At its forward end a man sat, leaning against the flight of steps that led up to the cab. He sat flat, with his legs stuck out in front of him, and he wore a greasy engineer's cap pulled down almost to his eyes. His tunic was pulled up and bunched about his middle.
Blake stopped and stood looking down at him.
'Good morning, friend, said Blake. 'It looks to me that you are in trouble.
'Greetings to you, Brother, said the man, taking in Blake's black robe and knapsack. 'You are seeing right. Burned out a jet and she began to whipsaw me. Lucky that I didn't pile it up.
He spat derisively in the dust. 'Now we have to sit and wait. I radioed in for a new jet component and a repair crew and they take their time, of course.
'You said we.
'There are three of us, said the engineer. 'Two others are up there, sacking out.
He jerked his thumb upwards towards the small living quarters installed behind the cab.
'We were on schedule, too, he said. 'that's the tough part of it. Made a good crossing — calm seas and we hit no coastal fog. But now we'll be hours late when we hit Chicago. There's overtime, of course, but who the hell wants any overtime.
'You're headed for Chicago?
'Yeah. This time. Always different places. Never the same place twice.
He reached up and pulled at the beak of his cap.
'I keep thinking of Mary and the kids, he said.
'Your family? Surely you can get in touch with them, let them know what happened.
'Tried to. But they aren't home. Finally asked the operator to go out and tell them I wouldn't be along. Not right away, at least. You see, whenever I take this road, they know when I'll be coming and they go down to the road and stand there and wait and wave at me as I go through. The kids get an awful kick out of it, seeing their old man driving this monster.
'You must live near here, said Blake.
'Little town, said the engineer. 'Little backwater place a hundred miles or so from here. Old town, stuck out of the way. Just the way it was two hundred years ago. Oh, they put a new front on one of the buildings down on Main Street every now and then, or someone remodels a house, but mostly the town just sits there, the way it always was. None of these big apartment complexes they are building everywhere. Nothing new at all. Good place to live. Easy-going place. No one doing any pushing. No Chamber of Commerce. No one lathering to get rich, Anyone who wants to get rich or get ahead or anything like that simply doesn't stay there. Lots of fishing, some hunting. Some horseshoe pitching.
'He glanced up at Blake. 'I guess you get the picture.
Blake nodded.
'Good place to raise kids, said the engineer.
He picked up a dried weed stalk off the ground, poked gently at the earth with it.
'Town by the name of Willow Grove, he said. 'You ever hear of it?
'No. said Blake, 'I don't think I ever…
But that was not correct, he realized suddenly. He had heard of it! That message on the PG that had been waiting for him when the guard had brought him home from the senator's house had mentioned Willow Grove.
'You have heard of it, then, said the engineer.
'I guess I have, said Blake. 'Someone mentioned it to me.
'A good place to live, said the man.
What had that message said? Contact someone in the town of Willow Grove and he'd learn something to his interest. And there had been the name of the man he should contact. What was that name again? Blake sought for it frantically, winnowing through his mind, but it wasn't there.
'I must be getting on, he said. 'I hope the service crew shows up.
The man spat in disgust. 'Oh, they'll be along all right. When they are good and ready.
Blake trudged on, facing the long hill which rose above the valley. At the top of the hill, he saw, were trees, a humped line of autumn colour ranging above the high horizon line, a break at last in the brown and yellow fields. Perhaps somewhere among those trees he could find a place where he could get some sleep.
Thinking back, Blake tried to call up the fantasy of the night, but there was still about it all an air of unreality, it was almost as if it were a series of incidents which had happened, not to him, but to someone else.
The hunt for him was still on, of course, but momentarily he must have slipped the clutches of authority. By now, perhaps, Daniels would have figured out what must have happened and now they'd be looking, not for a wolf alone, but for him as well.
He reached the top of the hill and ahead of him, down the slope, he saw the trees, not just a little grove of trees, but a wood that covered the greater part of the steep hillside on either side of the road. Below, where the valley levelled out, were fields, but beyond the valley the farther slope also was clothed with trees. Here, he realized, the folded hills began to rise too steeply for cultivation and that this alternating of cultivated valleys and wooded hills might be a pattern that would go on for miles.
He went down the hill and at the edge of the wood his eyes caught a furtive movement. Alerted and puzzled, he watched for it again. It could have been, he knew, a bird hopping from one branch to another in a low-growing shrub, or, perhaps, an animal. But the wood now was quiet, except for a slight stirring of the many-coloured leaves by the whisper of a lazy wind.
He came opposite the edge of the wood and something hissed at him.
He stopped, half frightened, and shifted around to stare into the underbrush beneath the trees.
'Over here! whispered a high and squeaky voice, and it was then, guided by the voice, that he saw the Brownie — brown fur and dark-green trousers — camouflaged within the forest growth.
Another one of them, he thought. Good God, another one of them and this time he had no food to offer.
He stepped quickly off the shoulder of the road, across the ditch, and into the edge of the wood. The Brownie remained only a dim outline, blending with the wood, until he was quite close to him.
'I've been watching for you, said the Brownie. 'I understand you're tired and might want a place to rest.
'That is true, said Blake. 'There was nothing, until now, but fields.
'You then, the Brownie said, 'are welcome to my home. If you do not object to sharing it with an unfortunate creature which I offered my protection.
'Not at all, said Blake. 'This other creature?
'A raccoon, said the Brownie, 'chased most pitilessly by a pack of hounds and cornered and mauled considerably, but managing to escape. In these hills, you must understand, there is a popular human sport, which you may have heard of, known as coon hunting.
'Yes, said Blake, 'I have heard of it.
But he knew, well enough, that he had not remembered it until the Brownie spoke of it.
Once again, he thought, a phrase had triggered another memory, unsuspected until this moment, and another piece of his human background had fallen smoothly into place. He became aware of that memory, sharply aware of it — the lantern-lighted night, standing on a hilltop, with a gun clutched in one hand, waiting for the dogs to pick up the trail and then, suddenly, the far-off bugling of a hound that had struck a scent. And in a moment other dogs joining in until the hill and valley rang with baying. He smelled again the sweet, peculiar odour of frosted, fallen leaves, saw once again the bare branches of the trees against the risen moon, and the thrill of following the chase as the hounds ranged up the hill. Then the headlong plunge down the slope, guided only by the feeble lantern light, hurrying to close in with the hounds and not be left behind.