He read it as 2856 Pine - one block beyond Spruce. Art passed the address to Cleve, then they set out separately, hurrying to beat the curfew but proceeding with caution - at least one of them must get through. They met in the backyard of the translated address. Art knocked on the kitchen door. It was opened a crack by a middle - aged man who did not seem glad to see them. "Well?"
"We're looking for Mabel."
"Nobody here by that name."
"Sorry," said Art. "We must have made a mistake." He shivered. "Chilly out," he remarked. "The nights are getting longer."
"They'll get shorter by and by," the man answered.
"We've got to think so, anyhow," Art countered.
"Come in," the man said. "The patrol may see you." He opened the door and stepped aside. "My name's Hobart. What's your business?"
"We're looking for a man named Benz. He may have sneaked into town this afternoon and found someplace to - "
"Yes, yes," Hobart said impatiently. "He got in about an hour ago and he's holed up with a character named Moyland." As he spoke he removed a half loaf of bread from a cupboard, cut four slices, and added cold sausage, producing two sandwiches. He did not ask if they were hungry; he simply handed them to Art and Cleve.
"Thanks, pal. So he's holed up. Haven't you done anything about it? He has got to be shut up at once or he'll spill his guts."
"We've got a tap in on the telephone line. We had to wait for dark. You can't expect me to sacrifice good boys just to shut his mouth unless it's absolutely necessary.
"Well, it's dark now, and we'll be the boys you mentioned. You can call yours off."
"Okay." Hobart started pulling on shoes.
"No need for you to stick your neck out," Art told him. "Just tell us where this Moyland lives."
"And get your throat cut, too. I'll take you."
"What sort of a guy is this Moyland? Is he safe?"
"You can't prove it by me. He's a black market broker, but that doesn't prove anything. He's not part of the organization but we haven't anything against him."
Hobart took them over his back fence, across a dark side street, through a playground, where they lay for several minutes under bushes because of a false alarm, then through many more backyards, back alleys, and dark byways. The man seemed to have a nose for the enemy; there were no more alarms. At last he brought them through a cellar door into a private home. They went upstairs and through a room where a woman was nursing a baby. She looked up, but otherwise ignored them. They ended up in a dark attic. "Hi, Jim," Hobart called out softly. "What's new?"
The man addressed lay propped on his elbows, peering out into the night through opera glasses held to slots of a ventilating louver. He rolled over and lowered the glasses, pushing one of a pair of earphones from his head as he did so. "Hello, Chief. Nothing much. Benz is getting drunk, it looks like."
"I'd like to know where Moyland gets it," Hobart said. "Has he telephoned?"
"Would I be doing nothing if he had? A couple of calls came in, but they didn't amount to anything, so I let him talk."
How do you know they didn't amount to anything?" Jim shrugged, turned back to the louver. "Moyland just pulled down the shade," he announced.
Art turned to Hobart. "We can't wait. We're going
Benz arrived at Moyland's house in bad condition. The wound in his shoulder, caused by Carter's grenade, was bleeding. He had pushed a handkerchief up against it as a compress, but his activity started the blood again; he was shaking for fear his condition would attract attention before he could get under cover.
Moyland answered the door. "Is that you, Zack?" Benz demanded, shrinking back as he spoke.
"Yes. Who is it?"
"It's me - Joe Benz. Let me in, Zack - quick!"
Moyland seemed about to close the door, then suddenly opened it. "Get inside." When the door was bolted, he demanded, "Now - what's your trouble? Why come to me?"
"I had to go someplace, Zack. I had to get off the street. They'd pick me up."
Moyland studied him. "You're not registered. Why not?"
Benz did not answer. Moyland waited, then went on, "You know what I can get for harboring a fugitive. You're in the Underground - aren't you?"
"Oh, no, Zack! I wouldn't do that to you. I'm just a - a straggler. I gotta get registered, Zack."
"That's blood on your coat. How?"
"Uh... just an accident. Maybe you could let me have clean rags and some iodine."
Moyland stared at him, his bland face expressionless, then smiled. "You've got no troubles we can't fix. Sit down." He stepped to a cabinet and took out a bottle of bourbon, poured three fingers in a water glass, and handed it to Benz. "Work on that and I'll fix you up.
He returned with some torn toweling and a bottle. "Sit here with your back to the window, and open your shirt. Have another drink. You'll need it before I'm through."
Benz glanced nervously at the window. "Why don't you draw the shade?"
"It would attract attention. Honest people leave their shades up these days. Hold still. This is going to hurt."
Three drinks later Benz was feeling better. Moyland seemed willing to sit and drink with him and to soothe his nerves. "You did well to come in," Moyland told him. "There's no sense hiding like a scared rabbit. It's just butting your head against a stone wall. Stupid."
Benz nodded. "That's what I told them."
"Told who?"
"Hunh? Oh, nobody. Just some guys I was talking to. Tramps."
Moyland poured him another drink. "As a matter of fact you were in the Underground."
"Me? Don't be silly, Zack."
"Look, Joe, you don't have to kid me. I'm your friend. Even if you did tell me it wouldn’t matter. In the first place, I wouldn't have any proof. In the second place, I'm sympathetic to the Underground - any American is. I just think they're wrong - headed and foolish. Otherwise I'd join 'em myself."
"They're foolish all right! You can say that again."
"So you were in it?"
"Huh? You're trying to trap me. I gave my word of honor - "
"Oh, relax!" Moyland said hastily. "Forget it. I didn't hear anything; I can't tell anything. Hear no evil, see no evil - that's me." He changed the subject.
The level of the bottle dropped while Moyland explained current events as he saw them. "It's a shame we had to take such a shellacking to learn our lesson but the fact of the matter is, we were standing in the way of the natural logic of progress. There was a time back in '45 when we could have pulled the same stunt ourselves, only we weren't bright enough to do it. World organization, world government. We stood in the way, so we got smeared. It had to come. A smart man can see that."
Benz was bleary but he did not find this comment easy to take. "Look, Zack - you don't mean you like what happened to us?"
"Like it? Of course not. But it was necessary. You don't have to like having a tooth pulled - but it has to be done. Anyhow," he went on, "it's not all bad. The big cities were economically unsound anyway. We should have blown them up ourselves. Slum clearance, you might call it."
Benz banged his empty glass down. "Maybe so - but they made slaves out of us!"