better. My morose feeling faded away; my
conviction of utter uselessness died; and my half-formed desire to
investigate a highly hypothetical Hereafter took an abrupt about-face.
And in place of this collection of undesirable self-pities came a much
nicer emotion. It was a fine feeling, that royal anger that boiled up
inside of me. I couldn't lick 'em and I couldn't join 'em, so I was
going out to pull something down, even if it all came down around my own
ears.

I stopped long enough to check the Bonanza .375 both visually and
perceptively and then loaded it full. I consulted a road map to chart a
course. Then I took off with the coal wide open and the damper rods all
the way out and made the wheels roll towards the East.

I especially gave all the Highways a very wide berth. I went down
several, but always in the wrong direction. And in the meantime, I kept
my sense of perception on the alert for any pursuit. I drove with my
eyes alone. I could have made it across the Mississippi by nightfall if
I'd not taken the time to duck Highway signs. But when I got good, and
sick, and tired of driving, I was not very far from the River. I found a
motel in a rather untravelled spot and sacked in for the night.

I awoke at the crack of dawn with a feeling of impending _something_. It
was not doom, because any close-danger would have nudged me on the bump
of perception. Nor was it good, because I'd have awakened looking
forward to it. Something odd was up and doing. I dressed hastily, and as
I pulled my clothing on I took a slow dig at the other cabins in the
motel.

Number One contained a salesman type, I decided, after digging through
his baggage. Number Two was occupied by an elderly couple who were
loaded with tourist-type junk and four or five cameras. Number Three
harbored a stopover truck driver and Number Four was almost overflowing
with a gang of schoolgirls packed sardine-wise in the single bed. Number
Five was mine. Number Six was vacant. Number Seven was also vacant but
the bed was tumbled and the water in the washbowl was still running out,
and the door was still slamming, and the little front steps were still
clicking to the fast clip of high heels, and----

I hauled myself out of my cabin on a dead gallop and made a fast line
for my car. I hit the car, clawed myself inside, wound up the turbine
and let the old heap in gear in one unbroken series of motions. The
wheels spun and sent back a hail of gravel, then t