In a few minutes I was lost, not only from any monitoring technician, but lost myself, right off the map. The channel switched and turned and cut back and I was so busy bucking the car by hand, trying to keep from crashing that I lost all track of navigation. I swore and wished that the car were a triphib so that I could land on water.
The trees suddenly broke on the left bank; I saw a stretch of level land, kicked her over and squatted her in with a deceleration that nearly cut me in two against my safety belt. But I was down and no longer trying to play catfish in a muddy stream.
I wondered what to do. There seemed to be nobody around; I judged that I was on the back end of someone’s farm. No doubt there was a highway close by. I had better find it and stay on the ground.
But I knew that was silly even as I thought it. Three hours from Washington to Kansas City by air—I had completed almost all the trip and now I was how far away from Kansas City? By land, about three hours. At that rate, all I needed to make the trip complete was to park the car ten or twelve miles outside Kansas City and walk; then I would still have three hours to go.
I felt like the frog who jumped halfway to the end of the log with each hop, but never got there. I must get back into the air.
But I did not dare do so until I knew positively whether traffic here was being controlled by free men, or by slugs.
It suddenly occurred to me that I had not turned on the stereo since leaving Washington. I am not much for stereo; between the commercials and the junk they sandwich between them I sometimes wonder about “progress”. But a newscast may have uses.
I could not find a newscast. I got (a) a lecture by Myrtle Doolightly, Ph.D., on Why Husbands Grow Bored, sponsored by the Uth-a-gen Hormone Company—I decided that she probably had plenty of experience in her subject; (b) a trio of girl hepsters singing If You Mean What I think You Mean, What are We Waiting For? (c) an episode in Lucretia Learns About Life.
Dear Doctor Myrtle was fully dressed and could have hidden half a dozen titans around her frame. The trio were dressed about the way one would expect them to be, but they did not turn their backs to the camera. Lucretia appeared to alternate having her clothes torn off with taking them off willingly, but the camera always cut or the lights always went out just before I could check on whether or not her back was bare—of slugs, that is.
And none of it meant anything. Those programs could have been taped weeks or months before the President announced Schedule Bare Back. I was still switching channels, trying to find a newscast—or any live program—when I found myself staring into the professionally unctuous smile of an announcer. He was fully dressed.
Shortly I realized it was one of those silly give-away shows. He was saying: “—and some lucky little woman sitting by her screen right this minute is about to receive, absolutely free, a General Atomics Six-in-One Automatic Home Butler. Who will it be? You? You? Or lucky you? He turned away from scan; I could see his shoulders. They were covered by shirt and jacket and distinctly rounded, almost humped. I was inside Zone Red.
When I switched off I realized that I was being watched—by a male urchin about nine years old. He was wearing nothing but shorts, but the brown of his shoulders showed that such was his custom. I threw back the windscreen. “Hey, bub, where’s the highway?”
He continued to stare before replying, “Road to Macon’s up there yonder. Say, mister, that’s a Cadillac Zipper, ain’t it?”
“Sure thing. Where yonder?”
“Give me a ride, huh, will you?”
“Haven’t got time. Where’s the road?”
He sized me up before answering, “Take me along and I’ll show you.”
I gave in. While he climbed in and looked around, I opened my kit, got out shirt, trousers, and jacket, and put them on. I said conversationally, “Maybe I shouldn’t put on this shirt. Do people around here wear shirts?”