They trundled along at moderate pace, examining all machines en route; nothing was seen to arouse suspicion, and no alarm was sprung.
A mile farther on, they reached an underground hiding place holding more than a thousand cars. Rolling down one of the half-dozen wide entrance-ramps, they entered a brightly lit cavern in which concrete pillars soared at intervals from a mass of silent vehicles. An attendant came toward them, his curiosity aroused by sight of a police prowler. Norris lowered the window and stuck his head out.
"Quick!" yelped Harper, sitting up and staring ahead. "There he goes — out the middle exit!"
Norris jumped the car forward, narrowly escaped knocking down the attendant. The car roared along the mainway between packed ranks of its fellows. Overhead lights flashed faster and faster, receded into the rear distance. Supporting pillars zipped past with enough speed to make them resemble a paled fence. The car's hood lifted as they hit the exit ramp. The last light fled by; they shot into daylight and the street.
From the left Harper could still pick up the rapidly fading gobble-gobble-gobble of an agitated brain intent on escaping with what it had learned — namely, that gobblings can be heard.
The siren commenced wailing as they spun off the ramp and started down the middle of the broad street. Traffic scattered to the sides, leaving a clear road far along which a big.black car was hurtling as if driven by a maniac. Holding grimly to the wheel, Norris pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. Rausch felt around under a panel, took out a hand-mike, held it near to his mouth.
"Black Roadking escaping southward on Bailey Avenue. All cars in region of Bailey Avenue South, Greer Avenue South and Mason Turnpike intercept black Roadking."
"If this loaded heap catches a Roadking, it'll be a miracle," Harper observed.
They took no notice. The agent beside him leaned over, tugged a gun from a pocket, held it on his knees.
"Car Forty-one making for Bailey Avenue South," said an impassive cop, speaking out of the instrument board.
Harper squinted ahead, decided they'd lost a couple of hundred yards in less than a mile. He held on as they rocked around a halted bus.
"Car Eleven on Mason," announced another voice.
"Car Four on Mason at Perkins Comer," said a third.
The fleeing Roadking, now visibly diminished by its increased lead, made a sudden swerve, as if about to dive up a side road, but at the last moment swerved back, cut the comer and continued down Bailey.
A moment later, the reason became evident when a cruiser rocked out of the side road, set after it in hot pursuit. The newcomer was about halfway between Harper's car and the Roadking; it made better time because of its lesser load, but still could not gain an inch on the excessively high-powered fugitive.
"What did I tell you?" griped Harper. "Fat men with fat wallets buy fat engines that guzzle a gallon of alk to the mile." He sniffed in disgust, added by Way of comfort, "You can't bust his balloons either; those Roadkings run on sorbo-centered solids."
"Car Twenty-eight at junction of Mason and Bailey."
"That's the spot," gritted Norris. "They'll stop him."
"They'll have to crash him, and it'll be a hell of a wallop by the way he's going," said Rausch, holding his mike to one side as he gazed anxiously ahead. "There's no safe way to halt him unless we follow until—"
Taking advantage of the other's preoccupation, Harper leaned forward and bawled into the conveniently held mike:
"No half measures! Shoot the bastard!"
"Hey, you!" Rausch snatched the mike away, turned his head to throw a scowl.
In that instant the listening Car Twenty-eight opened fire. The cruiser ahead of Harper's car promptly swung in to the curb, crawled cautiously forward and gave full view of the second cruiser parked half a mile farther along.
The Roadking whizzed hell for leather past Car Twenty-eight, covered a hundred and fifty yards, yawed wildly twice, made a violent turn that took it over the sidewalk and into a shopfront. The sound of the crash was like an explosion. Haberdashery sprayed the avenue on flapping arms. Two police officers scrambled out of Car Twenty-eight, raced toward the wreckage.
"That's done it," growled Norris, easing pressure on the pedal and reducing pace. He snapped over his shoulder at Harper, "Who's running this show?"
"I am. And if you didn't know it before, you know it now."
"Our orders are—"
"To blue blazes with your orders," said Harper toughly. "I appreciate your co-operation, and sometime or other you're going to appreciate mine."
He opened the door as the car stopped, got out, made for the Roadking, knowing in advance that yet again an alien spark had become extinguished within a broken body. But at least no normal human being had been killed — that was one consolation.
In the rear of the shopfront a broken show-robot sprawled over the Roadking's hood, and leered inanely at the dead driver. The robot wore a tartan hat, tilted drunkenly over one eye, and the force of the impact had filled its pants with broken parts. The driver sat bowed forward, his face rammed into the wheel, a pair of lurid socks, complete with price-tag, draped across his neck.
Two police officers waded through smashed glass, torn handkerchiefs and tattered pajamas, dragged at the car's door. They knocked display stands out of the way the better to get at it.
Harper was about to join them when a slender individual pranced out of the shop, picked on him with much gesturing of white hands and indignant fluttering of long eyelashes.
"Look at that!" shrilly insisted this apparition. "Just look at it! What am I going to do now?"
"Sue the corpse in the car," Harper told him. "He did it." Joining the police, he helped lug out the body.
The protestor shifted attention to Norris, who was following close upon Harper's heels. "Only last night I dressed that window. It's really sickening. It makes me so mad I could spit. I don't know what—" He broke off, and his large eyes went a size larger as they saw the corpse being carried past and laid on the sidewalk. "Why, Mr. Baum!"
"You know this one?" demanded Norris swiftly.
"Yes, indeed. He's Mr. Baum. Mr. Philip Baum. Only last week I sold him a most fetching line in—"
Staring down at the plump and slightly familiar features, Harper interjected, "Has he a brother?"
"Yes," said the slender man, working his eyelashes and gazing fascinatedly at the dead face. "Mr. Ambrose Baum. A little older. Three or four years, perhaps. Isn't it awful?"
"Where do the Baums live?" asked Norris.
"In Reevesboro. I'd—" He stopped, let his mouth hang open while he looked with horror at the shattered show-robot which slowly slid down from the hood and onto its knees, belched loudly, emitted a whirr and two clicks, then went cross-eyed. He shuddered at the sight. "Alexander is ruined, completely ruined. I'd like to know who's going to compensate for all this."
"Pick on your insurance company," said Norris. "Where in Reevesboro is the Baum house?"
"Somewhere on Pinewalk Avenue, I believe. I can't recall the number. It should be in the phone book."
"Bring out your phone book and let's have a look at it."
"There's no need," put in one of the police officers, searching the body. He straightened up, holding a card. "He's carrying identification. It says he is Philip Kalman Baum of 408 Pinewalk Avenue, Reevesboro. The car is registered in the name of Ambrose Baum of same address."
The other officer added, "This one is deader than a mackerel. His chest is shoved right in. The wheel did it."
Norris turned to the agent who had accompanied them from the beginning. "You take charge here. You know how to handle it. Tell the pressmen nothing. Let 'em yawp — and refer them to our field office." He beckoned to Harper. "We need you along."