"Send them in."She led them to the dark, paneled door in the back of the room and opened it before them.

They entered, and the husky man behind the glasstopped desk leaned backward in his chair and wove hisshort fingers together in front of his chins and peeredover them through eyes just a shade darker than thegray of his hair. His voice was soft and rasped Just slightly."Have a seat," he said to Tanner, and to the others, "wait outside,"

"You know this guy's dangerous. Mister Denton," said the man with the shotgun as Tanner seated himselfin a chair situated five feet in front of the desk.

Steel shutters covered the room's three windows, andthough the men could not see outside they could guessat the possible furies that stalked there as a sound likemachine-gun fire suddenly rang through the room.

"I know.""Well, he's handcuffed, anyway. Do you want a gun?""I've got one,"

"Okay, then. We'll be outside."

They left the room.

The two men stared at one another until the door closed,then the man called Denton said, "Are all your affairssettled now?" and the other shrugged. Then, "What thehell is your first name, really? Even the records show—"

"Hell," said Tanner. "That's my name. I was theseventh kid in our family, and when I was born thenurse held me up and said to my old man, 'What namedo you want on the birth certificate?' and Dad said, 'Hell!'and walked away. So she put it down like that. That'swhat my brother told me. I never saw my old man toask if that's how it was. He copped out the same day.Sounds right, though."

"So your mother raised all seven of you?"

"No. She croaked a couple weeks later and differentrelatives took us kids."

"I see," said Denton. "You've still got a choice, youknow. Do you want to try it or don't you?"

"What's your job, anyway?" asked Tanner.

"I'm the Secretary of Traffic for the nation of California."

"What's that got to do with ir?"

"I'm coordinating this thing. It could as easily havebeen the Surgeon General or the Postmaster General,but more of it really falls into my area of responsibility.I know the hardware best. I know the odds—"

"What are the odds?" asked Tanner.

For the first time, Denton dropped his eyes.

"Well, it's risky.. .."

"Nobody's ever done it before, except for that autwho ran it to bring the news and he's dead. How can youget odds out of that?"

"I know," said Denton slowly. "You're thinking it'sa suicide job, and you're probably right. We're sendingthree cars, with two drivers in each. If any one just makesit close enough, its broadcast signals may serve to guidein a Boston driver. You don't have to go, though, youknow."

"I know. I'm free to spend the rest of my life in prison."

"You killed three people. You could have gotten thedeath penalty."

"I didn't, so why talk about it? Look, mister, I don'twant to die and I don't want the other bit either."

"Drive or don't drive. Take your choice. But remember,if you drive and you make it, all will be forgiven andyou can go your own way. The nation of California willeven pay for that motorcycle you appropriated and smashedup, not to mention the damage to that police car."

"Thanks a lot." And the winds boomed on the otherside of the wall, and the steady staccato from the window shields filled the room,

"You're a very good driver," said Denton, after a time."You've driven just about every vehicle there is to drive.You've even raced. Back when you were smuggling,you used to make a monthly run to Salt Lake City. Thereare very few drivers who'll try that, even today."Hell Tanner smiled, remembering something."... And in the only legitimate job you ever held, youwere the only man who'd make the mail run to Albuquerque. There've only been a few others since you were fired."

"That wasn't my fault."

"You were the best man on the Seattle run, too,"Denton continued. "Your supervisor said so. What I'm trying to say is that, of anybody we could pick, you've probably got the best chance of getting through. That's whywe've been indulgent with you, but we can't afford to waitany longer. It's yes or no right now, and you'll leave within the hour if it's yes."

Tanner raised his cuffed hands and gestured toward the window.

"In all this crap?" he asked."The cars can take this storm," said Denton.

"Man, you're crazy,""People are dying even while we're talking," said Denton.

"So a few more ain't about to make that much difference. Can't we wait till tomorrow?"

"No! A man gave his life to bring us the newsl Andwe've got to get across the continent as fast as possiblenow or it won't matter! Storm or no storm, the cars leavenowl Your feelings on the matter don't mean a good goddamn in the face of thtsl All I want out of you. Hell, isone word: Which one will it be?"

"I'd like something to eat. I haven't..."

"There's food in the car. What's your answer?"Hell stared at the dark window.

"Okay," he said, "I'll run Damnation Alley for you.I won't leave without a piece of paper with some writingon it, though."

"I've got it here."

Denton opened a drawer and withdrew a heavy cardboard envelope from which he extracted a piece of stationery bearing the Great Seal of the nation of California.He stood and rounded the desk and handed it to HellTanner.

Hell studied it for several minutes, then said, "Thissays that if I make it to Boston I receive a full pardonfor every criminal action I've ever committed within thenation of California ..."

"That's right."

"Does that include ones you might not know aboutnow, if someone should come up with them later?"

"That's what it says, Hell—'every criminal action.' "

"Okay, you're on, fat boy. Get these bracelets off meand show me my car."

The man called Denton moved back to his seat onthe other side of his desk.

"Let me tell you something else. Hell," he said. "Ifyou try to cop out anywhere along the route, the otherdrivers have their orders, and they've agreed to followthem. They will open fire on you and burn you into littlebitty ashes. Get the picture?"

"I get the picture," said Hell. "I take it I'm supposedto do them the same favor?"

"That is correct."

"Good enough. That might be fun."

"I thought you'd like it."

"Now, if you'll unhook me, I'll make the scene foryou."

"Not till I've told you what I think of you," Denton said.

"Okay, if you want to waste time calling me names,while people are dying—"

"Shut up! You don't care about them and you know it!I just want to tell you that I think you are the lowest, mostreprehensible human being I have ever encountered. Youhave killed men and raped women. You once gougedout a man's eyes, just for fun. You've been indictedtwice for pushing dope and three times as a pimp. You're-a drunk and a degenerate, and I don't think you'vehad a bath since the day you were born. You and yourhoodlums terrorized decent people when they were trying to pull their lives together after the war. You stolefrom them and you assaulted them, and you extortedmoney and the necessaries of life with the threat of physical violence. I wish you had died in the Big Raid, thatnight, like all the rest of them. You are not a human being, except from a biological standpoint. You have a bigdead spot somewhere inside you where other people havesomething that lets them live together in society and beneighbors. The only virtue that you possess—if you wantto call it that—is that your reflexes may be a little faster,your muscles a little stronger, your eye a bit more warythan the rest of us, so that you can sit behind a wheel anddrive through anything that has a way through it. It isfor this that the nation of California is willing to pardonyour inhumanity if you will use that one virtue to helprather than hurt. I don't approve. I don't want to dependon you, because you're not the type. I'd like to see youdie in this thing, and while I hope that somebody makesit through, I hope that it will be somebody else. I hateyour bloody guts. You've got your pardon now. Thecar's ready. Let's go."