"Thank you, officer," the old man said with a good trace of German accent, and the car purred on.
In rapid succession three imbeciles followed the doctor's example of using the southbound lane. All were sightseers, and all were turned back with curses.
The next car in line was a '39 Ford driven by a white-faced young man with the jitters and a narrow mustache. He had identification papers ready in his sweating hand. "John C. Barshay," he said precisely. "As you can see from the address on this envelope I live at 437 Olney Street, Newtown. I work in New York City and come home weekends. My wife—I haven't been able to get through on the phone." His voice was rising hysterically. "I demand to be let through, officer!"
"Calm down," the trooper said gently. "Of course you can get through. We're not here to stop people like you. I hope everything's all right."
The young man fought his way back to composure. "Thank you, officer," he said precisely, and drove on.
Then there was a phenomenon, a car coming from the flooded area. It was coming fast until the driver, presumably, could see that the hassle up ahead was a roadblock and then it stopped and began to wheel around.
"Hold 'em, Schultzie!" the trooper yelled at his partner with the shotgun. He leaped into the idling patrol car, spun its wheels for an instant in the soft shoulder and then zoomed free down the highway. The other car had barely finished its turn; he had it crowded off the road in seconds. He got out with his gun drawn and a casual bead on the head of the unshaven, slack-jawed man in the driver's seat. "Get out with your hands up," he said, his body shielded behind the front of his car.
The driver got out, dull-eyed.
"Turn around."
He did, and the trooper frisked him. There were things in his pockets, none of them gun-size. The trooper, from behind, pulled out watches, a costly new spinning reel and some rhinestone rings and necklaces.