The minutes passed. No patrol car sirened at them. There was not, indeed, much traffic at this time of a Thursday. As they fled south, onto the old two-lane highway, the sky grew overcast.
"Nuts," said Guido. "There'll be fog along the coast. We'll have to crawl. Let's turn back."
"No," said Kintyre. "Keep going."
Guido stole an indignant look at him. "Wait a second," he began.
"Keep going, I said!" Kintyre roared it.
Guido started. Then, shrugging, he gave his attention back to the road. "Is it that important?" he asked.
Kintyre didn't answer because he didn't know. He sat hunched into passivity, not caring how fast they went or if they crashed. It shouldn't matter to him where he was taken. But it did. He couldn't tell why—damn that fouled subconscious of mine, anyway! But it was like a hand upon him.
Perhaps it was only that he had to get back for a while to the great shouting decency of the ocean.
"You're a funny one, Doc," said Guido after a long time.
"Aren't we all?"