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Along the Scenic Route
The blood-red Mercury with the twin-mounted 7.6 mm Spandaus cut George off as he was shifting
lanes. The Merc cut out sharply, three cars behind George, and the driver decked it. The boom of his
gas-turbine engine got through George’s baffling system without difficulty, like a fist in the ear. The
Merc sprayed JP-4 gook and water in a wide fan from its jet nozzle and cut back in, a matter of
inches in front of George’s Chevy Piranha.
George slapped the selector control on the dash, lighting YOU STUPID BASTARD, WHAT
DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING and I HOPE YOU CRASH & BURN, YOU SON OF A
BITCH. Jessica moaned softly with uncontrolled fear, but George could not hear her: he was
screaming obscenities.
George kicked it into Overplunge and depressed the selector button extending the rotating
buzzsaws. Dallas razors, they were called, in the repair shoppes. But the crimson Merc pulled away
doing an easy 115.
“I’ll get you, you beaver-sucker!” he howled.
The Piranha jumped, surged forward. But the Merc was already two dozen car-lengths down
the Freeway. Adrenaline pumped through George’s system. Beside him, Jessica put a hand on his
arm. “Oh, forget it, George; it’s just some young snot,” she said. Always conciliatory.
“My masculinity’s threatened,” he murmured, and hunched over the wheel. Jessica looked
toward heaven, wishing a bolt of lightning had come from that location many months past, striking
Dr. Yasimir directly in his Freud, long before George could have picked up psychiatric justifications
for his awful temper.
“Get me Collision Control!” George snarled at her.
Jessica shrugged, as if to say here we go again, and dialed CC on the peek. The smiling face
of the Freeway Sector Control Operator blurred green and yellow, then came into sharp focus.
“Your request, sir?”
“Clearance for duel, Highway 101, northbound.”
“Your license number, sir?”
“XUPD 88321,” George said. He was scanning the Freeway, keeping the blood-red Mercury
in sight, obstinately refusing to stud on the tracking sights.
“Your proposed opponent, sir?”
“Red Mercury GT. ‘88 model.”
“License, sir. “
“Just a second.” George pressed the stud for the instant replay and the last ten miles rolled
back on the movieola. He ran it forward again till he caught the instant the Merc had passed him,
stopped the film, and got the number. “MFCS 909090”
“One moment, sir.”
George fretted behind the wheel. “Now what the hell’s holding her up? Whenever you want
service, they’ve got problems. But boy, when it comes tax time--”
The Operator came back and smiled. “I’ve checked our master Sector grid, sir, and I find
authorization may be permitted, but I am required by law to inform you that your proposed opponent
is more heavily armed than yourself. “
George licked his lips. “What’s he running?”
“Our records indicate 7.6 mm Spandau equipment, bulletproof screens and coded optionals.”
George sat silently. His speed dropped. The tachometer fluttered, settled.
“Let him go, George,” Jessica said. “You know he’d take you.”
Two blotches of anger spread on George’s cheeks. “Oh, yeah!?!” He howled at the Operator,
