Chapter XII: Once again, he was fleeing

_Always on the run_, he thought bitterly, as the mutant horse flashed over the prairie, its six legs pistoning as it drew away from Winslow's men.

The City had been considerate; the City had been kind. The teardrop-vehicle had not deposited him sprawling at Winslow's feet, and for that mercy Kesley had to be grateful.

The four implacable robots had carried him effortlessly toward the opening door; the uncomplaining horse had already been led through the opening and into the waiting vehicle. Still yelling, Kesley had been crammed into the silvery vehicle, and it had started away from the confines of the City.

Winslow's men were advancing steadily. The City had ejected Kesley to save its own titanium skin, its own guts of transistors and cryotrons.

He was ejected from the vehicle and left in the midst of the hot sands, with Winslow's men still a distant green-and-gold blur on the horizon. For a moment Kesley had stood there uncertainly, staring back at the City that had cast him forth; then, mounting his wobbly-legged horse, he began to ride.

He headed north, back the way he came. Winslow had obviously pursued him through Illinois, perhaps tracked him from Mutie City to the Colony to Wiener--but the City had avoided disaster by ejecting him.

Now, northward.

Returning to the Colony was out of the question for many reasons. Returning to Iowa would probably be fatal--Loren and Lester, good subjects of the Duke, would turn the fugitive in without giving the matter a minute's thought. South America was as dangerous a place as Winslow's lands, and the Empires beyond the sea were impossible to reach. There was little traffic between the Americas and either Asia, Europe, Africa, or Australasia, and none whatsoever with Antarctica.

If he allowed Winslow to catch up with him, it would mean sure death. But one solution presented itself. _I'll return to Mutie City_, he thought, spurring the bony beast on. _That's one place where Winslow won't dare to come in after me._

Kesley squirmed in the saddle and peered around. Men were breaking off from the column of horsemen and were starting to follow him.

He gave the reins another tug. Whatever it was the City had fed the animal, it was propelling the beast like gasoline. The mutant was covering ground in a rocketlike fashion. But Kesley knew the pace could never last.

And, sure enough, the mutie began to falter after another half mile, to drop back and lose ground. Four of Winslow's men were still on the trail; Kesley computed that he was somewhere near the Oklahoma border, and hoped no border guards would trouble him as he passed into the adjoining province.

He had a knife and a truncheon; the pursuers probably had pistols. He wouldn't last long once they caught him. They'd gun him down on the spot.

And he'd never know why.

* * * * *

The horse gave out shortly after high noon. Kesley managed to guide the winded beast into a thicket off the main road, and dismounted there, crouching in hiding while the mutie gasped for breath and shook its sweating sides.

Before long the four pursuers arrived on the scene. For an instant Kesley thought they would simply keep riding past, but he heard voices commenting that the trail of hoof-prints ended up here. He tensed, knowing they would soon be searching the bushes for him.

"You go that way," someone said.

Kesley tethered his tired horse and backed away a little deeper into the underbrush. Several minutes passed.

Then a figure in the green-and-gold Ducal uniform appeared, a tall, dark-complected man with bare, burly arms. He clutched a drawn pistol in one hand.

"Hey, here's his horse--" he started to say, and Kesley leaped. His attack was the sudden, quick strike and withdrawal of the forest serpent; he sprang from the bushes, clubbed downward with the truncheon, withdrew again as the man fell. He waited a minute; then, seeing none of the other three approaching, Kesley quietly stole out and seized the fallen man's pistol. Now he was armed.

Cupping his hand over his mouth to muffle his voice, he shouted, "I got him in here!" Then he ducked back behind a thick-boled tree.

"We're coming, Gar!"

Three more uniformed figures stepped into the clearing. Kesley squeezed the trigger three times and they fell, their faces frozen in utter astonishment. Kesley felt suddenly unclean; he had murdered three men, injured a fourth. And those three did not know why _they_ had died, either.

He freed his own horse and slapped the weary mutant on the flank. "Go ahead, fella. You're free. You've done your job." He could take his pick from the four Ducal thoroughbreds waiting on the highway.

Sadly he stepped over the fallen bodies. The man he had clubbed was still breathing; he lay in a sticky pool of his companions' mingled blood. Kesley knelt, saw the ugly, raw wound on the man's skull, the welling blood matting the dark hair. Wedged in the soldier's sash was a grimy, folded piece of thick paper. Kesley drew it forth.

It was on Ducal stationery, with the familiar heraldic watermark that he had seen on so many tax vouchers in his farming days. The inscription, in large, dark, slightly smudged type, was a simple one:

WANTED

For High Treason
Against His Highness,
Duke Winslow of North America
Dale Kesley, farmer, of Iowa Province, also
known under the false name of Ramon, Ambassador
from Duke Miguel of South America.

The said Kesley, having entered His Highness' court on the pretext
of an embassy from the Court of Buenos Aires, did make an attempt
on our Duke's life. Kesley is sought urgently. A reward of fifty
thousand dollars is offered for his corpse.

The said Kesley is six-feet-two in height, with closely-trimmed
blond hair, full lips, nose set somewhat unevenly on his face. He
will probably be wearing stolen clothing and riding a stolen horse.

* * * * *

That was all. Kesley whistled; fifty thousand dollars was a staggering sum of cash to offer. And they wanted his _corpse_; Winslow had no interest in anything but a dead Kesley, then.

He would have to look sharp. With fifty thousand riding on his head, every loyal subject from Texas to Maine Province would be ready to sell him to the Duke.

* * * * *

He lived a hazardous existence on the way north, eating off the forest and staying out of the way of anyone official-looking. He travelled mostly by night, creeping along cautiously during the day and making up the delay by galloping furiously once the sun had set.

Generally he had no difficulties. Crossing from Arkansas into Missouri nearly caused trouble, when he blundered into a border patrol searching for someone else. He never found out who it was they really wanted; two of the guards stopped him, stared at his face in the light of a flickering match, and, after a tense moment or two, incredibly sent him along his way.

In central Missouri he wandered into a hobo camp. Four bedraggled-looking men were squatting around an iron pot in which bubbled some sort of stew. Kesley had not eaten all day; he rode up to them and dismounted, keeping a hand hovering near his weapons in case they should recognize him.

They didn't.

"Come join us, brother," one of them invited. He was a heavy man with a bulbous red nose.

"Thanks. Don't mind if I do." Kesley lowered himself into the circle round the fire.

"You from hereabouts?" a lean man of perhaps sixty asked grudgingly. "Don't spot your face."

"I'm an Illinoiser," Kesley said. "Spent some time down in Texas. Now I'm heading home again."

He helped himself to a potful of stew. The stuff was hot and bubbling--too hot, really, to taste, which perhaps was a sort of blessing, Kesley thought.

"Have any trouble with the border guards?" someone asked.

"Little squabble down near Arkansas, that's all. They were hunting someone or other, and took me for him."

"They do that, sometimes," the red-nosed man agreed. "Times are tough now. The woods are full of Winslow's men."

"Oh? Something up?"

"Seems someone tried to kill the old bird," the red-faced man said. "Guess he got fed up after all these years."

"I suspect it was that Duke from South America," the lean one remarked. "Them Dukes are out for each other, mark my words!"

The fire flickered and sent a spiral of smoke curling into the trees. Staring at it, Kesley found the sight oddly soothing. He took another sip of the stew.

Chuckling, he said, "They must be chasing this guy all over the country. I'll bet there's a nifty price on his head."

"Seventy-five thousand, that's what it is!"

Kesley frowned. Had the reward increased so fast--or was this just the exaggeration of ignorance? It didn't much matter.

"I'd like to catch some of that money myself, you know. Seventy-five thousand, huh?"

The red-nosed man laughed raucously. "You know, if I was the guy, maybe I'd turn _myself_ in, for that kind of dough!"

Maybe you would, Kesley thought, watching the ghostly shapes the fire took. Anybody would do anything these days.

"What would you do if _I_ was the guy?" he asked suddenly.

"You?" The red-nosed man seemed to stiffen a little. "Why would _you_ want to go killin' Dukes?"

"Yeah," Kesley said. "That's right, I guess."

* * * * *

He moved on later that night, leaving his newfound companions behind. They seemed happy there in the forest. He toyed with the idea of telling them the truth before he left, but rejected the idea. There was no telling how they'd react to the confession--but seventy-five thousand was a lot of money, and he didn't want four more deaths to his score.

He kept riding. He passed through Missouri and up into Illinois, following the Mississippi up from Cairo. The year was well into late October and the evenings were chilly. He rode quickly; the horse he had captured was a smoothly-functioning, full-blooded traveling machine.

Up through Illinois, until finally the broad expanse of Mutie City was visible through the dawn haze. For the first time since being cast out of Wiener he had the feeling that he was approaching safety. Flight was over--for now.

Of course, the mutants had told him not to return. But this was an emergency; surely they'd let him in.

He entered the city shortly after morning. The mutants were stirring, going about their early-day business. It seemed a savage parody of a normal city's routine. The shops were crowded, and what difference did it make if shopkeepers' heads were of spongy blue flesh and shoppers had the arms of lizards?

He felt terribly weary. As he entered the city, he was not surprised to see Spahl coming toward him.

"Hello," he said, dismounting.

"We expected your return," the seal-like creature said without preamble of formality. "We knew when we asked you to leave that you would be back."

"I want to rest," Kesley said. "This time don't throw me out."

He allowed Spahl to lead him to the room he had occupied on his earlier visit. A group of mutants congregated; he recognized Foursmith and Huygen. There were some others, stranger and more bizarre than any he had yet seen.

It was odd, Kesley thought, that the one place on Earth he could go for sanctuary was to this repository of freaks. Angrily, he brushed the thought away. The mutants were--well, _people_.

"I've been to the Colony and to Wiener," he explained. "I couldn't stay there. Winslow's hunting me all over the country."

"We know these things," Spahl said quietly. "We have followed your path, Kesley."

"And--?"

"We have decided the time has come for you to go home. You've been long awaited and we'll make sure you get there safely."

"Home?"

"Now your life is in danger. You endanger anyone you come in contact with. Obviously you must not remain in Winslow's territories any longer--or Miguel's."

"And therefore," Foursmith added when Spahl ceased, "we will send you forth. For your sake and ours."

Huygens, the man of two heads, said: "Besides, Daveen has been found."

"What? Where?"

"He is in Antarctican hands now. We sent him there but recently. He waits for you. Spahl, is it time?"

"Not just yet," said the seal-man. "Kesley, will you remember what we're doing--_later_? We're buying our lives from you. Will you remember that?"

"I don't understand a thing," Kesley said wearily. "I don't even think I want to understand. But yes, I'll remember. Sure." He rocked forward on his chair, dizzy, confused.

The mutants gave way, and a new one entered the room--a small, very pale man, normal except for the huge circumference of his skull.

"Edwin is a teleport," Spahl remarked casually.

"What--"

Suddenly Kesley felt himself struck by a blinding bolt of force; it spun him around, whirled him as if he were in a maelstrom, lifted him up. He saw the smiling faces of Spahl and Foursmith, saw all the mutants dwindle behind him. He rose, higher and higher, spinning vertiginously, frozen in an instantaneous moment of time. Space hung beneath him.

Then he began to fall.