Time Out of Joint

twelve

When Margo arrived at the parking lot she saw no sign of her husband. Shutting off the engine of the Volkswagen, she sat for a time, watching the glass doors of the store.

Usually he's ready to go by now, she said to herself. She got out of the car and started across the parking lot toward the store.

"Margo," Vic called. He came from the rear of the store, from the loading docks. His pace, and the tension on his face, made her aware that something had happened.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "You didn't agree to work Sunday, did you?" That had been in contention between them for years.

Vic caught hold of her arm and led her back to the car. "I'm not driving home with you." Opening the car door he nudged her inside; he got in after her, shut the door and rolled up the windows.

Behind the store, at the dock, a giant two-section truck had started to move in the direction of the Volkswagen. Is that monster going to sideswipe us? Margo wondered. One touch of that front bumper, and nothing would remain of this car and us.

"What's he doing?" she asked Vic. "I don't think he knows how to handle that. And trucks aren't supposed to use this exit, are they? I thought you told me--"

Interrupting her, Vic said, "Listen. It's Ragle in the truck."

She stared at him. And then she saw up into the cab of the truck. Ragle waved at her, a slight flip of his hand. "What do you mean, you won't be driving home with me?" she demanded. "Do you mean you're going to take that big thing to the house and park it?" In her mind she envisioned the truck parked in their driveway, advertising to the neighbors that her husband worked in a grocery store. "Listen," she said, "I won't have you driving home in one of those; I mean it."

"I'm not driving home in it," he said. "Your brother and I are going on a trip in it." He put his arm around her and kissed her. "I don't know when we'll be back. Don't worry about us. There're a couple of things I want you to do--"

She interrupted, "You're both going?" It made no sense to her. "Tell me what this is about," she said.

"The main thing I want you to do," Vic said, "is tell Bill Black that Ragle and I are working here at the store. Don't tell him anything else; don't tell him we've left and don't tell him when or how we've left. Do you understand that? Whatever time the Blacks show up at the house and ask where Ragle is, say you just talked to him down at the store. Even if it's two in the morning. Say I've asked him to help me do an inventory for a surprise auditing."

"Can I ask you one thing?" she said, hoping to get at least a trifle of information; it was obvious that he had no intention of telling her much more. "Was Ragle with Junie Black the other night when the taxi driver carried him in the door?"

"God no," Vic said.

"Are you getting him off somewhere so that Bill Black can't find him and murder him?"

Vic eyed her. "You're on the wrong track, honey." He kissed her again, squeezed her, and pushed open the car door. "Say good-bye to Sammy for us." Turning toward the truck he yelled, "What?" Then leaning back in the Volkswagen he said, "Ragle says to tell Lowery at the newspaper that he found a contest that pays better." Grinning at her, he loped over to the truck and around to the far side; she heard him climb up into the cab beside her brother, and then his face appeared next to Ragle's.

"So long," Ragle shouted down at her. Both he and Vic waved. Roaring and spluttering, sending up black exhaust from its stack, the truck started from the lot, onto the street. Cars slowed for it; the truck performed a laborious, awkward right turn, and then it had disappeared beyond the store. For a long time she heard the heavy vibrations of it as it gained speed and departed.

They're out of their minds, she thought wretchedly. In a reflexively purposeful fashion she put the ignition key back into the lock of the Volkswagen and switched on the motor. Behind her, its wheezing obscured the last noises of the truck.

Vic's trying to save Ragle, she said to herself. Trying to get him away where he's safe. I know Junie consulted an attorney. Do they intend to marry? Maybe Bill won't divorce her.

What a dreadful event, to have Junie Black as a sister-in-law.

Meditating about that, she drove slowly home.

As the truck moved through the early-evening traffic, Vic said to his brother-in-law, "You don't think these big rigs vanish a mile outside of town?"

Ragle said, "Food has to be brought in from outside. The same thing we'd do if we wanted to keep a zoo going." Very much the same, he thought. "It seems to me that those men unloading cartons of pickles and shrimp and paper towels are the connection between us and the real world. It makes sense, anyhow. What else can we go on?"

"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?"

"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."

"How does it go on?" he said.

"Let me out and I'll show you. I'm not going to tell you." The man's voice rose in hysteria. "You better let me out so I can stick it on, or honest to god, you won't get by the first tank that spots you."

Tank, Ragle thought. The notion appalled him.

Hopping down, he walked back to the cab. "I think we're going to have to let him out," he said to Vic.

"I heard him," Vic said. "I'd just as soon he was out of there, in any case."

"He may be stringing us along," Ragle said.

"We better not take the chance."

Ragle walked back, climbed the ladder, and unfastened the door. It swung back, and the driver, still cursing sullenly, dropped down onto the gravel.

"Here's the strip," Ragle said to him. He handed it over. "What else do we have to know?"

"You have to know everything," the driver said bitterly. Kneeling down he yanked a transparent covering from the back of the strip, pressed the strip to the rear bumper, and then rubbed it smooth with his fist. "How are you going to buy fuel?"

"Credit card," Ragle said.

"What a laugh," the driver said, standing up. "That credit card is for in--" He ceased. "In town," he said. "It's a fake. It's a regular old Standard Oil credit card; there haven't been any of them for twenty years." Glaring at Ragle he continued, "It's all rationed, kerosene for the truck--"

"Kerosene," Ragle echoed. "I thought it took diesel oil."

"No," the driver said, with massive reluctance. He spat into the gravel. "It's not diesel. The stack is fake. It's turbine. Uses kerosene. But they won't sell you any. The first place you go, they'll know something isn't right. And out here--" Again his voice rose to a screech. "You can't take no risks! None at all!"

"Want to ride in front with us?" Ragle said. "Or in the back? I'll leave it up to you." He wanted to get the truck into motion again.

The driver said, "Go to hell." Turning his back, he started off down the gravel shoulder, hands in his pockets, body hunched forward.

As the shape of the driver disappeared into the darkness, Ragle thought, it's my own fault for unbolting the door. Nothing I can do; I can't run after him and hit him over the head. In a fight he'd take me apart. Take us both apart.

And anyhow, that isn't the answer. That isn't what we're looking for.

Returning to the cab, he said to Vic, "He's gone. I guess we're lucky he didn't jump out of the back waving a tire-iron."

"We better start up," Vic said, sliding away. "Want me to drive? I could. Did he stick the bumper strip on?"

"Yes," Ragle said.

"I wonder how long it'll be before he gets word to them about us."

Ragle said, "We would have had to let him out eventually." For another hour they passed no sign of activity or habitation. Then, suddenly, as the truck came out of a sharp descending curve, a group of bright bluish lights flashed ahead of them, far off down the highway.

"Here's something," Vic said. "It's hard to know what to do. If we slow down or stop--"

"We'll have to stop," Ragle said. Already, he could make out the sight of cars, or vehicles of some sort, parked across the road.

As the truck slowed, men appeared, waving flashlights. One of them strode to the window of the cab and called up, "Shut off your motor. Leave your lights on. Get down."

They had no choice. Ragle opened the door and stepped down, Vic behind him. The man with the flashlight had on a uniform, but in the darkness Ragle could not make it out. The man's helmet had been painted so that it did not shine. He flashed his light into Ragle's face, then Vic's face, and then he said,

"Open up the back."

Ragle did so. The man and two companions hopped into the truck and rummaged about. Then they reappeared and jumped down.

"Okay," one of them said. He held something out to Ragle, a piece of paper. Accepting it, Ragle saw that it was some sort of punched form. "You can go ahead."

"Thanks," Ragle said. Numbly, he and Vic returned to the cab, climbed in and started up the motor, and drove off.

Presently Vic said, "Let's see what he gave you."

Holding the wheel with his left hand, Ragle fished the form from his pocket.

CERTIFICATE OF ZONE BORDER

CLEARANCE 31. 4/3/98

"There's your date," Ragle said. April third, 1998. The balance of the form consisted of IBM-style punches.

"They seemed satisfied with us," Vic said. "Whatever it was they were looking for, we didn't have it."

"They had uniforms."

"Yes, they looked like soldiers. One of them had a gun, but I couldn't tell anything about it. There must be a war on, or something."

Or, Ragle thought, a military dictatorship.

"Did they see if we had the bumper strip on?" Vic said. "In the excitement I didn't notice."

"Neither did I," Ragle said.

A while later he saw what appeared to be a town ahead of them. A variety of lights, the regular rows that might be street lights, neon signs with words... somewhere in his coat he had the card the driver had given him. This is where we're supposed to call from, he decided.

"We got through the border clearance okay," Vic said. "If we can do that, with them shining their lights right on us, we ought to be able to walk into a beanery and order a plate of hotcakes. I didn't have any dinner after work." He rolled back his sleeve to read his wristwatch. "It's ten-thirty," he said. "I haven't had anything to eat since two."

"We'll stop," Ragle said. "We'll try to get fuel while we're here. If we can't get it, we'll leave the truck." The gauge showed the tank to be almost empty. The level had dropped surprisingly fast. But they had gone quite a distance; they had been on the road for hours.

It struck him, as they passed the first houses, that something was missing.

Gas stations. Usually, on highway approaches to a town, even a tiny unimportant town, a solid line of gas stations could be seen on both sides. Before anything else. None here.

"It doesn't look good," he said. But they had seen no traffic, either. No traffic and no gas stations. Or kerosene stations, if that was the equivalent. Suddenly he slowed the truck and turned onto a side road. He brought the truck to a halt at the curb.

"I agree," Vic said. "We better try it on foot. We don't know enough to drive this thing around town."

They got warily out and stood together, in the dull light of an overhead street lamp. The houses appeared ordinary. Small, square, one story, with lawns that were black in the night darkness. Houses, Ragle thought, haven't changed much since the 'thirties anyhow. Especially if seen at night. One taller shape might have been a multiple unit.

"If they stop us," Vic said, "and ask for identification or some such, what should we do? We better agree on it now."

Ragle said, "How can we agree? We don't know what they'll ask for." The driver's remarks still bothered him. "Let's see," he said, and started off in the direction of the highway.

The first lights resolved themselves into a roadside diner. Within, sitting at the counter, two boys ate sandwiches. High school boys, with blond hair.

Their hair had been wound up into topknots. Tall cones of hair, each with a sharp, colorful spike stuck into it. The boys wore identical clothes. Sandals, wrap-around bright blue togalike gowns, metal bracelets on their arms. And when one of them twisted his head to drink from a cup, Ragle saw that the boy's cheeks had been tattooed. And, he saw with disbelief, the boy's teeth had been filed.

Beyond the counter, the middle-aged waitress wore a simple green blouse, and her hair had been trained in a familiar manner. But the two boys... both he and Vic stared at them, through the window, until at last the waitress noticed them.

"We had better go on in," Ragle said.

The door opened for them by electric eye. Just like the supermarket, Ragle thought.

Both boys watched them as they self-consciously seated themselves in one of the booths. The interior of the diner, the fixtures and signs and lighting, seemed ordinary to him. Ads for a number of foods... but the prices made no sense. 4.5, 6.7, 2.0. Obviously not dollars and cents. Ragle stared around him, as if he were trying to decide what he wanted. The waitress began to gather up her order pad.

One of the boys, nodding his topknotted head toward Vic and Ragle, said audibly, "Necktie-fellows, them smell frightfright."

His companion laughed.

The waitress, stationing herself at their booth, said, "Good evening."

"Good evening," Vic muttered.

"What would you like?" the waitress asked.

Ragle said, "What do you recommend?"

"Oh, depends on how hungry you are," the waitress said.

The money, Ragle thought. The damn money. He said, "How about a ham and cheese sandwich and coffee."

Vic said, "The same for me. And some pie a la mode."

"Pardon?" the waitress said, writing.

"Pie with ice cream," Vic said.

"Oh," she said. Nodding, she returned to the counter.

One of the boys said in a clear voice, "Necktie-fellows, many old thing-sign. You s'pose--" He stuck his thumbs in his ears. The other boy snickered.

When the sandwiches and coffee had been brought, and the waitress had gone off, one of the boys swiveled around in his chair to face them. The tattooing on his cheeks, Ragle noticed, had been carried out in design on his arm bracelets. He gazed at the intricate lines, and at last he identified the figures. The designs had been copied from Attic vases. Athena and her owl. Kore rising from the Earth.

The boy said directly to him and Vic, "Hey, you lunatic." The flesh at the back of Ragle's neck began to crawl. He pretended to concentrate on his sandwich; across from him Vic, sweating and pale, did the same.

"Hey," the boy said.

The waitress said, "Cut it out, or out of here for you."

To her, the boy said, "Necktie-fellow." Again he stuck his thumbs in his ears. The waitress did not seem impressed.

I can't stand it, Ragle thought. I can't live through this. The driver was right. To Vic he said, "Let's go."

"Fine," Vic said. He arose, grasping his sandwich, bent down to drink the last of his coffee, and then started for the door.

Now the cheek, Ragle thought. So we're doomed. We can't win.

"We have to get going," he said to the waitress. "Never mind the pie. How much?" He groped in his coat pocket, a futile gesture.

The waitress added up the bill. "Eleven-Nine," she said.

Ragle opened his wallet. The two boys watched. So did the waitress. When they saw the money, the paper banknotes, the waitress said, "Oh dear. I haven't seen paper money in years. I guess it's still good." To the first of the boys she said, "Ralf, does the government still redeem those old paper notes?"

The boy nodded.

"Wait," the waitress said. She recomputed the bill. "That'll be one-forty," she said. "But I'll have to give you your change in tokes. If that's all right." Apologetically, she dug a handful of small plastic wafers from the register, and as he gave her a five-dollar bill she handed back six of the wafers. "Thank you," she said.

As he and Vic left, the waitress seated herself with a paperbound book and resumed her reading at a flattened page.

"What an ordeal," Vic said. They walked along, both of them eating the last of their sandwiches. "Those kids. Those ghastly damn kids."

_Lunatic_, Ragle thought. Did they recognize me?

At the corner he and Vic stopped. "What now?" Vic said. "Anyhow, we can use our money. And we've got some of theirs." He lit his cigarette lighter to inspect one of the wafers. "It's plastic," he said. "Obviously a substitute for metal. Very light. Like those wartime ration tokens."

Yes, Ragle thought. Wartime ration tokens. Pennies made out of some nondescript alloy, not copper. And now, tokes. Tokens.

"But there's no blackout," he said. "They have their lights on.

"It's not the same any more," Vic said. "Lights was when--" He broke off. "I don't understand," he said. "I remember World War Two. But I guess I don't, do I? That's the whole point. That was fifty years ago. Before I was born. I never lived through the 'thirties and 'forties. Neither did you. All we know about it -- they must have taught us."

"Or we read it," Ragle said.

"Don't we know enough now?" Vic said. "We're out. We've seen it." He shuddered. "They had their teeth filed."

Ragle said, "That was almost pidgin English they were talking.

"I guess so."

"And African tribal markings. And garments." But they looked at me and one of them said, _Hey, you lunatic_. "They know," he said. "About me. But they don't care." Somehow, that made him feel more uneasy. Spectators. The cynical, mocking young faces.

"It's surprising they're not in the army," Vic said.

"They probably will be." To him, the boys had not appeared old enough. More like sixteen or seventeen.

As he and Vic stood on the corner, footsteps echoed along the dark, deserted street.

Two shapes approached them.

"Hey, you lunatic," one of them said. Leisurely, the two boys emerged in the street light of the intersection, their arms folded, their faces blank and impersonal. "Hold you-self stopstop."