He rolled up the window and picked out the least soaked wad of Kleenex to wipe the mist off the inside of the windshield. The car radio stopped playing show tunes and began to talk about freezer food plans. Groff snapped it off and leaned back to watch the turning dials on the gas pump. By the time the man had put back the cap and sloshed around to the window Groff had the exact change ready in his hand. "How far is it to Hebertown?" "Five miles," the attendant said, and went inside without counting the money. As Groff pulled out he saw the lights go out on the pumps and the big sign overhead. You couldn't blame him, he thought; there weren't enough cars out in this rain to make it worth while. He had been lucky to find even one station open. It was nearly impossible to see the road, no matter how hard the windshield wipers worked. Rain was spraying in somehow; all the windows were closed tight, but Groff could feel the thin mist on his face. He rolled around a long, downgrade curve, and when he touched the brake for a moment there was a queasy slipping sensation; the rain was coming down faster than it could flow off the highway. Foolish to drive all the way to Hebertown, Groff reflected; but the only alternative, actually, was to take a bus. The railroads didn't bother much with this little out-of-the-way corner of the state. And that was something to keep firmly in mind when he talked to the burgess the next morning, he reminded himself. An industry-hungry town could make you some tempting offers; there was a firm promise of a tax break and bank credit, and the suggestion that maybe a suitable factory building could be turned over to you for nearly nothing at all. But you had to keep freight differentials in mind too; and what about labor supply? Well, no; he crossed that off. That was the whole point of the burgess's cooperative attitude; Hebertown had plenty of available labor ten months of the year, it was only when the vacationers came up from New York and the other big cities that local unemployment and the state of the local tax rolls ceased to be a problem. Still, what about that? Were you supposed to close down in the months of July and August? He shifted in his seat, forcing himself to lean back--it did no good to peer into the rain--and tried to relax. Mickey Groff was a big man and not used to sitting. It gave him a cramped, unwelcome feeling of confinement. There was a light ahead; it turned out to be a store with a neon sign that said _Sam's Grocery_, but it gave Groff enough help to let him pick up his speed to nearly thirty-five miles an hour. He had been nearly an hour covering the last twenty miles, he saw irritably. Of course, it didn't matter--it meant just one hour less to spend sitting in the lobby of the Heber House, since there wasn't a thing he could do until the next morning in this rain. But why did he have to pick this particular Thursday to come up?