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curving dirt road that paralleled the main highway from Torino. The
partigiano
driver was weary, his eyes bloodshot from the long day of bright sunlight. The shadows of early evening were now playing tricks on his eyes; his back obviously ached from the constant strain. Except for infrequent fuel stops he had not left his seat. Time was vital.
    “Let me drive for a while.”
    “We’re nearly there,
signore
. You don’t know this road; I do. We’ll enter Alba from the east, on the Canelli highway. There may be soldiers at the municipal limits. Remember what you’re to say.”
    “As little as possible, I think.”
    The truck entered the light traffic on the Via Canelli and maintained a steady speed with the other vehicles. As the driver had predicted, there were two soldiers at the municipal line.
    For any of a dozen reasons, the truck was signaled to stop. They pulled off the road onto the shoulder of sand and waited. A sergeant approached the driver’s window, a private stood laconically outside Fontini-Cristi’s.
    “Where are are you from?” asked the sergeant.
    “A farm south of Baveno,” the
partigiano
said.
    “You’ve come a long way for such a small delivery. I count five goats.”
    “Breeding stock. They’re better animals than they look. Ten thousand
lire
for the males; eight for the females.”
    The sergeant raised his eyebrows. He did not smile as he spoke. “You don’t look like
you’re
worth that,
paisan
. Your identification.”
    The partisan reached into his rear pocket and pulled out a worn billfold. He withdrew the state card and handed it to the soldier.
    “This says you’re from Varallo.”
    “I come from Varallo. I work in Baveno.”
    “South
of Baveno,” corrected the soldier coldly.
“You,”
said the sergeant, addressing Vittorio. “Your identification.”
    Fontini-Cristi put his hand into his jacket, bypassing the handle of his pistol, and removed the card. He handed it to the driver, who gave it to the soldier.
    “You were in Africa?”
    “Yes, sergeant,” replied Vittorio bluntly.
    “What corps?”
    Fontini-Cristi was silent. He had no answer. His mind raced, trying to recall from the news a number, or a name. “The Seventh,” he said.
    “I see.” The sergeant returned the card; Vittorio exhaled. But the relief was short-lived. The soldier reached for the handle of the door, yanked it downward and pulled the door open swiftly. “Get out! Both of you!”
    “What? Why?” objected the partisan in a loud whine. “We have to make our delivery by nightfall! There’s barely time!”
    “Get
out.”
The sergeant had removed his army revolver from the black leather holster and was pointing it at both men. He barked his orders across the hood to the private. “Pull him out! Cover him!”
    Vittorio looked at the driver. The partisan’s eyes told him to do as he was told. But to stay alert, be ready to move; the man’s eyes told him that also.
    Out of the truck on the shoulder of sand, the sergeant commanded both men to walk toward the guardhouse that stood next to a telephone pole. A telephone wire sagged down from a junction box and was attached to the roof of the small enclosure; the door was narrow, and open.
    On the Via Canelli the twilight traffic was heavier now; or it seemed heavier to Fontini-Cristi. There were mostly cars, with a scattering of trucks, not unlike the farm trucks they were driving. A number of drivers slowed perceptibly at the sight of the two soldiers, their weapons drawn, marching the two civilians to the guardhouse. Then the drivers speeded up, anxious to be away.
    “You have no right to stop us!” cried the partisan. “We’ve done nothing illegal. It’s no crime to earn a living!”
    “It’s a crime to give false information,
paisan.”
    “We gave no false information! We are workers from Baveno, and, by the Mother of God, that’s the truth!”
    “Be careful,” said the soldier sarcastically. “We’ll add sacrilege to the charges.