"Where does she live in Bradley?" asked the trooper. The girl hesitated and took a deep breath before beginning to lie. The trooper gave a weary shushing gesture. "Skip it," he said. "Turn around and go home. This is no circus."
The driver began to bluster. "I've got a license, I can drive where I want—"
"Turn around and go home," the trooper said. "If you keep arguing I'll run you in for obstructing traffic. If you're stupid enough to proceed down that road, Schultz there will fire one warning shot and will then blow your goddam head off. Move."
The boy roared his motor spitefully to say the things he didn't dare say, let up suddenly on his clutch and spun around the patrolman with the shotgun in a U-turn.
The next car was black and driven by a man in black. Its rear and the seat beside the driver were filled with cartons; the trunk lid was half-up, tied by a rope to the bumper over more cartons.
"I'm from the Beaver Run Meeting of the Society of Friends," the man said quietly. "We've gathered some things they may need in there. Medicine, bandages, Sterno, flashlights."
The trooper hesitated. "We're supposed to accept contributions and turn you back, then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven't seen any truck and I don't know whether there's going to be one or if it was just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, mister. Go on in and don't get hurt." He called to the trooper in the road: "Let him through."
"Thank you," said the Quaker, and drove on at a careful thirty-five miles per hour.
Down the southbound lane, the deserted left strip of the highway, a big car purred, slowing obediently to a stop at the outraged shout of the trooper. The old man who was driving said nothing; the young woman with him put out her head and called, "Dr. Buloff, Factoryville, New York. Are there any instructions?"
The trooper backed around the car and read the New York plates. The second two characters were MD. He said to the old man, "Just go in and free-lance, doc. They can use you."