He turned to his right and headed toward the field, about three quarters of a mile distant. Now their voices rose, still not addressed to him, but talking about him. He heard the word "murderer" spoken.

He hurried, and as he moved he saw faces at windows. He heard curses at his back. No, it would not do to run. He crossed a street, and a vehicle swung toward him, then rushed away. He heard the strident cry of a bird, crouched beneath the eave of a house that he passed.

He had done it, they knew. People had died, and it had been traced back to him. The other day he had been a hero. Now he was a villain. And that damned primitive, superstitious aura that covered the town! All those references to gods, the talismans, the good luck charms--they added up to something, something that made him hurry his pace. Now, in their minds, he felt himself to be associated with demons rather than gods.

... If only he had not dwelled so long over his dinner, if he had fled from passers-by ...

I was lonely, he told himself. If I had been as wary as I was in the old days, it could have been avoided, there would have been no infection. I was lonely.

He heard someone call out, "H!" but he did not turn.

A child, standing beside a garbage can in an alleyway, shot him with a squirt gun as he passed.

He wiped his face. The bells continued their mournful clanging.

When he paused at a thoroughfare, someone flicked a cigarette butt in his direction. He stepped on it and waited. His followers massed behind him. Someone pushed him. It felt like an elbow in his kidney, though it could have been the heel of a hand. They jostled him, and he heard the word "killer" repeated several times.

He had encountered things of this nature previously. His past experience did not hearten him, however.

"What're you going to do now, mister?" someone called.

He did not answer.

"Infect more people?"