It was almost dark when he awoke, and lay on the bed,motionless and trembling, his heart sinking in the knowledgethat he should never have slept. For almost half a minute,eyes wide with fear, he lay in the silence of the gloomy room,straining to hear some sound, some indication of their presence.
But the only sound was the barely audible hum of his wristwatch and the dismal splatter of raindrops on the cobbledstreet outside. There was no sound to feed his fear, yet he knewthen, without a flicker of doubt, that they were going to killhim.
He shook his head, trying to clear the sleep from his brainas he turned the idea over and over in his mind. He wonderedwhy he hadn't realized it before, long before, back when theyhad first started this horrible, nerve-wracking cat-and-mousegame. The idea just hadn't occurred to him. But he knew thegame-playing was over. They wanted to kill him now. And heknew that ultimately they would kill him. There was no wayfor him to escape.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, painfully, perspirationstanding out on his bare back, and he waited, listening. Howcould he have slept, exposing himself so helplessly? Everyounce of his energy, all the skill and wit and shrewdness athis command were necessary in this cruel hunt; yet he hadtaken the incredibly terrible chance of sleeping, of losing consciousness,leaving himself wide open and helpless against theattack which he knew was inevitable.
How much had he lost? How close had they come while heslept?
Fearfully, he walked to the window, peered out, and felt hismuscles relax a little. The gray, foggy streets were still light.He still had a little time before the terrible night began.
He stumbled across the small, old-fashioned room, sensingthat action of some sort was desperately needed. The bathroomwas tiny; he stared in the battered, stained reflector unit,shocked at the red-eyed stubble-faced apparition that staredback at him.
This is Harry Scott, he thought, thirty-two years old, andin the prime of life, but not the same Harry Scott who startedout on a ridiculous quest so many months ago. This HarryScott was being hunted like an animal, driven by fear, helpless,and sure to die, unless he could find an escape, somehow.But there were too many of them for him to escape, and theywere too clever, and they knew he knew too much.
He stepped into the shower-shave unit, trying to relax, tocollect his racing thoughts. Above all, he tried to stay the fearthat burned through his mind, driving him to panic and desperation.The memory of the last hellish night was too starkto allow relaxation—the growing fear, the silent, desperatehunt through the night; the realization that their numbers wereincreasing; his frantic search for a hiding place in the NewCity; and finally his panic-stricken, pell-mell flight down intothe alleys and cobbled streets and crumbling frame buildingsof the Old City.... Even more horrible, the friends who hadturned on him, who turned out to be like them.
Back in the bedroom, he lay down again, his body still tense.There were sounds in the building, footsteps moving around onthe floor overhead, a door banging somewhere. With everysound, every breath of noise, his muscles tightened still further,freezing him in fear. His own breath was shallow and rapidin his ears as he lay, listening, waiting.
If o