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Show Flying - 87 workers headed for the great irrigated farms around Phoenix. The trucks are so full they have to stand up, the ones in the middle held up by the press of bodies, the lucky ones on the outer edges leaning on the railings. "Poor bastards," says Wilberforce. At Eloy the trucks turn north for Phoenix and the Mexicans wave good-bye. John Henry, who had not wanted to pass on the now narrow road, eases the jeep up to seventy once more. In Casa Grande, they roll through the center of town, past the American Legion Hall with a World War I cannon that points with a plugged up barrel at the hollow shell of an F-84 permanently landed in front of the county court-house. Past a bank that looks like a church and a church that looks like a great concrete dove with drooping wings, and out of town again headed west. John Henry drives on, hands loose on the wheel, letting the jeep find its own way over and around the pot-holes and ripples. Even at seventy miles an hour in an open jeep, there is little feeling of movement and you have to look down at the road just beside you to realize how fast you're traveling. The lieutenant, less nervous about John Henry's driving than he was, leans back in the seat and stares at the distant black peaks hanging near the horizon. The ears quickly get numbed to the steady scream of engine and tires, |