_Jetways were excellent substitutes for war,
perfect outlets for all forms of neuroses.
And the unfit were weeded out by death...._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Up the concrete steps. Slowly, one, two, three, four. Down the naked,
ice-white corridor. The echo of his footfalls like drumbeats, ominous,
threatening.
Around him, bodies, faces, moving dimly behind the veil of his fear.
At last, above an oaken door, the black-lettered sign:
DEPARTMENT OF LAND-JET VEHICLES
DIVISION OF LICENSES
He took a deep breath. He withdrew his handkerchief and wiped
perspiration from his forehead, his upper lip, the palms of his hands.
His mind caressed the hope: _Maybe I've failed the tests. Maybe they
won't give me a license._
He opened the door and stepped inside.
The metallic voice of a robot-receptionist hummed at him:
"Name?"
"T--Tom Rogers."