"I hope he can breathe back there," Vic said, meaning the driver. They had waited until the others had gone, leaving this one. While Ted, the driver, was inside stacking cartons on the hand truck, he and Ragle had closed and bolted the thick metal doors. It had taken perhaps one minute, then, to get up into the cab and begin warming the diesel motor. While they were doing that, Margo had arrived in the Volkswagen.
"As long as it's not a refrigerator truck," Ragle said. Or so Vic had said while they waited for the other trucks to leave.
"You don't think it would have been better to leave him in the store? Nobody looks in some of the back storerooms."
Ragle said, "I just have the intuition that he'd get right out. Don't ask me why."
Vic did not ask him why. He kept his eyes on the road. They had left the downtown business section. Traffic had thinned. Stores gave way to a residential section, small modern houses, one-story, with tall TV masts and washing hanging on lines, high redwood fences, cars parked in driveways.
"I wonder where they'll stop us," Ragle said.
"Maybe they won't."
"They will," he said. "But maybe we'll be across by that time."
After a while Vic said, "Just consider. If this doesn't work out, you and I will face a charge of felony kidnaping and I'll no longer be in the produce business and you probably will be asked to resign from the Where Will the Little Green Man Be Next? contest."
The houses became fewer. The truck passed gas stations, tawdry cafés, ice cream stands and motels. The dreary parade of motels... as if, Ragle thought, we had already gone a thousand miles and were just now entering a strange town. Nothing is so alien, so bleak and unfriendly, as the strip of gas stations -- cut-rate gas stations -- and motels on the rim of your own city. You fail to recognize it. And at the same time, you have to clasp it to your bosom. Not just for one night, but as long as you intend to live where you live.
But we don't intend to live here any more. We're leaving. For good.
Did I get this far before? he wondered. They had got to open fields, now. A last intersection, a minor road serving industries that had been zoned out of the city proper. The railroad tracks
He noticed an infinitely long freight train at rest. The suspended drums of chemicals on towers over factories.
"Nothing like it," Vic said. "Especially at sunset."
The traffic, now, had become other trucks, with few sedans.
"There's your barbecue place," Vic said.
On the right, Ragle saw the sign, Frank's Bar-B-Q and Drinks. Modern-looking enough. Clean, certainly. New cars in the lot. The truck rumbled on past it. The place fell behind.
"Well, you got farther this time," Vic said.
Ahead of them, the highway led into a range of hills. Up high, Ragle thought. Maybe somehow I got up there, up to the top. Tried to _walk_ across those peaks. Could I have been that tanked up?
No wonder I didn't make it.
On and on they drove. The countryside became monotonous. Fields, rolling hills, everything featureless, with advertising signs stuck at intervals. And then, without warning, the hills flattened and they found themselves rolling down a long, straight grade.
"This is what makes me sweat," Ragle said. "Driving a big rig down a really long grade." He had already shifted into a gear low enough to hold back the mass of the truck. At least they carried no load; the mass was small enough for him, with his limited experience, to control. During the time that they had warmed the motor, he had learned the gear-box pattern. "Anyhow," he said to Vic, "we've got a horn loud as hell." He blew a couple of blasts on it, experimentally; it made both of them jump.
At the end of the grade a yellow and black official sign attracted their attention. They could make out a cluster of sheds or temporary buildings. It had a grim look.
"Here it is," Vic said. "This is what you meant."
At the sheds, several trucks had lined up. And now, as they got closer, they saw uniformed men. Across the highway the sign flapped in the evening wind.
STATE LINE AGRICULTURAL INSPECTION STATION
TRUCKS USE SCALE IN RIGHT LANE ONLY
"That means us," Vic said. "The scale. They're going to weigh us. If they're inspecting, they'll open up the back." He glanced at Ragle. "Should we stop here and try to do something with Ted?"
Too late now, Ragle realized. The state inspectors could see the truck and them inside it; anything they did would be visible. At the first shed two black police cars had been parked so that they could get onto the highway at an instant's notice. We couldn't outrun them, either, he realized. Nothing to do but continue on to the scale.
An inspector, wearing sharply pressed dark blue trousers, a light blue shirt, badge and cap, sauntered toward them as they slowed to a stop. Without even glancing at them he waved them on.
"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?"