"I'm from the Beaver Run Meeting of the Society of Friends," the man said quietly. "We've gathered some things they may need in there. Medicine, bandages, Sterno, flashlights." The trooper hesitated. "We're supposed to accept contributions and turn you back, then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven't seen any truck and I don't know whether there's going to be one or if it was just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, mister. Go on in and don't get hurt." He called to the trooper in the road: "Let him through." "Thank you," said the Quaker, and drove on at a careful thirty-five miles per hour. Down the southbound lane, the deserted left strip of the highway, a big car purred, slowing obediently to a stop at the outraged shout of the trooper. The old man who was driving said nothing; the young woman with him put out her head and called, "Dr. Buloff, Factoryville, New York. Are there any instructions?" The trooper backed around the car and read the New York plates. The second two characters were MD. He said to the old man, "Just go in and free-lance, doc. They can use you." "Thank you, officer," the old man said with a good trace of German accent, and the car purred on. In rapid succession three imbeciles followed the doctor's example of using the southbound lane. All were sightseers, and all were turned back with curses. The next car in line was a '39 Ford driven by a white-faced young man with the jitters and a narrow mustache. He had identification papers ready in his sweating hand. "John C. Barshay," he said precisely. "As you can see from the address on this envelope I live at 437 Olney Street, Newtown. I work in New York City and come home weekends. My wife--I haven't been able to get through on the phone." His voice was rising hysterically. "I demand to be let through, officer!" "Calm down," the trooper said gently. "Of course you can get through. We're not here to stop people like you. I hope everything's all right." The young man fought his way back to composure. "Thank you, officer," he said precisely, and drove on. Then there was a phenomenon, a car coming _from_ the flooded area. It was coming fast until the driver, presumably, could see that the hassle up ahead was a roadblock and then it stopped and began to wheel around. "Hold 'em, Schultzie!" the trooper yelled at his partner with the shotgun. He leaped into the idling patrol car, spun its wheels for an instant in the soft shoulder and then zoomed free down the highway. The other car had barely finished its turn; he had it crowded off the road in seconds. He got out with his gun drawn and a casual bead on the head of the unshaven, slack-jawed man in the driver's seat. "Get out with your hands up," he said, his body shielded behind the front of his car. The driver got out, dull-eyed. "Turn around."