Ahead, at the curb, a car attracted Ragle's attention.
"Is that it?" he said.
The two soldiers regarded the car. "I think so," Wade said excitedly. "Hey, Phil -- ain't that the car?"
"Sure," Phil said.
The car sagged on one side. It had a flat. So they had found it.
"Now we got to get a tire," Wade said, throwing the two suitcases into the back of the car. "Let's get the jack under it and get the wheel off and see what size tire it takes."
In the trunk compartment he and Ragle found a jack. Phil had meanwhile wandered off; they saw him standing a few yards away, his head back, staring up at the sky.
"He'll stand like that for an hour," Wade said, as they jacked up the car. "There's a Texaco Station back aways; we passed it just before the flat." Showing skill and experience, he got the wheel off and rolled it onto the sidewalk. Ragle followed.
"Where's Phil?" Wade said, looking around. Phil was nowhere to be seen.
"God damn him," Wade said. "He must have rambled off."
Ragle said, "Let's get to the gas station. I don't have all night and neither do you."
"That's a fact," Wade said. "Well," he said philosophically, "maybe he'll come back and flop in the car and we'll find him there when we get back." He began rolling the tire and wheel, at a good speed.
The gas station, when they got to it, was dark. The proprietor had closed up and gone home.
"I'll be a bug-eared frag," Wade said.
"Maybe there's another station nearby," Ragle said.
"I don't remember another one," Wade said. "How do you like that." He seemed stunned, unable to act any further.
"Come on," Ragle said. "Let's go."
After a long hard interval of tramping along, they saw ahead of them the white and red and blue square of a Standard Station.
"Amen," Wade said. "You know," he said happily to Ragle, "I been walking along here praying like a bastard. And there it is." He rolled his tire and wheel faster and faster, squalling a cry of triumph. "Come on!" he yelled back to Ragle.
In the station a clean-cut boy in the starched white uniform of the company watched them without interest.
"Hey, there, man," Wade said, shoving open the station house door. "You want to sell us a tire? Let's move it."
The boy put down a chart he had been working on, picked up a cigarette from an ash tray, and came over to see the tire.
"What's this for?" he asked Wade.
"'Thirty-six Dodge sedan," Wade said.
The boy flashed a light on the tire, trying to read the size. Then he got out a heavy ringed note-binder and leafed through the printed pages. It seemed to Ragle that he examined each page at least four different times, turning them first one way and then another. Finally he closed the notebinder and said, "Can't do you any good."
"What do you suggest, then?" Ragle said patiently. "This soldier and his buddy have to be back at their base or they're AWOL."
The gas station attendant scratched his nose with his pencil and then he said, "There's a recap place up on the highway, about five miles."
"We can't walk five miles," Ragle said.
The attendant said, "I've got my Ford pick-up truck parked over there." He pointed with his pencil. "One of you stay here, and leave your wheel here. And the other of you can drive the pick-up over to the highway. It's a Seaside Station. At the first light. Bring the tire back and I'll put it on here for you. It'll cost you six bits for me to put it on." He took down a set of car keys from the register and handed them to Ragle. "And," he said, "while you're up there, there's an all-night restaurant across the highway. You want to bring me back a fried ham and cheese sandwich and a malt."
"Any special kind of malt?" Ragle said.
"Pineapple, I guess." He handed Ragle a dollar bill.
"I'll stay here," Wade said. "Hurry back," he yelled after him.
"Okay," Ragle said.
A few minutes later he had backed the pick-up truck out onto the deserted street. Then he was driving in the direction the attendant had pointed. At last he saw the lights of the highway.
What a situation, he thought to himself.
eight
The young man wearing shorts and undershirt placed the end of a reel of tape, looped, into the slot of the reel-hub. He revolved the reel until the tape had caught, and then he pressed the key that started the transport. On the sixteen-inch screen a picture appeared. The young man seated himself on the edge of the bed to watch.
First, the picture showed a six-lane divided highway with white concrete pavement. In the center strip bushes and grass grew. On each side of the highway billboards advertising retail products could be seen. Cars moved along the highway. One changed lanes. Another slowed to take advantage of a cutoff.
A yellow Ford pick-up truck appeared.
From the speaker of the tape machine a voice said, "That is a 1952 Ford pick-up truck."
"Yes," the young man said.
The truck, seen now from the side, showed its profile. Then it came at the screen. The young man noted it from the front.
Darkness descended. The truck switched on its headlights. The young man observed it from the front, side, and rear, its tail lights in particular.
Daylight returned to the screen. The truck moved along under sunlight. It changed lanes.
"The vehicle code requires a driver to make a hand-signal when he changes lanes," the voice said.
"Right," the young man said.
The truck stopped off on the gravel shoulder.
"The vehicle code requires that when a vehicle stops, the driver make a hand-signal," the voice said.
The young man got up and went over to rewind the tape.
"I've got that down pat," he said to himself. He rewound the tape and put on another reel. While he was threading it, the telephone rang. From where he stood he called, "Hello."
The ringing stopped and from the wall a muted voice that he did not recognize said, "He's still standing in line."
"Okay," the young man said.
The phone clicked off. The young man finished threading the tape and started up the transport.
On the screen appeared the image of a man in uniform. Boots, brown pants stuffed into the boots, leather belt, pistol in holster, brown canvas shirt, necktie poking out at his collar, heavy brown jacket, visored cap, sun-glasses. The man in uniform turned around, showing himself from several sides. Then he climbed onto a motorcycle, kicked the motor into life, and roared off.
The screen showed him riding along.
"Fine," the young man wearing shorts and undershirt said. He got out his electric shaver, snapped it on, and, watching the screen, finished shaving.
The highway patrolman on the screen began pursuing a car. After a while he caught up with the car and waved it to a stop at the side of the road. The young man, shaving reflexively, studied the expression on the highway patrolman's face.
The highway patrolman said, "All right, may I see your driver's license please?"
The young man said, "All right, may I see your driver's license please?"
The door of the trapped car opened and a middle-aged man wearing a white shirt and unpressed slacks got out, reaching into his pocket. "What's the matter, officer?" he said.
The highway patrolman said, "Are you aware that this is a limited speed zone, sir?"
The young man said, "Are you aware that this is a limited speed zone, sir?"
The driver said, "Sure, I was only doing forty-five, like it said back there on the sign." He passed his wallet to the highway patrolman, who took it and studied the license. On the screen a blow-up of the license appeared. It remained until the young man had finished shaving, dabbed after-shave lotion in his face, rinsed out his mouth with antibax, squirted deodorant under his arms, and started to find his shirt. Then the license vanished.