More than a mile had been covered before two dynocars and one gas-truck passed him in quick succession all going the opposite way. None of the occupants favoured him with more than a perfunctory glance. Another mile went by before anything came in his own direction. This was another gas-truck, a big, dirty, lumbering monstrosity that wheezed and grunted as it rolled along.

Standing by the verge, he waved it down, puttiug on an air of arrogant authority that never failed to impress all Sirians save those with more arrogance and authority. The truck stopped jerkily and with a tailward boost of fumes. It was loaded with about twenty tons of edible roots. Two Sirians looked down at him from the cab. They were unkempt, their clothes baggy and soiled.

“I am of the government,” informed Mowry, giving the staterment the right degree of importance. “I wish a ride into town.”

The nearest one opened the door, moved closer to the driver and made room. Mowry climbed up, squeezed into the bench seat which was a close fit for three. He held his case on his knees. The truck emitted a loud bang and lurched forward while the Sirian in the middle gazed dully at the case.

“You are a Mashamban, I think,” ventured the driver, conversationally.

“Correct. Seems we can’t open our mouths without betraying the fact”

“I have never been to Masham,” continued the driver using the sing-song accents peculiar to Jaimec. “I would like to go there someday. It is a great place.” He switched to his fellow Sirian. “Isn’t it, Snat?”

“Yar,” said Snat, still mooning at the case.

“Besides, Masham or anywhere on Diracta should be a lot safer than here. And perhaps I’d have better luck there. It has been a bad day. It has been a stinking bad day. Hasn’t it, Snat?”