Her voice stopped. She drew on her cigarette again, and smiled at me pleasantly. "I'm pretty good, don't you think, baby? I should be in the movies."

I drew a deep breath. "You should be anywhere but in my studio, damn you. Where's a rag so I can mop my eyes, and what do you want me to do?"

I mean, no matter what heart-throbs she'd put into it, what she'd said was quite true. I couldn't very well give her to the police, and I couldn't talk. It didn't leave me much choice.

TEN minutes later, we had the pickup ready to roll. You could look inside the rear canopy and not see a thing except camera equipment, luggage, and camping gear.

Unless you knew too much already, you wouldn't be likely to look close enough to discover that the luggage wasn't all mine.

I found myself crouching to peer underneath, I suppose to check that no blood was dripping out of the truck bed, no dead white hand dangling, no long dark hair. The years of peace had drawn the hard temper of my nervous system, and I guess you take corpses more seriously in peacetime, anyway. Hell, you've got to. During the war, in enemy territory, caught with the goods, there was always a possibility that you could shoot your way clear; but I couldn't quite see myself whipping out a gun and burning down a bunch of worthy local cops named Martinez or O'Brien.

I helped Tina to join her silent traveling companion inside. She had to hitch her cocktail dress hip-high to make the tailgate; I heard her swear feelingly in a language I did not understand.

"What's the matter?" I whispered.

"It's nothing, chйri. Just a run in one of my best nylons, that's all."

"The hell," I said, "with your best nylons."

I raised the gate, hooked the retaining chains in place, and brought down the canopy door, which opens upwards like a station wagon transom. Before closing it, I stuck my head inside.

"Get over on that mattress and hang on," I said. "And you'd better stick your false teeth in your purse so you don't swallow them. They forgot to supply springs with this thing."

I closed the door, and started to turn away. Then a screen door slammed at the house, and I saw Beth come out of the kitchen and start across the flagstone patio in the glare of the lights. Well, she could have come at a worse time. I locked the truck canopy and went to meet her.

"I brought you some coffee," she said as we stopped, facing each other.

I took the cup and drank from it. The coffee was hot and strong and black, obviously designed to jolt me sober and keep me awake on the road. The coat she'd thrown over her shoulder and the sturdy moccasin shoes into which she'd stuck her bare feet made her blue angel-robes look flimsy and inadequate. There's supposed to be something very sexy about a woman running around outdoors in her nightie-magazines catering to the male taste seem to be full of these elfin creatures- but it just looks kind of drafty and ridiculous to me. Her face looked sleepy and sweet in the floodlights.

"I took time to duck into the darkroom and load up some film holders for the big 5x7," I said, lying unnecessarily, like any dumb criminal. "I hate to do it in a changing bag when I don't have to. Why aren't you asleep?" -

"I heard the motor running," she said, indicating the truck, still idling noisily. "I thought you'd already left, and I was lying there wondering what it was. Then somebody parked in the alley for a while, probably just some kids necking, but I… I get a little nervous when I'm alone in the house. By the time they drove off I was wide awake. Be sure to lock the gate behind you, or they'll be using our compound for a lover's lane next."

"Yes," I said. "Well, thanks for the coffee. I'll try to phone from San Antone-as we Tejanos call it."

We stood looking at each other.

"Well, be careful," she said. "Don't drive too fast."

"In this relic?" I said. "Ii would be a miracle. Well, you'd better get back inside before you catch cold."

I was supposed to kiss her, of course, but I couldn't do it. The masquerade was over. I was no longer M. Helm, Esq., author, photographer, husband, father. I was a guy named Eric with a knife and two pistols, intentions unreliable, destination unknown. I had no right to touch her. It would have been like making a pass at another man's wife.

After a moment, she turned and walked away. I climbed up into the cab of the truck and drove it out into the alley. I climbed down again and closed and padlocked the big gates. As I walked back to the pickup, the yard lights went out behind me. Beth never could stand to see a light burn unnecessarily..

The truck is a 1951 Chevy half-ton job, with a fourspeed gearbox and a six-cylinder engine developing a little less than ninety horsepower, and it'll shove any of your three-hundred-horsepower passenger cars right off the road, backwards, from a standing start. It has no damn fins over the tail-lights, or sheet metal eyebrows over the headlights, and it was built in that happy postwar era when they didn't have to sell cars, all they had to do was make them and call up the next guy on the list. There wasn't any sense fooling with pretty colors under those conditions, and all Chevy's commercial vehicles came through in the same shade of green, which, as far as I'm concerned, is as good a color as any, and a lot better than some of the emetic combinations adorning Detroit's latest rainbows on wheels.

It's a real vehicle, and you can do anything with it. I've hauled a thirty-five-foot house trailer, climbed Wolf Creek Pass in a blizzard, and dragged a Cadillac out of a ditch with it. Anything, as long as you're not – in a hurry and don't mind getting half beat to death in the process. Beth claims riding in it gives her a headache, but I don't see why it should: it isn't her head that takes the punishment. She can't understand why I cling to it, instead of trading it in on something newer and faster and more respectable. I tell her that her Buick takes care of our respectability, and I don't want to go any faster. It's almost the truth.

The fact is that before the war, as kids will, I used to play around with some fairly rapid machinery. I raced some and covered other races with my camera; and during the war, as I've already mentioned, I had occasion to do a little driving under fairly hectic conditions. Afterwards, happily married, I said to hell with it. I wasn't going to be that kind of guy any more. It was like hunting. I wasn't going to tease myself by sneaking out to murder a harmless little deer once a year, after spending four years stalking game that could shoot back. And I wasn't going to tempt myself by putting something low and sleek and powerful in the garage, and then using it to commute to the grocery at a legal twenty-five miles per hour. I was going to give the beast inside nothing to feed on. Maybe I could starve it to death. Down, Rover, down!

Well, it worked up to a point, but some time during the evening I had passed that point, and now, picking my way sedately out of Santa Fe in the dark, I no longer found any satisfaction in the practical aspects of the strong and solid and durable old vehicle beneath me. I could no longer kid myself that I really enjoyed having a truck as my private transportation, not even as a kind of one-man protest against the bloated and over-decorated machines driven by everybody else.

All I could think of was the fact that we sure as hell weren't going to run away from anybody, no matter what happened. Oh, I've worked her over a bit from tune to time, when I've felt like getting my hands greasy. She'll still hold sixty-five all day and do eighty in a pinch, but it had damn well better be a long, smooth, straight stretch of road when you wind her out, and you'd better get off the go-pedal in plenty of time before the next curve, or you'll never make it. They build trucks to haul pay-loads, not to run the Grand Prix of Monaco.