"Hmmm--I wish you luck, kid." He stared into the fire, sadly it seemed to Max. "Well, I'm going to grab some shut-eye, and you had better do the same. If you're chilly, you'll find some truck back under that rock shelf--burlap and packing materials and such. It'll keep you warm, if you don't mind risking a flea or two."

Max crawled into the dark hole indicated, found a half-way cave in the limestone. Groping, he located the primitive bedding. He had expected to be wakeful, but he was asleep before Sam finished covering the fire.

He was awakened by sunlight blazing outside. He crawled out, stood up and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs. By the sun he judged it to be about seven o'clock in the morning. Sam was not in sight. He looked around and shouted, not too loudly, and guessed that Sam had gone down to the creek for a drink and a cold wash. Max went back into the shelter and hauled out his rucksack, intending to change his socks.

His uncle's books were missing.

There was a note on top of his spare shirt: "Dear Max," it said, "There is more stew in the can. You can warm it up for breakfast. So long--Sam P.S. Sorry."

Further search disclosed that his identification card was missing, but Sam had not bothered with his other pitiful possessions. Max did not touch the stew but set out down the road, his mind filled with bitter thoughts.

The farm road crossed under the freight highway; Max came up on the far side and headed south beside the highway. The route was marked by "NO TRESPASS" signs but the path was well worn. The highway widened to make room for a deceleration strip. At the end of its smooth reach, a mile away, Max could see the restaurant Sam had mentioned.

He shinnied over the fence enclosing the restaurant and parking grounds and went to the parking stalls where a dozen of the big land ships were lined up. One was quivering for departure, its flat bottom a few inches clear of the metallic pavement. Max went to its front end and looked up at the driver's compartment. The door was open and he could see the driver at his instrument board. Max called out, "Hey, Mister!"

The driver stuck his head out. "What's itching you?"

"How are the chances of a lift south?"

"Beat it, kid." The door slammed.

None of the other freighters was raised off the pavement; their control compartments were empty. Max was about to turn away when another giant scooted down the braking strip, reached the parking space, crawled slowly into a stall, and settled to the ground. He considered approaching its driver, but decided to wait until the man had eaten. He went back toward the restaurant building and was looking through the door, watching hungry men demolish food while his mouth watered, when he heard a pleasant voice at his shoulder.

"Excuse me, but you're blocking the door."

Max jumped aside. "Oh! Sorry."

"Go ahead. You were first." The speaker was a man about ten years older than Max. He was profusely freckled and had a one-sided grin. Max saw on his cap the pin of the Teamsters' Guild. "Go on in," the man repeated, "before you get trampled in the rush."

Max had been telling himself that he might catch Sam inside--and, after all, they couldn't charge him just for coming in, if he didn't actually _eat_ anything. Underlying was the thought of asking to work for a meal, if the manager looked friendly. The freckled-faced man's urging tipped the scales; he followed his nose toward the source of the heavenly odors pouring out the door.

The restaurant was crowded; there was one vacant table, for two. The man slid into a chair and said, "Sit down." When Max hesitated, he added, "Go ahead, put it down. Never like to eat alone." Max could feel the manager's eyes on him, he sat down. A waitress handed them each a menu and the hauler looked her over appreciatively. When she left he said, "This dump used to have automatic service--and it went broke. The trade went to the _Tivoli_, eighty miles down the stretch. Then the new owner threw away the machinery and hired girls and business picked up. Nothing makes food taste better than having a pretty girl put it in front of you. Right?"

"Uh, I guess so. Sure." Max had not heard what was said. He had seldom been in a restaurant and then only in the lunch counter at Clyde's Corners. The prices he read frightened him; he wanted to crawl under the table.

His companion looked at him. "What's the trouble, chum?"

"Trouble? Uh, nothing."

"You broke?" Max's miserable expression answered him. "Shucks, I've been there myself. Relax." The man waggled his fingers at the waitress. "Come here, honey chile. My partner and I will each have a breakfast steak with a fried egg sitting on top and this and that on the side. I want that egg to be just barely dead. If it is cooked solid, I'll nail it to the wall as a warning to others. Understand me?"

"I doubt if you'll be able to get a nail through it," she retorted and walked away, swaying gently. The hauler kept his eyes on her until she disappeared into the kitchen. "See what I mean? How can machinery compete?"

The steak was good and the egg was not congealed. The hauler told Max to call him "Red" and Max gave his name in exchange. Max was pursuing the last of the yolk with a bit of toast and was considering whether it was time to broach the subject of a ride when Red leaned forward and spoke softly. "Max-- you got anything pushing you? Free to take a job?"

"What? Why, maybe. What is it?"

"Mind taking a little run southwest?"

"Southwest? Matter of fact, I was headin' that way."

"Good. Here's the deal. The Man says we have to have two teamsters to each rig--or else break for eight hours after driving eight. I can't; I've got a penalty time to meet--and my partner washed out. The flathead got taken drunk and I had to put him down to cool. Now I've got a check point to pass a hundred thirty miles down the stretch. They'll make me lay over if I can't show another driver."

"Gee! But I don't know how to drive, Red. I'm awful sorry."

Red gestured with his cup. "You won't have to. You'll always be the off-watch driver. I wouldn't trust little _Molly Malone_ to somebody who didn't know her ways. I'll keep myself awake with Pep pills and catch up on sleep at Earthport."

"You're going all the way to _Earthport?_"

"Right."

"It's a deal!"

"Okay, here's the lash up. Every time we hit a check point you're in the bunk, asleep. You help me load and unload--I've got a partial and a pick-up at Oke City-- and I'll feed you. Right?"

"Right!"

"Then let's go. I want to scoot before these other dust jumpers get underway. Never can tell, there might be a spotter." Red flipped a bill down and did not wait for change.

The _Molly Malone_ was two hundred feet long and stream lined such that she had negative lift when cruising. This came to Max's attention from watching the instruments; when she first quivered and raised, the dial marked ROAD CLEARANCE showed nine inches, but as they gathered speed down the acceleration strip it decreased to six.

"The repulsion works by an inverse-cube law," Red explained. "The more the wind pushes us down the harder the road pushes us up. Keeps us from jumping over the skyline. The faster we go the steadier we are."

"Suppose you went so fast that the wind pressure forced the bottom down to the road? Could you stop soon enough to keep from wrecking it?"

"Use your head. The more we squat the harder we are pushed up--inverse-cube, I said."

"Oh." Max got out his uncle's slide rule. "If she just supports her own weight at nine inches clearance, then at three inches the repulsion would be twenty-seven times her weight and at an inch it would be seven hundred and twenty-nine, and at a quarter of an inch--"