They made the roadside in little more than a minute after leaving the ship. Terry and Mike lay prone in the wide drainage gutter, their swords drawn, their bodies camouflaged by a few handfuls of hastily hacked scrub brush.
Doug stood at the side of the superhighway, the power-pack at his feet, his shredded cloak in his hands to wave.
The traffic seemed light for so late in the afternoon. The sun was hot, and he was breathing heavily from the stumbling, desperate run across the small, rutted field. The ship towered above what few trees there were, and it marked them for a target.
A streamlined shape was racing toward him. It seemed to take all the strength he had left to wave the cape, and he wondered if he were waving it at searching S-men....
The vehicle sped by, whipping the cape in its undertow. It was going nearly two hundred miles an hour, and there was no driver inside it. A robot carrier.
Thirty seconds went by before the next one came. It was going slower, and it too was driverless.
Doug glanced at the sky. To the west, high, tiny dots—
It was a full minute before the next one came. With both hands, cloak dropped because it was too heavy, Doug waved, and the vehicle was slowing.
"Ready, boys...." There was a slight rustle behind him as they came to their knees.
The driver stopped his car almost abreast of him, and opened the passenger door.