Mooney stalled: "I—I think we'd better go along this way. It ought to be down there—"
He cursed himself. Why hadn't he gone in the main entrance, where there was sure to be a cop? Harse would never have known the difference. But there was the artist in him that wanted the thing done perfectly, and so he had held to the pretense of avoiding police, had skulked and hidden. And now—
"Look!" he whispered, pointing.
Harse spat soundlessly and turned his eyes where Mooney was pointing.
Yes. Under a distant light, a moving figure, swinging a nightstick.
Mooney took a deep breath and planted a hand between Harse's shoulder blades.
"Run!" he yelled at the top of his voice, and shoved. He sounded so real, he almost convinced himself. "We'll have to split up—I'll meet you there. Now run!"
VI
Oh, clever Mooney! He crouched under a snowy tree, watching the man from the future speed effortlessly away ... in the wrong direction.