when she left her home to make a phone call by daylight. Smiley fired up his cranky old '53 Dodge and listened on CB channel nineteen.
His detectives did the tailing. He allowed them to guide him in.
A funeral. For the clone.
He acted on impulse, allowed himself to be seen.
He hadn't wanted to do it that way. But she just hadn't gotten the message of the time-traveler corpse.
He felt the electricity. She had recognized him as surely as he had recognized Dunajcik. Maybe there was some sort of personality field which grew more intense with time…
Smiley began moving the moment he got home. There wasn't much left to do. He had been at it for months. He boxed the remnants of his stamp collection and sent them out by UPS. He watched the truck leave with a feeling of emptiness. It might be years before he found time to relax again. It could be a long chase, police wolves nipping his heels all the way. And he had had to sell so much to finance his work.
Those little bits of paper with their quiet story of human communication were the thing he could love, the one thing he could worry about, cherish and preserve. It was an odd sublimation, though not unusual, and even he recognized that strange twist in his character.
The crisis had come on unexpectedly. Now there would be no time to dispose of the redundant clones, nor to dismantle and disperse the lab. He had planned to bury everything on his farm. But the detectives said the woman was in a panic, shipping out boxes and bags already. He would have to take drastic steps.
He had the nearby service station deliver a hundred gallons of gasoline in a variety of gas cans purchased from the auto parts shop next door. A big, hot fire should erase the most important clues.
All he needed was a head start anyway. Two days and there would be no way they could track him. He had been a step ahead for ages.
He was in a hotel in New York City when his agency informed him that his quarry's final destination appeared to be Rochester. She had stopped making transfers there. Within the hour he was headed north in his chartered Lear jet, nerve ends tingling.
The final reckoning was at hand.
XXV. On the Y Axis;
1975
The government man resembled those always seen in the company of presidents. Not the politicos but the hired guns, the bodyguards. Hard. Late thirties to early forties. Conservative suit and haircut. A Teutonic solidity of build, like the man on the SS recruiting poster. A face that might shatter if forced to smile. He had a string of degrees, certainly, and as certainly was more intelligent than ninety percent of the population.
But there was a cold about him, a permafrost beneath a surface that thawed only to order.
How come they never pick wimps? Norm wondered. You can spot these guys a mile away. They have that hard, Germanic look even when they're as black as this clown.
The visitor's character, however, didn't match Cash's pre-judgments.
'Lieutenant Railsback?' he asked uncertainly.
'Here.' Hank raised a hand.
'Hi. Name's Tom Malone. Central Intelligence Agency.' He extended his hand.
Railsback said, 'Huh?' as he shook.
Interestinger and interestinger, Cash thought, changing his attitude. Must be an upfront guy. Pretending a need for another cheeseburger, he moved out to Beth's desk.
'FBI says a man we're interested in, the one called Smiley, is on the move.'
Hank didn't seem quite able to get a handle on what was happening.
'Maybe you could fill us in a little?' Cash suggested, glancing at the letter the man offered as identification. Did it mean anything? Agency people wouldn't carry membership cards.
But why on earth would anyone come here pretending to be one? 'Like why you're interested?'
'There's been a tag on his file for twenty-five years. Suspicious alien. When you requested the records search, their computer whistled. The word drifted over to Langley that he was up to something. The timing was interesting, so my boss sent me out.'
'We want him for arson and murder,' Railsback said.' 'That's not spy business.'
'Could be. I'm here to find out. If I can.'
'How come you?' Cash asked. 'I mean, with all the stink about you people sticking your noses into the public's business…'
Malone shrugged. 'I don't make policy. I'm just a gofer. I go where they send me.'
'Henry,' Old Man Railsback observed, 'this looks like the time to play one hand washes the other.' To Malone, 'We may be able to help each other.”
Cash agreed. 'Tell us about Smiley.'
Malone examined each of them closely. Checking for Russians? 'We've got a fat file. Mostly speculation. It goes way back.
'See, he did some work for us in Austria right after the war. It didn't turn out. There's a chance he sold us out
