 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
“Get me a confirm on that Mercury, Operator!”
She blurred off, and George decked the Piranha; it leaped forward. Jessica sighed with
resignation and pulled the drawer out from beneath her bucket. She unfolded the g-suit and began
stretching into it. She said nothing, but continued to shake her head.
“We’ll see!” George said.
“Oh, George, when will you ever grow up?
He did not answer, but his nostrils flared with barely restrained anger.
The Operator smeared back and said, “Opponent confirms, sir. Freeway Underwriters have
already cross-filed you as mutual beneficiaries. Please observe standard traffic regulations, and good
luck, sir.”
She vanished, and George set the Piranha on sleepwalker as he donned his own g-suit. He
overrode the sleeper and was back on manual in moments.
“Now, you stuffer, now let’s see!” 100, 110, 120.
He was gaining rapidly on the Merc now. As the Chevy hit 120, the mastercomp flashed red
and suggested crossover. George punched the selector and the telescoping arms of the buzzsaws
retracted into the axles, even as the buzzsaws stopped whirling. In a moment they had been drawn
back in, now merely fancy decorations in the hubcaps. The wheels retracted into the underbody of
the Chevy and the air-cushion took over. Now the Chevy skimmed along, two inches above the
roadbed of the Freeway.
Ahead, George could see the Merc also crossing over to aircushion. 120. 135. 150.
“George, this is crazy!” Jessica said, her face in that characteristic shrike expression.
“You’re no hot-rodder, George. You’re a family man, and this is the family car!”
George chuckled nastily. “I’ve had it with these fuzzfaces. Last year...you remember last
year?...you remember when that punk stuffer ran us into the abutment? I swore I’d never put up with
that kind of thing again. Why’d’you think I had all the optionals installed?”
Jessica opened the tambour doors of the glove compartment and slid out the service tray. She
unplugged the jar of anti-flash salve and began spreading it on her face and hands. “I knew I
shouldn’t have let you put that laser thing in this car!” George chuckled again. Fuzzfaces, punks,
rodders!
George felt the Piranha surge forward, the big reliable stirling engine recycling the hot air for
more and more efficient thrust. Unlike the Merc’s inefficient kerosene system, there was no exhaust
emission from the nuclear power plant, the external combustion engine almost noiseless, the big
radiator tailfin in the rear dissipating the tremendous heat, stabilizing the car as it swooshed along,
two inches off the roadbed.
George knew he would catch the blood-red Mercury. Then one smartass punk was going to
learn he couldn’t flout law and order by running decent citizens off the freeways!
“Get me my gun,” George said.
Jessica shook her head with exasperation, reached under George’s bucket, pulled out his
drawer and handed him the bulky.45 automatic in its breakaway upside-down shoulder rig. George
studded in the sleeper, worked his arms into the rig, tested the oiled leather of the holster, and when
he was satisfied, returned the Piranha to manual.
“Oh, God,” Jessica said, “John Dillinger rides again.”
“Listen!” George shouted, getting more furious with each stupidity she offered. “If you can’t
be of some help to me, just shut your damned mouth. I’d put you out and come back for you, but
I’m in a duel...can you understand that? I’m in a duel!” She murmured a yes, George, and fell silent.
There was a transmission queep from the transceiver. George studded it on. No picture. Just
vocal. It had to be the driver of the Mercury, up ahead of them. Beaming directly at one another’s
antennae, using a tightbeam directional, they could keep in touch: it was a standard trick used by
rods to rattle their opponents.
