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glanced back.
They weren’t following him any more. He could see them, far back, where the 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 mind more closely on his surroundings. Freight might conceal him to get him off the Roads where no passenger station would ever let him through. He climbed 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 hard bed. What possible kind of freight—? He slipped a lighter from his pocket and snapped it on.
Coal! A normal freight load. He climbed back up and looked along the road. 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—to where? He examined the billing on the side of the car, and he forgot his fears 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 the impending revenge. Fortune’s boy, he thought to himself. Even Sherman could not have done so well, to ride the Rolling Roads, not just to Pittsburgh, not to the mountains, but right to Markson’s backyard! He shivered with anticipation. Pittsburgh was only a few hundred miles away, and at three hundred miles an hour—Krenner clenched his fists in cruel pleasure. He hadn’t long to wait.
*
An hour passed slowly. Krenner’s leg was growing stiff after the exertion of running. Still no sign of life. He eased his position, and stiffened when he heard the little relay box above the consignment sheet give a couple of sharp clicks.
Near the end! He hugged himself in excitement. What a neat trick, to ride a consignment of coal to the very yards where Markson would be! The coal yards which he might have owned, the furnaces, the foundry—. There would be men there to receive the car from the line, well he could remember the men, day and night, working and sweating in those yards and mills! There would be men there to brake the car and empty it. He was in old clothes, farm clothes—he would fit in so well; as soon as the car slowed he could jump off, and simply join the other men. Or he could shoot, if he had to. A little agility in getting out of the car, and a little care in inquiring the way to Markson’s office—
The car suddenly shifted to the outer lane. Krenner gripped a handle on the inside and held tight. He felt the swerving motion, and suddenly the car moved out of the tunnel into the open night air. He climbed up the side and peered over the edge. There were five cars in the consignment; he was on the last. Travelling almost at Road speed along the auxiliary cutoff. Swiftly they moved along through the night, through the edge of the Pittsburgh steel yards. Outside he fancied he could hear the rattle of machinery in the yards, the shouts of the men at their work. Making steel was a twenty-four hour proposition.
Then they were clear of the first set of yards. The car made another switch, and Krenner’s heart beat faster. A white sign along the side said, “Private Property. Keep off. Markson Foundries Line.” Soon now they would come to a crunching halt. Men would be there, but his gun was intact. No matter how many men he met, he had to get to Markson.
The car shuddered a little, but the acceleration continued. They were rising high in the air now, above the foundries. He looked down, and could see the mighty furnaces thrusting their slim necks to the sky.
A bolt of fear went through him. How far did the automatic system go? Automatic loading of coal from the fields, automatic switching onto the Rolling Roads. Automatic transfer of cars onto a private line which led the cars to the foundries. Where did the automatic handling stop? Where did the men come into it? Twenty-seven-year-old concepts slid through his mind, of how freight was carried, of how machines were tended, of how steel was made. In a world of rapidly changing technology, twenty-seven years can bring changes, in every walk of life, in every form of production—
Even steel—
A voice from within him screamed, “Get off, Krenner, get off! This is a one way road—” He climbed quickly to the top of the car, to find a place to jump, and turned back, suddenly sick with fear.
The car was going too fast.
The first car had moved with its load to a high point on the elevated road. A thundering crash came to Krenner’s ears as its bottom opened to dislodge its contents. Without stopping. Without men. Automatically. From below he could hear a rushing, roaring sound, and the air was suddenly warmer than before—
The next car followed the first. And the next. Krenner scrambled to the top of the car in rising horror as the car ahead moved serenely, jerked suddenly, and jolted loose its load with a crash of coal against steel. Twenty tons of coal hurtled down a chute into roaring redness—
Twenty-seven years had changed things. He hadn’t heard men, for there were no men. No men to tend the fires. Glowing, white-hot furnaces, Markson’s furnaces, which were fed on a regular, unerring, merciless consignment belt, running directly from the Roads. Efficient, economical, completely automatic.
Krenner’s car gave a jolt that threw his head against the side and shook him down onto the coal load like a bag of potatoes. He clawed desperately for a grip on the side, clawed and missed. The bottom of the car opened, and the load fell through with a roar, and the roar drowned his feeble scream as Krenner fell with the coal.
The last thing he saw below, rushing up, was the glowing, blistering, white-hot maw of the blast furnace.
Second Sight
(Note: The following excerpts from Amy Ballantine’s journal have never actually been written down at any time before. Her account of impressions and events has been kept in organized fashion in her mind for at least nine years (even she is not certain when she started), but it must be understood that certain inaccuracies in transcription could not possibly have been avoided in the excerpting attempted here. The Editor.)
*
Tuesday, 16 May. Lambertson got back from Boston about two this afternoon. He was tired; I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lambertson so tired. It was more than just exhaustion, too. Maybe anger? Frustration? I couldn’t be sure. It seemed more like defeat than anything else, and he went straight from the ‘copter to his office without even stopping off at the lab at all.
It’s good to have him back, though! Not that I haven’t had a nice enough rest. With Lambertson gone, Dakin took over the reins for the week, but Dakin doesn’t really count, poor man. It’s such a temptation to twist him up and get him all confused that I didn’t do any real work all week. With Lambertson back I’ll have to get down to the grind again, but I’m still glad he’s here. I never thought I’d miss him so, for such a short time away.
But I wish he’d gotten a rest, if he ever rests! And I wish I knew why he went to Boston in the first place. Certainly he didn’t want to go. I wanted to read him and find out, but I don’t think I’m supposed to know yet. Lambertson didn’t want to talk. He didn’t even tell me he was back, even though he knew I’d catch him five miles down the road. (I can do that now, with Lambertson. Distance doesn’t seem to make so much difference any more if I just ignore it.)
So all I got was bits and snatches on the surface of his mind. Something about me, and Dr. Custer; and a nasty little man called Aarons or Barrons or something. I’ve heard of him somewhere, but I can’t pin it down right now. I’ll have to dig that out later, I guess.
But if he saw Dr. Custer, why doesn’t he tell me about it?
*
Wednesday, 17 May. It was Aarons that he saw in Boston, and now I’m sure that something’s going wrong. I know that man. I remember him from a long time ago, back when I was still at Bairdsley, long before I came here to the Study Center. He was the consulting psychiatrist, and I don’t think I could ever forget him, even if I tried!
That’s why I’m sure something very unpleasant is going on.