"Five Six fired up and ready to roll," Martin said.
"Affirmative Five Six," came the reply, "You're clear to roll. Philly
Check estimates white density 300; green, 840; blue 400; yellow, 75."
Both troopers made mental note of the traffic densities in their first
one-hundred-mile patrol segment; an estimated three hundred vehicles
for each ten miles of thruway in the white or fifty to one hundred
miles an hour low lane; eight hundred forty vehicles in the one
hundred to one hundred fifty miles an hour green, and so on. More than
sixteen thousand westbound vehicles on the thruway in the first one
hundred miles; nearly five thousand of them traveling at speeds
between one hundred fifty and three hundred miles an hour.
Over the always-hot intercom throughout the big car Ben called out.
"All set, Kelly?"
"I'm making coffee," Kelly answered from the galley. "Let 'er roll."
Martin started to kick off the brakes, then stopped. "Ooops," he
exclaimed, "almost forgot." His finger touched another button and a
blaring horn reverberated through the vehicle.
In the galley, Kelly hurled herself into a corner. Her body activated
a pressure plant and a pair of mummy-like plastifoam plates slid
curvingly out the wall and locked her in a soft cocoon. A dozen
similar safety clamps were located throughout the car at every working
and relaxation station.
In the same instance, both Ben and Clay touched another plate on their
control seats. From kiosk-type columns behind each seat, pairs of
body-molded crash pads snapped into place to encase both troopers in
their seats, their bodies cushioned and locked into place. Only their
fingers were loose beneath the spongy substance to work arm controls.
The half-molds included headforms with a padded band that locked
across their foreheads to hold their heads rigidly against the backs
of their reinforced seats. The instant all three crew members were
locked into their safety gear, the bull horn ceased.
"All tight," Ben called out as he wiggled and tried to free himself
from the cocoon. Kelly and Clay tested their harnesses.
Satisfied that the safety cocoons were operating properly, Ben
released them and the molds slid back into their recesses. The cocoons
were triggered automatically in any emergency run or chase at speeds
in excess of two hundred miles an hour.
Again he kicked off the brakes, pressed down on the foot feed and Car
56--Beulah--rolled out of the Philadelphia motor pool on the start of
its ten-day patrol.
* * * * *
The motor pool exit opened into a quarter-mile wide tunnel sloping
gently down into the bowels of the great city. Car 56 glided down the
slight incline at a steady fifty miles an hour. A mile from the mouth
of the tunnel the roadway leveled off and Ben kicked Beulah up another
twenty-five miles an hour. Ahead, the main tunnel ended in a series of
smaller portal ways, each emblazoned with a huge illuminated number
designating a continental thruway.
Ben throttled back and began edging to the left lanes. Other patrol
cars were heading down the main passageway, bound for their assigned
thruways. As Ben eased down to a slow thirty, another patrol vehicle
slid alongside. The two troopers in the cab waved. Clay flicked on the
"car-to-car" transmit.
The senior trooper in Car 104 looked over at Martin and Ferguson. "If
it isn't the gruesome twosome," he called. "Where have you two been?
We thought the front office had finally caught up with you and found
out that neither one of you could read or write and that they had
canned you."
"We can't read," Ben quipped back. "That's why we're still on the job.
The front office would never hire anyone who would embarrass you two
by being smarter than either of you. Where're you headed, Eddie?"
"Got 154-north," the other officer said.
"Hey," Clay called out, "I've got a real hot doll in Toronto and I'll
gladly sell her phone number for a proper price."
"Wouldn't want to hurt you, Clay," the other officer replied. "If I
called her up and took her out, she'd throw rocks at you the next time
you drew the run. It's all for your own good."
"Oh, go get lost in a cloverleaf," Clay retorted.
The other car broke the connection and with a wave, veered off to the
right. The thruway entrances were just ahead. Martin aimed Beulah at
the lighted orifice topped by the number 26-W. The patrol car slid
into the narrower tunnel, glided along for another mile and then
turned its bow upwards. Three minutes later, they emerged from the
tunnel into the red patrol lane of Continental Thruway 26-West. The
late afternoon sky was a covering of gray wool and a drop or two of
moisture struck the front face of the cab canopy. For a mile on either
side of the police lane, streams of cars sped westward. Ben eyed the
sky, the traffic and then peered at the outer hull thermometer. It
read thirty-two degrees. He made a mental bet with himself that the
weather bureau was off on its snow estimates by six hours. His Vermont
upbringing told him it would be flurrying within the hour.
He increased speed to a steady one hundred and the car sped silently
and easily along the police lane. Across the cab, Clay peered
pensively at the steady stream of cars and cargo carriers racing by in
the green and blue lanes--all of them moving faster than the patrol
car.
The young officer turned in his seat and looked at his partner.
"You know, Ben," he said gravely, "I sometimes wonder if those
old-time cowboys got as tired looking at the south end of northbound
cows as I get looking at the vanishing tail pipes of cars."
The radio came to life.
"Philly Control to Car 56."