"Yep, you came through your robot-training tests A-1. Oh, some of the
psycho reports aren't too flattering. Lack of confidence, sense of
inferiority, inability to adjust. But nothing serious. A few weeks of
Driving'll fix you up. Yep, boy, you've passed. You're getting your
license. Tomorrow morning you'll be on the Jetway. You'll be Driving,
boy, Driving!"
_Oh Mother of God, Mother of God...._
* * * * *
"And now," said Harry Hayden, "you'll want to see your Hornet."
"Of course," murmured Tom Rogers, swaying.
The paunchy man rose and led Tom down an aluminite ramp and onto a
small observation platform some ninety feet above the ground.
A dry summer wind licked at Tom's hair and stung his eyes. Nausea
twisted at his innards. He felt as if he were perched on the edge of a
slippery precipice.
"There," intoned Harry Hayden, "is the Jetway. Beautiful, eh?"
"Uh-huh."
Trembling, Tom forced his vision to the bright, smooth canyon beneath
him. Its bottom was a shining white asphalt ribbon, a thousand feet
wide, that cut arrow-straight through the city. Its walls were naked
concrete banks a hundred feet high whose reinforced lips curved inward
over the antiseptic whiteness.
Harry Hayden pointed a chubby finger downward. "And there _they_
are--the Hornets. See 'em, boy? Right there in front of the assembly
shop. Twelve of 'em. Brand new DeLuxe Super-Jet '41 Hornets. Yes, sir.
Going to be twelve of you initiated tomorrow."
Tom scowled at the twelve jetmobiles shaped like flattened tear-drops.
No sunlight glittered on their dead-black bodies. They squatted silent
and foreboding, oblivious to sunlight, black bullets poised to hurl
their prospective occupants into fury and horror.
_Grandpa looked so very white in his coffin, so very dead--_
"What's the matter, boy? You sick?"
"N--no, of course not."
Harry Hayden laughed. "I get it. You thought you'd get to _really_ see
one. Get in it, I mean, try it out. It's too late in the day, boy.
Shop's closing. You couldn't drive one anyway. Regulation is that new
drivers start in the morning when they're fresh. But tomorrow morning
one of those Hornets'll be assigned to you. Delivered to the terminal
nearest your home. Live far from your terminal?"
"About four blocks."
"Half a minute on the mobile-walk. What college you go to?"
"Western U."
"Lord, that's 400 miles away. You been living there?"
"No. Commuting every day on the monorail."
"Hell, that's for old women. Must have taken you over an hour to get
there. Now you'll make it in almost thirty minutes. Still, it's best
to take it easy the first day. Don't get 'er over 600 per. But don't
let 'er fall beneath that either. If you do, some old veteran'll know
you're a greenhorn and try to knock you off."
Suddenly Harry Hayden stiffened.
"Here come a couple! Look at 'em, boy!"
The low rumbling came out of the west, as of angry bees.
Twin pinpoints of black appeared on the distant white ribbon. Louder
and louder the rumbling. Larger and larger the dots. To Tom, the
sterile Jetway was transformed into a home of horror, an amphitheatre
of death.