“Yar,” said Snat.

“Why?” asked Mowry.

“This soko of a truck has broken down three times since dawn. And it has stuck in the bog twice. The last time we had to empty it to get it out, and then refill it. With the load we’ve got that is work. Hard work.” He spat out the window. “Wasn’t it, Snat?”

“Yar.” said Snat, still half-dead from the effort.

“Too bad,” Mowry sympathised.

“As for the rest, you know of it,” said the driver, irefully. “It has been a bad day.”

“I know of what?” Mowry prompted.

“The news.”

“I have been in the woods since sunup. One does not hear news in the woods.”

“The ten-time radio announced an increase in the war-tax. As if we aren’t paying enough. Then the twelve-time radio said a Spakum ship had been zooming around. They had to admit it because the ship was fired upon from a number of places. We are not deaf when guns fire, nor blind when the target is visible.” He nudged his fellow. “Are we, Snat?”

“Nar,” confirmed Snat.

“Just imagine that—a lousy Spakum ship sneaking around over our very roof-tops. You know what that means: they are seeking targets for bombing. Well, I hope none of them get through. I hope every Spakum that heads this way runs straight into a break-up barrage.”

“So do I,” said Mowry, squirting pseudo-patriotism out of his ears. He gave his neighbour a dig in the ribs. “Don’t you?”

“Yar,” said Snat.

For the rest of the journey the driver maintained his paean of anguish about the general lousiness of the day, the iniquity of truck-builders, the menace and expense of war and the blatant impudence of an enemy ship that had surveyed Jaimec in broad daylight. All the time. Snat lolled in the middle of the cab, gaped glassy-eyed at Mowry’s leather case and responded in monosyllables only when metaphorically beaten over the head.