But the figure of the runner and his own failures to
find more about the disease kept haunting Doc. He began setting up his
equipment grimly.
"Better get some sleep," Jake suggested. "You're a mite more tired than
you think. Anyhow, I thought you told me you couldn't do any more with
what you've got."
Feldman looked at the supplies he had spread out, and shook his head
wearily. He'd been over every chemical and combination a dozen times,
without results that showed in the limited magnification of the optical
mike.
He snapped the case shut and hit the rude table with the heel of his
hand. "There are other supplies. Jake, do you have any signal to get in
touch with Molly at the Ryan house?"
"Three raps on the rear left window. I'll get Lou."
"No!" Doc came to his feet, reaching for his jacket. "They're looking
for three men now. It's safer if I go alone--and I'm the only one who
knows what supplies are needed. With luck, I may even get the electron
mike. Got a gun I can borrow?"
Jake found one somewhere, an old revolver with a few loads. He began
protesting, but Doc overruled him sharply. Three men could no more fight
off the police than one, if they were spotted. He swung toward the
tractor.
"You'd better start spreading the word on everything we know. If people
realize they're already safe or doomed it'll be better than having them
going crazy to avoid contagion.
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