e.

Then I was out and free of them all, out of the woods and running like a
deer. I cursed the car with its blown out tire; the old crate had been a
fine bus, nicely broken in and conveniently fast. But it was as useful
to me now as a pair of skids.

A couple of them behind me caught on and gave chase. I heard cries for
me to stop, which I ignored like any sensible man. Someone cut loose
with a roar; the big slug from the Express whipped past and went
_Sprang!_ off a rock somewhere ahead.

It only added a few more feet per second to my flight. If they were
going to play that rough, I didn't care to stay.

I fired an unaimed shot over my shoulder, which did no good at all
except for lifting my morale. I hoped that it would slow them a bit, but
if it did I couldn't tell. Then I leaped over a ditch and came upon a
cluster of cars. I dug at them as I approached and selected one of the
faster models that still had its key dangling from the lock.

I was in and off and away as fast as a scared man can move. They were
still yelling and fighting in the woods when I raced out of my range.

* * * * *

The heap I'd jumped was a Clinton Special with rock-like springs and a
low slung frame that hugged the ground like a clam. I was intent upon
putting as many miles as I could between me and the late engagement in
as short a time as possible, and the Clinton seemed especially apt until
I remembered that the figure 300 on the dial meant kilometers instead of
miles per hour. Then I let her out a bit more and tried for the end of
the dial. The Clinton tried with me, and I had to keep my esper
carefully aimed at the road ahead because I was definitely overdriving
my eyesight and reaction-time.

I was so intent upon making feet that I did not notice the jetcopter
that came swooping down over my head until the howl of its vane-jets
raised hell with my eardrums. Then I slowed the car and lifted my
perception at the same time for a quick dig.

The jetcopter was painted Policeman Blue and it sported a large
gold-leaf on its side, and inside the cabin were two hard-faced
gentlemen wearing uniforms with brass buttons and that Old Bailey look
in their eye. The one on the left was jingling a pair of handcuffs.

They passed over my head at about fifteen feet, swooped on past by a
thousand, and dropped a road-block bomb. It flared briefly and let out
with a billow of thick red smoke.

I leaned on the brake