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depressed the fire stud, and a beam of blinding light flashed from the hood of the Piranha. With the
Merc on air-cushion, he had gone straight for the fuel tank.
But the Merc suddenly wasn’t in front of him. Even as he had fired, the driver had sheered
left into the next forty-foot-wide lane, and cut speed drastically. The Merc dropped back past them
as the Piranha swooshed ahead.
“He’s on my back!” George shouted.
The next moment Spandau slugs tore at the hide of the Chevy. George slapped the studs, and
the bulletproof screens went up. But not before pingholes had appeared in the beryllium hide of the
Chevy, exposing the boron fiber filaments that gave the car its lightweight maneuverability.
“Stuffer!” George breathed, terribly frightened. The driver was on his back, could ride him into the
ground.
He swerved, dropping flaps and skimming the Piranha back and forth in wide arcs, across the
two lanes. The Merc hung on. The Spandaus chattered heavily. The screens would hold, but what
else was the driver running? What were the “coded optionals” the CC Operator had mentioned?
“Now see what you’ve gotten us into!”
“Jess, shut up, shut up!”
The transceiver queeped. He studded it on, still swerving. This time the driver of the Merc
was sending via microwave video. The face blurred in.
He was a young boy. In his teens. Acne.
“Punk! Stinking punk!” George screamed, trying to swerve, drop back, accelerate. Nothing.
The blood-red Merc hung on his tailfin, pounding at him. If one of those bullets struck the radiator
tailfin, ricocheted, pierced to the engine, got through the lead shielding around the reactor. Jessica
was crying, huddled inside her Armadillo.
He was silently glad she was in the g-suit. He would try something illegal in a moment.
“Hey, Boze. What’s your slit look like? If she’s creamy’n’nice I might letcha drop her at the
next getty, and come back for her later. With your insurance, baby, and my pickle, I can keep her
creamy’n’nice.”
“Fuzzfaced punk! I’ll see you dead first!”
“You’re a real thrasher, old dad. Wish you well, but it’s soon over. Say bye-bye to the nice
rodder. You gonna die, old dad!”
George was shrieking inarticulately.
The boy laughed wildly. He was up on something. Ferro-coke, perhaps. Or D4. Or merryloo.
His eyes glistened blue and young and deadly as a snake.
“Just wanted you to know the name of your piledriver, old dad. You can call me Billy....”
And he was gone. The Merc slipped forward, closer, and George had only a moment to
realize that this Billy could not possibly have the money to equip his car with a laser, and that was a
godsend. But the Spandaus were hacking away at the bulletproof screens. They weren’t meant for
extended punishment like this. Damn that Detroit iron!
He had to make the illegal move now.
Thank God for the g-suits. A tight turn, across the lanes, in direct contravention of the
authorization. And in a tight turn, without the g-suits, doing--he checked the speedometer and tach--
250 mph, the blood slams up against one side of the body. The g-suits would squeeze the side of the
body where the blood tried to pool up. They would live. If...
He spun the wheel hard, slamming down on the accelerator. The Merc slewed sidewise and
caught the turn. He never had a chance. He pulled out of the illegal turn, and their positions were the
same. But the Merc had dropped back several car-lengths. Then from the transceiver there was a
queep and he did not even stud-in as the Police Copter overhead tightbeamed him in an authoritative
voice:
“XUPD 88321. Warning! You will be in contravention of your dueling authorization if you
