They lifted him and began to move, sliding forward at an incredible pace up the long corridor and toward the beckoning iris of an opening door.
XII
Once again, he was fleeing.
Always on the run, he thought bitterly, as the mutant horse flashed over the prairie, its six legs pistoning as it drew away from Winslow's men.
The City had been considerate; the City had been kind. The teardrop-vehicle had not deposited him sprawling at Winslow's feet, and for that mercy Kesley had to be grateful.
The four implacable robots had carried him effortlessly toward the opening door; the uncomplaining horse had already been led through the opening and into the waiting vehicle. Still yelling, Kesley had been crammed into the silvery vehicle, and it had started away from the confines of the City.
Winslow's men were advancing steadily. The City had ejected Kesley to save its own titanium skin, its own guts of transistors and cryotrons.
He was ejected from the vehicle and left in the midst of the hot sands, with Winslow's men still a distant green-and-gold blur on the horizon. For a moment Kesley had stood there uncertainly, staring back at the City that had cast him forth; then, mounting his wobbly-legged horse, he began to ride.
He headed north, back the way he came. Winslow had obviously pursued him through Illinois, perhaps tracked him from Mutie City to the Colony to Wiener—but the City had avoided disaster by ejecting him.