The sky was purple again, and the black bands had widened. Tanner cursed and drove faster. He fired his ventral flame at two bats who decided to survey the car. They fell back, and he accepted the mug of coffee Greg offered him.

The sky was as dark as evening when they pulled into Salt Lake City. John Brady, that was his name, had passed that way but days before, and the city was ready for the responding vehicle. Most of its ten thousand inhabitants appeared along the street, and before Hell and Greg had jumped down from the cab after pulling into the first garage they saw, the hood of car number two was opened and three mechanics were peering at the engine.

One of the mechanics approached them. He was short and stained dark with sun and grease, so that his eyes appeared even paler than they were. He regarded the black-framed nails of the hand he had begun to extend, then jerked it back and wiped it on his green coveralls, grinning as he did so and revealing a row of gold-capped teeth.

"Hi. I'm Monk," he said. "You're the ones bound for Boston, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I'll have my boys go over everything. Probably take a couple hours. What're your names?"

"I'm Greg."

"Hell," said Tanner.

"Hell?"

"Hell," he repeated. "Where can we get breakfast?"

"There's a diner across the street. But judging from that mob outside, you'll never make it. Why don't I send one of the boys after some chow? You can eat it in the office."

"Okay."

"I thought they'd send more than one car."

"They did. We lost two."

"Oh. Sorry to hear. You know, I talked with that guy Brady when he passed through. He said Boston'd sent six cars. He sure looked bad, and his car looked like it'd been through a war. The President wanted him to stay, said we could send someone the rest of the way. But Brady wouldn't hear any of that. He'd driven this far, and by God he'd finish it, he said."

"Jerk," said Tanner.

"He pulled a gun when we tried to take him to a doctor. Wouldn't leave his car. I think he was off his rocker. That's why we sent a car of our own after he left, to be sure you'd get the message."

"What car?" said Greg.

"It didn't... ?"

Greg shook his head.

Monk snatched a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He offered them around, and his hand shook as he held the flame.

"I thought maybe our driver gave you the message."

"Only Brady," said Greg. "Nobody else."

"How is Brady?"

"Dead."

"His shielding was in bad shape when we serviced the car," he said. "The Geig went mad when we tried it inside. We wanted to give him another car, but he pulled this gun. By God, he'd have _his_ car, he said, hot as it was. So we fixed the shielding, but it isn't that easy to decontaminate in a hurry. When he rode out of here he was like sitting in an oven. That's one of the reasons we sent Darver... . Let's go on into the office." He gestured toward a heavy green door. "Hey, Red!" he called out. As they moved toward it, a younger man who fit the description left a work bench and approached, wiping his hands on a gasoline-soaked rag.

"Yeah, Monk?"

"Go wash up and run across the street. Get these guys some breakfast and bring it back here. We'll be in the office."

"Okay. Where do I get the money?"

"Take a five out of the cash register and leave a note."

"Right," and he moved off toward a yellow-streaked sink set against the far wall.

They entered the office. Monk closed the green door behind them and waved toward the chairs.

"Make yourselves comfortable." He drew a venetian blind closed as he spoke, cutting off a view of four faces staring in. Then he leaned against a green and battered filing cabinet and sighed.

"I want to wish you the best of luck," he said. "Boy! You should have seen that Brady when he pulled in here! Like death warmed over!"

"All right!" said Greg. "Stop reminding us, huh?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean… You know..."

"Yeah, sure. Let's talk about something else."

Tanner chuckled and blew a smoke ring. "Think it'll rain today?" he asked.

Greg opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed whatever he might have said.

Monk raised a slat of the blind and squinted out beneath it.

"There's a couple cops keeping the people out," he said, "and I see another trying to clear the way for a car. I think maybe it's the President's, but I can't tell for sure."

"What's he want?" asked Tanner.

"To welcome you and wish you luck, probably."

Greg ran his hand through his hair. "How about that, the President," he said.

"Screw," said Tanner.

Greg cleaned his fingernails with the edge of a matchbook. "We're celebrities," he said.

"Who needs it?"

"It doesn't hurt any."

"Yeah, it's the President," said Monk, dropping the slat. "I'll go out and meet him. He'll be here in a minute."

"Rather have breakfast," said Tanner as Monk left the room.

"Why've you got to be that way?" asked Greg.

"What way?"

"Obnoxious. The guy's a big wheel here, and he's coming over to say something nice to us. Why do you want to blast him?"

"Who said I'm going to blast him?"

"I can just tell."

"Well, you're wrong, citizen. I'm going to be the sweetest, nicest, ass-kissingest hero the bastard ever went to talk to, hoping that it would help to get him reelected, of course. Okay?"

"I don't give a damn."

Tanner chuckled again.

The noise level rose as a door opened somewhere in the building. Tanner ground his cigarette out on the concrete floor and lit another.

"Who'd want to be a President?" he asked, as somewhere a door banged closed.

Greg crossed the room to a water cooler, filled a paper cone, and drank. After a time they heard footsteps, and the door opened once again.

The President, who was a thin, balding man, hooknosed, pink-faced, and smiling round pearly dentures,, raised his right hand and said, "I'm Travis. I'm very glad to meet you boys and welcome you to Salt Lake."

"This is the President," said Monk, smiling and wiping his hands on his coveralls.

Tanner stood and extended his hand.

"My name's Tanner, sir. I'm honored to make your acquaintance. This is my friend Greg. I'm happy to see Salt Lake again. It looks better each time I come this way."

"Hello, Greg… Oh, you've been this way before?"

"A considerable number of times. It's one of the reasons they passed over a lot of the other volunteers for this job and selected me. I did quite a bit of driving, before I retired, that is."

"Really?"

"Yes. I have a small ranch now and only a few servants, and I spend most of my time listening to classical music and reading philosophy. Sometimes I write poetry. When I heard about this thing, though, I knew that I owed it to humanity and to the nation of California to volunteer. After all, they've been pretty good to me. So that's how I find myself visiting your town once more."

"I admire your spirit, Mr. Tanner…What led you to volunteer, Greg?"

"I, well, volunteered because… I'm a driver. I run the mail to Albuquerque. I've got a lot of experience."

"I see. Well, both of you are to be commended. If all goes as we expect it to, will you be coming back this way again?"

"I plan to, sir," said Tanner.

"Very good. I'd be happy to receive you anytime you're in town. Perhaps we can have dinner, and I can bear a full report of the trip."

"Our pleasure, sir. If you're ever out L.A. way, I trust you'll drop in and spend some time at the rancho?"

"Delighted."

Tanner smiled and flicked an ash on the floor. "I'm a bit concerned as to our route after we leave here," he said.

"U.S. Forty is good for a distance, how far, though, nobody can tell you. There's been no reason for our drivers to push in that direction."