He refused the fear that was welling up inside. How long, how long?
He pulled himself at last through the hole he had burned in the heavy elevator door at the ground floor. He began to drag himself along the way to the entry, the ramp, Phil’s hovercar and release. The star chart he carried grew increasingly sluggish, impossibly heavy.
And even as he went, he knew he wasn’t going to make it.
The energy was draining out of him with every step. He had taken too much time. He had taken far too much time.
He went down on his knees, the star chart falling slowly from his hands, then remaining suspended in the air. He laboriously took it again. He had to make it to the hovercar. He stumbled forward. It was far too far.
He was too weak even to bring more pep pills to his mouth. The last few he had taken had had little effect, at any rate. His body had taken all the punishment it was capable of taking. He wasn’t going to make it.
This, then, was the ultimate failure.
He looked up in agony, down the long corridor that led in the direction of the ramp. The occupants of the hall were still frozen in their movements. For him, they would always be frozen. But…
He saw movement!
Down the hall toward him came running Phil Birdman, his eyes going in all directions.
He spotted Ronny, grabbed down at him, hoisted him over his shoulder and started back.
Ronny held on to consciousness. He didn’t understand, but it was going to work out now. He held desperately to the chart.
They were back in the hovercar. The Indian operative dumped him into the passenger seat, hurried around to the other side and vaulted into the driver’s position. His hand darted to the dash compartment and seized two syrettes. He pressed the first into his own neck, the second into Ronny’s.
Things began jerking frantically. Things began moving sluggishly. The people. The guards.
The guard officer, who had been walking toward them when time had first stopped, began moving more naturally, faster, and still faster.
Scowling, he barked, “What’s going on here?”
Phil Birdman said apologetically, “Sorry, officer. I seem to have ascended the wrong ramp.”
“You certainly have! This is the private entry of the Supreme Commandant! What’s going on here? You men look suspicious.”
The Phrygian stared at Ronny Bronston. “What’ve you got there in your hand? You didn’t have anything just a second ago.”
It was the star chart.
Ronny shook his head, weakly. “Nothing. I… I feel sick. Let’s go on back, Birdman.”
“Yes, get out of here,” the guard officer rapped. He was scowling, obviously wondering whether or not to arrest this pair.
Phil Birdman had never dropped the lift lever. Now he applied pressure to the velocity pedal, tipped the stick to the left and back, and spun the vehicle to descend the ramp again.
Ronny fumbled for a sandwich, gobbled it. Got it down and felt like retching. There was a bottle with a score of assorted pills. He got them all down, drank deeply from a flask of water. He was dehydrated, weak, empty.
They were speeding toward the gate through which they had entered mere moments ago by straight time.
The gate was closing. The guards were milling about, anxiously. Four or five barred the way, spears raised.
Spears raised as though they were rifles, and it came to Ronny Bronston that appearances deceive. The Baron Wyler wasn’t about to arm his guards with nothing more effective than iron tipped wooden shafts. Those spears were undoubtedly disguised weapons demanding of considerably more respect.
“Blast through!” Ronny clipped to his companion. Phil shot a glance at him. “If I do, we’ll have the paleface cavalry after us in moments.”
“We’ve got them after us already. What d’ya think they’re closing those gates for?”
The Indian’s hand shot out, flicked a switch. Part of the dash fell away to reveal a pistol grip built into the car. Phil Birdman grabbed it, touched the trigger, slowly swerved the car right and left.
The gate and the soldiers that guarded it melted away into nothingness.
The two Section G agents felt nausea. It was seldom one took human life, even in the ultra-dedicated Bureau of Investigation.
They shot through what had once been the gate and down the road toward the city limits of Phrygia.
Ronny growled, “They’ll be after us both in the air and on the road. Chances are, we’ll never make it halfway.”
“It’s getting dark,” Birdman muttered. “Not that that’ll make much difference. You got the location of the Dawnman planets?”
“I think so.” Ronny wolfed another sandwich. “Listen, how did you ever find me? What was the idea? How could you do it?”
Birdman grunted. “I pressed my syrette a split second after you did. I was gambling that my metabolism wouldn’t be hit until you had already been gone long enough to do what you could. I figured that you’d probably keep going, long after you’d passed the danger point, if you hadn’t found what we needed. I figured I’d be going into pseudo-time, just in time to come looking for you.”
He added apologetically, “It was all I could do. Of course, I was in pseudo-time only a fraction of the duration you were. I doubt if it makes more than a year or two difference.”
“You cloddy!” Ronny growled. “Well, thanks.” He knew well enough Phil would have kept coming, looking for him, no matter how much time had elapsed.
“All for dear old Section G,” Phil said cheerfully. “Listen, I can hear them behind us. We’ll never make it.”
“Keep going,” Ronny muttered. “I’m beginning to feel the immediate after-effects.”
“Oh fine,” the Indian operative said. “You haven’t got a communicator on you?”
“No, of course not. We couldn’t take the chance of the Baron getting hold of one of us and finding the thing. He’d be able to tap Section G communications.”
The dash screen let up. There was the face, the icy face of an officer in the uniform of Baron Wyler’s personal guards.
The officer snarled, “You have exactly two minutes in which to come to a halt and surrender. Otherwise, we blast. You are not going to be allowed to reach Phrygia city limits. The Supreme Commandant’s orders.”
Ronny flicked the screen off. “Two minutes to go,” he said. “Can you think of anything?”
“All I can think of,” Phil said expressionlessly, “is that we should have taken my earlier idea. Go down to the recruiting station and join up with the Baron.”
“Too late now.” Ronny grunted. “We’ve taken our stand. Look out, here comes a car toward us from the city.”
“Probably a civilian,” the Indian muttered. “There hasn’t been time for security guards to be coming from that direction.”
“Wait a minute!” Ronny said urgently. “I know that car. Stop.”
The Indian shot a quick glance at him, but jammed on deceleration.
Ronny waved at Rita Daniels.
“Hey!“ he called.
She came to a halt, her high forehead furrowed.
“What’re you doing out there?” she asked. “I thought you were in town thinking over Uncle Max’s proposition.”
He was feeling increasingly weak, but he climbed from Birdman’s hovercar and made his way to hers, fumbling as he went for his gimmicked fountain pen.
He said, “Look. I want to talk to you. Come along with us.”
Her eyes narrowed. She could hear the sounds of the pursuing guard vehicles. “Not likely,” she snapped. “What’re you up to?”
He lifted the stud of the device and turned to call weakly to Birdman. “Get the Baron on the screen. Soonest,
