And almost before him, a private car was headed uptown. With three huge leaps he was on the running board, yanking the door open. He jerked himself in beside the frightened driver. He twisted his head, shouting. "Emergency! Hospi...." She had seen him trying to escape. She struck. In the street, a flock of English sparrows suddenly faltered in flight, and one plunged blindly into the stone face of a building. The others circled hysterically, directionless, and two collided and spilled to the ground. "Hurry, damn it!" Parr moaned at the driver. "Hurry!" He slammed forward into the windshield, babbling. The terrified driver stepped down on the accelerator. The car leaped forward. Parr, fighting with all his strength, was twisted in agony, and blood trickled from his mouth. He gasped at the driver: "Cab. Behind. Trying to kill me." The driver was white-faced and full of movie chases and gangster headlines of shotgun killings, typical of Southern California. He had a good car under him, and he spun the wheel to the right, cutting into an alley; to the left, onto an intersecting alley; to the right, into a crosstown street; then he raced to beat a light. He lost the cab finally in a maze of heavy traffic at Spring. Parr was nearly unconscious, and he struggled desperately for air. _Run, run, run_, he thought despairingly, because two Oholos are ten times as deadly and efficient as one.... CHAPTER VIII D-Day minus four. General mailing day. Parr, his mind fatigued, his body tense, phoned the warehouse twice, and twice received enthusiastic reassurances behind which he could hear the hum and clatter of parcels being moved, trucks being loaded ... cursing and laughing and subdued shouting. How many hours now? His mind was clogged and stuffy and sluggish. An hour's sleep, ten minutes sleep--any time at all. If it could be spent in clear, cold, _real_ sleep. Eat, run. Always, now, he was running, afraid to stop longer than a few minutes. He needed time to _think_. And the pressure was steady. Get away. Leave Los Angeles! "Parr, Parr. This is Parr," he whispered hoarsely from the back seat of the moving cab into the comset. The rhythm of the engine, the gentle sleepy swaying of the car and the monotony of the buildings lulled him. He caught himself, shook his head savagely.