Heller ignored the raised fists and profanity coming at him. Right into the middle of a tirade about “you (bleeped) kid,” Heller said, “Is there a city up there?”

“Jesus!” exploded the truck driver. “Where the hell are you from?”

And Heller was so intent on whatever he was thinking about, he said, “Manco.”

Then, into the middle of an “I don’t care if you’re from hell” sort of thing, Heller said, “I asked you, is there a city up this river?” Yikes! It was his piercing, high-pitched Fleet voice! I hastily lowered the gain some more.

The truck driver said, “Philadelphia, you (bleeped), ignorant…”

And into the middle of that, Heller pierced, “Is this their sewer?”

“Of course it’s their God (bleeped) sewer!” screamed the enraged truck driver.

“Jesus,” said Heller in English. And he just ignored the man and the crowd and the fists and went back and got in his car and drove on.

Heller was shaking his head. “Must be a hundred million people in that town and no sewer system. POH-LLU-SHUN! Jesus!”

As I say, he wasn’t tending to business. Any passing sniper could have shot him.

But I had him now. He had actually told an Earth-man where he was actually from! I started to write it down and then thought I had better reread Code Number a-36-544 M Section B. I dimly remembered it could be interpreted as “making an alien aware that a landing had taken place on his planet.” I couldn’t be sure. Had the truck driver been aware of Heller’s definitive answer? I couldn’t find the book.

When I sat down to watch again, Heller was on the New Jersey Turnpike, tooling along at fifty-five. He was relaxed once more. He had all his windows up and the air conditioning on, so it must be a hot day.

The traffic was very jammy. This turnpike is one of the most overloaded highways in the world, carrying almost triple what it was designed for and despite the high price of gasoline and cars and consequent traffic reduction, the trucks were clogging its dozen lanes. Oranges from Florida seemed to be the biggest part of what Heller was trying to flow along with.

He drove for some time and then, possibly because he thought oranges might have an odor — a trailer had evidently been strewing the road with them after a collision — he opened his window.

He sniffed.

Suddenly he shook his head as though to clear it.

He sniffed again.

Then he sneezed!

Well, of course he sneezed. The state of New Jersey, particularly along the turnpike, has one of the highest air pollution concentrations in the world. I could have told him that. Everybody knows it.

Trucks or no trucks, he fished out a notebook and wrote some percentages of sulphur dioxide and some other symbols I don’t know, but probably all noxious.

He closed his window. And then he said to the planet in general, “You’re going to have to use hacksaws pretty soon even to get a plane to move through this stuff! How can you manage to do it so fast? This area is .06 percent up even since my survey.”

He drove for a while and then he said, “I better get busy.”

But it was miles later before he acted. And what he did made no sense at all.

He went through the lousiest tail-shaking procedure I have ever seen!

Somehow he had gotten ahead of the mobs of Florida oranges. Before him lay miles of two lanes, totally empty. It was completely flat — there is no scenery on this turnpike — it was without turns.

Despite the solemn warnings of Stupewitz and Maul-in, he suddenly tramped on the accelerator and zipped the car up to ninety miles an hour! I thought, at last he’s gotten some sense! He’s trying to get away!

It wasn’t as fast as he could go. If he was trying to escape, he really should have stamped on it!

He sailed along, looking in his rearview mirror.

He was in plain view! This was no way to escape!

He clocked off three miles.

Then, still in full view, almost as if he wanted to be seen, he paid a toll and drove out through an exit gate.

He stopped. He backed the car over to the side where it could not be seen. And he just sat and watched the gate.

After a bit, he got one of the newspapers and began to read, looking up from time to time at the gate.

He found one story that fascinated him. It was in the New York Daily Scum:

Mucky Hack, veteran investigative reporter and crime exposer of the Daily Libel, was splattered all over 34th Street last night when his specially built Mercedes-Benz Phaeton was rigged for a blitz that went BOOM!

The car was worth $89,000 according to Boyd’s, the only underwriters who would touch it. It was alleged to be a gift from I. G. Barben Pharmaceutical Corp. Car fans will miss its presence in the Annual Special Car Parade at Atlantic City.

Five shops were also destroyed in the blast.

Police Inspector Bulldog Grafferty, who investigated the car bombing, issued a carefully prepared statement today: “It was a valuable vehicle. The bomb rigging was extremely expert, the work of a master. Boyd’s had required the car to be guarded by Tilt and five other independent alarm systems.

“The only possible person who could have set up the blast is Bang-Bang Rimbombo.

“Bang-Bang is an ex-marine demolitions expert left over from the last war.

“Many car bombings have been attributed to him in the past although no arrests were ever made.

“Bang-Bang is a trusted member of the notorious Corleone mob which Mucky Hack has always been exposing in his tireless reporting.

“The New York/New Jersey mob is run by the able and charming Babe Corleone, the ex of the late ‘Holy Joe’ Corleone.

“It is well known that Corleone received his gang cognomen of ‘Holy Joe’ because he would not push drugs and that Faustino ‘The Noose’ Narcotici has been making steady inroads on the former Corleone territories in Manhattan.

“Thus, the motive for the rigging of the bombs by Bang-Bang exists. The expertise bears the unmistakable Bang-Bang trademark.

“Bang-Bang has not been arrested solely because he doesn’t complete his current sentence in Sing Sing until tomorrow and was still in jail at the time of the bombing.

“Several shopkeepers were arrested for permitting the car to park in that spot.

“The case, therefore, can be considered closed.”

Mucky Hack is survived by his managing editor and an old Ford.

For the life of me I could not see what he could find of interest in this story. He could read so fast that to see him sit there looking at one news item for ten minutes was baffling.

Possibly my annoyance, however, to be honest, came from the fact that he was holding the paper folded. There was a Bugs Bunny strip that was thus only half-revealed: Bugs had Elmer Fudd in a bath of carrot juice, and not being able to see the beginning of the strip, I could not fathom how Elmer had gotten there or why. Possibly Elmer had been ill? Possibly the bath had been prepared by Elmer as a trap into which he himself had then fallen? But there was no way for me to tell Heller to open up the page so I could see. It was frustrating!

Finally Heller looked at his watch. My Gods, he was wearing a combat engineer’s watch! In plain sight! I certainly put that down as a Code break. Then I was given pause: it looks like just a flat disc with a small hole in the center. Earthmen would mistake it for an identification bracelet or something like that.

He rotated his wrist, turning the watch downward and touched it. I had noticed before that he had this as a sort of nervous habit. But this is the first time I had really remarked it. It showed that he did have nerves after all.