Philip Dick - Time Out of Joint

But we don't intend to live here any more. We're leaving. For good.

Did I get this far before? he wondered. They had got to open fields, now. A last intersection, a minor road serving industries that had been zoned out of the city proper. The railroad tracks

He noticed an infinitely long freight train at rest. The suspended drums of chemicals on towers over factories.

"Nothing like it," Vic said. "Especially at sunset."

The traffic, now, had become other trucks, with few sedans.

"There's your barbecue place," Vic said.

On the right, Ragle saw the sign, Frank's Bar-B-Q and Drinks. Modern-looking enough. Clean, certainly. New cars in the lot. The truck rumbled on past it. The place fell behind.

"Well, you got farther this time," Vic said.

Ahead of them, the highway led into a range of hills. Up high, Ragle thought. Maybe somehow I got up there, up to the top. Tried to _walk_ across those peaks. Could I have been that tanked up?

No wonder I didn't make it.

On and on they drove. The countryside became monotonous. Fields, rolling hills, everything featureless, with advertising signs stuck at intervals. And then, without warning, the hills flattened and they found themselves rolling down a long, straight grade.

"This is what makes me sweat," Ragle said. "Driving a big rig down a really long grade." He had already shifted into a gear low enough to hold back the mass of the truck. At least they carried no load; the mass was small enough for him, with his limited experience, to control. During the time that they had warmed the motor, he had learned the gear-box pattern. "Anyhow," he said to Vic, "we've got a horn loud as hell." He blew a couple of blasts on it, experimentally; it made both of them jump.

At the end of the grade a yellow and black official sign attracted their attention. They could make out a cluster of sheds or temporary buildings. It had a grim look.

"Here it is," Vic said. "This is what you meant."

At the sheds, several trucks had lined up. And now, as they got closer, they saw uniformed men. Across the highway the sign flapped in the evening wind.

STATE LINE AGRICULTURAL INSPECTION STATION

TRUCKS USE SCALE IN RIGHT LANE ONLY

"That means us," Vic said. "The scale. They're going to weigh us. If they're inspecting, they'll open up the back." He glanced at Ragle. "Should we stop here and try to do something with Ted?"

Too late now, Ragle realized. The state inspectors could see the truck and them inside it; anything they did would be visible. At the first shed two black police cars had been parked so that they could get onto the highway at an instant's notice. We couldn't outrun them, either, he realized. Nothing to do but continue on to the scale.

An inspector, wearing sharply pressed dark blue trousers, a light blue shirt, badge and cap, sauntered toward them as they slowed to a stop. Without even glancing at them he waved them on.

"We don't have to stop," Ragle said excitedly, with insight. "It's a fake!" He waved back at the inspector, and Vic did the same. The man's back was already to them. "They don't ever stop these big carriers -- just passenger cars. We're out."

The sheds and sign dropped back and disappeared. They had got out; already, they had done it. Any other kind of vehicle would not have got through. But the genuine carriers passed back and forth all day long... in his rear-view mirror Ragle saw three more trucks being waved on. The trucks parked in a line at the sheds were dummies, like the other equipment.

"None of them," he said. "None of the trucks have to stop."

"You were right," Vic said. He settled back against the seat. "I suppose if we had tried to get by them in the Volkswagen they would have told us that we had some variety of insect infestation clinging to the upholstery. Japanese beetles... you have to drive back and get sprayed and apply for a one-month permit for re-inspection, subject to indefinite withdrawal."

As he drove, Ragle noticed that the highway had undergone a change. Now that they had passed the inspection station the highway had separated into two distinct roads, each five lanes wide, absolutely straight and flat. And no longer concrete. He did not recognize the material over which they now drove.

This is the outside, he said to himself. The outside highway, which we were never supposed to see or know about.

Trucks behind them and ahead of them. Some carrying supplies in, some empty and leaving, as they were. The ant trails leading into and out of the town. Ceaseless movement. And not one passenger car. Only the rumble of diesel trucks.

And, he realized, the advertising signs had vanished.

"Better switch on your lights," Vic said. Evening gloom had settled onto the hills and fields. One truck coming toward them along the other road had its lights on. "We want to obey the laws. Whatever they are."

Ragle switched on the lights. The evening seemed quiet and lonely. Far off, a bird skimmed along the surface of the earth, its wings rigid. The bird lighted on a fence.

"What about fuel?" Ragle said.

Leaning past him, Vic read the fuel gauge. "Half full," he said. "I frankly have no idea how far a rig like this can go on a tank. Or if there's a reserve tank. Without a load we should go fairly far. Depends a great deal on what kind of grades we run across. A heavy vehicle loses a lot on grades; you've seen trucks stuck halfway up a grade, moving ten miles an hour in its lowest gear."

"Maybe we better let Ted out," Ragle said. It had occurred to him that their money might be worthless. "We'll have to buy fuel and food -- we don't know where, or even if we can. He must have credit cards on him. And money that's good."

Vic tossed a handful of papers into his lap. "From the glove compartment," he said. "Credit cards, maps, meal tickets. No money, though. We'll see what we can do with the credit cards. They're usually good at--" He broke off. "Motels," he said finally. "If they have them. What do you think we'll find?"

"I don't know," Ragle said. Darkness had obliterated the landscape around them; in the open spaces between towns there were no street lights to give them clues. Only the flat land, up to the sky, where lighter colors, a bluish-black, began. Stars had appeared.

"Do we have to wait until morning?" Vic said. "Are we going to have to drive all night?"

"Maybe so," Ragle said. On a curve, the headlights of the truck lit up a section of fence and scrub plants beyond it. I feel as if all this had happened before, he thought. Reliving it a second time.

Beside him, Vic examined the papers that he had brought out of the glove compartment. "What do you make of this?" He held up a long paper strip, brightly colored; Ragle glanced at it and saw that it read:

ONE HAPPY WORLD

At each end, in luminous yellow, a snake coiled into an S-shape.

"Has glue on back," Vic said. "It must be for the bumper."

"Like 'make mine milk'," Ragle said.

After a pause Vic said in a low voice, "Let me hold the wheel. I want you to look at it closer." He caught hold of the steering wheel and passed the bumper strip to Ragle. "At the bottom. In type."

Holding the strip near the dome light, Ragle read the words: _Federal law requires that this be displayed at all times_.

He passed it back to Vic. "We're going to run into a lot more we don't understand," he said. But the strip had disturbed him, too. Mandatory... it had to be on the bumper, or else.

Vic said, "There're more." From the glove compartment he lifted out a stack of strips, ten or eleven of them, all alike. "He must glue it on every time he makes a trip. Probably rips it off when he enters town."

At the next stretch of empty highway, when no other trucks could be seen, Ragle drove from the road onto the gravel shoulder. He stopped the truck and put on the hand brake. "I'm going to go around to the back," he said. "I'll see if he's getting enough air." As he opened the cab door he said, "And I'll ask him about the strip."