``Mor-ee-air-teeeee,'' he shrieked, his white teeth grossly counterpointing those of the glittering blonde.

Over the rapidly diminishing outline of a jump seat piled high with luggage Herry's black brushcut was just discernible, near, or enviably near that spot where -- hidden -- more delicately textured, most beautifully tinted hair must still be streaming back in cool, oh cool wind sweetly perfumed with sagebrush and yucca flowers and engine fumes.

Damn his luck. I would have foregone my romantic chances rather than leave a friend sweltering and dusty and -- Well, at least I wouldn't have shouted back a taunt.

Still nursing anger I listlessly thumbed a car that was slowly approaching, its pre-war chrome nearly blinding me. It was stopping.

Just as I straightened up with my duffel bag, I heard: ``Sahjunt Yoorick, meet Mrs. Major J. A. Roebuck.'' The voice was that of Johnson, tail gunner off another crew.

Squeezing a look between Johnson's fat jowls and the car frame a handsome and still darkhaired lady inquired ``Y ' all drahve?''

I nodded.

``Onleh one thiihng,'' Mrs. Roebuck continued. ``Ahm goin nawth t' jawn mah husbun in Sante Fe, an y' all maht prefuh the suhthuhn rewt. But Corporal Johnson has alreadeh said it didn make no diffrunce t' hi-im.''

I said that it didn't make any difference to me either, as far as I knew.

How far I knew will shortly become apparent. Let me pass over the trip to Sante Fe with something of the same speed which made Mrs. Roebuck ``wonduh if the wahtahm speed limit'' (35 m. p. h.) ``is still in ee-faket.''