Everyone, now, is cursing. The New Zealander has an interview lined up that he sees evaporating if they do not reach HQ by nightfall. The driver, who clearly regards Claudia as his special responsibility, says, ‘Don’t worry, miss, we’ll get you there.’ ‘I’m not worried,’ says Claudia, who is not. She takes the cover off her typewriter and sits in the cab of the truck, typing, while the desert roars around, now white, now sulphur, now rose-coloured