Evidently another newcomer, he thought.
Most new arrivals from the north would pass through the same area on their way downtown.
He entered the cab, closed the door softly, and ducked low behind the dashboard as three cyclists raced across the intersection just ahead.
Paul settled down to wait for the all-clear. It came after about ten minutes.
Apparently the newcomer had tried to run instead of hiding.
When the cyclists returned, they were moving leisurely, and laughing among themselves.
After they had passed the intersection, Paul stole quietly out of the cab and moved along the wall to the corner, to assure himself that all the patrolmen had gone.
But the sound of shrill pleading came to his ears.
At the end of the building, he clung close to the wall and risked a glance around the corner.
A block away, the nude figure of a girl was struggling between taut ropes held by green-shirted guards.
She was a pretty girl, with a tousled mop of chestnut hair and clean white limbs—clean except for her forearms, which appeared dipped in dark stain.
Then he saw the dark irregular splotch across her flank, like a splash of ink not quite washed clean.
She was a dermie.
Paul ducked close to the ground so that his face was hidden by a clump of grass at the corner.
A man—the leader of the group—had left the girl, and was advancing up the street toward Paul, who prepared to roll under the building out of sight.
But in the middle of the block, the man stopped.
He lifted a manhole cover in the pavement, then went back for the girl’s clothing, which he dragged at the end of a fishing pole with a wire hook at its tip.
He dropped the clothing, one piece at a time into the manhole.
A cloud of white dust arose from it, and the man stepped back to avoid the dust.
Quicklime, Paul guessed.
Then the leader cupped his hands to his mouth and called back to the others. “Okay, drag her on up here!” He drew his revolver and waited while they tugged the struggling girl toward the manhole.
Paul felt suddenly ill.
He had seen dermies shot in self-defense by fugitives from their deathly gray hands, but here was cold and efficient elimination.
Here was Dachau and Buchenwald and the nameless camps of Siberia.
He turned and bolted for the truck.
The sound of its engine starting brought a halt to the disposal of the pest-girl.
The leader appeared at the intersection and stared uncertainly at the truck, as Paul nosed it away from the building.
He fidgeted with his revolver doubtfully, and called something over his shoulder to the others. Then he began walking out into the street and signaling for the truck to stop.
Paul let it crawl slowly ahead, and leaned out the window to eye the man questioningly.
“How the hell you get that started?” the leader called excitedly.
He was still holding the pistol, but it dangled almost unnoticed in his hand.
Paul suddenly fed fuel to the diesel and swerved sharply toward the surprised guardsman.
The leader yelped and dived for safety, but the fender caught his hips, spun him off balance, and smashed him down against the pavement.
As the truck thundered around the corner toward the girl and her captors, he glanced in the mirror to see the hurt man weakly trying to crawl out of the street. Paul was certain that he was not mortally wounded.
As the truck lumbered on, the girl threw herself prone before it, since the ropes prevented any escape.
Paul swerved erratically, sending the girl’s captors scurrying for the alley.
Then he aimed the wheels to straddle her body.
She glanced up, screamed, then hugged the pavement as the behemoth thundered overhead.
A bullet ploughed a furrow across the hood.
Paul ducked low in the seat and jammed the brake pedal down, as soon as he thought she was clear.
There were several shots, but apparently they were shooting at the girl.
Paul counted three seconds, then gunned the engine again.
If she hadn’t climbed aboard, it was just tough luck, he thought grimly.
He shouldn’t have tried to save her anyway.
But continued shooting told him that she had managed to get inside.
The trailer was heaped with clothing, and he trusted the mound of material to halt the barrage of bullets.
He heard the explosion of a blowout as he swung around the next corner, and the trailer lurched dangerously.
It swayed from side to side as he gathered speed down the wide and trafficless avenue.
But the truck had double wheels, and soon the dangerous lurching ceased. He roared on through the metropolitan area, staying on the same street and gathering speed.
An occasional scrounger or cyclist stopped to stare, but they seemed too surprised to act.