The dun plain of Anatolia stretched out before Harvey Ledbetter, dark and immense, rising to snowcapped mountains in the far distance as the big truck rumbled through the shadows. He whistled tunelessly in the blue glow of the control screen and sipped at a cup of tepid, acrid-strong coffee; his eyelids felt as if sand had been forced underneath, but keeping going through fatigue was the oldest of his skills. Then he began to sing along with the sound system that filled the bubble of warmth. The tune was an old favorite, Cory Morrow:
This is some kind of crazy
You're my favorite kind of lonesome…
Behind him, the bomb was invisible to the eye of the Power. But he knew it was there.
Singing, he drove eastward through the night.