road speed of those behind them, yet with the frantic rearmost cars
unable to pass. There was a humming and roaring of motors that filled
the air. They plunged toward Lockley's miniature roadster. Truck horns
blared.

Lockley got off the highway and onto the right-hand shoulder. He
stopped. The crowded mass of rushing vehicles roared up to him and
went past. They were more remarkable than he'd believed. There were
dirt mover trucks. There were truck-and-trailer combinations. There
were sedans and dump trucks and even a convertible or two, and then
more trucks--even tank trucks--and more sedans and half-tonners--a
complete and motley collection of every kind of gasoline-driven
vehicle that could be driven on a highway and used on a construction
project.

And every one was crowded with men. Trailer-trucks had their body
doors open, and they were packed with the workmen of the construction
camp near Boulder Lake. The sedans were jammed with passengers. Dirt
mover trucks had men holding fast to handholds, and there were men in
the backs of the dump trucks. The racing traffic filled the highway
from edge to edge. It rushed past, giving off a deafening roar and
clouds of gasoline fumes.

They were gone, the solid mass of them at any rate. But now there came
older cars, no less crowded, and then more spacious cars, not crowded
so much and less frantically pushing at those ahead. But even these
cars passed each other recklessly. There seemed to be an almost
hysterical fear of being last.

One car swung off to its left. There were five men in it. It braked