He knew that maps were usually stored in a compartment on the right-hand side of the dash panel. He released the catch, and the door popped open. Inside the compartment he found a wad of the crinkly receipts given to American drivers when they purchased gasoline on credit. There was an aspirin bottle with only a few tablets left inside, a pair of sunglasses, a box of facial tissues, a can opener, a woman’s compact, a comb, a roll of breath mints, two ball-point pens, several loose keys, assorted screws, and three maps.
One of the maps detailed the streets of Milwaukee. The others were for the states of Wisconsin and Illinois. Kuryakin discarded the Illinois map and spread the other two out on the seat beside him. He found his present location by matching the street names on a sign at the intersection to the grid of the Milwaukee map. On the state map he located the village of Wheeler and plotted the route he would have to take to get there.
Out on the street none of the people gathered around the dead man paid any attention to Kuryakin or to the automobile. Damaged and abandoned cars were no longer a novelty. And no one had time to notice an oddly dressed man climbing into one.
As a scientist of some repute in his native country, Kuryakin was privileged to have access to an automobile. The solid, sensible Ilyushin he drove on the streets of Moscow was a much simpler and sturdier machine than the gaudy American vehicle, but the principle was the same.
As a driver himself, and rather proud of his ability, Kuryakin had taken every opportunity on this visit to discuss the differences between Russian and American machines with the drivers assigned to his delegation. He thought the American cars were overly padded and contained too many controls and gauges that had little to do with the machine’s operation. However, he was too diplomatic to criticize an important product of the host country.
He tried now to remember the things he had learned. The engine, he recalled, was started by a twist of the key. The keys to this vehicle, in a shiny leather case, had been left dangling from the lock on the steering post by the doomed owner. Kuryakin gave the ignition key a twist as he had seen the American drivers do.
Nothing happened.
Kuryakin frowned at the controls. He must have forgotten something.
The gear lever; that was it. The pointer had to be in a specific location to allow the key to activate the ignition. Kuryakin experimented until he found that the P position freed the key switch. The engine came to life. He glanced out onto the street, but the only activity was around the body of the car’s late owner. Very carefully he moved the lever to the R position and backed the big automobile back onto the street. He shifted to D and eased forward past the knot of people and around a corner heading toward Highway 45.
While Anton Kuryakin picked his way carefully through the cluttered streets of Milwaukee toward the highway, Eddie Gault lay curled into a tense fetal position between the damp, twisted sheets of the bed he shared with Roanne Tesla.
The inside of Eddie’s head was on fire. It felt as if something were in there trying to push his eyeballs out. It seemed much longer than two days earlier that he was assuring Roanne that he felt just fine.
Eddie thought he knew all about pain. There was that impacted wisdom tooth a couple of years before. And the time he chopped off a toe splitting logs on his uncle’s farm. Or when he was hit in the balls by a line drive while pitching in high school. None of those times had hurt like this. And it was getting worse.
From out in the living room he heard the murmur of the television set. Roanne must be watching. She deserved a little time to herself. She had been at his side almost constantly, both during the short flu thing and now since the headaches had started. That day, though, he had noticed that she was looking at him a little bit sideways. Eddie thought he knew why.
He freed himself from the tangled sheets and pushed his feet out of the bed. He sat there for a minute, then stood up. Every movement he made hammered at his skull. Biting down hard to keep from crying, he walked unsteadily to the doorway leading into the living room.
On the television screen two people in white doctor coats were talking to one of those pretty-boy television reporters. One of the doctors was a young Oriental, and the other was a woman with big tits. Eddie listened for a minute and figured out that they were part of the group working out at the Biotron labs to find a cure for the brain eaters.
Their words came to Eddie filtered through the throbbing pain, but he got the sense of what they were saying. They had come up with some kind of a test where you could tell for sure from a person’s blood whether he had the brain eaters in him.
A small groan got away from him.
Roanne looked around and saw him standing there. She quickly got out of the chair and snapped off the television set. She made no move to come closer.
“Why did you shut it off?” he said.
“I thought it was disturbing you.”
“Those doctors said they’ve got a test for the brain eaters.”
“You know how doctors are. They’ll say anything to make it look like they’re accomplishing something. Why don’t you go back to bed, baby?”
“I think I got ‘em, Roanne. I think I got the brain eaters.”
She moved a hand as though to comfort him but came no nearer. “Don’t say that, Eddie. It’s just nerves.”
He pressed both hands to his temples. “No. Something’s in there. It hurts so bad, I can’t tell you.”
“Lie down, baby. I’ll make a poultice for your head.”
“It won’t do any good. Nothing’s going to do any good. I got ‘em.”
Roanne put a hand to her mouth and shook her head in denial.
“I want to go to the plant.”
“No, Eddie.”
“I want to see those doctors. Maybe they can do something for me.”
“They aren’t letting anybody in. They have guards at the gate.”
“They’ll let me in. They’ll do it because I’m the one who set the brain eaters free.”
“They think it was an accident.”
“I’m going to tell them it wasn’t.”
“You can’t do that,” Roanne said.
“I’ve got to. Then they’ll have to let me in. They’ll have to help me.”
“They’ll lock you up.”
“I’m going in,” Eddie said stubbornly.
“They’ll lock you up. Then they’ll come and get me.”
Eddie stared at her through pain-dimmed eyes. His tortured mind worked sluggishly. “That’s what you’re really scared of, isn’t it — that they’ll find out what you made me do. You don’t care about me at all.”
“That’s not true, Eddie. I love you.”
“Then why are you backing away from me?”
“I–I’ve never seen you acting like this before. You scare me.”
Eddie gripped his pounding head and rocked it from side to side as though it were something that didn’t belong on his body. “I’m going to see the doctors,” he said. “Don’t try to stop me.”
He stumbled across the room past Roanne. She shrank back against the wall as he fumbled at the knob, finally opening the front door.
He staggered out onto the patch of dirt in front of the house where they parked the van. Roanne watched as he pulled himself in behind the wheel and started the engine. He knocked over the mailbox as he turned onto the road and weaved off in the direction of the Biotron plant.
Roanne watched him drive out of sight, then left the window and picked up a newspaper. It was three days old, the last she had been able to buy. She frowned at the picture on the front page and the boxed caption next to it. Then she picked up the telephone.