station wagon with a smelly exhaust. “Come on, come

station wagon with a smelly exhaust.

“Come on, come on!” Tookey muttered, and blew his horn. But the horn didn’t start the cars moving, and Tookey, swearing, opened the door and had himself a look.

“Oh, man, man. They’re stacked up for miles!” he groaned. “You wouldn’t think it’s possible....”

“What is it?” LaMort inquired, stirring in his seat. “What is it? An accident?”

“I dunno, I can’t see a thing. But they just ain’t movin’, not a foot,” Tookey responded.

“I’m sick,” LaMort groaned. “I’m sick, Tookey.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Tookey said wamingly, hopping out of the car to stare at the sight again. The ribbon of automobiles vanishing into a horizon 15 or 20 miles away. Like one enormous reptile it curled over the highway, a snake with multicoloured skin, lying asleep under the hot sun.

Tookey climbed back in again, and the station wagon moved an inch, a foot, and greedily, he stomped the gas pedal each to time to gobble up the gap. A trooper on a motorcycle bounced between the lanes, and Tookey leaned out of the window to shout at him, inquiring, but the cop rumbled on implacably.

The heat got worse, furnace-like and scorching, making Tookey yelp when his hands touched metal. Savagely, Tookey hit the horn again, and heard a dim chorus ahead. Every few minutes, the station wagon jumped, and every few minutes, Tookey closed the gap.

But an hour accumulated, and more, and they could still see the tunnel exit behind them. LaMort was whimpering now, and Tookey climbed in and out of the car like a mad jack-in-the-box, his clothes sopping with sweat, his eyes wild, cursing whenever he hit the gas pedal to crawl another inch, another foot forward....

“A cop! A cop!” he heard LaMort scream as a trooper, on foot, marched past the window. Tookey opened the car door and caught the uniformed arm.

“Help us, will ya?” he pleaded. “What the hell’s going on here? How do we get outta this?”