A long black car came up behind him, its searchlight probing into doors and alleys. Was it the police?
"That's him!" cried the shrill, unnerving voice of one of Dennison's pursuers.
Dennison ducked into a narrow alley between buildings, raced down it and into the next street.
There were two cars on that street, at either end of the block, their headlights shining toward each other, moving slowly to trap him in the middle. The alley gleamed with light now, from the first car's headlights shining down it. He was surrounded.
Dennison raced to the nearest apartment building and yanked at the door. It was locked. The two cars were almost even with him. And, looking at them, Dennison remembered the unpleasant jog his memory had given him earlier.
The two cars were hearses.
The men in the subway, with their solemn faces, solemn clothing, subdued neckties, shrill, indignant voices—they had reminded him of undertakers. They had been undertakers!
Of course! Of course! Oil companies might want to block the invention of a cheap new fuel which could put them out of business; steel corporations might try to stop the development of an inexpensive, stronger-than-steel plastic ...
And the production of an immortality serum would put the undertakers out of business.