There was a solid line of cars, bumper to bumper, on the northbound
side of the highway. It ended against a roadblock consisting of
two state troopers, one standing in the middle of the lane with a
double-barreled shotgun over his arm, the other by the roadside where
he could look into the cars. Their patrol car was pulled over on the
soggy shoulder, its motor idling.
A new Lincoln with a middle-aged man at the wheel was next.
"Why do you want to get through, mister?" the trooper demanded. He
had long ago given up the time-consuming request for registration and
operator's permit.
The man was flustered. "I have some friends in Newtown," he said. "I
thought maybe there was something I could do for them--"
The trooper glanced into the back of the car. Empty. "You haven't got
anything they need," he said. "Turn around and go home."
Meekly the man U-turned around the trooper in the road and sped south.
The next car was a tired, top-down convertible with two young couples
who might have been high-school seniors, college freshmen or young
working stiffs. The driver explained, too glibly, indicating the girl
by his side: "Her mother lives in Bradley, so she got me to drive her
in. You know the railroads and buses aren't running, officer."
But the girl giggled.
"Where does she live in Bradley?" asked the trooper. The girl hesitated
and took a deep breath before beginning to lie. The trooper gave a
weary shushing gesture. "Skip it," he said. "Turn around and go home.
This is no circus."
The driver began to bluster. "I've got a license, I can drive where I
want--"
"Turn around and go home," the trooper said. "If you keep arguing I'll
run you in for obstructing traffic. If you're stupid enough to proceed
down that road, Schultz there will fire one warning shot and will then
blow your goddam head off. Move."
The boy roared his motor spitefully to say the things he didn't dare
say, let up suddenly on his clutch and spun around the patrolman with
the shotgun in a U-turn.
The next car was black and driven by a man in black. Its rear and the
seat beside the driver were filled with cartons; the trunk lid was
half-up, tied by a rope to the bumper over more cartons.
"I'm from the Beaver Run Meeting of the Society of Friends," the man
said quietly. "We've gathered some things they may need in there.
Medicine, bandages, Sterno, flashlights."
The trooper hesitated. "We're supposed to accept contributions and turn
you back, then a truck comes and takes them in. But I haven't seen any
truck and I don't know whether there's going to be one or if it was
just talk. You look as if you can take care of yourself, mister. Go on
in and don't get hurt." He called to the trooper in the road: "Let him
through."
"Thank you," said the Quaker, and drove on at a careful thirty-five
miles per hour.
Down the southbound lane, the deserted left strip of the highway, a big
car purred, slowing obediently to a stop at the outraged shout of the
trooper. The old man who was driving said nothing; the young woman with
him put out her head and called, "Dr. Buloff, Factoryville, New York.
Are there any instructions?"
The trooper backed around the car and read the New York plates. The
second two characters were MD. He said to the old man, "Just go in and
free-lance, doc. They can use you."
"Thank you, officer," the old man said with a good trace of German
accent, and the car purred on.
In rapid succession three imbeciles followed the doctor's example of
using the southbound lane. All were sightseers, and all were turned
back with curses.
The next car in line was a '39 Ford driven by a white-faced young man
with the jitters and a narrow mustache. He had identification papers
ready in his sweating hand. "John C. Barshay," he said precisely. "As
you can see from the address on this envelope I live at 437 Olney
Street, Newtown. I work in New York City and come home weekends. My
wife--I haven't been able to get through on the phone." His voice was
rising hysterically. "I demand to be let through, officer!"
"Calm down," the trooper said gently. "Of course you can get through.
We're not here to stop people like you. I hope everything's all right."
The young man fought his way back to composure. "Thank you, officer,"
he said precisely, and drove on.
Then there was a phenomenon, a car coming _from_ the flooded area. It
was coming fast until the driver, presumably, could see that the hassle
up ahead was a roadblock and then it stopped and began to wheel around.
"Hold 'em, Schultzie!" the trooper yelled at his partner with the
shotgun. He leaped into the idling patrol car, spun its wheels for an
instant in the soft shoulder and then zoomed free down the highway. The
other car had barely finished its turn; he had it crowded off the road
in seconds. He got out with his gun drawn and a casual bead on the head
of the unshaven, slack-jawed man in the driver's seat. "Get out with
your hands up," he said, his body shielded behind the front of his car.
The driver got out, dull-eyed.
"Turn around."
He did, and the trooper frisked him. There were things in his pockets,
none of them gun-size. The trooper, from behind, pulled out watches, a
costly new spinning reel and some rhinestone rings and necklaces.
The back of the car was filled with new suits and dresses, some
crumpled and mud-stained. The trooper lifted the trunk lid and found
shiny new appliances--a pressure-cooker, a steam iron, a handsome floor
fan, a sandwich grill, a rotisserie.
"Is this car yours?" the trooper asked interestedly.
"No," the man mumbled.
"You'll be sorry for this day's work, boy," the trooper promised. "Keep
your back turned."
He rolled up the windows, took the car keys from the ignition and
locked it up. With the man beside him he drove back to the roadblock
and prodded him out with his gun.
"Looter," he said to his partner. "Stolen car locked up down there,
full of plunder. Watch him." To the man he said: "Stand over there and
don't try to run or you'll get killed. Now, who's next?"
"Press," said a jaunty young man in a convertible, showing a card
quickly.
"Do that again," the officer requested. Reluctantly the young man did.
The officer read aloud: "The Zeidler News Service requests that police
and fire officials extend all press courtesies to its representative
George E. Neumann." He grinned. "Back to Pittsburgh, Mr. George E.
Neumann."
The young man shrugged and wheeled his car around.
The next two cars were, or appeared to be, driven by legitimate
relatives of people in the flood area; at least they were filled with
sensible supplies. The trooper passed them. The next was a year-old
Dodge sedan with an oldish driver and a youngish passenger. "Haggarty,"
the driver said. "New York _Daily Globe_. This is Vince Ruffino, my
photographer. The press card." It was a little green folder with
picture--an embossed city seal through it--thumbprint, description, and
the signature of the police commissioner. "Fire badge," said Haggarty,
flipping open a leather folder. "Okay?"
"Okay," the trooper said, and waved them on.
The line of waiting cars was beginning to break up. The number of
people turned back and the sour replies they had called as they passed
those still in line explained it.
Another vehicle coming away from the flood area, fast. It had a
cardboard sign with a red cross on it stuck in the windshield. A
station wagon, full.
The trooper at the checkpoint paused to watch. The driver of the
station wagon stopped by the trooper with the shotgun, spoke to him for
a minute, nodded and slid into gear again. The trooper at the check
point stared at the faces inside the station wagon, some drawn, some
nervously exuberant, as it went past.
The trooper with the shotgun was walking down the road toward him.
"Transients," he said. "They're getting them out."