks like it,” said Farrow unhappily.
I looked at her. She was showing signs of weariness and I realized that she'd been riding this road for hours. ”Let me take it,” I said.
”We need your perception,” she objected. ”You can't drive and keep a ranging perception, Steve.”
”A lot of good a ranging perception will do once you drop for lack of sleep and we tie us up in a ditch.”
”But--”
”We're boxed,” I told her. ”We're being hazed. Let's face it, Farrow.
They could have surrounded us and glommed us any time in the past six hours.”
”Why didn't they?” she asked.
”You ask that because you're tired,” I said with a grim smile. ”Any bunch that has enough cars to throw a barrier along the streets of cities like Forth Worth and Dallas have enough manpower to catch us if they want to. So long as we drive where they want us to go, they won't cramp us down.”