"Affirmative, Five Six," the radio replied. "The driver of the car
struck by the hit-and-run vehicle was a Herman Lawrence Hanover, age
forty-two, of 13460 One Hundred Eighty-First Street South, Camden, New
Jersey, license number LFM 4151 dash 603 dash 2738. With him was his
wife, Clara, age forty-one, same address. Driver of the green lane car
was George R. Hamilton, age thirty-five, address Box 493, Route 12,
Tucumcari, New Mexico."
Ben broke in once more. "You indicate all three are fatalities. Is
this correct, Pitt Control? The woman was alive when she was
transferred to the ambulance."
"Stand by, Five Six, and I'll check."
A moment later Pitt Control was back. "That is affirmative, Five Six.
The woman died at 1745 hours. Here is additional information. A
vehicle answering to the general description of the hit-and-run
vehicle is believed to have been involved in an armed robbery and
multiple murder earlier this date at Wilmington, Delaware. Philly
Control is now checking for additional details. Gate filters have been
established on NAT 26-West from Marker-Exit 100 to Marker-Exit 700.
Also, filters on all interchanges. Pitt Control out."
Kelly Lightfoot, her not-too-serious peeve forgotten, had come back
into the galley to listen to the radio exchange. The men got up from
the table and Clay gathered the disposable dishware and tossed them
into the waste receiver.
"We'd better get rolling," Ben said, "those clowns could still be on
the thruway, although they could have got off before the filters went
up."
They moved to the cab and took their places. The big engines roared
into action as Ben rolled Car 56 back onto the police-way. Kelly
finished straightening up in the galley and then came forward to sit
on the jump seat between the two troopers. The snow had stopped again
but the roadways were still slick and glistening under the headlights.
Beulah rolled steadily along on her broad tracks, now cruising at one
hundred miles an hour. The steady whine of the cold night wind
penetrated faintly into the sound-proofed and insulated cabin canopy.
Clay cut out the cabin lights, leaving only the instrument panel
glowing faintly along with the phosphorescent buttons and knobs on the
arms of the control seats.
A heavy express cargo carrier flashed by a quarter of a mile away in
the blue lane, its big bulk lit up like a Christmas tree with running
and warning lights. To their right, Clay caught the first glimpse of a
set of flashing amber warning lights coming up from behind in the
green lane. A minute later, a huge cargo carrier came abreast of the
patrol car and then pulled ahead. On its side was a glowing star of
the United States Army. A minute later, another Army carrier rolled
by.
"That's the missile convoy out of Aberdeen," Clay told Kelly. "I wish
our hit-runner had tackled one of those babies. We'd have scraped him
up instead of those other people."
The convoy rolled on past at a steady one hundred twenty-five miles
an hour. Car 56 flashed under a crossover and into a long, gentle
curve. The chronometer clicked up to 2100 hours and the radio sang
out. "Cars 207, 56 and 82, this is Pitt Control. 2100 hours density
report follows...."
Pittsburgh Control read off the figures for the three cars. Car 82 was
one hundred fifty miles ahead of Beulah, Car 207 about the same
distance to the rear. The density report ended and a new voice came on
the air.
"Attention all cars and all stations, this is Washington Criminal
Control." The new voice paused, and across the continent, troopers on
every thruway, control station, checkpoint and relay block, reached
for clipboard and pen.
"Washington Criminal Control continuing, all cars and all stations,
special attention to all units east of the Mississippi. At 1510 hours
this date, two men held up the First National Bank of Wilmington,
Delaware, and escaped with an estimated one hundred seventy-five
thousand dollars. A bank guard and two tellers, together with five
bank customers were killed by these subjects using automatic weapon
fire to make good their escape. They were observed leaving the scene
in a late model, white-over-green Travelaire sedan, license unknown. A
car of the same make, model and color was stolen from Annapolis,
Maryland, a short time prior to the holdup. The stolen vehicle, now
believed to be the getaway car, bears USN license number QABR dash 468
dash 1113...."
"That's our baby," Ben murmured as he and Clay scribbled, on their
message forms.
"... Motor number ZB 1069432," Washington Criminal Control continued.
"This car is also now believed to have been involved in a hit-and-run
fatal accident on NAT 26-West at Marker 92 at approximately 1648 hours
this date.
"Subject Number One is described as WMA, twenty to twenty-five years,
five feet, eleven inches tall, medium complexion, dark hair and eyes,
wearing a dark-gray sports jacket and dark pants, and wearing a gray
sports cap. He was wearing a ring with a large red stone on his left
hand.
"Subject Number Two is described as WMA, twenty to twenty-five years,
six feet, light, ruddy complexion and reddish brown hair, light
colored eyes. Has scar on back left side of neck. Wearing light-brown
suit, green shirt and dark tie, no hat.
"These subjects are believed to be armed and psychotically dangerous.
If observed, approach with extreme caution and inform nearest control
of contact. Both subjects now under multiple federal warrants charging
bank robbery, murder, and hit-and-run murder. All cars and stations
acknowledge. Washington Criminal Control out."
The air chattered as the cars checked into their nearest controls with
"acknowledged."
"This looks like it could be a long night," Kelly said, rising to her
feet. "I'm going to sack out. Call me if you need me."
"Good night, princess," Ben called.
"Hey, Hiawatha," Clay called out as Kelly paused in the galley door.
"I didn't mean what I said about your steaks. Your great-great-great
grandpop would have gone around with his bare scalp hanging out if he
had had to use a buffalo hide cured like that steak was cooked."
He reached back at the same instant and slammed the cabin door just as
Kelly came charging back. She slammed into the door, screamed and then
went storming back to the dispensary while Clay doubled over in
laughter.
Ben smiled at his junior partner. "Boy, you're gonna regret that.
Don't say I didn't warn you."
* * * * *
Martin turned control over to the younger trooper and relaxed in his
seat to go over the APB from Washington. Car 56 bored steadily through
the night. The thruway climbed easily up the slight grade cut through
the hills north of Wheeling, West Virginia, and once more snow began
falling.
Clay reached over and flipped on the video scanners. Four small
screens, one for each of the westbound lanes, glowed with a soft red
light. The monitors were synchronized with the radiometer and changed
view at every ten-mile marker. Viewing cameras mounted on towers
between each lane, lined the thruway, aimed eastward at the on-coming
traffic back to the next bank of cameras ten miles away. Infra-red
circuits took over from standard scan at dark. A selector system in
the cars gave the troopers the option of viewing either the block they
were currently patrolling; the one ahead of the next ten-mile block;
or, the one they had just passed. As a rule, the selection was based
on the speed of the car. Beamed signals from each block automatically
switched the view as the patrol car went past the towers. Clay put the
slower lane screens on the block they were in, turned the blue and
yellow lanes to the block ahead.
They rolled past the interchange with NAT 114-South out of Cleveland and
the traffic densities picked up in all lanes as many of the southbound
vehicles turned west on to NAT 26. The screens flicked and Clay came alert.
Some fifteen miles ahead in the one-hundred-fifty-to-two-hundred-mile an
hour blue lane, a glowing dot remained motionless in the middle of the lane
and the other racing lights of the blue lane traffic were sheering around
it like a racing river current parting around a boulder.
"Trouble," he said to Martin, as he shoved forward on the throttle.
A stalled car in the middle of the high-speed lane was an invitation
to disaster. The bull horn blared as Beulah leaped past the two
hundred mile an hour mark and safety cocoons slid into place. Aft in
the dispensary, Kelly was sealed into her bunk by a cocoon rolling out
of the wall and encasing the hospital bed.
Car 5 slanted across the police lane with red lights flashing and edged
into the traffic flow in the blue lane. The great, red winking lights
and the emergency radio siren signal began clearing a path for the
troopers. Vehicles began edging to both sides of the lane to shift to
crossovers to the yellow or green lanes. Clay aimed Beulah at the
motionless dot on the screen and eased back from the four-mile-a-minute
speed. The patrol car slowed and the headlight picked up the stalled
vehicle a mile ahead. The cocoons opened and Ben slipped on his work
helmet and dropped down the steps to the side hatch. Clay brought Beulah
to a halt a dozen yards directly to the rear of the stalled car, the
great bulk of the patrol vehicle with its warning lights serving as a
shield against any possible fuzzy-headed speeders that might not be
observing the road.
As Martin reached for the door, the Wanted bulletin flashed through
his head. "What make of car is that, Clay?"
"Old jalopy Tritan with some souped-up rigs. Probably kids," the
junior officer replied. "It looks O.K."
Ben nodded and swung down out of the patrol car. He walked quickly to
the other car, flashing his handlight on the side of the vehicle as he
went up to the driver. The interior lights were on and inside, two
obviously frightened young couples smiled with relief at the sight of
the uniform coveralls. A freckled-faced teenager in a dinner jacket
was in the driver's seat and had the blister window open. He grinned
up at Martin. "Boy, am I glad to see you, officer," he said.
"What's the problem?" Ben asked.
"I guess she blew an impeller," the youth answered. "We were heading
for a school dance at Cincinnati and she was boiling along like she
was in orbit when blooey she just quit."
Ben surveyed the old jet sedan. "What year is this clunker?" he asked.
The kid told him. "You kids have been told not to use this lane for
any vehicle that old." He waved his hand in protest as the youngster
started to tell him how many modifications he had made on the car. "It
doesn't make one bit of difference whether you've put a first-stage
Moon booster on this wreck. It's not supposed to be in the blue or
yellow. And this thing probably shouldn't have been allowed out of the
white--or even on the thruway."
The youngster flushed and bit his lip in embarrassment at the giggles
from the two evening-frocked girls in the car.
"Well, let's get you out of here." Ben touched his throat mike. "Drop
a light, Clay and then let's haul this junk pile away."
In the patrol car, Ferguson reached down beside his seat and tugged at
a lever. From a recess in Beulah's stern, a big portable red warning
light dropped to the pavement. As it touched the surface, it
automatically flashed to life, sending out a bright, flashing red
warning signal into the face of any approaching traffic. Clay eased
the patrol car around the stalled vehicle and then backed slow into
position, guided by Martin's radioed instructions. A tow-bar extruded
from the back of the police vehicle and a magnaclamp locked onto the
front end of the teenager's car. The older officer walked back to the
portable warning light and rolled it on its four wheels to the rear
plate of the jalopy where another magnalock secured it to the car.
Beulah's two big rear warning lights still shone above the low
silhouette of the passenger car, along with the mobile lamp on the
jalopy. Martin walked back to the patrol car and climbed in.
He slid into his seat and nodded at Clay. The patrol car, with the
disabled vehicle in tow moved forward and slanted left towards the
police lane. Martin noted the mileage marker on the radiodometer and
fingered the transmitter. "Chillicothe Control this is Car 56."
"This Chillicothe. Go ahead Five Six."
"We picked up some kids in a stalled heap on the blue at Marker 382
and we've got them in tow now," Ben said. "Have a wrecker meet us and
take them off our hands."
"Affirmative, Five Six. Wrecker will pick you up at Marker 412."
* * * * *
Clay headed the patrol car and its trailed load into an emergency
entrance to the middle police lane and slowly rolled westward. The
senior trooper reached into his records rack and pulled out a citation
book.
"You going to nail these kids?" Clay asked.
"You're damn right I am," Martin replied, beginning to fill in the
violation report. "I'd rather have this kid hurting in the pocketbook
than dead. If we turn him loose, he'll think he got away with it this
time and try it again. The next time he might not be so lucky."
"I suppose you're right," Clay said, "but it does seem a little
rough."
Ben swung around in his seat and surveyed his junior officer.
"Sometimes I think you spent four years in the patrol academy with
your head up your jet pipes," he said. He fished out another cigarette
and took a deep drag.
"You've had four solid years of law; three years of electronics and
jet and air-drive engine mechanics and engineering; pre-med,
psychology, math, English, Spanish and a smattering of Portuguese, to
say nothing of dozens of other subjects. You graduated in the upper
tenth of your class with a B.S. in both Transportation and Criminology
which is why you're riding patrol and not punching a computer or
tinkering with an engine. You'd think with all that education that
somewhere along the line you'd have learned to think with your head
instead of your emotions."
Clay kept a studied watch on the roadway. The minute Ben had turned
and swung his legs over the side of the seat and pulled out a
cigarette, Clay knew that it was school time in Car 56. Instructor
Sergeant Ben Martin was in a lecturing mood. It was time for all good
pupils to keep their big, fat mouths shut.
"Remember San Francisco de Borja?" Ben queried. Clay nodded. "And you
still think I'm too rough on them?" Ben pressed.
[Illustration]
Ferguson's memory went back to last year's fifth patrol. He and Ben
with Kelly riding hospital, had been assigned to NAT 200-North,
running out of Villahermosa on the Guatemalan border of Mexico to
Edmonton Barracks in Canada. It was the second night of the patrol.
Some seven hundred fifty miles north of Mexico City, near the town of
San Francisco de Borja, a gang of teenage Mexican youngsters had gone
roaring up the yellow at speeds touching on four hundred miles an
hour. Their car, a beat-up, fifteen-year-old veteran of less speedy
and much rockier local mountain roads, had been gimmicked by the kids
so that it bore no resemblance to its original manufacture.
From a junkyard they had obtained a battered air lift, smashed almost
beyond use in the crackup of a ten-thousand dollar sports cruiser. The
kids pried, pounded and bent the twisted impeller lift blades back
into some semblance of alignment. From another wreck of a cargo
carrier came a pair of 4000-pound thrust engines. They had jury-rigged
the entire mess so that it stuck together on the old heap. Then they
hit the thruway--nine of them packed into the jalopy--the oldest one
just seventeen years old. They were doing three hundred fifty when
they flashed past the patrol car and Ben had roared off in pursuit.
The senior officer whipped the big patrol car across the crowded high
speed blue lane, jockeyed into the ultra-high yellow and then turned
on the power.
[Illustration]
By this time the kids realized they had been spotted and they cranked
their makeshift power plant up to the last notch. The most they could
get out of it was four hundred and it was doing just that as Car 56,
clocking better than five hundred, pulled in behind them. The patrol
car was still three hundred yards astern when one of the bent and
re-bent impeller blades let go. The out-of-balance fan, turning at
close to 35,000 rpm, flew to pieces and the air cushion vanished. At
four hundred miles an hour, the body of the old jalopy fell the twelve
inches to the pavement and both front wheels caved under. There was a
momentary shower of sparks, then the entire vehicle snapped
cartwheeling more than eighty feet into the air and exploded. Pieces
of car and bodies were scattered for a mile down the thruway and the
only whole, identifiable human bodies were those of the three
youngsters thrown out and sent hurtling to their deaths more than two
hundred feet away.
Clay's mind snapped back to the present.
"Write 'em up," he said quietly to Martin. The senior officer gave a
Satisfied nod and turned back to his citation pad.
* * * * *
At marker 412, which was also the Columbus turnoff, a big patrol
wrecker was parked on the side strip, engines idling, service and
warning lights blinking. Clay pulled the patrol car alongside and
stopped. He disconnected the tow bar and the two officers climbed out
into the cold night air. They walked back to the teenager's car. Clay
went to the rear of the disabled car and unhooked the warning light
while Martin went to the driver's window. He had his citation book in
hand. The youngster in the driver's seat went white at the sight of
the violation pad. "May I see your license, please," Ben asked. The
boy fumbled in a back pocket and then produced a thin, metallic tab
with his name, age, address and license number etched into the
indestructible and unalterable metal.
"Also your car registration," Ben added. The youth unclipped similar
metal strip from the dashboard.
The trooper took the two tabs and walked to the rear of the patrol
car. He slid back a panel to reveal two thin slots in the hull. Martin
slid the driver's license into one of the slots, the registration tab
into the other. He pressed a button below each slot. Inside the car, a
magnetic reader and auto-transmitter "scanned" the magnetic symbols
implanted in the tags. The information was fed instantly to
Continental Headquarters Records division at Colorado Springs. In
fractions of a second, the great computers at Records were comparing
the information on the tags with all previous traffic citations issued
anywhere in the North American continent in the past forty-five years
since the birth of the Patrol. The information from the driver's
license and registration tab had been relayed from Beulah via the
nearest patrol relay point. The answer came back the same way.
Above the license recording slot were two small lights. The first
flashed green, "license is in order and valid." The second flashed
green as well, "no previous citations." Ben withdrew the tag from the
slot. Had the first light come on red, he would have placed the driver
under arrest immediately. Had the second light turned amber, it would
have indicated a previous minor violation. This, Ben would have noted
on the new citation. If the second light had been red, this would have
meant either a major previous violation or more than one minor
citation. Again, the driver would have been under immediate arrest.
The law was mandatory. One big strike and you're out--two foul tips
and the same story. And "out" meant just that. Fines, possibly jail or
prison sentence and lifetime revocation of driving privileges.
Ben flipped the car registration slot to "stand-by" and went back to
the teenager's car. Even though they were parked on the service strip
of the police emergency lane, out of all traffic, the youngsters
stayed in the car. This one point of the law they knew and knew well.
Survival chances were dim anytime something went wrong on the
high-speed thruways. That little margin of luck vanished once outside
the not-too-much-better security of the vehicle body.
Martin finished writing and then slipped the driver's license into a
pocket worked into the back of the metallic paper foil of the citation
blank. He handed the pad into the window to the driver together with a
carbon stylus.
The boy's lip trembled and he signed the citation with a shaky hand.
Ben ripped off the citation blank and license, fed them into the slot
on the patrol car and pressed both the car registration and license
"record" buttons. Ten seconds later the permanent record of the
citation was on file in Colorado Springs and a duplicate recording of
the action was in the Continental traffic court docket recorder
nearest to the driver's hometown. Now, no power in three nations could
"fix" that ticket. Ben withdrew the citation and registration tag and
walked back to the car. He handed the boy the license and registration
tab, together with a copy of the citation. Ben bent down to peer into
the car.
"I made it as light on you as I could," he told the young driver.
"You're charged with improper use of the thruway. That's a minor
violation. By rights, I should have cited you for illegal usage." He
looked around slowly at each of the young people. "You look like nice
kids," he said. "I think you'll grow up to be nice people. I want you
around long enough to be able to vote in a few years. Who knows, maybe
I'll be running for president then and I'll need your votes. It's a
cinch that falling apart in the middle of two-hundred-mile an hour
traffic is no way to treat future voters.
"Good night, Kids." He smiled and walked away from the car. The three
young passengers smiled back at Ben. The young driver just stared
unhappily at the citation.
Clay stood talking with the wrecker crewmen. Ben nodded to him and
mounted into the patrol car. The young Canadian crushed out his
cigarette and swung up behind the sergeant. Clay went to the control
seat when he saw Martin pause in the door to the galley.
"I'm going to get a cup of coffee," the older officer said, "and then
take the first shift. You keep Beulah 'til I get back."
Clay nodded and pushed the throttles forward. Car 56 rolled back into
the police lane while behind it, the wrecker hooked onto the disabled
car and swung north into the crossover. Clay checked both the
chronometer and radiodometer and then reported in. "Cinncy Control
this is Car 56 back in service." Cincinnati Control acknowledged.
Ten minutes later, Ben reappeared in the cab, slid into the left-hand
seat. "Hit the sack, kid," he told Ferguson. The chronometer read
2204. "I'll wake you at midnight--or sooner, if anything breaks."
Ferguson stood up and stretched, then went into the galley. He poured
himself a cup of coffee and carrying it with him, went back to the
crew quarters. He closed the door to the galley and sat down on the
lower bunk to sip his coffee. When he had finished, he tossed the cup
into the basket, reached and dimmed the cubby lights and kicked off
his boots. Still in his coveralls, Clay stretched out on the bunk and
sighed luxuriously. He reached up and pressed a switch on the bulkhead
above his pillow and the muted sounds of music from a standard
broadcast commercial station drifted into the bunk area. Clay closed
his eyes and let the sounds of the music and the muted rumble of the
engines lull him to sleep. It took almost fifteen seconds for him to
be in deep slumber.
* * * * *
Ben pushed Beulah up to her steady seventy-five-mile-an-hour cruising
speed, moved to the center of the quarter-mile-wide police lane and
locked her tracks into autodrive. He relaxed back in his seat and
divided his gaze between the video monitors and the actual scene on
either side of him in the night. Once again the sky was lighted, this
time much brighter on the horizon as the road ways swept to the south
of Cincinnati.
Traffic was once again heavy and fast with the blue and green carrying
almost equal loads while white was really crowded and even the yellow
"zoom" lane was beginning to fill. The 2200 hour density reports from
Cinncy had been given before the Ohio State-Cal football game traffic
had hit the thruways and densities now were peaking near twenty
thousand vehicles for the one-hundred-mile block of westbound NAT 26
out of Cincinnati.
Back to the east, near the eastern Ohio state line, Martin could hear
Car 207 calling for a wrecker and meat wagon. Beulah rumbled on
through the night. The video monitors flicked to the next ten-mile
stretch as the patrol car rolled past another interchange. More
vehicles streamed onto the westbound thruway, crossing over and
dropping down into the same lanes they held coming out of the
north-south road. Seven years on patrols had created automatic
reflexes in the trooper sergeant. Out of the mass of cars and cargoes
streaming along the rushing tide of traffic, his eye picked out the
track of one vehicle slanting across the white lane just a shade
faster than the flow of traffic. The vehicle was still four or five
miles ahead. It wasn't enough out of the ordinary to cause more than a
second, almost unconscious glance, on the part of the veteran officer.
He kept his view shifting from screen to screen and out to the sides
of the car.
But the reflexes took hold again as his eye caught the track of the
same vehicle as it hit the crossover from white to green, squeezed
into the faster lane and continued its sloping run towards the next
faster crossover. Now Martin followed the movement of the car almost
constantly. The moving blip had made the cut-over across the half-mile
wide green lane in the span of one crossover and was now whipping into
the merger lane that would take it over the top of the police lane
and drop down into the one hundred fifty to two hundred mile an hour
blue. If the object of his scrutiny straightened out in the blue, he'd
let it go. The driver had been bordered on violation in his fast
crossover in the face of heavy traffic. If he kept it up in the
now-crowded high-speed lane, he was asking for sudden death. The
monitors flicked to the next block and Ben waited just long enough to
see the speeding car make a move to the left, cutting in front of a
speeding cargo carrier. Ben slammed Beulah into high. Once again the
bull horn blared as the cocoons slammed shut, this time locking both
Clay and Kelly into their bunks, sealing Ben into the control seat.
Beulah lifted on her air cushion and the twin jets roared as she
accelerated down the police lane at three hundred miles an hour. Ben
closed the gap on the speeder in less than a minute and then edged
over to the south side of the police lane to make the jump into the
blue lane. The red emergency lights and the radio siren had already
cleared a hole for him in the traffic pattern and he eased back on the
finger throttles as the patrol car sailed over the divider and into
the blue traffic lane. Now he had eyeball contact with the speeding
car, still edging over towards the ultra-high lane. On either side of
the patrol car traffic gave way, falling back or moving to the left
and right. Car 56 was now directly behind the speeding passenger
vehicle. Ben fingered the cut-in switch that put his voice signal onto
the standard vehicular emergency frequency--the band that carried the
automatic siren-warning to all vehicles.
* * * * *
The patrol car was still hitting above the two-hundred-mile-an-hour
mark and was five hundred feet behind the speeder. The headlamp bathed
the other car in a white glare, punctuated with angry red flashes from
the emergency lights.
"You are directed to halt or be fired upon," Ben's voice roared out
over the emergency frequency. Almost without warning, the speeding car
began braking down with such deceleration that the gargantuan patrol
car with its greater mass came close to smashing over it and crushing
the small passenger vehicle like an insect. Ben cut all forward power,
punched up full retrojet and at the instant he felt Beulah's tracks
touch the pavement as the air cushion blew, he slammed on the brakes.
Only the safety cocoon kept Martin from being hurled against the
instrument panel and in their bunks, Kelly Lightfoot and Clay Ferguson
felt their insides dragging down into their legs.
The safety cocoons snapped open and Clay jumped into his boots and
leaped for the cab. "Speeder," Ben snapped as he jumped down the steps
to the side hatch. Ferguson snatched up his helmet from the rack
beside his seat and leaped down to join his partner. Ben ran up to the
stopped car through a thick haze of smoke from the retrojets of the
patrol car and the friction-burning braking of both vehicles.
Ferguson circled to the other side of the car. As they flashed their
handlights into the car, they saw the driver of the car kneeling on
the floor beside the reclined passenger seat. A woman lay stretched
out on the seat, twisting in pain. The man raised an agonized face to
the officers. "My wife's going to have her baby right here!"
"Kelly," Ben yelled into his helmet transmitter. "Maternity!"
The dispensary ramp was halfway down before Ben had finished calling.
Kelly jumped to the ground and sprinted around the corner of the
patrol car, medical bag in hand.
She shoved Clay out of the way and opened the door on the passenger
side. On the seat, the woman moaned and then muffled a scream. The
patrol doctor laid her palm on the distended belly. "How fast are your
pains coming?" she asked. Clay and Ben had moved away from the car a
few feet.
"Litter," Kelly snapped over her shoulder. Clay raced for the patrol
car while Ben unshipped a portable warning light and rolled it down
the lane behind the patrol car. He flipped it to amber "caution" and
"pass." Blinking amber arrows pointed to the left and right of the
halted passenger vehicle and traffic in the blue lane began picking up
speed and parting around the obstructions.
By the time he returned to the patrol car, Kelly had the expectant
mother in the dispensary. She slammed the door in the faces of the
three men and then she went to work.
The woman's husband slumped against the side of the patrol vehicle.
Ben dug out his pack of cigarettes and handed one to the shaking
driver.
He waited until the man had taken a few drags before speaking.
"Mister, I don't know if you realize it or not but you came close to
killing your wife, your baby and yourself," Ben said softly, "to say
nothing of the possibility of killing several other families. Just
what did you think you were doing?"
The driver's shoulders sagged and his hand shook as he took the
cigarette from his mouth. "Honestly, officer, I don't know. I just got
frightened to death," he said. He peered up at Martin. "This is our
first baby, you see, and Ellen wasn't due for another week. We thought
it would be all right to visit my folks in Cleveland and Ellen was
feeling just fine. Well, anyway, we started home tonight--we live in
Jefferson City--and just about the time I got on the thruway, Ellen
started having pains. I was never so scared in my life. She screamed
once and then tried to muffle them but I knew what was happening and
all I could think of was to get her to a hospital. I guess I went out
of my head, what with her moaning and the traffic and everything. The
only place I could think of that had a hospital was Evansville, and I
was going to get her there come hell or high water." The young man
tossed away the half-smoked cigarette and looked up at the closed
dispensary door. "Do you think she's all right?"
Ben sighed resignedly and put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Don't
you worry a bit. She's got one of the best doctors in the continent in
there with her. Come on." He took the husband by the arm and led him
around to the patrol car cab hatch. "You climb up there and sit down.
I'll be with you in a second."
The senior officer signaled to Ferguson. "Let's get his car out of the
traffic, Clay," he directed. "You drive it."
* * * * *
Ben went back and retrieved the caution blinker and re-racked it in
the side of the patrol car, then climbed up into the cab. He took his
seat at the controls and indicated the jump seat next to him. "Sit
down, son. We're going to get us and your car out of this mess before
we all get clobbered."
He flicked the headlamp at Ferguson in the control seat of the
passenger car and the two vehicles moved out. Ben kept the emergency
lights on while they eased carefully cross-stream to the north and the
safety of the police lane. Clay picked up speed at the outer edge of
the blue lane and rolled along until he reached the first "patrol
only" entrance through the divider to the service strip. Ben followed
him in and then turned off the red blinkers and brought the patrol car
to a halt behind the other vehicle.
The worried husband stood up and looked to the rear of the car.
"What's making it so long?" he asked anxiously. "They've been in there
a long time."
Ben smiled. "Sit down, son. These things take time. Don't you worry.
If there were anything wrong, Kelly would let us know. She can talk to
us on the intercom anytime she wants anything."
The man sat back down. "What's your name?" Ben inquired.
"Haverstraw," the husband replied distractedly, "George Haverstraw.
I'm an accountant. That's my wife back there," he cried, pointing to
the closed galley door. "That's Ellen."
"I know," Ben said gently. "You told us that."
Clay had come back to the patrol car and dropped into his seat across
from the young husband. "Got a name picked out for the baby?" he
asked.
Haverstraw's face lighted. "Oh, yes," he exclaimed. "If it's a boy,
we're going to call him Harmon Pierce Haverstraw. That was my
grandfather's name. And if she's a girl, it's going to be Caroline May
after Ellen's mother and grandmother."
The intercom came to life. "Anyone up there?" Kelly's voice asked.
Before they could answer, the wail of a baby sounded over the system.
Haverstraw yelled.
"Congratulations, Mr. Haverstraw," Kelly said, "you've got a
fine-looking son."
"Hey," the happy young father yelped, "hey, how about that? I've got a
son." He pounded the two grinning troopers on the back. Suddenly he
froze. "What about Ellen? How's Ellen?" he called out.
"She's just fine," Kelly replied. "We'll let you in here in a couple
of minutes but we've got to get us gals and your new son looking
pretty for papa. Just relax."
Haverstraw sank down onto the jump seat with a happy dazed look on his
face.
Ben smiled and reached for the radio. "I guess our newest citizen
deserves a ride in style," he said. "We're going to have to transfer
Mrs. Haverstraw and er, oh yes, Master Harmon Pierce to an ambulance
and then to a hospital now, George. You have any preference on where
they go?"
"Gosh, no," the man replied. "I guess the closest one to wherever we
are." He paused thoughtfully. "Just where are we? I've lost all sense
of distance or time or anything else."
Ben looked at the radiodometer. "We're just about due south of
Indianapolis. How would that be?"
"Oh, that's fine," Haverstraw replied.
"You can come back now, Mr. Haverstraw," Kelly called out. Haverstraw
jumped up. Clay got up with him. "Come on, papa," he grinned, "I'll
show you the way."
Ben smiled and then called into Indianapolis Control for an ambulance.
"Ambulance on the way," Control replied. "Don't you need a wrecker,
too, Five Six?"