Slowly the minutes tick by as you await the return of Macy and Langdon. Rickenbacker, an inveterate poker player, suggests a card game to pass the time, but you decline his offer. You are too anxious about the surrounding landscape to run the risk of being caught off-guard.
It is almost an hour later when the Trans-sol reappears in the distance. Despite your fears, your two fellow scouts return safely to report that the pass is clear and the town of Eloy, fifteen miles beyond, is also deserted. They have managed to scout as far as the junction with Interstate 8, where they came upon a very different situation. At the intersection they saw a large group of Outlaws encamped in tents on either side of the freeway.
‘The freeway’s clear of barricades,’ says Macy, ‘but the Outlaws are armed to the teeth. The convoy’ll be cut to ribbons if it tries to run that gauntlet.’
‘Heck, what can we do?’ you reply, uneasily. ‘It’s all mountain in these parts. The convoy’ll never get across in one piece. They’ve just gotta use the freeway.’
‘I know the news ain’t good, but we was chewin’ over the situation on the way back,’ says Langdon, wiping a hand across his grizzled beard, ‘and we think we’ve got a solution.’