The driver, naked and slender, smiles contentedly as he receives these transmissions. He does not respond and his only action is to softly mimic the words.
	This is not the reaction Cross wants. He finally reaches the cab and dangles precariously from the driver's side mirror. The truck's multiple antennae whip in the rushing wind as Cross calls for a radio check. The driver only simpers back Cross's words and calmly stares out the window at him as the truck begins to veer off the roadway.
		Cross knows there's nothing more he can do and jettisons himself from the truck just before it hits an embankment and twirls into the air. The truck looks like a limp carcass during the several instants of its flight and then it gracefully slams itself to the ground. A terrific fireball rips into the wide night sky as Cross rises from the pavement.
				He slowly turns away from the inferno and wipes the dirt from his tight, low-cut sweater and tattered panty hose. He adjusts his headset and switches his transceiver to a different frequency before sending out the call for a radio check.