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Why did the idea unnerve him then? Had be really read too many thrillers, seen too many movies? The hero surrenders himself, seeking help, and the authorities he surrenders to promptly turn him over to the bad guys.
    “Oh, shit,” he muttered. Still, he couldn’t make himself accept the notion of giving himself up to the police. He hadn’t theremotest idea what was going on but he sensed that it was dangerous, that he had to be careful.
    ***
    There were no cars parked in front of his mother’s house. Meaninglessly, his brain reversed itself. They wouldn’t show themselves out in the open. They could be blocks down, telescopes directed at his mother’s house. He suddenly felt stupid for driving directly toward her house in a car that by now had to be totally identifiable.
    “
Damn
,” he muttered.
    He repressed the urge to press down hard on the accelerator and speed past his mother’s house; that would only call attention to him. For a moment, he thought how stupidly he was behaving if there really wasn’t anyone around.
    Still, he couldn’t take a chance. Driving to the corner, he made a slow right turn, eyes searching for any sign of suspicious vehicles or men.
Women, too
, his brain reminded him. “Yeah, sure,” he said.
    Except for a small boy on his tricycle, the street ahead looked empty.
It’s him
, his mind annoyed him.
He’s the smallest agent in the world, crack shot, beyond suspicion.
“Oh, shut up,” he told his mind. Pulling over to the curb, he braked and turned off the engine. He had to assume there was no one dangerous around.
    Getting out, he locked the doors and started for the alley next to one of the houses. Behind him, he could hear the small boy making motor noises as he rode his tricycle. Now he’s taking out his telescopic sight and snapping it onto his long-range pistol. Now—
    “Oh,
stop
,” he said, starting down the alley. If they’d been waiting for him, he’d already be in custody.
    He climbed over a low picket fence and started across somebody’s backyard. Glancing to his right, he saw an old lady looking out through a back window at him, her expression one of offended surprise. Sorry, Grandma, he thought. He hoped to God she didn’t get it in her mind to telephone the police. He turned to herand waved, smiling, then pointed toward his mother’s house, lips framing the words,
I’m going
that
way
. Not that Grandma would get a word of it. Still, maybe his benign expression and wave would reassure her.
    She only stared at him, expressionless.
She thinks I’m nuts
, he thought,
a lunatic escaped from some local asylum. Don’t call the cops, Granny
, he thought.
I’m just a harmless mathematician.
    Reaching the side of the yard, he climbed another picket fence and crossed another yard. No one in that house was visible. He crossed the yard quickly, climbed another fence and moved across another backyard. He could see the back of his mother’s house now.
Almost there
, he thought.
Please let me make it.
    He looked in through the back window of her garage, groaning softly to see it empty. She must be teaching; it was a weekday after all. “Damn,” he said. How long could he safely wait for her before somebody showed up, checking up on the possibility that he was there? Maybe the old lady was a secret agent too, was already phoning the CIA. Maybe everybody in the world was a secret agent.
    What am I going to do?
he thought as he turned for the back of her house. He couldn’t phone her at the college. They might be watching her; they’d follow her home. He groaned again. He felt so helpless. How could he get out of this predicament?
    Whatever it might be.
    The key to the kitchen door was under the mat as always. He had to smile. Mom used to keep it there when he was just a boy—and it was still there. Invitation to a burglar, Uncle Harry used to call it. “Oh, come on now, Harry,” he recalled his mother’s chiding voice as she responded. “You’re being