Pursuit

don't know."

  He had to believe her--he knew she was telling the truth, at least tosome extent. And that made it just so much worse. He bound the gagover her mouth as gently as he could, and closed the door behind him.Her big eyes haunted him as he turned to the telephone.

  The information girl at CCNY could only tell him that Wilbur Hawkeshad resigned abruptly seven months before, and no one knew where hewas--they had heard he was doing government research. He snorted atthat--it was always the excuse, when nobody knew anything.

  He tried a few other numbers, and gave up. Nobody knew--and nobodyseemed to react to his name any differently from what they would havedone had he remained a quiet, professorish man, minding his ownbusiness, instead of being chased by....

  He couldn't complete that. The idea was still too fantastic. Even ifthere were alien life-forms that were subtly invading Earth, whyshould they pick on him? What good could a little, unimportantmathematician do them--particularly if they had the powers he alreadyknew they possessed? It was a poor answer, though no harder to believethan that any group on Earth could so suddenly come up with miracles.

  Anyhow, men knew enough already to be pretty sure that Mars and Venuswouldn't have creatures that could invade Earth--and the other planetswere hopeless. Perhaps from another star--but that would meanviolating the theories of mass-increase with the speed of light, andhe was not ready to accept that, yet.

  This time, he went out of the building without looking first. It coulddo no good--they could hide from him, he knew, and he would only callattention to himself by looking around. With the change in appearance,he might get by. He moved rapidly up to Broadway, where he found alittle clothing store and a ready-made suit that nearly fitted him.The tailor there seemed unconcerned when he insisted the cuffs beturned up at once, and that he wanted to wear it immediately. It tooknearly an hour, but he felt safe, for a change. A five-and-tenfurnished a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses that seemed to have blanks inthem, and he decided he might get by.

  There was no evidence of pursuit. He caught a cab, and headed for thelibrary. Ellen had been well-heeled--suspiciously so for a girl wholived in a cold-water flat like that; he'd peeled fifteen tens fromher wallet, and there'd been more, not to mention the twenties. Hisconscience bothered him a bit, but he was in no position to worry toomuch.

  * * * * *

  The library was still the puzzle of the ages to him--he'd used it halfhis life, and still found it impossible to guess why such a buildinghad been chosen. But eventually, he found the periodical room, andmanaged to get through the red tape enough to be given a small tablewith a stack of newspapers and magazines.

  The mathematics magazines interested him most. He pored through them,looking for a single hint of the things he had seen. Einstein's workwith gravity stood out, but no real advances had come from it. It wasstill a philosophical rather than an actual attack on physics--asbeautiful as a new theology, and about as hard to utilize. He skimmed,through the pages, but nothing showed. No real advance had been madesince his memory blanked out, except for one paper on variable starswhich was interesting, but unhelpful.

  He threw them aside in disgust. He knew that it was useless to look inother languages. Work couldn't be done without some first stages thatwould be reported, and any significant new theory would be picked upand spread. Science wasn't yet completely under political wraps.

  For a second, he stopped as he came to a paper bearing his by-line.Then he grimaced--it was an old one, just published--his attempt tofind how the phenomena of poltergeists could be fitted into theconservation of energy, and his final proof that the whole businesswas sheer rubbish. It would be nice to be able to get back to a lifewhere he could fool around with such learned jokes.

  The newspapers, beginning with the last day he could remember, werealmost as barren of results. There was the story of the cold war,without the strange overtones that should be there if any of the majorpowers--where all the major scientists would tend to be--had foundsomething new. He'd studied the statistical analysis of mob psychologyat times, and felt sure he could spot the signs.

  He skimmed on, without results, until he finally came to the currentpaper. This he read more carefully. There was no mention of him. Buthe found something on the fat man. It was a simple followup to thestory about the scientist who'd turned himself in at Bellevue--the manhad mysteriously disappeared, three hours later. And there was apicture--the face of the fat man, with "Professor Arthur Meinzer"under it.

  It didn't help.

  Hawkes shoved the magazines and papers back, and went through theseries of halls and stairs that led him to the main reference room,inconveniently located on the top floor. He found the book he wanted,and thumbed rapidly through it. Meinzer was listed on the bottom ofpage 972--but as he looked for 973, a pile of ashes dribbled onto thefloor.

  There was no use. They'd gotten there ahead of him.

  He made one final attempt. He called the college, asking for Meinzer,to find that nobody even knew the name! He knew they were lying--buthe could do nothing about that. Maybe it was only because of thepublicity--or maybe because someone or something had gotten to themfirst!

  * * * * *

  Fear was growing with him as he came out on the street. He ducked intoa crowd, and headed slowly into a corner drug store, trying to seeminconspicuous, but the fear mounted. They were near--they would gethim! Run, GO!

  He fought it down, and found that it was weakened, either by hisbecoming used to it or because the urgency was less than it had been.

  He ducked into a phone-booth and called the newspaper, keeping his eyeon both entrances to the store. It seemed to take forever to locatethe proper man there, but finally he had his connection.

  "Meinzer," the voice said, with a curious doubtfulness.

  "Oh, yeah. Mister, that story's dead! Call up...."

  The telephone melted slowly, dropping into a little cold puddle on thefloor!

  Hawkes had felt the tension mounting, and he was prepared foranything. Now he found himself on the street, darting acrossForty-second Street against the light, without even remembering havingleft the booth. He stole a quick glance back, to see people staring athim with open mouths. He thought he saw a slim figure in gray tweeds,but he couldn't be sure--and there were probably thousands of such menin New York.

  He ducked into a bank, wormed his way around the various aisles, andout the back entrance. A cab was waiting there, and he held out abill.

  "I'm late, buddy. Penn Station!"

  The cab-driver took the bill and the hint, and darted out, just as thelight was changing.

  Penn Station was as good a place to try to get lost from pursuit asany. Hawkes examined his wallet, considering trying to get a trainout--but he'd used up nearly all he had taken from Ellen.

  And all his careful disguise had proved useless. They weren'tfooled--and this business of dodging was wearing thin. By now, they'dknow his habits!

  He drew out a coin, flipping it. It came up heads. He frowned, butthere was nothing else to do. He moved down the ramp toward the subwaythat would carry him back to Sixty-sixth and Broadway. He was probablywalking into their trap by now, but the coin was right. He had to freeEllen. If they got him, it couldn't be much worse for him.

  Then he shuddered. He couldn't know whether it would be worse for hiscountry, or even his world. He couldn't really know anything.

  V

  It was growing dark as he walked down Sixty-sixth, eyeing every mansuspiciously, and knowing his suspicion would do no good. He was stilltrying to think, though he knew his thoughts were as useless as hissuspicions.

  If he could remember! His mind came up sharply against leaving Irmaand taking out the mail; then it went abruptly blank. What had been inthe letter? It had been from a professor--it might have been fromProfessor Meinzer. That would tie in neatly. But Meinzer was dead, andhe couldn't remember. They'd stripped him of his memory. How? Why?Were they trying to prevent
his giving information to others--or werethey trying to get something from him? And what could he know?

  He'd dabbled with ESP mathematically, but now he found himselfwondering if it could exist. Could they be tracking him by somenatural or mechanical ability to read his mind? He strained his ownmind to find a whisper of foreign thought, outside his brain. He drewa blank, of course, as he'd expected.

  There were no answers. They could play with him, like a cat juggling amouse, letting him almost learn something--and then, always, theyarrived just in time to prevent his success!

  Put a rat in a maze where it can't learn the path, and it goes insane.But what good would he be to anyone if they drove him insane? And whybother with all that when they could silence him as well by killinghim?

  He'd forgotten to watch, and was surprised to find his feet on thesteps of the apartment building. He jerked back, and bumped intosomeone.

  "Sorry." The words