Free Time Thieves by Dean Koontz

men.
        
        At the foot of the steps, one of the triplets appeared. He looked up the long flight and managed a smile that looked somehow wicked on his artificial face.
        
        “Wait right there,” the triplet said. “Don't move, please.” His face was colored blue by the single lightbulb above the service door, and his eyes shone like jewels.
        
        He started slowly, cautiously, up the steps.
        
        Pete began to rise.
        
        “Wait right there,” the triplet repeated.
        
        Pete felt something crash against the walls of his mind, something which had been intended to make certain that he obeyed the mechanical man's order. But his own shield was stronger than they had expected it would be; it bent, regained its form and held. He fancied that it had gained strength from its interaction with Della's mind.
        
        He stood and turned away from the triplet, hurrying to the righthand drainage tunnel. As he stepped up into it, grasping the edges with his hands to keep himself from tumbling backwards, he risked a glance behind. He saw the first triplet reach the top of the steps, running. Behind, the second triplet's head popped into view on the stairs as it followed. He shoved forward, into the ebony of the tube, got his balance, hunched his shoulders, held his head low-and ran.
        
        The white sphere still rolled around the edges of his consciousness, keeping a close fix on his position. He thrust it out, again and again, only to watch it return, moments later, undiminished. He wanted to follow the thread back to the eight-fingered creature who controlled the featureless robotic minds, but he could not spare the time and the energy while they were so close on his trail.
        
        He turned twice, trying to lose himself in secondary corridors, even though he was aware that such tactics did little to alter the circumstances, since they were again tracking him telepathically. It was just not in him to admit defeat. He had always believed that, once a man stopped thinking like a winner, he stopped being a winner. And started losing.
        
        So, moving purposefully down the dark tubes, keeping his confidence alive with a series of unvoiced pep talks, he came to a dead end in the tunnel. In the deep gloom, he searched desperately for a continuation of the system but found nothing more than cold stone of all sides.
        
        The white sphere seemed to sense his distress. It hummed along his mental ramparts, shimmering and shuddering, as if in anticipation of his fall.
        
        Behind, the triplets entered the mouth of this branch of the sewer system. They stopped, listening and probing with their master's telepathic talent. They came on. Though this avenue of the drain system was a long one, more than five city blocks, they stopped running. Their pursuit was leisurely. They knew that they had him cornered.
        
        “Rest easy, Mr. Mullion,” one of them called. His voice was sweet, bell clear.
        
        “Go to hell.”
        
        “Cooperate, Mr. Mullion.”
        
        “Go to hell.”
        
        That battering, unseen force struck him again. It was hard, rushing at him with the speed of a train. It struck and almost overwhelmed him, once, twice, a third time. He had flickering glimpses of a completely alien consciousness. Then he was his own master again.
        
        “We won't hurt you,” the triplet crooned.
        
        It couldn't end here. He wouldn't let it end here. It was no longer merely a matter of sanity and insanity, nor was it strictly a question of life or death. Now, he must consider Della, that woman who was no longer a woman but a part of himself. That made all the difference.
        
        “… no pain,” one of the triplets was saying.
        
        “… for your own good.”
        
        The roof of the tunnel was