Walt said, "Fire?"
"Yeah. The speed limit in this town is thirty miles an hour. Where's the fire? Let's see your license."
Walt considered this information. He removed the air from this policeman's lungs; from the lungs of the policeman in the car. When they were very unconscious, he let them have air again. He experimented with a few buttons until he found the reverse. He backed up a few yards, circled out around the police car, and continued. The policemen were still unconscious.
Mr. Green, the producer, stopped in front of the bank. With hurried thanks, Julia scrambled out.
Pathetically he called after her: "But we could—"
Inside the revolving doors, she pattered across the inlaid floor to the teller's cage still open for business. If I can just get out of here alive! she thought. The high, vaulted ceiling—dim and shadowy above the cool lights—seemed to echo her thoughts: get out of here alive, get out alive, alive.
She gave her name crisply and fumbled in her handbag for identification.
"I want to withdraw my money."
"Yes, Miss. Your account is with this branch?"