THE FUGITIVES
By Malcolm B. Morehart, Jr.
Somehow Jeff Engel followed the stranger
into another world—among people who hated all
aliens. And of course, he was now one himself!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
September 1953
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff Engel studied the feverish crowd hurrying through the subway turnstiles. As he checked each passing face against a card-index mind, he smiled to himself. Even when off duty, the habit persisted. There was always the chance he'd spot a face that would fit, one that would close another active file in Missing Persons Bureau.
A mousey little guy slipped through a turnstile and bumped into a fat woman shopper. Engel glanced at the thin apologetic face and then at a briefcase bearing the faded initials, "C. G." As a train rumbled in and the noise of the commuters rose, something glinted at Engel's feet. He bent down, curious.
It was a cheap fountain pen inscribed with the same initials. He caught a glimpse of the stranger on the crowded subway stairs.
"Wait a minute, mister!" he yelled.
When C. G. didn't turn, Engel hesitated, then pounded up the stairs into dazzling sunlight. He squinted around at people and then over low bushes into the city park where he saw the little fellow walking briskly. Annoyed, Engel trotted down a shady walk, then down a quiet lane and finally reached out to tap his shoulder.