Dimly he could understand the logic advising him to remain in the city. But it was not an emotional understanding and it lacked the sharpness of reality. For now the two Oholos could follow him easily, determining his distance and direction. If he left Los Angeles, the focus of the invasion, it would be difficult to return after postal delivery. After the invasion it would be nearly impossible. It would give the Oholos added time to run him down. But to remain.... His body could not stand the physical strain of four more days of continual flight, around, around, up Main--to the suburbs--to the ocean--back to Main again--down the speedway to Pasadena and through Glendale to Main. Change cabs and do it all over again. "Yes?" the Advanceship said. "I'm ... leaving. I've got to leave. I've got to." And suddenly, in addition to the other consideration, he was afraid to be there when the invasion hit. Was it because he was afraid they knew of his treason? Or ... was it because ... he liked the buildings? Strangely, he did not want to see the buildings made rubble.... The answer: "You have a job to do." "It's done!" he cried in anguish. "Everything's scheduling. In a few hours now it'll be all over. I can't do anymore here." A pause. "You better stay. You'll be safer there." "I _can't_!" Parr sobbed. "They'll catch me!" "Wait." A honk. The purr of the engine. Clang. Bounce. Red and green lights. "... If the mailings are secure, you have the Ship's permission. Do whatever you like." Expendable. Parr put the comset in his coat pocket and cowered into the seat. "Turn right!" he said suddenly to the driver. "Now ... now.... Right again!" He bounced. He closed his eyes, resting them. "Out Hill," he said wearily without opening his eyes. He withstood an irritated mental assault. They were tiring. But not as fast as he was. * * * * * The silent pursuit: three cars out of the multitudes, doggedly twisting and turning through the Los Angeles streets--separated by blocks, even by miles, but bound by an unseen thread that was unbreakable. "I gotta eat, buddy." Parr drew himself erect. "A phone! Take me to a phone!" The taxi ground to a stop in a service station. Nervously, Parr began to phone airports. Three quarters of his mind was on his pursuers. On the third try he got promise of an immediate private plane. "Have it ready!" he ordered. Then, dropping the receiver he ran from the station to the cab. He jockeyed for nearly thirty minutes for position. Then he commanded the driver to abandon the intricate inter-weaving and head directly for the airport in Santa Monica. Shortly, the two other cars swung in line, down Wilshire. * * * * *