they both in the green?"

"Yes, why?"

"That's funny," Philly controller replied, "we got the calls as a
sideswipe in white that put one of the cars over into the green. There
should have been a third vehicle."

"That's right," Ben exclaimed. "We were so busy trying to get that gal
out and then making the try for the other man I never even thought to
look for another car. You suppose that guy took off?"

"It's possible," the controller said. "I'm calling a gate filter until
we know for sure. I've got the car number on the driver that reported
the accident. I'll get hold of him and see if he can give us a lead on
the third car. You go ahead with your patrol and I'll let you know
what I find out."

"Affirmative," Ben replied. He eased the patrol car onto the police
lane and turned west once again. Clay reappeared in the cab, dressed
in fresh coveralls. "I'll take it, Ben. You go and clean up now.
Kelly's got a pot of fresh coffee in the galley." Ferguson slid into
his control seat.

A light skiff of snow covered the service strip and the dividers as
Car 56 swung back westward in the red lane. Snow was falling steadily
but melting as it touched the warm ferrophalt pavement in all lanes.
The wet roadways glistened with the lights of hundreds of vehicles.
The chronometer read 1840 hours. Clay pushed the car up to a steady
75, just about apace with the slowest traffic in the white lane. To
the south, densities were much lighter in the blue and yellow lanes
and even the green had thinned out. It would stay moderately light now
for another hour until the dinner stops were over and the night
travelers again rolled onto the thruways.

Kelly was putting frozen steaks into the infra-oven as Ben walked
through to crew quarters. Her coverall sleeves were rolled to the
elbows as she worked and a vagrant strand of copper hair curled over
her forehead. As Martin passed by, he caught a faint whisper of
perfume and he smiled appreciatively.

In the tiny crew quarters, he shut the door to the galley and stripped
out of his wet coveralls and boots. He eyed the shower stall across
the passageway.

"Hey, mother," he yelled to Kelly, "have I got time for a shower
before dinner?"

"Yes, but make it a quickie," she called back.

Five minutes later he stepped into the galley, his dark, crew-cut hair
still damp. Kelly was setting plastic, disposable dishes on the little
swing-down table that doubled as a food bar and work desk. Ben