Joe Carson glanced back uneasily at the two disheveled, unkempt figures pedaling along wearily behind him. He was returning home from the nearest drugstore, having purchased there all the latest science-fiction magazines he could lay his hands on. The mysterious strangers had appeared suddenly from a side-street, four blocks back, and had clung doggedly to his trail, from that point on. Joe didn't know what they were up to, but he was keeping a wary eye on them.
Harl and Kir-Um had performed a somewhat remarkable feat in driving two stolen bicycles across three hundred odd miles of steaming, strength-sapping, concrete highways and bumpy, bone-dry country lanes, that weren't much more than wagon-ruts through the woods. They had made many false starts and had fallen prey to numerous mishaps, such as punctures and broken spokes. They had subsisted on berries, small game and whatever food they could glean from a farmer's field. Since they had not yet mastered the tongue of these Earth people, they couldn't ask for food at the small road-stands that dotted the way. Nor could they ask directions to their destination. But, by dint of stubborn adherence to their purpose, they had, at last, arrived at the little, prosaic town of Majestic. Covered with dust from head to foot and ready to topple, from sheer exhaustion, they made their way through the streets, feeling a dull conviction of defeat growing within them. For they were unable to read the names of the streets or the numbers of the houses lined tidily along each side, like proud soldiers. It was night again and the uncompromising gloom only added to their despair. The glaring street-lamps winked gleefully at their plight and cast strange shadows to confuse their tired minds. The plain natives who passed them paid no attention to the Martians. Being of a farming community, they were used to seeing men encrusted with dirt and grime, going home to a hard-earned night's rest.
Harl and Kir-Um were about ready to concede failure, when they had turned from a side-street into the main thoroughfare. There, a thought impinged upon their ever-receptive minds that lent new zest to their sinking spirits. The reflection they received was:
"Boy! You're a lucky stiff, Joe Carson. You'll sure have some good reading tonight!"
Joe Carson! The name struck a vibrant chord in their brains and sent a feeling of elation surging through their bodies. Here was the object of their quest. The person whom they had travelled across scores of miles of terrifying, unfamiliar terrain to find.
Immediately they took up a close orbit in his wake, determined not to lose this brilliant inventor of strange weapons in the darkness of the night.
Joe was at once aware of his shadows, but he thought perhaps they merely happened to be going his way. As block followed block, however, with no let-up of the pursuit, he began to suspicion a dire purpose behind their actions.
Harl and Kir-Um were slowly overtaking the object of their chase, making no attempt to conceal themselves. Squeezing out every last bit of energy, they matched pace with Joe, as he speeded up his pedaling in an effort to pull away.
Joe was beginning to get a little bit scared. What could he have that the strangers would want? Certainly not his bike, for it was worth only a few dollars and had just about seen the end of its years of usefulness. He laughed mentally at the fantastic thought that maybe they were after his science-fiction magazines. Then, what?