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Show Flying - 83 reasoned driving is not as deadly here as it was on the narrower roads of Texas. With good visibility and only an occasional semi to pass they can maintain a steady seventy miles an hour as long as the engine will take it. The shoulders are sandy and broad, fine places to head for if things get out of control, and John Henry sits and looks at the distant mountains, thoughts of accidents far, for the moment at least, from his peaceful mind. At nine o'clock they come upon a divided highway that promises fair, if Wilberforce's map isn't lying, to get them all the way through Tucson without trouble. But five miles later, running between the square white motels that line the road like teeth around an asphalt tongue, they are disappointed by a road closed sign and have to detour to the north by way of Country Club road, then turn west on Speedway to go through the heart of Tucson. Speedway is wide at the east end of town, four lanes across and lined with wide sidewalks and parking lots. But there are no trees and the buildings are plain and low. They are painted white and they glare in the light of the morning sun. "Don't look like much of a town, does it Lieutenant?" says Armstrong remembering with love his native Boston. "Western towns grew up around the old trails," explains Wilberforce, "that's why they're so sprawled out." |