The fugitive buried his own clothes with the
murdered man, and donned the faded blue shirt, rough shoes, worn
trousers and jacket. The blaster he concealed under the jacket, and he
kept a few other Hundredth Century gadgets; these he would hide
somewhere closer to his center of operations.
He had kept, among other things, a small box of food-concentrate
capsules, and in one pocket of the newly acquired jacket he found a
package containing food. It was rough and unappetizing fare--slices of
cold cooked meat between slices of some cereal substance. He ate these
before filling in the grave, and put the paper wrappings in with the
dead man. Then, his work finished, he threw the mattock into the brush
and set out again, grimacing disgustedly and scratching himself. The
clothing he had appropriated was verminous.
Crossing another mountain, he descended into a second valley, and, for a
time, lost his way among a tangle of narrow ravines. It was dark by the
time he mounted a hill and found himself looking down another valley, in
which a few scattered lights gave evidence of human habitations. Not
wishing to arouse suspicion by approaching these in the night-time, he
found a place among some young evergreens where he could sleep.
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