The Generator

           "Getthehelloutofmyway!"

           Dr.RobertStadlerhearditontheradioinhiscar.Hedidnotknowwhetherthenextsound,part-gasp,part-scream,part-laughter,startedrisingfromhimorfromtheradio—butheheardtheclickthatcutthembothoff.Theradiowentdead.NofurthersoundscamefromtheWayne-FalklandHotel.

           Hejerkedhishandfromknobtoknobunderthelighteddial.Nothingcamethrough,noexplanations,nopleasoftechnicaltrouble,nosilence-hidingmusic.Allstationswereofftheair.

           Heshuddered,hegrippedthewheel,leaningforwardacrossit,likeajockeyatthecloseofarace,andhisfootpresseddownontheaccelerator.Thesmallstretchofhighwaybeforehimbouncedwiththeleapingofhisheadlights.TherewasnothingbeyondthelightedstripbuttheemptinessoftheprairiesofIowa.

           Hedidnotknowwhyhehadbeenlisteningtothebroadcast;hedidnotknowwhatmadehimtremblenow.Hechuckledabruptly—itsoundedlikeamalevolentgrowl—eitherattheradio,oratthoseinthecity,oratthesky.

           Hewaswatchingtherarepostsofhighwaynumbers.Hedidnotneedtoconsultamap:forfourdays,thatmaphadbeenprintedonhisbrain,likeanetoflinestracedinacid.Theycouldnottakeitawayfromhim,hethought;theycouldnotstophim.