The Thing In The Truck By Darius John Granger There's nothing peculiar about a load of potatoes going to market--but we knew something was wrong when the spuds suddenly came to life! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy December 1956 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It started with a load of potatoes. Joe Loftus and I were driving the big semi-trailer back from Montauk that night after delivering a load of fishing gear to one of the big resorts out there and wondering if we'd be able to pick up a truckload of anything on the way back to increase the take when Joe spotted this sign. It was one of those standard hand-painted _Return Load_ signs, so we pulled in and I climbed down from the cab while Joe remained behind the wheel, ready to roll if they had nothing for us. The sun was going down in a bank of heavy black clouds. I figured it might rain before the trip was over. I went over to the door of the farm house and knocked. Pretty soon I heard footsteps inside and a man chewing a mouthful of his supper opened the door for me. He needed a shave and he had tired, defeated eyes. "What's the load, friend," I said. "I saw the sign." "Potatoes." He named a price. "Well," I said in surprise. "That's cheap." "Tell you the truth, bub. They got blasted." "Blasted? What do you mean?" "Well, now, it's hard to say. Something fell and hit the storage barn." "Fell?" "Fell, bub. A bitty explosion. But nothing much. Maybe seventy percent of the load is good. The bad ones will be in sacks in the middle. Won't even know it. What do you say?" That season potatoes were going good in the wholesale markets around the city. I figured Joe Loftus and I could clear a neat profit even if thirty percent of the load was waste. So I agreed to the deal and for the next hour or so used the muscles of my back along with Joe, the farmer, and the farmer's two grown boys to load the sacks of potatoes into the empty van of our big semi-trailer. When he had finished I paid off the farmer and his wife gave us each a cup of coffee. Then Joe and I climbed into the cab and we rolled. "Hear something?" Joe asked about half an hour later. It was dark by then and traffic on the Montauk Highway was light. "Potato sacks shifting around," I said. "We didn't pack 'em too good, I guess." The noise came again. Maybe it didn't really sound like sacks shifting around in the van. I don't know. I was in a hurry to get home. It had been a long day. I was driving. Joe squirmed around and peered through the rear window of the cab but could see nothing. "Stop the truck," he said. "What for?" "'Cause I don't like that noise. Something's going on back there."