Did he dare tackle the sonic barrier?
The white asphalt was like opaque mist. The universe seemed to consist
only of the broad expanse of Jetway.
_Swooommmm._
Someone passing even at this speed! The crazy fool! And cutting in,
the flame of his exhaust clouding Tom's windshield!
Tom's foot jerked off the accelerator. His Hornet slowed. The car ahead
disappeared into the white distance like a black arrow.
Whew!
His legs were suddenly like ice water. He pulled over to the emergency
strip. Down went the speedometer--five hundred, four, three, two, one,
zero....
He saw the image of the approaching Hornet in his rear-vision
radarscope. It was traveling fast and heading straight toward him.
Heading onto the emergency strip.
A side-swiper!
Tom's heart churned. There would be no physical contact between the two
Hornets--but the torrent of air from the inch-close passage would be
enough to hurl his car into the Jetway bank like a storm-blown leaf.
There was no time to build enough acceleration for escape. His only
chance was to frighten the attacker away. He swung his Hornet right,
slammed both his acceleration and braking jet controls to full force.
The car shook under the sudden release of energy. White-hot flame
roared from its two dozen jets. Tom's Hornet was enclosed by a sphere
of flame.
But dwarfing the roar was the thunder of the attacking Hornet. A black
meteor in Tom's radarscope, it zoomed upon him. Tom closed his eyes,
braced himself for the impact.
There was no impact. There was only an explosion of sound and a
moderate buffeting of his car. It was as if many feet, not inches, had
separated the two Hornets.
Tom opened his eyes and flicked off his jet controls.
Ahead, through the plexite canopy, he beheld the attacker.
It was far away now, like an insane, fiery black bird. Both its
acceleration and braking jets flamed. It careened to the far side of
the Jetway and zig-zagged up the curved embankment. Its body trembled
as its momentum fought the Jetway's electromagnetic guide-field.
As if in an incredible carnival loop-the-loop, the Hornet topped the
lip of the wall. It left the concrete, did a backward somersault, and
gyrated through space like a flaming pinwheel.
It descended with an earth-shaking crash in the center of the gleaming
Jetway.
_What happened?_ Tom's dazed mind screamed. _In God's name, what
happened?_
He saw the sleek white shape of a Referee's 'copter-jet floating to
the pavement beside him. Soon he was being pulled out of his Hornet.
Someone was pumping his hand and thumping his back.
"Magnificent," a voice was saying. "Simply magnificent!"
* * * * *
Night. Gay laughter and tinkling glasses. Above all, Dad's voice,
strong and proud:
"... and on his very first day, too. He saw the car in his rear
radarscope, guessed what the devil was up to. Did he try to escape? No,
he stayed right there. When the car closed in for the kill, he spun
around and turned on all his jets full-blast. The killer never had a
chance to get close enough to do his side-swiping. The blast roasted
him like a peanut."
Dad put his arm around Tom's shoulder. All eyes seemed upon Tom's
bright new crimson fatality ribbon embossed not only with a silver
death's-head, but also with a sea-blue Circle of Honor.
Tom thought:
_Behold the conquering hero. Attila is vanquished and Rome is saved.
The Red Knight has been defeated, and the fair princess is mine. That
Jap Zero didn't have a chance. A touchdown in the final five seconds of
the fourth quarter--not bad, eh?_
Dad went on:
"That devil really _was_ a killer. Fellow name of Wilson. Been Driving
for six years. Had thirty-three accident ribbons with twenty-one
fatalities--not one of them honorable. That Wilson drove for just one
purpose: to kill. He met his match in our Tom Rogers."
Applause from Uncle Mack and Aunt Edith and Bill Ackerman and Lou
Dorrance--and more important, from young Larry Miles and big Norm
Powers and blonde Geraldine Oliver and cute little Sally Peters.
Tom smiled. Not only _your_ friends tonight, Dad. Tonight it's _my_
friends, too. _My_ friends from Western U.
Fame was as unpredictable as the trembling of a leaf, Tom thought, as
delicate as a pillar of glass. Yet the yoke of fame rested pleasantly
on his shoulders. He had no inclination to dislodge it. And while a
fear was still in him, it was now a fragile thing, an egg shell to be
easily crushed.
Later Mom came to him. There was a proudness in her features, and yet a
sadness and a fear, too. Her eyes held the thoughtful hesitancy of one
for whom time and event have moved too swiftly for comprehension.
"Tomorrow's Saturday," she murmured. "There's no school, and no one'll
expect you to Drive after what happened today. You'll be staying home
for your birthday, won't you, Tom?"
Tom Rogers shook his head. "No," he said wistfully. "Sally Peters is
giving a little party over in New Boston. It's the first time anyone
like Sally ever asked me anywhere."
"I see," said Mom, as if she really didn't see at all. "You'll take the
monorail?"
"No, Mom," Tom answered very softly. "I'm Driving."