Dillon, the place she trained to and from was one hour and ten minutes away, the train that took her there left on Track 17 lower level--and he felt as if he'd been pulled through a wringer.
12
He knew he was taking a chance. Stations are dangerous places to frequent, for those in hiding.
He came down the broad stairs from the upper level, chin ducked to shirt front, to conceal at least the lower part of his face. It was about the safest hour he could have picked, five forty-five A. M. The huge place was at its emptiest; there was less chance of unfriendly eyes spotting him than at almost any other time of the night or day. Conversely, his peril was increased by that very fact. He was conspicuous; there wasn't any crowd to blend in with; it was like being alone on a vast stage. You're bound to attract whatever eyes there are.
He was here at the exact hour of her departure the day before, because that was the only way to make sure the train going out now on 17 would have an identical schedule to hers.
There were a handful of forlorn, sleepy-looking travelers scattered about on the benches, idle redcap or two hanging about. Since he wasn't carrying anything, they didn't approach him.
He worked his way back along the gates, from the high numbers to the low. 23, 21, 19. There it was, 17, with the schedule of its next departure conveniently posted up alongside it. He sidled onto a bench opposite it, and studied the list of stops. No arrival hours were given, only the time of departure from here, 6 A. M., so he saw he'd have to work it out by a process of elimination.
He looked guardedly around, and when the entire marble floor of the huge place was at its clearest, no one crossing it, he got up again and went over to the gateman. He picked a name at random from the board, the exact middle one, the halfway point of the trip.
"What time does this train get to Clayburgh?"
"Six fifty-five."
A quarter of an hour too near. He dropped down to the next one.
"What time does it hit Meredith?"
"Seven-five."
Not it yet. It must be the next one.
"How about New Jericho?"
The gateman was getting restive. "Seven-ten," he said gruffly. His look said, "How much longer you going to keep this up?"
Townsend was through. He turned away. He'd hit the place. New Jericho was where she came and went from.
He was one step farther on the way. Now be must get out of here again as safely as he'd come in--
13
Thursday again. Two voices in the dark again. The game of love and tightrope walking again.
He'd charted his course ahead of time, before she came. The things he'd found out filled him with an insatiable passion to lift the curtain higher. He was like a man who has taken a long, tranquil voyage, and finds himself mad with impatience during the last hour before he will be home again.
There were two main things to be elicited tonight. Two things that must be kept in sight, like twin lanterns far down a tunnel, no matter what tortuous passages they went through. -Where- had it happened? -When- had it happened?
The place. The date. Then he could go on from there. Those were the two factors of the equation he needed, Once he had them, he could work out the answer. He must get them.
Even as his lips touched hers, his mind kept ticking off: -where- and -when?- -Where- and -when?-
She got up, crossed the room to lower the shade.
Where and when? Where and when? Where and when?.
When she came back, she hesitated a moment before rejoining him. As though some spark of resentment had fanned itself alight within her, during her brief absence. He could tell. Couples are almost telepathic at such times.
"What're you sore about?" he murmured in the dark.
"Who's Virginia?"
He swallowed, unseen. "I don't know. Where'd you get that name from?"
"From you."
"You're hearing things."
Where, and when? Where, and when? Where,
12
He knew he was taking a chance. Stations are dangerous places to frequent, for those in hiding.
He came down the broad stairs from the upper level, chin ducked to shirt front, to conceal at least the lower part of his face. It was about the safest hour he could have picked, five forty-five A. M. The huge place was at its emptiest; there was less chance of unfriendly eyes spotting him than at almost any other time of the night or day. Conversely, his peril was increased by that very fact. He was conspicuous; there wasn't any crowd to blend in with; it was like being alone on a vast stage. You're bound to attract whatever eyes there are.
He was here at the exact hour of her departure the day before, because that was the only way to make sure the train going out now on 17 would have an identical schedule to hers.
There were a handful of forlorn, sleepy-looking travelers scattered about on the benches, idle redcap or two hanging about. Since he wasn't carrying anything, they didn't approach him.
He worked his way back along the gates, from the high numbers to the low. 23, 21, 19. There it was, 17, with the schedule of its next departure conveniently posted up alongside it. He sidled onto a bench opposite it, and studied the list of stops. No arrival hours were given, only the time of departure from here, 6 A. M., so he saw he'd have to work it out by a process of elimination.
He looked guardedly around, and when the entire marble floor of the huge place was at its clearest, no one crossing it, he got up again and went over to the gateman. He picked a name at random from the board, the exact middle one, the halfway point of the trip.
"What time does this train get to Clayburgh?"
"Six fifty-five."
A quarter of an hour too near. He dropped down to the next one.
"What time does it hit Meredith?"
"Seven-five."
Not it yet. It must be the next one.
"How about New Jericho?"
The gateman was getting restive. "Seven-ten," he said gruffly. His look said, "How much longer you going to keep this up?"
Townsend was through. He turned away. He'd hit the place. New Jericho was where she came and went from.
He was one step farther on the way. Now be must get out of here again as safely as he'd come in--
13
Thursday again. Two voices in the dark again. The game of love and tightrope walking again.
He'd charted his course ahead of time, before she came. The things he'd found out filled him with an insatiable passion to lift the curtain higher. He was like a man who has taken a long, tranquil voyage, and finds himself mad with impatience during the last hour before he will be home again.
There were two main things to be elicited tonight. Two things that must be kept in sight, like twin lanterns far down a tunnel, no matter what tortuous passages they went through. -Where- had it happened? -When- had it happened?
The place. The date. Then he could go on from there. Those were the two factors of the equation he needed, Once he had them, he could work out the answer. He must get them.
Even as his lips touched hers, his mind kept ticking off: -where- and -when?- -Where- and -when?-
She got up, crossed the room to lower the shade.
Where and when? Where and when? Where and when?.
When she came back, she hesitated a moment before rejoining him. As though some spark of resentment had fanned itself alight within her, during her brief absence. He could tell. Couples are almost telepathic at such times.
"What're you sore about?" he murmured in the dark.
"Who's Virginia?"
He swallowed, unseen. "I don't know. Where'd you get that name from?"
"From you."
"You're hearing things."
Where, and when? Where, and when? Where,
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