THE LAST TRESPASSER
By JIM HARMON
There was nothing wrong with
him that a Rider could not cure ...
and the rougher, the better!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They would not believe Malloy was alone in there, in the padded cell. That made it worse.
Malloy was in his month for lying on his stomach to avoid bed sores. He was walking from Peoria, Illinois, to Detroit, Michigan, currently and he had just reached Chicago. It was fine to see State Street again, and the jewelry stores stuck in the alcoves of churches with the handsomely barred windows.
A man in Army-surplus green with an old library book was asking for carfare to a hiring hall when they began opening the door.