"We don't have to stop," Ragle said excitedly, with insight. "It's a fake!" He waved back at the inspector, and Vic did the same. The man's back was already to them. "They don't ever stop these big carriers -- just passenger cars. We're out."

The sheds and sign dropped back and disappeared. They had got out; already, they had done it. Any other kind of vehicle would not have got through. But the genuine carriers passed back and forth all day long... in his rear-view mirror Ragle saw three more trucks being waved on. The trucks parked in a line at the sheds were dummies, like the other equipment.

"None of them," he said. "None of the trucks have to stop."

"You were right," Vic said. He settled back against the seat. "I suppose if we had tried to get by them in the Volkswagen they would have told us that we had some variety of insect infestation clinging to the upholstery. Japanese beetles... you have to drive back and get sprayed and apply for a one-month permit for re-inspection, subject to indefinite withdrawal."

As he drove, Ragle noticed that the highway had undergone a change. Now that they had passed the inspection station the highway had separated into two distinct roads, each five lanes wide, absolutely straight and flat. And no longer concrete. He did not recognize the material over which they now drove.

This is the outside, he said to himself. The outside highway, which we were never supposed to see or know about.

Trucks behind them and ahead of them. Some carrying supplies in, some empty and leaving, as they were. The ant trails leading into and out of the town. Ceaseless movement. And not one passenger car. Only the rumble of diesel trucks.

And, he realized, the advertising signs had vanished.

"Better switch on your lights," Vic said. Evening gloom had settled onto the hills and fields. One truck coming toward them along the other road had its lights on. "We want to obey the laws. Whatever they are."

Ragle switched on the lights. The evening seemed quiet and lonely. Far off, a bird skimmed along the surface of the earth, its wings rigid. The bird lighted on a fence.

"What about fuel?" Ragle said.

Leaning past him, Vic read the fuel gauge. "Half full," he said. "I frankly have no idea how far a rig like this can go on a tank. Or if there's a reserve tank. Without a load we should go fairly far. Depends a great deal on what kind of grades we run across. A heavy vehicle loses a lot on grades; you've seen trucks stuck halfway up a grade, moving ten miles an hour in its lowest gear."

"Maybe we better let Ted out," Ragle said. It had occurred to him that their money might be worthless. "We'll have to buy fuel and food -- we don't know where, or even if we can. He must have credit cards on him. And money that's good."

Vic tossed a handful of papers into his lap. "From the glove compartment," he said. "Credit cards, maps, meal tickets. No money, though. We'll see what we can do with the credit cards. They're usually good at--" He broke off. "Motels," he said finally. "If they have them. What do you think we'll find?"

"I don't know," Ragle said. Darkness had obliterated the landscape around them; in the open spaces between towns there were no street lights to give them clues. Only the flat land, up to the sky, where lighter colors, a bluish-black, began. Stars had appeared.

"Do we have to wait until morning?" Vic said. "Are we going to have to drive all night?"

"Maybe so," Ragle said. On a curve, the headlights of the truck lit up a section of fence and scrub plants beyond it. I feel as if all this had happened before, he thought. Reliving it a second time.

Beside him, Vic examined the papers that he had brought out of the glove compartment. "What do you make of this?" He held up a long paper strip, brightly colored; Ragle glanced at it and saw that it read:

ONE HAPPY WORLD

At each end, in luminous yellow, a snake coiled into an S-shape.

"Has glue on back," Vic said. "It must be for the bumper."

"Like 'make mine milk'," Ragle said.

After a pause Vic said in a low voice, "Let me hold the wheel. I want you to look at it closer." He caught hold of the steering wheel and passed the bumper strip to Ragle. "At the bottom. In type."

Holding the strip near the dome light, Ragle read the words: _Federal law requires that this be displayed at all times_.

He passed it back to Vic. "We're going to run into a lot more we don't understand," he said. But the strip had disturbed him, too. Mandatory... it had to be on the bumper, or else.

Vic said, "There're more." From the glove compartment he lifted out a stack of strips, ten or eleven of them, all alike. "He must glue it on every time he makes a trip. Probably rips it off when he enters town."

At the next stretch of empty highway, when no other trucks could be seen, Ragle drove from the road onto the gravel shoulder. He stopped the truck and put on the hand brake. "I'm going to go around to the back," he said. "I'll see if he's getting enough air." As he opened the cab door he said, "And I'll ask him about the strip."

Nervously, Vic slid over behind the wheel. "I doubt if he'll give you a right answer," he said.

Walking with care, Ragle made his way through the darkness along the side of the truck, past the great wheels, to the back. He climbed the iron ladder and rapped on the door. "Ted," he said. "Or whatever your name is. Are you all right?"

From within the truck a voice said indistinctly, "Yeah. I'm okay, Mr. Gumm."

Even here, Ragle thought. Parked on the shoulder of the highway, in a deserted region between towns. I'm recognized.

"Listen, Mr. Gumm," the driver said, his mouth close to the crack of the doors. "You don't know what's out here, do you? You have no idea. Listen to me; there isn't a chance in the world you'll run into anything but harm -- harm for you, harm for everybody else. You have to take my word for it. I'm telling you the truth. Someday you'll look back and know I was right. You'll thank me. Here." A small white square of paper slid out from between the doors and fluttered down; Ragle caught it. A card, on the back of which the driver had written a phone number.

"What's this for?" Ragle said.

The driver said, "When you get to the next town, pull off the road and go phone that number."

"How far's the next town?"

A hesitation, and then the driver said, "I'm not sure. Pretty soon now. It's hard to keep track of the miles stuck back here."

"Can you get enough air?"

"Yeah." The driver sounded resigned, but at the same time highly keyed up. "Mr. Gumm," he said, in the same intense, beseeching voice, "you just got to believe me. I don't care how long you keep me cooped up in this thing, but in the next hour or two you've just got to get in touch with somebody."

"Why?" Ragle said.

"I can't say. Look, you apparently got it figured out enough to hijack this rig. So you must have some idea. If you have that much, you can figure out that it's important and not just somebody's smart idea, building all those houses and streets and those old cars back there."

Talk on, Ragle thought to himself.

"You don't even know how to drive a two-section rig," the driver said. "Suppose you hit a steep grade? This clunk carries forty-five thousand pounds when it's loaded; of course it ain't loaded right now. But you might sideswipe something. And there're a couple of railroad trestles this thing won't clear. You probably don't have any idea what the clearance of this is. And you don't know how to gear down a grade or anything." He lapsed into silence.

"What's the bumper strip for?" Ragle said. "The motto and the snake."

"Christ's sake!" the driver snarled.

"Does it have to go on?"

Cursing at him, the driver managed finally to say, "Listen, Mr. Gumm -- if you don't have that on right, they'll blow you sky-high; so help me god, I'm telling you the truth."