Then a new assault, but it was too late. He held it until the cab outdistanced it. She renewed the pressure and he could think again. And he knew, in the back of his mind, that soon now they would meet. And he shuddered, wondering of the outcome.
He was sick. Unbelievably, she had outguessed him. She had guessed he would flee away from the obvious to the other extreme.
His breathing was hoarse and painful, and he thought comfortingly of his home planet; a small planet with a low sky; incredibly blue, a trading station far removed from Earth, satisfyingly deep in the Empire. As a boy he had often gone to the space port to watch the ships. He remembered how he had stood watching their silvery beauty and their naked violence. He had always been very excited by them. Always. And they were a symbol of Empire.
After the cab driver had spoken to him several times he roused himself to say, "A hotel, any hotel."
It was luck he knew, that he had been beyond effective range. She might have guessed the correct slum hotel and stood below his window.
His mind was foggy and befuddled.
And he had been hurt. Much more than mentally hurt. More than physically hurt. He wanted to hurt something in return. Only now he was too tired.
He relaxed in the seat, listened to the hiss of tires. He would be able to sleep tonight. She could not figure out his next move, predicted on random selection.
In his new hotel room he found that his body stung and itched.