Using just enough power to waft the Lancaster into the air, Farradyne placed the ship in a gully a few hundred yards from a state highway. The trees covered it from direct observation at night and the flat hills and ravines would cover it from radar detection.
It was almost two o'clock in the morning when a lonely moving van came along the highway. The brakes screeched as the driver caught sight of a crumpled body lying by the road. Redness smeared along a length of white thigh, uncovered by a ripped skirt. More redness dribbled wetly from a corner of Norma's mouth. The driver piled out of one door and his helper from the other. They ran to kneel by the woman's side.
Then they smelled the ketchup and stood up, raising their hands promptly in anticipation of the command.
"That's not blood spilled," said the driver loudly. "Let's keep it that way, whoever you are."
The driver's helper said, "This is a bum job, friend. We're carting second-hand furniture, not gold."
"I don't want your load," said Farradyne, stepping into the glare of the headlights while Norma got up and dusted herself off. "I want your truck."
They looked at him and he saw recognition in their faces. Probably every newscast had his picture presented in full color.
"What's the next move, Farradyne?" asked the driver in a surly tone. "Do we take the high jump?"
"No, I just want your truck. Driver, what's your name?"