The Stutterer | Page 9

uncertain
where to turn. Two men talking loudly came around the corner
suddenly and he stepped back into a store entrance to avoid them. They
stopped directly in front of him. One of them, an overalled farm hand
from his looks, said, "He killed a kid just a little while ago. My
brother-in-law heard it."
"Murderer," the other said viciously.
The farmer turned his head and his glance fell on Hall. "Well, a new
face in town," he said after a moment's inspection. "Say I bet you're a
reporter from one of the papers, aren't you?"
Hall came out of the entrance and tried to walk around the two men, but
the farmer caught him by the sleeve.
"A reporter, huh? Well, I got some news for you. That thing from
Grismet just killed a kid."
Hall could restrain himself no longer.
"That's a lie," he said coldly.
The farmer looked him up and down.
"What do you know about it," he demanded. "My brother-in-law got it
from somebody in the state guard."
"It's still a lie."
"Just because it's not on the teledepth, you say it's a lie," the farmer said
belligerently. "Not everything is told on the teledepth, Mr. Wiseheimer.
They're keeping it a secret. They don't want to scare the people."
Hall started to walk away, but the farmer blocked his path.
"Who are you anyway? Where do you live? I never saw you before," he
said suspiciously.

"Aw, Randy," his companion said, "don't go suspecting everybody."
"I don't like anyone to call me a liar."
Hall stepped around the man in his path, and turned down the street. He
was boiling inside with an almost uncontrollable fury.
* * * * *
A few feet away, catastrophe suddenly broke loose. A faulty section of
the sidewalk split without warning under his feet and he went pitching
forward into the street. He clutched desperately at the trunk of a tall
palm tree, but with a loud snap, it broke, throwing him head on into a
parked road car. The entire front end of the car collapsed like an egg
shell under his weight.
For a long moment, the entire street was dead quiet. With difficulty,
Hall pulled himself to his feet. Pale, astonished faces were staring at
him from all sides.
Suddenly the farmer started screaming. "That's him. I knew it. That's
him." He was jumping up and down with excitement.
Hall turned his back and walked in the other direction. The people in
front of him faded away, leaving a clear path.
He had gone a dozen steps when a man with a huge double-barreled
shotgun popped out from a store front just ahead. He aimed for the
middle of Hall's chest and fired both barrels.
The blast and the shot struck Hall squarely, burning a large hole in his
shirt front. He did not change his pace, but continued step by step.
The man with the gun snatched two shells out of his pocket and
frantically tried to reload. Hall reached out and closed his hand over the
barrel of the gun and the blue steel crumpled like wet paper.
From across the street, someone was shooting at him with a rifle.
Several times a bullet smacked warmly against his head or his back.

He continued walking slowly up the street. At its far end several men
appeared dragging a small howitzer--probably the only piece in the
local armory. They scurried around it, trying to get it aimed and loaded.
"Fools. Stupid fools," Hall shouted at them.
The men could not seem to get the muzzle of the gun down, and when
he was a dozen paces from it they took to their heels. He tore the heavy
cannon off of its carriage and with one blow of his fist caved it in. He
left it lying in the street broken and useless.
Almost as suddenly as it came, his anger left him. He stopped and
looked back at the people cringing in the doorways.
"You poor, cruel fools," Hall said again.
He sat down in the middle of the street on the twisted howitzer barrel
and buried his head in his hands. There was nothing else for him to do.
He knew that in just a matter of seconds, the ships with their
permallium nets and snares would be on him.
* * * * *
Since Jordan's ship was not large enough to transport Jon Hall's great
weight back to Grismet, the terrestrial government put at the agent's
disposal a much heavier vessel, one room of which had been hastily
lined with permallium and outfitted as a prison cell. A pilot by the
name of Wilkins went with the ship. He was a battered old veteran,
given to cigar smoking, clandestine drinking and card playing.