Three to Conquer by Eric Frank Russell Page B

himself to another. When you're wanted for murder, theft can't make it worse. But the number of a stolen car would be broadcast in short time, leaving him no better off than before. Moreover, right now, the law did not know where he was heading. A car-swap would give away the direction of his escape and get every hick deputy on the lookout for him ahead. Also, it would reveal that he had crossed state lines to evade arrest—a federal offense that might bring in the F.B.I.
     
                  The F.B.I, needed bringing in; of that he was more than positive. He was in the most peculiar position of wanting to get to the F.B.I, before they could get to him.
     
                  The means by which the law had tagged him as the culprit could be guessed quite easily. Ledsom's knowledge that he was visiting the girl; her brother's description of the caller at the door, and the sallow man's evidence about the lounger at the bus stop. Above all, the missiles in the body which were like bullets from no other gun.
     
                  Stewing it over, Harper could not help wondering whether Ledsom now felt certain that he knew who had killed Alderson.
     
                  What he liked least about this sudden howl for a man named Harper was not that it boosted the official hunt for him, but that it might start an unofficial search. The forces of law and order should not be the only ones to take deep interest in the fact that he had killed Miss Jocelyn Whittingham. Certain others, undoubtedly, would be after him — those three fellows in the Thunderbug, for instance.
     
                  Swallowing the rest of his coffee, he got out of the place as quickly as he could, prudently, then drove at top speed into a dark, moonless night. He had more than five hundred miles yet to go.
     
                  At four-forty in the morning, with the pale halo of dawn beginning to show in the east, someone either read his plates or chased him on general principles.
     
                  Harper could not hear a siren, nor pick up following thoughts. He was too far ahead and too preoccupied with driving. He shoved the pedal down to the floorboards and let the machine leap ahead. If the pursuers were police, as their spotlight suggested, that alone would be enough to convince them that they were onto something worth running down.
     
                  With his needle trembling at over ninety, he tore through a crossroads, along a main artery darkened still more by large trees on both sides. The trees whizzed past like huge ghosts, arms out, transfixed by this night-time pursuit.
     
                  There was no traffic other than his own car and the one behind. Far ahead, and slightly to his right, he could see the sky-glow from street lights of a sizable city; he wondered whether he could make it that distance and, if so, what he'd do when he got there.
     
                  He rocked around another bend and momentarily lost the lights in the mirror, which by now were less than a mile to the rear. H i s own beams swung briefly across the end of a track through thick timber. He swung into it so suddenly and recklessly that, for a second or two, he feared an overturn.
     
                  Switching off all lights, he ploughed another fifty yards into complete blackness, meanwhile praying that he would not hit an invisible tree or dive into a hidden ditch. Twigs crackled and snapped under rolling wheels but luck remained with him. He braked, dropped a window, watched and listened.
     
                  The siren could be heard now—a prowl car, sure enough; by this time, it was on top of the bend. Headlights slewed across the night as it came round, and the next moment it thundered past, wailing as it went. Its passing was far too swift to enable Harper to see how many were inside, or to pick up a random