He started to draw the string on the pouch, then dipped his hand in and scooped his palm up to his mouth. He chewed on the stuff while he was securing the nearly flat bag in his sash. He swallowed the dough; the powder had been flour.
Danniels took the hat from beneath his arm, set it to his head and at last faced the direction of the engine whine.
The roof, hood and wheels moved over the curve of the horizon and Danniels saw that the car was a brandless classic which probably still had some of the original, indestructible Model A left in it.
He pondered a moment on whether to thumb or not to thumb.
He thumbed.
The rod squealed to a stop exactly even with him. A door unfolded and a voice like a stop signal said flatly, "Get in."
Danniels got in. The driver was a teen-ager in a loose scarlet tunic and a spangled W.P.A. cap. The youth wouldn't have been bad-looking except for a sullen expression and a rather girlish turn of cheek, completely devoid of beard line. Danniels wrote him off as a prospective member of the Wolf Pack in a year or two.
But not just yet, he fervently hoped.
"Going far? I'm not," said the driver.
Danniels adjusted the knees of his trousers. "I'm going to—near where Chicago used to be."