I’d just told her that, because of her help, I could see—actually see the alien-looking control panel (which before I’d missed), when a youthful male voice said, behind me: “Excuse me, sir?” —and I spun around.
What is it, James? What’s going on?
And found myself facing a security guard—one right out of 1960s—peaked hat, whistle, Billy club, and all.
“Y—yes?” I stammered, easing down the trunk lid, stepping away from the car. “Can I help you?”
He aimed his flashlight, a ribbed, chrome thing which looked positively primitive, into the empty cab.
“It’s just funny,” he said, “because I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone—in the trunk of your car. Just now, as I was coming up the aisle.”
He paused, sizing me up. “You know, a lot of people seem to think that ripping us off by
