1 files changed, 758 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/59404-0.txt b/59404-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ce16713
--- /dev/null
+++ b/59404-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,758 @@
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59404 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE DRIVERS
+
+BY EDWARD W. LUDWIG
+
+_Jetways were excellent substitutes for war,
+perfect outlets for all forms of neuroses.
+And the unfit were weeded out by death...._
+
+[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
+Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1956.
+Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
+the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
+
+
+Up the concrete steps. Slowly, one, two, three, four. Down the naked,
+ice-white corridor. The echo of his footfalls like drumbeats, ominous,
+threatening.
+
+Around him, bodies, faces, moving dimly behind the veil of his fear.
+
+At last, above an oaken door, the black-lettered sign:
+
+    DEPARTMENT OF LAND-JET VEHICLES
+          DIVISION OF LICENSES
+
+He took a deep breath. He withdrew his handkerchief and wiped
+perspiration from his forehead, his upper lip, the palms of his hands.
+
+His mind caressed the hope: _Maybe I've failed the tests. Maybe they
+won't give me a license._
+
+He opened the door and stepped inside.
+
+The metallic voice of a robot-receptionist hummed at him:
+
+"Name?"
+
+"T--Tom Rogers."
+
+Click. "Have you an appointment?"
+
+His gaze ran over the multitude of silver-boxed analyzers, computers,
+tabulators, over the white-clad technicians and attendants, over the
+endless streams of taped data fed from mouths in the dome-shaped
+ceiling.
+
+"Have you an appointment?" repeated the robot.
+
+"Oh. At 4:45 p. m."
+
+Click. "Follow the red arrow in Aisle Three, please."
+
+Tom Rogers moved down the aisle, eyes wide on the flashing,
+arrow-shaped lights just beneath the surface of the quartzite floor.
+
+Abruptly, he found himself before a desk. Someone pushed him into a
+foam-rubber contour chair.
+
+"Surprised, eh, boy?" boomed a deep voice. "No robots at this stage of
+the game. No sir. This requires the human touch. Get me?"
+
+"Uh-huh."
+
+"Well, let's see now." The man settled back in his chair behind the
+desk and began thumbing through a file of papers. He was paunchy and
+bald save for a forepeak of red-brown fuzz. His gray eyes, with the
+dreamy look imposed by thick contact lenses, were kindly. Sweeping
+across his flat chest were two rows of rainbow-bright Driver's Ribbons.
+Two of the bronze accident stars were flanked by smaller stars which
+indicated limb replacements.
+
+Belatedly, Tom noticed the desk's aluminum placard which read _Harry
+Hayden, Final Examiner--Human_.
+
+Tom thought, _Please, Harry Hayden, tell me I failed. Don't lead up to
+it. Please come out and say I failed the tests._
+
+"Haven't had much time to look over your file," mused Harry Hayden.
+"Thomas Darwell Rogers. Occupation: journalism student. Unmarried. No
+siblings. Height, five-eleven. Weight, one-sixty-three. Age, twenty."
+
+Harry Hayden frowned. "Twenty?" he repeated, looking up.
+
+_Oh, God, here it comes again._
+
+"Yes, sir," said Tom Rogers.
+
+Harry Hayden's face hardened. "You've tried to enlist before? You were
+turned down?"
+
+"This is my first application."
+
+Sudden hostility swept aside Harry Hayden's expression of kindliness.
+He scowled at Tom's file. "Born July 18, 2020. This is July 16, 2041.
+In two days you'll be twenty-one. We don't issue new licenses to people
+over twenty-one."
+
+"I--I know, sir. The psychiatrists believe you adjust better to Driving
+when you're young."
+
+"In fact," glowered Harry Hayden, "in two days you'd have been
+classified as an enlistment evader. Our robo-statistics department
+would have issued an automatic warrant of arrest."
+
+"I know, sir."
+
+"Then why'd you wait so long?" The voice was razor-sharp.
+
+Tom wiped a fresh burst of sweat from his forehead. "Well, you know how
+one keeps putting things off. I just--"
+
+"You don't put off things like this, boy. Why, my three sons were lined
+up here at five in the morning on their sixteenth birthdays. Every
+mother's son of 'em. They'd talked of nothing else since they were
+twelve. Used to play Drivers maybe six, seven hours every day...." His
+voice trailed.
+
+"Most kids are like that," said Tom.
+
+"Weren't _you_?" The hostility in Harry Hayden seemed to be churning
+like boiling water.
+
+"Oh, sure," lied Tom.
+
+"I don't get it. You say you wanted to Drive, but you didn't try to
+enlist."
+
+Tom squirmed.
+
+_You can't tell him you've been scared of jetmobiles ever since you saw
+that crash when you were three. You can't say that, at seven, you saw
+your grandfather die in a jetmobile and that after that you wouldn't
+even play with a jetmobile toy. You can't tell him those things because
+five years of psychiatric treatment didn't get the fear out of you. If
+the medics didn't understand, how could Harry Hayden?_
+
+Tom licked his lips. _And you can't tell him how you used to lie in bed
+praying you'd die before you were sixteen--or how you've pleaded with
+Mom and Dad not to make you enlist till you were twenty. You can't--_
+
+Inspiration struck him. He clenched his fists. "It--it was my mother,
+sir. You know how mothers are sometimes. Hate to see their kids grow
+up. Hate to see them put on a uniform and risk being killed."
+
+Harry Hayden digested the explanation for a few seconds. It seemed to
+pacify him. "By golly, that's right. Esther took it hard when Mark died
+in a five-car bang-up out of San Francisco. And when Larry got his
+three summers ago in Europe. Esther's my wife--Mark was my youngest,
+Larry the oldest."
+
+He shook his head. "But it isn't as bad as it used to be. Organ and
+limb grafts are pretty well perfected, and with electro-hypnosis
+operations are painless. The only fatalities now are when death is
+immediate, when it happens before the medics get to you. Why, no more
+than one out of ten Drivers died in the last four-year period."
+
+A portion of his good nature returned. "Anyway, your personal life's
+none of my business. You understand the enlistment contract?"
+
+Tom nodded. _Damn you, Harry Hayden, let me out of here. Tell me I
+failed, tell me I passed. But damn you, let me out._
+
+"Well?" said Harry Hayden, waiting.
+
+"Oh. The enlistment contract. First enlistment is for four years.
+Renewal any time during the fourth year at the option of the enlistee.
+Minimum number of hours required per week: seven. Use of unauthorized
+armour or offensive weapons punishable by $5,000.00 fine or five
+years in prison. All accidents and deaths not witnessed by a Jetway
+'copter-jet must be reported at once by visi-phone to nearest Referee
+and Medical Depot. Oh yes, maximum speed: 900 miles per."
+
+"Right! You got it, boy!" Harry Hayden paused, licking his lips. "Now,
+let's see. Guess I'd better ask another question or two. This is your
+final examination, you know. What do you remember about the history of
+Driving?"
+
+Tom was tempted to say, "Go to Hell, you fat idiot," but he knew that
+whatever he did or said now was of no importance. The robot-training
+tests he'd undergone during the past three weeks, only, were of
+importance.
+
+Dimly, he heard himself repeating the phrases beaten into his mind by
+school history-tapes:
+
+"In the 20th Century a majority of the Earth's peoples were filled with
+hatreds and frustrations. Humanity was cursed with a world war every
+generation or so. Between wars, young people had no outlets for their
+energy, and many of them formed bands of delinquents. Even older people
+developed an alarming number of psychoses and neuroses.
+
+"The institution of Driving was established in 1998 after automobiles
+were declared obsolete because of their great number. The Jetways were
+retained for use of young people in search of thrills."
+
+"Right!" Harry Hayden broke in. "Now, the kids get all the excitement
+they need, and there are no more delinquent bands and wars. When you've
+spent a hitch or two killing or almost being killed, you're mature.
+You're ready to settle down and live a quiet life--just like most of
+the old-time war veterans used to do. And you're trained to think and
+act fast, you've got good judgment. And the weak and unfit are weeded
+out. Right, boy?"
+
+Tom nodded. A thought forced its way up from the layer of fear that
+covered his mind. "Right--as far as it goes."
+
+"How's that?"
+
+Tom's voice quavered, but he said, "I mean that's part of it. The rest
+is that most people are bored with themselves. They think that by
+traveling fast they can escape from themselves. After four or eight
+years of racing at 800 per, they find out they can't escape after all,
+so they become resigned. Or, sometimes if they're lucky enough to
+escape death, they begin to feel important after all. They aren't so
+bored then because a part of their mind tells them they're mightier
+than death."
+
+Harry Hayden whistled. "Hey, I never heard that before. Is that in the
+tapes now? Can't say I understand it too well, but it's a fine idea.
+Anyway, Driving's good. Cuts down on excess population, too--and with
+Peru putting in Jetways, it's world-wide. Yep, by golly. Yes, sir!"
+
+He thrust a pen at Tom. "All right, boy. Just sign here."
+
+Tom Rogers took the pen automatically. "You mean, I--"
+
+"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.
+
+Louder and larger--
+
+_Brooommmmmm._
+
+Gone.
+
+"Hey, how'ja like that, boy? They're gonna crack the sonic barrier or
+my name's not Harry Hayden!"
+
+Tom's white-knuckled hands grasped a railing for support. _Christ, I'm
+going to be sick. I'm going to vomit._
+
+"But wait'll five o'clock or nine in the morning. That's when you see
+the traffic. That's when you _really_ do some Driving!"
+
+Tom gulped. "Is--is there a rest room here?"
+
+"What's that, boy?"
+
+"A--a rest room."
+
+"What's the matter, boy? You _do_ look sick. Too much excitement,
+maybe?"
+
+Tom motioned frantically.
+
+Harry Hayden pointed, slow comprehension crawling over his puffy
+features. "Up the ramp, to your right."
+
+Tom Rogers made it just in time....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Many voices:
+
+    "Happy Driving to You,
+    Happy Driving to You,
+    Happy Driving, Dear Taaa-ahmmm--" (pause)
+    "Happy Driving to--" (flourish) "--You!"
+
+An explosion of laughter. A descent of beaming faces, a thrusting
+forward of hands.
+
+Mom reached him first. Her small face was pale under its thin coat
+of make-up. Her firm, rounded body was like a girl's in its dress of
+swishing Martian silk, yet her blue eyes were sad and her voice held a
+trembling fear:
+
+"You passed, Tom?" Softly.
+
+Tom's upper lip twitched. Was she afraid that he'd passed the tests--or
+that he hadn't! He wasn't sure.
+
+Before he could answer, Dad broke in, hilariously. "Everybody passes
+these days excepts idiots and cripples!"
+
+Tom tried to join the chorus of laughter.
+
+Dad said, more softly, "You _did_ pass, didn't you?"
+
+"I passed," said Tom, forcing a smile. "But, Dad, I didn't want a
+surprise party. Really, I--"
+
+"Nonsense." Dad straightened. "This is the happiest moment of our
+lives--or at least it _should_ be."
+
+Dad grinned. An understanding, intimate and gentle, flickered across
+his handsome, gray-thatched features. For an instant Tom felt that he
+was not alone.
+
+Then the grin faded. Dad resumed his role of proud and blustering
+father. Light glittered on his three rows of Driver's Ribbons. The huge
+Blue Ribbon of Honor was in their center, like a blue flower in an evil
+garden of bronze accident stars, crimson fatality ribbons and silver
+death's-heads.
+
+In a moment of desperation Tom turned to Mom. The sadness was still in
+her face, but it seemed over-shadowed by pride. What was it she'd once
+said? "It's terrible, Tom, to think of your becoming a Driver, but it'd
+be a hundred times more terrible _not_ to see you become one."
+
+He knew now that he was alone, an exile, and Mom and Dad were
+strangers. After all, how could one person, entrenched in his own
+little world of calm security, truly know another's fear and loneliness?
+
+"Just a little celebration," Dad was saying. "You wouldn't be a Driver
+unless we gave you a real send-off. All our friends are here, Tom.
+Uncle Mack and Aunt Edith and Bill Ackerman and Lou Dorrance--"
+
+No, Dad, Tom thought. Not our friends. _Your_ friends. Don't you
+remember that a man of twenty who isn't a Driver has no friends?
+
+A lank, loose-jowled man jostled between them. Tom realized that Uncle
+Mack was babbling at him.
+
+"Knew you'd make it, Tom. Never believed what some people said 'bout
+you being afraid. My boy, of course, enlisted when he was only
+seventeen. Over thirty now, but he still Drives now and then. Got a
+special license, you know. Only last week--"
+
+Dad exclaimed, "A toast to our new Driver!"
+
+Murmurs of delight. Clinkings of glasses. Gurglings of liquid.
+
+Someone bounded a piano chord. Voices rose:
+
+    "A-Driving he will go,
+    A-Driving he will go,
+    To Hell and back in a coffin-sack
+    A-Driving he will go."
+
+Tom downed his glass of champagne. A pleasant warmth filled his belly.
+A satisfying numbness dulled the raw ache of fear.
+
+He smiled bitterly.
+
+There was kindness and gentleness within the human heart, he thought,
+but like tiny inextinguishable fires, there were ferocity and
+savageness, too. What else could one expect from a race only a few
+thousand years beyond the spear and stone axe?
+
+Through his imagination passed a parade of sombre scenes:
+
+The primitive man dancing about a Paleolithic fire, chanting an
+invocation to strange gods who might help in tomorrow's battle with
+the hairy warriors from the South.
+
+The barrel-chested Roman gladiator, with trident and net, striding into
+the great stone arena.
+
+The silver-armored knight, gauntlet in gloved hand, riding into the
+pennant-bordered tournament ground.
+
+The rock-shouldered fullback trotting beneath an avalanche of cheers
+into the 20th Century stadium.
+
+Men needed a challenge to their wits, a test for their strength. The
+urge to combat and the lust for danger was as innate as the desire for
+life. Who was he to say that the law of Driving was unjust?
+
+Nevertheless he shuddered.
+
+And the singers continued:
+
+    "A thousand miles an hour,
+    A thousand miles an hour,
+    Angels cry and devils sigh
+    At a thousand miles an hour...."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The jetmobile terminal was like a den of chained, growling black
+tigers. White-cloaked attendants scurried from stall to stall, deft
+hands flying over atomic-engine controls and flooding each vehicle with
+surging life.
+
+Ashen-faced, shivering in the early-morning coolness, Tom Rogers handed
+an identification slip to an attendant.
+
+"Okay, kid," the rat-faced man wheezed, "there she is--Stall 17. Brand
+new, first time out. Good luck."
+
+Tom stared in horror at the grumbling metal beast.
+
+"But remember," the attendant said, "don't try to make a killing your
+first day. Most Drivers aren't out to get a Ribbon every day either.
+They just want to get to work or school, mostly, and have fun doing it."
+
+_Have fun doing it_, thought Tom. _Good God._
+
+About him passed other black-uniformed Drivers. They paused at
+the heads of their stalls, donned crash-helmets and safety belts,
+adjusted goggles. They were like primitive warriors, like cocky Roman
+gladiators, like armored knights, like star fullbacks. They were
+formidable and professional.
+
+Tom's imagination wandered.
+
+_By Jupiter's beard, we'll vanquish Attila and his savages. We'll prove
+ourselves worthy of being men and Romans.... The Red Knight? I vow,
+Mother, that his blood alone shall know the sting of the lance....
+Don't worry, Dad. Those damned Japs and Germans won't lay a hand on
+me.... Watch me on TV, folks. Three touchdowns today--I promise!_
+
+The attendant's voice snapped him back to reality. "What you waiting
+for, kid? Get in!"
+
+Tom's heart pounded. He felt the hot pulse of blood in his temples.
+
+The Hornet lay beneath him like an open, waiting coffin.
+
+He swayed.
+
+"Hi, Tom!" a boyish voice called. "Bet I beat ya!"
+
+Tom blinked and beheld a small-boned, tousled-haired lad of seventeen
+striding past the stall. What was his name? Miles. That was it. Larry
+Miles. A frosh at Western U.
+
+A skinny, pimply-faced boy suddenly transformed into a black-garbed
+warrior. How could this be?
+
+"Okay," Tom called, biting his lip.
+
+He looked again at the Hornet. A giddiness returned to him.
+
+You can say you're sick, he told himself. It's happened before: a
+hangover from the party. Sure. Tomorrow you'll feel better. If you
+could just have one more day, just one--
+
+Other Hornets were easing out into the slip, sleek black cats embarking
+on an insane flight. One after another, grumbling, growling, spatting
+scarlet flame from their tail jets.
+
+Perhaps if he waited a few minutes, the traffic would be thinner. He
+could have coffee, let the other nine-o'clock people go on ahead of him.
+
+_No, dammit, get it over with. If you crash, you crash. If you die, you
+die. You and Grandpa and a million others._
+
+He gritted his teeth, fighting the omnipresent giddiness. He eased his
+body down into the Hornet's cockpit. He felt the surge of incredible
+energies beneath the steelite controls. Compared to this vehicle, the
+ancient training jets were as children's toys.
+
+An attendant snapped down the plexite canopy. Ahead, a guide-master
+twirled a blue flag in a starting signal.
+
+Tom flicked on a switch. His trembling hands tightened about the
+steering lever. The Hornet lunged forward, quivering as it was seized
+by the Jetway's electromagnetic guide-field.
+
+He drove....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One hundred miles an hour, two hundred, three hundred.
+
+Down the great asphalt valley he drove. Perspiration formed inside his
+goggles, steaming the glass. He tore them off. The glaring whiteness
+hurt his eyes.
+
+Swish, swish swish.
+
+Jetmobiles roared past him. The rushing wind of their passage buffeted
+his own car. His hands were knuckled white around the steering lever.
+
+He recalled the advice of Harry Hayden: Don't let 'er under 600 per. If
+you do, some old veteran'll know you're a greenhorn and try to knock
+you off.
+
+Lord. Six hundred.
+
+But strangely, a measure of desperate courage crept into his
+fear-clouded mind. If Larry Miles, a pimply-faced kid of seventeen,
+could do it, so could he. Certainly, he told himself.
+
+His foot squeezed down on the accelerator. Atomic engines hummed
+smoothly.
+
+To his right, he caught a kaleidoscopic glimpse of a white
+gyro-ambulance. A group of metal beasts lay huddled on the emergency
+strip like black ants feeding on a carcass.
+
+_Like Grandfather_, he thought. _Like those two moments out of the dark
+past, moments of screaming flame and black death and a child's horror._
+
+Swish.
+
+The scene was gone, transformed into a cluster of black dots on his
+rear-vision radarscope.
+
+His stomach heaved. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick
+again.
+
+But stronger now than his horror was a growing hatred of that horror.
+His body tensed as if he were fighting a physical enemy. He fought his
+memories, tried to thrust them back into the oblivion of lost time,
+tried to leave them behind him just as his Hornet had left the cluster
+of metal beasts.
+
+He took a deep breath. He was not going to be sick after all.
+
+Five hundred now. Six hundred. He'd reached the speed without realizing
+it. Keep 'er steady. Stay on the right. If Larry Miles can do it, so
+can you.
+
+_Swooommmm._
+
+God, where did _that_ one come from?
+
+Only ten minutes more. You'll be there. You'll make a right hand turn
+at the college. The automatic pilot'll take care of that. You won't
+have to get in the fast traffic lanes.
+
+He wiped perspiration from his forehead. Not so bad, these Drivers.
+Like Harry Hayden said, the killers come out on Saturdays and Sundays.
+Now, most of us are just anxious to get to work and school.
+
+Six hundred, seven hundred, seven-twenty--
+
+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."
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Drivers, by Edward W. Ludwig
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59404 ***