Rudy stretched out flat on the ground, closed his eyes, relaxed as completely as he could, and held his breath for a moment. Then he began to count slowly, «One-two-three-» exhaling and inhaling in time with the count. When he had counted to ten three times, his breathing was near normal and his heart had ceased its wild palpitating. He kept his eyes shut, waiting, and the voice spoke to him again.

He had done well-oh, but werry goot! He had remembered that shock was the big killer; shock first, infection second. If one gave way to shock, even a very minor wound could prove fatal.

"But, Max-" Rudy knew a momentary return of panic. "It ain't minor! He wasn't ten feet away, and he shot me straight through the…"

Rudy sat up. A hoarse laugh welled in his throat. Shot through the ticker? Why, hell, if that had happened he wouldn't be alive! He examined his torso again, wondering just what had happened and how.

The riddle remained one to an extent; rather, it had a bit of miracle mixed up in it. The metal-sheathed tip of the holster had obviously deflected the bullet ever so slightly, while it had been further deflected by the iron-hard botch of broken bones and cartilage that formed his rib cage. But still he was very lucky to be alive. And the wound was still nothing to laugh off.

Extending from a point immediately over his heart, the flesh had been furrowed bone-deep across his chest and halfway around the left side of his body. Probably because of the way he had fallen-his chest arching against his clothes and holster strap-he had bled relatively little, much less at any rate than he normally would have. But movement had opened the wound wide now, and he was losing blood at a dangerous rate.

He made a bandage with his undershirt, binding it tight with his belt and holster strap. That helped, but not much; nor did it help much more when he added his socks and handkerchief to the bandage. He had one thing left-two things rather-readily available for putting over the wound. The two thick sheafs of bills he had sequestered from the bank loot. But if he used them, got them bloody-and they probably wouldn't do a damned bit of good anyway…

Huh-uh. He had to keep that dough. As long as he had dough and a gun and a car-but above all, the dough-well, he had a chance. To live. To catch up with Doc and Carol. Beyond that-catching up with and killing them-he couldn't think at the moment. It seemed both a means and an end to him. In their deaths, somehow, he would find life for himself.

He climbed weakly into the car and gunned the motor, sending the vehicle roaring up and out of the creek bed and onto the road in a skidding series of jumps and jounces. It was the way it had to be. He lacked the strength for reconnoitering, the strength and the time. All he could do was come up fast, and hope for the best.

His luck held; no one was passing on the road. Luck continued with him as he skirted Beacon City's outer streets and took to the highway again on the other side. Then swiftly, with his blood, it began to flow away.

He fumbled in the glove compartment of the car, took out a half-filled pint of whiskey. He took a cautious drink, then feeling warmed and stronger, a bigger one. He capped the bottle with one hand, dug cigarettes from his pocket. He found one that was still usable and lit up, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. Suddenly, for no reason-except that he was drunk-he guffawed.

Laughing, he took another drink, another long puff on the cigarette. Abruptly the bottle fell from his hand, and the car swerved crazily toward the ditch.

The cigarette saved him. As he fought to avoid the ditch, he jammed the burning butt between his palm and the steering wheel, and the pain screamed his mind awake, gave it the complete alertness that it needed. But it began to fade almost as soon as it came. He was conscious; then surely, swiftly, he was losing consciousness again.

"_Foolish Rudy. So little blood he has, and he mixes that with alcohol!_"

Rudy brought the car to a weaving stop. Awkwardly, gasping with weakness, he raised and turned himself in the seat, reached down onto the rear floor. His fingers found what they were seeking. Closing them with shaky tightness, he flopped down into the seat again.

The two sandwiches were dry and stale. The coffee in the vacuum bottle was cold and tasted sour. But Rudy consumed all of it, and all of the food.

Had to eat when you were losing blood. Had to pack the chow down to come off a jag. Had to-had to…

Had to get to a doctor.

He was driving again. He could not remember starting up, but the wind was whipping into his face and the highway was leaping madly beneath the car.

"D-doctor," he mumbled drowsily. "Got tuh hurry'n see a-see Doc an'…"

Awareness flooded over him again. He cursed savagely, bitterly, his dark face contorting into a baffled scowl.

How could he go to a doctor? There'd be other people around; patients, a nurse, maybe the guy's wife. And even if he could take care of them and get treated, then what? So, sure, he'd bump off the sawbones as soon as the job was done, but that wouldn't help. Doctors were busy guys. People were always calling on them, dropping in on them, and…

"_Not necessarily, my poy! Not with a certain kind of doctor. Oh, perhaps he vould haf calls. But they would be relatively few, and the callers being under no such dire necessity as would prevail in_…"

Rudy brushed the sweat from his eyes. He began to slacken his speed, to study the occasional R.F.D. mailboxes at the side of the highway.

Country doctor? Was that it? Huh-uh. Country docs didn't live in the country. Right in town, same's any other kind. And if one of 'em was killed or missing, the heat'd be on fast. Faster than fast this close to that bank job. Wouldn't take no Eddie Hoover to figure out that-that…

The highway began to blur; everything began to blur, to sink into a kind of gray fuzziness. He crouched forward over the wheel, brushing constantly at his eyes.Just before he lost consciousness completely, he turned into a side road.

He could remember doing nothing after that, yet he did a great deal. As much as he would have if he had been fully aware of his reactions. The frightful present no longer existed; he was reborn, free of all fear and the hideous savagery which festered in it. For Little Max was with him. Max Vonderscheid of the leonine head and the dwarfed, hunchbacked body. And he was laughing in a way he had never laughed before, or since.

"Aw, haw, haw! Now you're kidding me again, you little old Dutch bugger, you!"

"_But vot iss so funny, my poor paranoid friend? You should read Jonathan Svift. It viii gif you a better perspective_.

"_Vy not? Der schooling has many parallels. Even it might be said that he must know much more of medicine and anatomy than your proud M.D. The basic difference? Only that der patients are usually more deserfing and inwariably less demanding_."

Rudy came back into consciousness as quickly as he had gone out of it.

He was awake-and considerably refreshed-the moment the other car turned into the side road.

He had crouched down on the floorboards before passing out, lying on the seat from the waist up. Thus he could not be seen, unless someone peered directly into the car. And now he remained hidden, making no move except to firm the grip on the gun he had kept in his hand.

No move was necessary. He had already done everything that could be done in just such an emergency. Both windows on the left side were rolled down. The right wheels were parked on the edge of the roadside ditch. The rearview mirror was twisted to an angle which permitted him to see without raising his head.

It was a black-and-white patrol car. There were two men in it, one young, one middle-aged; apparently a rookie and a regular. They got out on opposite sides of the vehicle and started forward that way. Hands on gun butts, they kept well apart from one another. Moving up on the suspect objective from different directions.