Getting out of town was not difficult, but outrunning the storm was another matter. They both seemed headed in the same direction: one of the routes he had mapped out and memorized long ago as both expeditious and devious in returning him to darkness. On any other occasion he would have welcomed a diminution in that constant glare which had first burned, then tanned his unwilling hide. Now, it slowed him, and he could not risk an accident at this point. It bathed the vehicle, and its winds caused it to sway, while its bolts of lightning showed him the skyline he as leaving.
Police lanterns set on the road caused him to slow apprehensively, seeking exit from the highway. He sighed and grinned faintly as he was waved on by the scene of a three-car accident, where a man and woman were being borne on stretchers toward a gaping ambulance.
He played with the radio but obtained only static. He lit a cigarette and opened the window partway. An occasional droplet struck against his cheek, but the air was cool and sucked the smoke away. He breathed deeply and attempted to relax, having just realized how tense he had been.
It was not until considerably later that the storm slowed to a steady drizzle and the sky began to lighten somewhat. He was driving through open country at that point and feeling a mixed sense of relief and apprehension which had grown between curses since his departure. What have I accomplished? he asked himself, thinking back over the years he had spent dayside.
It had taken considerable time for him to familiarize himself with the areas involved, obtain the necessary credentials, and learn the teaching routine. Then came the matter of finding employment at a university possessing the necessary data-processing facilities. In his spare time, he had had to learn to use the equipment, then conceive projects which would allow him to do so without question. Then he had had to review everything he possessed in the way of primary data with respect to his real questions, organize the information, and cast it into the proper form. The entire process had taken years, and there had been failures, many of them.
This time, though, this time he had been so near that he could taste it, smell it. This time he had known that he was close to the answers he had been seeking.
Now, he was running away with a briefcase full of papers he had not had an opportunity to review. It was possible that he had failed again and was returning without the weapon he had sought, returning to the place of his enemies. If this were the case, he had only postponed his doom. Still, he could not remain-for here, too, he had acquired enemies. He wondered briefly whether there was some cryptic lesson involved, some available but overlooked insight that would show him more about himself than about his enemies. If so, it eluded him.
Just a little longer... If he had only had a bit more time, he could have checked, then reformulate and reprogrammed if necessary. Now there was no more time. There could be no going back to hone it if it was a blunted sword he bore. And there were other matters, personal ones, he had wished to draw to better conclusions. Clare, for instance...
Later, the rain let up, though the cloud-cover remained total and threatening. He risked speeding then and tried the radio once more. Bursts of static still occurred, but there was more music than there was interference, so he let it play.
When the news came on, he was winding his way down a steep hill, and while he thought that he heard his name spoken, the volume had diminished too much for him to be certain. Alone on the road at that point, he began looking back over his shoulder regularly and up every side way he passed. It infuriated him that the mortals still had a fair chance of apprehending him before he achieved a situation of power. Ascending a higher hill, he saw a curtain of rain far off to his left and a few feeble flickers of lightning, so distant that he heard no following thunder. Continuing his search of the heavens, he saw that they were barren of traffic and he thanked the Storm King for that. Lighting a fresh cigarette, he brought in a stronger station, waited for the news. When it came, there was no report concerning himself.
He thought of the distant day when he had stood beside a rainpool and discussed his plight with his reflection there. He tried to see that dead self now-tired, thin, cold, hungry, sore- footed and smelling badly. All of the irritants were erased, except a small hunger just beginning in his middle and hardly worth comparison with those earlier feelings, which were near starvation. Still, how dead was that old self? How had his situation been altered? Then, he had been fleeing from the West Pole of the World, striving to keep alive, trying to evade pursuers and reach Twilight. Now, it was the bright East Pole from which he fled, toward Twilight. Driven by hatred and something of love, revenge had been hot in his heart, warming him and feeding him. Nor was it absent now. He had acquired knowledge of dayside arts and sciences, but this in no way changed the man who had stood beside the pool; he stood there still, within him, and their thoughts were the same.
"Morningstar," he said, opening the window and addressing the sky, "since you hear everything, hear this: I am no different than when last we spoke."
He laughed. "Is that good or bad?" he asked, the thought just occurring to him. He closed the window and considered the question. Not fond of introspection, he was nevertheless inquisitive.
He had noted changes in people during his stay at the university. It was most apparent in the students, and it occurred in such a brief time -that short span between matriculation and graduation. However, his colleagues had also altered in small ways which involved attitudes and sentiments. He alone had not changed. Is this something fundamental? he wondered. Is this part of the basic difference between a daysider and a darksider? They change and we do not. Is this important? Probably, though I do not see how. We have no need to change, and it seems that they do. Why? Length of life? Different approach to life? Possibly both. What value is there in change, anyway?
He turned off onto a seemingly deserted side road after the next news broadcast. This one had named him as wanted for questioning in connection with a homicide.
Into the small fire he kindled, he tossed every piece of identification that he carried. While they burned, he opened his bag and refilled his wallet with fresh papers he had prepared several semesters earlier. He stirred the ashes and scattered them.
Carrying it across a field, he tore Quilian's raincoat in several places and tossed it into a gully where muddy waters rushed. Returning to the vehicle, he decided to trade it for another before very long.
Hurrying up the highway then, he reflected on the situation as he now understood it. The Borshin had killed Quilian and departed, doubt less as it had come, through the window. The reason for Quilian's presence there was known to the authorities, and Poindexter would verify his own presence on campus and his stated destination. Clare, and many others, could testify as to their disliking one another. The conclusion was obvious. Though he would have killed Quilian had the necessity arisen, he grew indignant at the thought of being executed for something he had not done. The situation reminded him of what had occurred at Igles, and he rubbed his neck half-consciously. The unfairness of it all smarted.
He wondered whether the Borshin in its frenzy of pain had thought it was slaying him or was merely acting to defend itself, knowing that he had escaped. How badly injured was it: He knew nothing of the creature' recuperative abilities. Was it even now seeking his trail, which it had followed for so long? Had the Lord of Bats sent it to find him, or was it following its own feelings, conditioned as it was to hate him? Shuddering, he increased his speed.