He did, and the trooper frisked him. There were things in his pockets, none of them gun-size. The trooper, from behind, pulled out watches, a costly new spinning reel and some rhinestone rings and necklaces. The back of the car was filled with new suits and dresses, some crumpled and mud-stained. The trooper lifted the trunk lid and found shiny new appliances--a pressure-cooker, a steam iron, a handsome floor fan, a sandwich grill, a rotisserie. "Is this car yours?" the trooper asked interestedly. "No," the man mumbled. "You'll be sorry for this day's work, boy," the trooper promised. "Keep your back turned." He rolled up the windows, took the car keys from the ignition and locked it up. With the man beside him he drove back to the roadblock and prodded him out with his gun. "Looter," he said to his partner. "Stolen car locked up down there, full of plunder. Watch him." To the man he said: "Stand over there and don't try to run or you'll get killed. Now, who's next?" "Press," said a jaunty young man in a convertible, showing a card quickly. "Do that again," the officer requested. Reluctantly the young man did. The officer read aloud: "The Zeidler News Service requests that police and fire officials extend all press courtesies to its representative George E. Neumann." He grinned. "Back to Pittsburgh, Mr. George E. Neumann." The young man shrugged and wheeled his car around. The next two cars were, or appeared to be, driven by legitimate relatives of people in the flood area; at least they were filled with sensible supplies. The trooper passed them. The next was a year-old Dodge sedan with an oldish driver and a youngish passenger. "Haggarty," the driver said. "New York _Daily Globe_. This is Vince Ruffino, my photographer. The press card." It was a little green folder with picture--an embossed city seal through it--thumbprint, description, and the signature of the police commissioner. "Fire badge," said Haggarty, flipping open a leather folder. "Okay?" "Okay," the trooper said, and waved them on. The line of waiting cars was beginning to break up. The number of people turned back and the sour replies they had called as they passed those still in line explained it. Another vehicle coming away from the flood area, fast. It had a cardboard sign with a red cross on it stuck in the windshield. A station wagon, full. The trooper at the checkpoint paused to watch. The driver of the station wagon stopped by the trooper with the shotgun, spoke to him for a minute, nodded and slid into gear again. The trooper at the check point stared at the faces inside the station wagon, some drawn, some nervously exuberant, as it went past. The trooper with the shotgun was walking down the road toward him. "Transients," he said. "They're getting them out." The other trooper said hesitantly, "Did--did you ask--" "Yeah. They haven't found anybody answering your wife's description, not that the driver knew about anyway. She'll be all right."