George Barbarow
OUR LAST POET
He had been running steadily for two days since leaving the
car, and he had run for one day before getting in the car, so the time
was now about four days since he had made the break from J.F.'s of–
fice. It seemed in recollection that the first day had been the worst,
for then he had had the problem of learning to replenish his strength
and to do without food and water. And the worst night had been the
first night, when he and his pursuers, having "agreed" to go ahead
without stopping, had been committed to stay awake, albeit the three
of them did not run, but walked, during the hours of darkness.
The first day had been desperate, because then he had still be–
lieved he would be able to throw them off by superior speed and skill,
and he had attempted a number of ingenious tricks, such as hiding
behind rocks and diving into patches of woodland that they occasion–
ally passed along the road. However, since this was puzzle work, and
even the greatest puzzle could always be solved by second-rate minds,
he had seen them picking up the track by the infallible deductive
method, and unerringly making their way to his hiding place. Never–
theless, he had done this kind of dodging because it always seems
better to do something about one's plight than to stand helpless
in
plain sight.
It had been an absurd mistake to steal the car and drive it dan–
gerously at ninety miles an hour on the straight stretches, and even
more dangerously in the mountain passes on the endless, snakily
reversing curves. At first he had been sure that he had found a way to
outrun the pursuit (there was hardly another car like it for power in
three states), and so he had allowed himself to think once more of the
last interview with J.F., when the great man had suddenly revealed
himself for what he was. "What he was," of course, was what he was
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