He was a little more ready for it now, but it was by no means easy to take. On the seat of the halftrack he found two fatigue caps, two twill shirts, two pairs of pants. On the floor were the shoes and socks. The men had disappeared rapidly, while the trucks were still moving. Web looked up into the sky. None of the stars were moving. But the aliens would be coming back soon. He climbed into the halftrack, threw out the clothes and started the engine. The thing had stalled, probably, running off by itself up a hill. He was lucky. The motor turned over. He was going quickly away, in no particular direction, when he remembered food. He stopped the halftrack and looked in the back. Towing apparatus, to take the pod back. He groaned. The second truck had burned, was still hot, but the third was intact. He found some K-rations and an untouched thermos, opened the thermos immediately and gulped down a huge draught of pleasantly warm coffee. With the coffee in him he felt much better and began to think. He would have to get out of here damn fast. But where? In the least likely direction. Which was? In the opposite direction to the base? No. At right angles. Better yet, at any old angle. Neither directly toward home, nor directly away. Not by any means toward the nearest town. So just run. But first cigarettes--and money. He rifled the first pair of pants he found, then another. The second had belonged to an officer. In a moment of sudden clarity, realizing the uselessness in town of the overalls he now wore, he took the full uniform with him. He did not think about the man that had been in them. He was coming fully awake now, beginning to realize the jam he was in. He had as much chance of getting out of this desert alive as a crippled snail. He started up the halftrack and drove off over the sand at an even eighteen miles an hour. * * * * * "There he goes," said Kunklin. "What is that thing he is driving?" "Extraordinary," Prule agreed. "You'd think that even with their primitive technology these poor souls would have reasonably comfortable conveyances." "And faster," Kunklin said. "The Faktors will be back." "Where are they now?" "North. They reason, obviously, that he has slipped through on the ground. They are taking no chance on the bong having missed, which is characteristically thorough. They are fanning out from the North, beginning to ring the desert." "There is no hurry then. If the Faktors think he is a Galactic they will be very discreet, very cautious." Kunklin turned from the eyepiece, his handsome face lighted with interest. "Listen, now there's a thing we'll have to discuss. Could this man be a Galactic?" "Fully? No, of course not," Prule sniffed. "A Galactic run from a Faktor? Humph!" "But he undoubtedly has Galactic blood," said Kunklin cheerfully, "else how do you explain his escape from the satellite?"