Consignment, Page 2

He could stand it. He took asmall map from his pocket. "Any streams or gorges overland between hereand Garret Valley?"

  The farmer, shook, his head. "No."

  "Give me some clothes, then. No, don't leave. The ones you have on."

  The farmer slipped out of his clothes silently, and Krenner dropped theprison grays in the corner.

  "You'll keep your mouths shut about this," he stated flatly.

  "Oh, yes, you can count on us," exclaimed the woman, eyeing the gunfearfully. "We won't tell a soul."

  "I'll say you won't," said Krenner, his fingers tightening on the gun.The shots were muted and flat in the stillness of the kitchen.

  An hour later Krenner broke through the underbrush, crossed a ruttedroad, and pushed on over the ridge. His cruel face was dripping withperspiration. "It should be the last ridge," he thought. "I've gone agood, three miles--" The morning sun was bright, filtering down throughthe trees, making beautiful wet patterns on the damp ground. The morningheat was just beginning, but the food and medications had made progresseasy. He pulled himself up onto a rock ledge, over to the edge, and felthis heart stop cold as he peered down into the valley below.

  A dark blue police 'copter nestled on the valley floor next to the sleekgray one. It must have just arrived, for the dark uniforms of the policewere swarming around the gray machine He saw the pink face and thesporty clothes of the occupant as he came down the ladder, his hands inthe air.

  Too late! They'd caught Sherman!

  He lay back shaking.

  Impossible! He _had_ to have Sherman. They couldn't possibly have known,unless somehow they had foreseen, or heard--. His mind seethed withhelpless rage. Without Sherman he was stuck. No way to reach Markson, noway to settle that score--unless possibly--.

  The Roads.

  He'd heard about them. Way back in 1967 when he'd gone up, the roadswere underway. A whole system of Rolling Roads was proposed then, andthe first had already been built, between Pittsburgh and the Lakes. Acrude affair, a conveyor belt system, running at a steady seventy-fivemiles per hour, carrying only ore and freight.

  But in the passing years reports had filtered through the prison walls.New men, coming "up for a visit" had brought tales, gross exaggerations,of the Rolling Roads grown huge, a tremendous system building itselfup, crossing hills and valleys in unbroken lines, closed in from weatherand hijackers, fast and smooth and endless. Criss-crossing the nation,they had said, in never-slowing belts of passengers and freightlivestock. The Great Triangle had been first, from Chicago to St. Louisto Old New York, and back to Chicago. Now every town, every village hadits small branch, its entrance to the Rolling Roads, and once a man goton the Roads, they had said, he was safe until he tried to get off.

  Clearly the memory of the reports filtered through Krenner's mind. Thegreat Central Roads run from Old New York to Chicago, through NewWashington and Pittsburgh--

  Markson was in Pittsburgh--

  Krenner started down through the underbrush, travelling south by thesun, the urgency of his mission spurring him on against the pain of hisfoot, the difficulty of the terrain over which he travelled. He was toofar north. Somewhere to the south he'd find the Roads. And once on theRoads, he'd find a way to get off--

  * * * * *

  He stopped at the brink of the hill and gasped in amazement.

  They ran across the wide valley like silver ribbons. The late afternoonsunlight reflected gold and pink from the plasti-glass encasement,concealing the rushing line of travel within the covering. Like twinserpents, they lay across the hills, about a mile apart, the Roadtravelling east, and the Road moving west. They stretched as far as hecould see. And he could see the white sign which said, "MerryvaleEntrance, Westbound, Three miles."

  As he tramped, across the field he could hear the hum of the Roads growloud in his ears. An automatic, machinelike hum, a rhythm of motion.Close to the westbound road he moved back eastward along it, toward thelittle port which formed the entrance to it. And soon he saw the police'copter which rested near the entrance, and the uniformed men with theirrifles, alert. Three of them.

  Krenner fingered his weapon easily. It was almost dark; they would notsee him easily. He kept a small hill between himself and the police andmoved in within gunshot range. He could see the rocket-like car restingon its single rail, waiting for a passenger to enter, to touch thebutton which would activate the tiny rocket engines and move it forward,ever and ever more swiftly until it reached the acceleration of theRoads, and slid over, and became a part of the Road. Moving carefully,he slipped from rock to rock, closer to the car and the men who guardedit.

  Suddenly the bay of a hound cut through the gloom. Two small brown dogswith the men, straining at their leashes. He hadn't counted on that.Swiftly he took cover and lined his sights with the blue uniforms.Before they knew even his approximate location he had cut them down, andthe dogs also, and raced wildly down the remainder of the hill to thecar.

  "Fare may be calculated from the accompanying charts, and will becollected when your car has taken its place on the Roads," said a littlesign near the cockpit. Krenner studied the dashboard for a moment, thenjammed in the button marked "Forward," and settled back. The monorailslid forward without a sound, and plunged into a tunnel in the hill. Outthe other side, with ever-increasing acceleration it slid in alongsidethe gleaming silver ribbon, faster and faster. With growing apprehensionKrenner watched the speedometer mount, past two hundred, two hundred andtwenty, forty, sixty, eighty--at three hundred miles per hour theacceleration force eased, and the car suddenly swerved to the left, intoa dark causeway. And then into the brightly lighted plasti-glass tunnel.

  He was on the Roads!

  Alongside the outside lane the little car sped, moving on an independentrail, sliding gently past other cars resting on the middle lane. Anopening appeared, and Krenner's car slid over another notch, disengagedits rail, and settled to a stop on the central lane of the Road. Thespeedometer fell to nothing, for the car's motion was no longerindependent, but an integral part of the speeding Road itself. Threehundred miles per hour on a constant, nonstop flight across the rollingland.

  A loudspeaker suddenly piped up in his car. "Welcome to the Roads," itsaid. "Your fare collector will be with you in a short while. After hehas arrived, feel free to leave your car and be at ease on the Roadoutside. Eating, resting, and sleeping quarters will be found at regularintervals. You are warned, however, not to cross either the barriers tothe outside lanes, nor the barriers to the freight-carrying areas frontand rear. Pleasant travelling."

  Krenner chuckled grimly, and settled down in his car, his automatic inhis hand. His fare collector would get a surprise. Down the Road a shortdistance he saw the man approaching, wearing the green uniform of theRoads. And then he stiffened. Three blue uniforms were accompanying him.Opening the car door swiftly, he slipped out onto the soft carpeting ofthe Road, and raced swiftly away from the approaching men.

  They saw him when he started to run. Ahead he could see a crowd ofpassengers around a dining area. A shout went up as he knocked a womandown in his pell-mell flight, but he was beyond them in an instant. Hisfoot hindered him, and his pursuers were gaining. Suddenly before him hesaw a barrier--a four foot metal wall. No carpet beyond it, nofurnishings along the sides. A freight area! He hopped over the barrierand plunged into the blackness of the freight tunnel as he heard theshouts of his pursuers. "Stop! Come back! Stop or we'll shoot!"

  They didn't shoot. In a moment Krenner came to the first freightcarrier, one of the standard metal containers resting on the steel ofthe Road. He ran past it, and the next. The third and fourth were opencars, stacked high with machinery. He ran on for several moments beforehe glanced back.

  They weren't following him any more. He could see them, far back, wherethe light began, a whole crowd of people at the barrier he had crossed.But no one followed him. Odd that they should stop. He centered his mindmore closely on his surroundings. Freight might conceal him to get him
off the Roads where no passenger station would ever let him through. Heclimbed to the top of a nearby freight container and slipped down in.Chunks of rock were under his feet, and he fell in a heap on the hardbed. What possible kind of freight--? He slipped a lighter from hispocket and snapped it on.

  Coal! A normal freight load. He climbed back up and looked along theroad. No pursuit. An uneasy chill went through him--this was too easy.To ride a coal car to safety, without a single man pursuing him--towhere? He examined the billing on the side of the car, and he forgot hisfears in the rush of excitement. The billing read, "Consignment: Coal,twenty tons, Markson Foundries, via Pittsburgh private cutoff."

  His car was carrying him to Markson!

  His mind was full of the old, ugly hate, the fearful joy of theimpending revenge. Fortune's boy, he thought to