Tom Rogers moved down the aisle, eyes wide on the flashing,
arrow-shaped lights just beneath the surface of the quartzite floor.
Abruptly, he found himself before a desk. Someone pushed him into a
foam-rubber contour chair.
"Surprised, eh, boy?" boomed a deep voice. "No robots at this stage of
the game. No sir. This requires the human touch. Get me?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, let's see now." The man settled back in his chair behind the
desk and began thumbing through a file of papers. He was paunchy and
bald save for a forepeak of red-brown fuzz. His gray eyes, with the
dreamy look imposed by thick contact lenses, were kindly. Sweeping
across his flat chest were two rows of rainbow-bright Driver's Ribbons.
Two of the bronze accident stars were flanked by smaller stars which
indicated limb replacements.
Belatedly, Tom noticed the desk's aluminum placard which read _Harry
Hayden, Final Examiner--Human_.
Tom thought, _Please, Harry Hayden, tell me I failed. Don't lead up to
it. Please come out and say I failed the tests._
"Haven't had much time to look over your file," mused Harry Hayden.
"Thomas Darwell Rogers. Occupation: journalism student. Unmarried. No
siblings. Height, five-eleven. Weight, one-sixty-three. Age, twenty."
Harry Hayden frowned. "Twenty?" he repeated, looking up.
_Oh, God, here it comes again._
"Yes, sir," said Tom Rogers.
Harry Hayden's face hardened. "You've tried to enlist before? You were
turned down?"
"This is my first application."
Sudden hostility swept aside Harry Hayden's expression of kindliness.
He scowled at Tom's file. "Born July 18, 2020. This is July 16, 2041.
In two days you'll be twenty-one. We don't issue new licenses to people
over twenty-one."
"I--I know, sir. The psychiatrists believe you adjust better to Driving
when you're young."
"In fact," glowered Harry Hayden, "in two days you'd have been
classified as an enlistment evader. Our robo-statistics department
would have issued an automatic warrant of arrest."
"I know, sir."
"Then why'd you wait so long?" The voice was razor-sharp.
Tom wiped a fresh burst of sweat from his forehead. "Well, you know how
one keeps putting things off. I just--"
"You don't put off things like this, boy. Why, my three sons were lined
up here at five in the morning on their sixteenth birthdays. Every
mother's son of 'em. They'd talked of nothing else since they were
twelve. Used to play Drivers maybe six, seven hours every day...." His
voice trailed.
"Most kids are like that," said Tom.
"Weren't _you_?" The hostility in Harry Hayden seemed to be churning
like boiling water.
"Oh, sure," lied Tom.
"I don't get it. You say you wanted to Drive, but you didn't try to
enlist."
Tom squirmed.
_You can't tell him you've been scared of jetmobiles ever since you saw
that crash when you were three. You can't say that, at seven, you saw
your grandfather die in a jetmobile and that after that you wouldn't
even play with a jetmobile toy. You can't tell him those things because
five years of psychiatric treatment didn't get the fear out of you. If
the medics didn't understand, how could Harry Hayden?_
Tom licked his lips. _And you can't tell him how you used to lie in bed
praying you'd die before you were sixteen--or how you've pleaded with
Mom and Dad not to make you enlist till you were twenty. You can't--_
Inspiration struck him. He clenched his fists. "It--it was my mother,
sir. You know how mothers are sometimes. Hate to see their kids grow
up. Hate to see them put on a uniform and risk being killed."
Harry Hayden digested the explanation for a few seconds. It seemed to
pacify him. "By golly, that's right. Esther took it hard when Mark died
in a five-car bang-up out of San Francisco. And when Larry got his
three summers ago in Europe. Esther's my wife--Mark was my youngest,
Larry the oldest."
He shook his head. "But it isn't as bad as it used to be. Organ and
limb grafts are pretty well perfected, and with electro-hypnosis
operations are painless. The only fatalities now are when death is
immediate, when it happens before the medics get to you. Why, no more
than one out of ten Drivers died in the last four-year period."
A portion of his good nature returned. "Anyway, your personal life's
none of my business. You understand the enlistment contract?"
Tom nodded. _Damn you, Harry Hayden, let me out of here. Tell me I
failed, tell me I passed. But damn you, let me out._
"Well?" said Harry Hayden, waiting.
"Oh. The enlistment contract. First enlistment is for four years.
Renewal any time during the fourth year at the option of the enlistee.
Minimum number of hours required per week: seven. Use of unauthorized
armour or offensive weapons punishable by $5,000.00 fine or five
years in prison. All accidents and deaths not witnessed by a Jetway
'copter-jet must be reported at once by visi-phone to nearest Referee
and Medical Depot. Oh yes, maximum speed: 900 miles per."
"Right! You got it, boy!" Harry Hayden paused, licking his lips. "Now,
let's see. Guess I'd better ask another question or two. This is your
final examination, you know. What do you remember about the history of
Driving?"
Tom was tempted to say, "Go to Hell, you fat idiot," but he knew that
whatever he did or said now was of no importance. The robot-training
tests he'd undergone during the past three weeks, only, were of
importance.
Dimly, he heard himself repeating the phrases beaten into his mind by
school history-tapes:
"In the 20th Century a majority of the Earth's peoples were filled with
hatreds and frustrations. Humanity was cursed with a world war every
generation or so. Between wars, young people had no outlets for their
energy, and many of them formed bands of delinquents. Even older people
developed an alarming number of psychoses and neuroses.
"The institution of Driving was established in 1998 after automobiles
were declared obsolete because of their great number. The Jetways were
retained for use of young people in search of thrills."
"Right!" Harry Hayden broke in. "Now, the kids get all the excitement
they need, and there are no more delinquent bands and wars. When you've
spent a hitch or two killing or almost being killed, you're mature.
You're ready to settle down and live a quiet life--just like most of
the old-time war veterans used to do. And you're trained to think and
act fast, you've got good judgment. And the weak and unfit are weeded
out. Right, boy?"
Tom nodded. A thought forced its way up from the layer of fear that
covered his mind. "Right--as far as it goes."
"How's that?"
Tom's voice quavered, but he said, "I mean that's part of it. The rest
is that most people are bored with themselves. They think that by
traveling fast they can escape from themselves. After four or eight
years of racing at 800 per, they find out they can't escape after all,
so they become resigned. Or, sometimes if they're lucky enough to
escape death, they begin to feel important after all. They aren't so
bored then because a part of their mind tells them they're mightier
than death."
Harry Hayden whistled. "Hey, I never heard that before. Is that in the
tapes now? Can't say I understand it too well, but it's a fine idea.
Anyway, Driving's good. Cuts down on excess population, too--and with
Peru putting in Jetways, it's world-wide. Yep, by golly. Yes, sir!"