I swore as the acceleration crushed me deep into the seat. My forehead
was pounding.
"Bart Sponsor, fugitive," I thought bitterly. "And only a half-hour
ago I was a pillar of society. Worst thing I had to worry about was a
speeding ticket...."
* * * * *
... I had been griping to my wife as usual about the rush-hour morning
traffic above Chicago.
"Look at this. Just look at this," I said disgustedly.
Below us, the lanes were choked with ponderous, slow-moving commuter
copters. Around us, flivver-jets clogged the expressway like millions
of migrating birds. We couldn't make more than three hundred miles an
hour.
"The stupid shlubs," I muttered resentfully. "They ought to ride the
pneumatic tubes to work."
"The airlanes should be reserved for Top Competitors only," said Celia
teasingly. "Like you, dear."
I ignored her sarcasm and scanned the empty lane overhead. All that
blue sky set aside for outgoing traffic, and nothing in sight. A
shameful waste.
I gunned our Cad Super, joyfully, defiantly, and scooted up over the
assigned traffic stream at a thousand per. Celia gave me an alarmed
look.
"Bart! You'll get a ticket."