Anthonology

HURDLE

I've already commented, but will add this note: I've always been intrigued by alternate sources of power, and it shows here. Perhaps I would have come up with some additional notions, had I written this story a decade later; science keeps advancing, but stories remain fixed in their firmament the moment they see print.

"Up, Fisk," Yola said "Earn your daily bonus and commission or else."

Fisk Centers rolled over groggily. "Else what?"

"This." An avalanche of icy foam descended on his head.

He struggled up, gasping for breath, suddenly wide awake. "What was that for?"

"Well, I did warn you," she said contritely. "You look like a walrus surfacing."

"Nonsense. I don't have tusks."

"A toothless walrus, then. Fat, wet, stupid—"

"You're about to look like a spanked brat."

"No time," she said. "Bolt your food, Fisky. Today you go to work for your living."

"What makes you so sure I'll have any better luck today than I've had all week?"

"Because you handled the week. I set up today. While you snored."

"I should have stayed single," Fisk muttered as he stumbled to the suiter and let it dry and dress him. "Or at least gotten married. The last thing any sane man would do is become an adoptive father to a pre-teen hellion."

"Right," she agreed. "Especially when he has to live off her money."

"That's my money! Twenty percent commission just for—"

"For selling an innocent child on the black mar—"

"Shut up." He stepped out of the suiter, resplendent in blue jeans, checkered shirt and goggles. "What did you do to the setting?" he roared.

"You look just right for your job," she said. "Hurry up."

He tore off the goggles. "My job—doing what?"

"Selling cars, of course."

"Cars? I'm no mechanic—"

"That's all you know, Dad. Salesmen don't have to know anything about the workings. Just believe in your product and sell, sell, sell!"

Fisk punched a soyomelet. "Believe in my product? I haven't even driven a car for five years." He took a bite, but paused before masticating it. "What car am I supposed to sell?"

"Fusion. They've got a real nice commission deal—"

The mouthful of omelet sprayed over the table. "The atomic racer? The radioactive juggernaut that makes the obituary headlines every other week? The—"

"The same. They're making a play for the middle-class market and they need middle-class salesmen. Hot chance for you."

"Hot? Listen, Yola—do you realize that my annuities don't mature for another twenty-five years and are voided in the event of deliberate suicide? If I die tomorrow in a Fusion you inherit nothing."

"Term life insurance," she answered. "That's their bonus. Life and commissions. You live off the commissions, of course. But if you die—"

"Enough, child. The longer I listen to you the worse I feel. I'm not going near any—"

"Suit yourself," she said. "We'll run out of money tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? There's enough for at least another week."

"You forget you have a family to support. Two don't live as cheaply as one, you know." She paused, serious and for the moment rather pretty in her brown-faced way. "Fisk, it's a good chance for you. I thought you'd really go for a decent income—"

Fisk sighed. "I'll talk to the man. But it had better be strictly salesroom. If I have to go near a living Fusion I'll resign on the spot."

"Sure," she said. "Come on—you're due to report in twenty minutes."

"Fisk Centers? Right," the executive at Fusion Motors said briskly as Fisk introduced himself. "Your daughter here set it up. Glad to have a man of your experience with us."

"Experience? I haven't—"

Yola tromped his toe and Fisk realized that she had invented suitable qualifications for him. Time to set that straight right now. He took a breath.

"You're in the weekly Hurdle, starting at ten today," the man said.

Fisk's breath wooshed out. "I beg your—"

The man guided him out through a service exit, led him into a massive garage filled with menacing machinery. "Bill, he's here."

Fisk tried again. "Look, I don't know what she told you, but I'm not—"

"Here's your co-pilot, Bill. Bill, this is Fisk. Used to be with Ferrari before the antipolluters closed down their commercial branch. Drove in the antarctic cross-country a couple times, maybe twenty years ago. Going to sell for us. I want him to get a real feel for the Fusion, but you'll have to carry the burden this time."

"Great," Bill said, shaking Fisk's hand with a grip of steel and rubber. "Come on, Fisk. We've got just thirty-five minutes to blastoff and you'll need briefing."

"But I—"

"Don't get me wrong," Bill said, hustling him along while Yola trotted excitedly behind. "I'm not putting down your experience. But there's been a lot of development in the past two decades and most of it has been led by the Fusion. And the Hurdle is a real workout. If anything happens to me you'll have to take over—because the finish line's the only safe exit. Ever drive over five hundred before?"

"Well, I—" Then it occurred to Fisk that Bill wasn't talking about distance and certainly not about regular highway travel. Stunned, he fumbled for a suitable way to set things straight immediately.

Yola caught up. She smiled sweetly at Bill. "Can I come, too? I love racing—"

Bill looked at her with leathery compassion. "Sorry, kid. No juniors allowed. This is a rough course and it changes every week. You'll have to watch it on the customer screen. Mine's the purple Eight."

"Oh." She looked dangerously sullen, but fell back.

"Bill, there's been a misunderstanding," Fisk said, already out of breath because of the pace Bill was setting through the monstrous garage. "I can't—I never—"

"Here she is," Bill said proudly, pulling up at a tremendous sculptured vehicle with eight massive wheels. "Hop in. We'll get strapped while the tug takes her there. I'll brief you while we're moving." He gave Fisk a powerful boost into the open cockpit.

The moment the two men landed in the firm molded seats, the tug started hauling the car out of its niche and down a ramp. Bill saw to Fisk's complex protective harness before attending to his own.

"But I'm only supposed to be a salesman," Fisk protested. "I can't get involved in a race. I have absolutely no—"

"No problem. Boss always breaks in the new men like this. Idea is you don't need to know every detail about the car—you just have to believe in it absolutely, and the details will take care of themselves. So we don't load you down with statistics and all that junk—we just show you. Once you've raced the Fusion Special you're a believer."

"But I'm trying to tell you that I don't know the first thing about—"

"Sure. The boss explained. You've never touched the Fusion before. And twenty years is a long, long time in racing. We'd have let you sit it out this week, but my regular co-pilot isn't out of the hospital yet. But I know you've got the stuff. I used to watch that antarctic cross-country when I was a kid. Those glaciers, those ice crevasses—" He shook his head. "Hell, the Hurdle isn't rougher than that. But it is different—and you've got to ride it several times before you get the feel. So I'll drive and you just handle the map—okay? Nobody tackles a new race in a new car cold."

Appalled, Fisk could only nod. At this point it almost seemed better to take the horrible ride and keep his mouth shut. At least the driver was competent and it would be a one-time experience.

"Actually, that map is important," Bill said consolingly. "I can't take my eyes off the track when I'm at speed. They do it that way to make sure the race stays fair. New track for each run—nobody knows the specific layout until the race starts and then he has to figure his strategy from the map. Yours is a necessary job and don't you doubt it for a moment. One misreading and we're dead."

Fisk came to an abrupt decision—he would blurt out the truth and get released from this race right now. "Bill, I—"

"I wouldn't drive without a mapman. My co-pilot tried that a couple weeks ago, when I was out at the last minute with intestinal grippe. You know—bathroom every ten minutes, ready or not. Didn't dare drive. So he took it alone, because you can't get a replacement at the last moment and we didn't want our entry scratched. That's why he cracked up—trying to read the map before he got out of the tunnel—" Bill shook his head. "Fifteen hours in surgery and he'll have to drive next time with a prosthetic hand and a plate in his skull. Ran over his insurance and he's got a family to support. That's why I have to run a good race this time. Got to help him out."

Fisk realized that if he spoke out now Bill would have no co-pilot. Then he would have either to take it alone, risking the same fate that had wiped out his partner, or drop out of the race entirely. Then his friend's medical bills would ruin his family.

Fisk well understood the problems of financial ruin. He had been a moderately wealthy man not so long ago. Being broke was not a fate he would wish on anyone.

"... true dual-purpose car," Bill was saying. He evidently liked to talk. "Motor's always at full power, of course, so the clutch guides it. Not the kind of clutch you knew, eh? No gearing. Just engage for the percentage of power you want. Depress gently and you've got a gentle touring car. Goose it and you've got a real racer. I use a model just like this for city traffic—"

What could Fisk do but stick with it? Racing terrified him and not just because of his health—but more was riding on this race than his preferences.

"...duplicate controls, but yours will be inactive. Except for the indicators—you need to watch them in case of emergency. Regular steering wheel, you see; nothing complicated. Fusion's designed for the simple-minded—that's why I like it. And over here—"

The tug was maneuvering the car into the starting stall. A giant chronometer above was ticking off the last seconds before the start. Fisk squirmed in his harness, feeling cold sweat on his palms, face and underarms. He hoped that the term insurance was for a large amount.

"The map will fall into the fax hopper there as the gun goes off," Bill said. "Grab it and—"

A faint pop came through the armored hull. Paper dropped. And the car ground forward with such authority that it was all Fisk could do to breathe. There was very little noise. Pollution-control had really clamped down on loud sports jobs; both the hydrogen/helium fusion engine and the mercury vapor working fluid were almost silent. Also, it seemed, the cockpit was soundproof.

Fisk had to admit it—this was a nice piece of machinery. Competing cars shot out of their stalls. Blue, white, green, red, yellow—internal combustion, steam, electric, jet, atomic and assorted hybrids. The car industry had claimed that stiff antipollution standards would ruin it, but in fact they had led to a marvelous flowering of superior new types. The money that had once been wasted on planned obsolescence of style now went into improvement of mechanics. Drivers still had to buy a new car every three years, but now they obtained a superior product in each new model. And this was where that superiority was demonstrated—in professional competition, using the cars sold in the showrooms. It was a drag race start: thirty bright vehicles straining forward on a ten-mile straightaway. No noise or fumes.

Fisk sneaked a look at the speedometer. His duplicate was functioning, but it took him a moment to find the mph scale among the massed dials and digits. The main readings were feet per second and kilometers per hour, but he was pedestrian enough to orient on old-fashioned miles per hour. They were already doing 150, and accelerating rapidly. And the other cars were keeping pace or pulling ahead, so that the group velocity was deceptive.

"Look at the map," Bill shouted. "What's the first hurdle?"

Fisk opened the map hastily and scanned it. He had been daydreaming while his very life was at stake in an obstacle race at hundreds of miles per hour.

"The Narrows," he said.

"The Narrows? That's a stiff location, but good for us. Hang on—we'll have to push it."

And, astonishingly, the acceleration increased. The Fusion began gaining on other cars.

"I thought you were all-out before," Fisk gasped.

"Hardly. This is the finest car ever made, overall. The Fusion's, got more actual muscle than any car on the market—and unlimited range. It has a little piece of the sun inside, you know—that's the heat of the conversion, four hydrogen atoms transforming into one helium atom in controlled fusion. Fuel's no problem—it's loaded when we make it and it runs on just a little bit of hydrogen until the car is junked. We have no top speed, really—car would shake apart before we ever reached maximum. Only limiting factor—oh, don't worry, we won't shake apart—in a race like this is the frictive surface: the tires. That's why we've got eight—and they're broad ones, too. But too much acceleration makes them skid a bit and that's bad for control and worse for wear. Got to save the rubber or we'll have trouble finishing, even though the tires are solid. Guess you were still on pneumatics in the antarctic, huh?"

"I guess." Fisk realized that he had just received lesson one in Fusion salesmanship. The car was so powerful that even solid composition tires could wear out of round in the course of an hour.

And Bill was taking that risk now. The Fusion was overhauling car after car. The speedometer read—Fisk looked again, astonished—390 mph... 395... 400 and still rising. Air whistled past the little winglike vanes on the sides that were necessary for control at such velocity—even the sound-proofing could not eliminate every vestige of that hurricane keening. 410 mph...

Bill was right. Telling a prospective salesman about the Fusion could not have been nearly as efficient as showing him, regardless of his presumed experience. When he got into the showroom and a customer asked him about power and speed Fisk would not need any artifice to describe the car. He had seen it in action, seen the other racers falling behind at 430...

"You haven't raced before," Bill observed mildly.

And it was out at last—too late. "I tried to tell you, but—"

Bill smiled. "But you're a sucker for a sob story."

"Oh-oh. You mean to say your co-pilot didn't—"

"No, he did, all right. I do need this money for him. But nine men out of ten would not risk their own necks in a grind like this to help out someone they'd never seen. You're too soft-hearted. I'll bet you've been stepped on more than once or you wouldn't be looking for a job at your age."

"Close enough."

"Don't worry about it, Fisk. Lots of people sneer because they haven't got the guts to be decent when the heat is on. I knew you weren't a racer the moment I saw you. You don't have racer's ways. But I wasn't going to embarrass the boss right before a race—and I did need a mapman."

"And you're a bit soft yourself," Fisk said. "Helping your friend, sparing your boss, giving me a chance at a job—"

Bill laughed easily. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it? Little girl set it up, right? Wanted her daddy to be a big man? Well, you are one—and not because of any fancy race. Got a child like that myself—wouldn't trade her. No, I'll cover for you, Fisk. They can't hear us here. Only contact is the radio and that's one-way—in. On the public band. So no driver can sneak in tactical info during the race. You're an honest man and I like that, so I stopped you from making an ass of yourself, or seeming to. Man quits a race at the start, the word spreads that he's chicken, no matter what the facts. After this you'll be a racer officially—and nobody has to know the difference."

Fisk was beginning to find the man's solicitude a bit confining. "But it isn't honest to—"

"It isn't right to make a scene right before a race, embarrassing the company and hurting the little girl's feelings. Got to choose your course in a hurry—even when the best one is ragged. That's racing. I figured more people would be better off this way, so this is how I played it. Okay?"

What was there to say?

"Okay," Fisk agreed reluctantly.

Then he saw the end of the track: slanting walls of concrete foam narrowed the thirty-car highway into twenty, ten, five lanes. Bill maneuvered the vehicle around the few remaining leaders with minute but expert turns of his steering wheel that nevertheless brought anguished squeals from the massive tires. At 500 mph he passed his last competitor and slammed into the Narrows.

"New leader and winner of the first heat, Fusion!" a voice announced. Fisk jumped, then realized that it was the car radio. The race was being broadcast to the sports fans of the world.

"Sales: Fusion twenty-four, Steamco nineteen, Duperjet seventeen—"

"Hear that?" Bill cried happily. "The sales follow the performance, roughly. Usually the winner of a Hurdle is good for a hundred and fifty contracts or more right during the race. Much more if something spectacular happens. We're ahead where it counts."

Fisk was amazed. "You mean people are buying cars while they watch?"

"They sure are. When a car makes a good move, the saleslines light up. Impulse buyers. Want to own a car with class. We're selling Fusions right now, Fisk—one per cent commission on the gross goes to the driver. Five hundred dollars per unit, if they take the Special—less for the tamer models, though no Fusion is really tame. If I run well this time and sell a hundred cars—that's twenty-five grand. Pretty good for a week's pay. Of course I don't always finish—then I get nothing. And most races I make less than ten grand when I do place. And I'd have to finish at least second or third just to cover my friend's medical expenses if I wanted to do it in one race. But it's a living. I figure to retire after I make one really big killing—if it isn't myself I'm killing."

"I see," Fisk said, chilled by the concept and by the rapidly closing walls of the Narrows. Five hundred miles per hour was an outrageous speed for a car and now that there was something to measure it against outside...

"Oh, sorry—I didn't mean to rub it in, pal. You aren't a regular driver, so that commission doesn't apply to you. But I'll tell them you helped a lot and if we do well the company'll give you a nice starting bonus. Your commissions will come mostly from your showroom sales."

Fisk's concern had been about the danger, not the money, but he didn't push the matter.

Bill braked, using small parachutes that blossomed and dragged behind the car. They provided a steady reduction of speed without sluing. Fisk was glad they did. The Narrows, according to the map, was a one-lane chute with thick twelve-foot-high barricades on either side. No vehicle could pass another here and some of the curves could be disastrous at peak velocity.

Studying the map at this point was foolish—Fisk raised his eyes to his surroundings. The crisscrossed timbers were invisible at this range, merely a graying of the view, but he knew they were timbers of steel. Speed here was less essential than control. Any accident would block the Narrows. Bill had ensured his own passage and placement by entering first.

A faint rattle sounded in the car. Bill cocked an ear alertly. "Check your gauges," he snapped to Fisk. "Probably that was an irregularity in the track—felt like it. But just in case—"

Fisk scanned the dials and lights. "All green and in normal range."

"Right. Some of these buggies are more maneuverable at speed," Bill explained as he sweated the Fusion down and through. "They could leave us behind on a track like this—if they could pass us. We're heavy and prone to chassis stresses. Not the fault of the car—it's inherent in the mass and much of that mass is shielding that we simply have to have. If any of those other cars carried our weight penalty they wouldn't have a chance in this race. But here in the Narrows we lose no ground. If anything's wrong we can slow down and check it out. Next straightaway we'll show 'em dust! What's next on the map?"

"Hairpin."

"Say, we're really in luck! That's our worst time loser and now we've got first crack at it. The big ugly god of Hurdle racers must be smiling on us. We might even win this one, baby!"

Bill continued to slow, but even at 150 the huge racer skewed and tilted on the gentle curves, alarming Fisk.

They shot out of the Narrows and into Hairpin at a comparative crawl of 120 mph. Bill slued into the approach, deliberately skidding the rear wheels and braking. The car behind the Fusion was a jet. Fisk watched it in the rear-view screen so as not to have to watch the nightmare ahead. He knew the jet's wheels were merely for support. The only thing that stopped it from being a flyaway winner on the straightaway was the pollution damping—its flaming exhaust had to meet almost prohibitive standards of emission control. It was, of course, chemically fueled and could not travel as far as the Fusion.

Bill whipped around another killer bend of the Hairpin at 90 while metal groaned and dirt flew wide. Fisk thought he heard another rattling, but decided that it was caused by the spray of pebbles thrown up against the bottom of the vehicle. Outside each curve was a six-foot drop-off onto an escape lane—the turn had to be made tightly for there was no second chance.

"Fusion still leads," the radio announced. "Excellent tactics in a slow second heat. Sales: Fusion twenty-six, Duperjet twenty-one..."

"Not much pickup on the Narrows," Bill explained in fragmentary fashion between the body-smashing maneuvers. He was heel-and-toeing it now, working accelerator clutch and wheelbrake almost simultaneously with his right foot while his left controlled the movable windvanes for additional control. The parachute brakes had been jettisoned—they could not be turned on and off like this. Fisk was amazed Bill still had concentration for chatter while performing such heroic feats. "I held up the line. Crowd likes action. But we're in good field position. Watch us go once we pass Hairpin."

He braked down to 60 for the sharpest bend. Fisk thought the turn impossible—it looked like the point of a knife.

And someone ran out into the track.

Fisk became faint with horror, but Bill's reaction time was like an old-fashioned mousetrap. He swerved to miss the figure, throwing the car into a four-wheel tilt, and careened off the bank to drop into the escape lane. The two men bounced like yoyos in their harnesses as the great-car landed, but they and it took the fall without physical damage.

The jet following did likewise, landing more gently because it had only half the Fusion's mass. It pulled up even.

The lane had no passing room. The cars jostled together and spun. The side vane of the jet cut through the Fusion's bubble top, opening a neat incision in the shatterproof material. Then the lighter car shot ahead, reorienting in a fine display of equilibrium and blasting back down the intercept lane to rejoin the race. Missing a turn did not, it seemed, disqualify a car but merely delayed it.

Already three other cars had navigated this fold of the Hairpin and more were coming. The dust was rising higher as the road eroded. The remaining entries would be taking the curve virtually blind—another disadvantage of trailing the leaders.

Bill guided the car to a safe slowdown, then slapped a hand to his head. "Get her moving," he said thickly. "The—"

Fisk saw blood.

"My controls don't—" he began, but paused as he saw Bill slump. How badly had the man been injured? The harness prevented him from looking more closely.

"New leader," the radio announced. "Fusion and Duperjet spun out on Hairpin. Steamco is now first. Sales: Steamco thirty-two, Fusion—one moment, the cancellations are still coming in—Fusion twenty-one, Duperjet fifteen..."

The car was blocking the sole escape lane. Any car that missed the turn would shoot right this way at sixty or better, probably out of control. The ballooning dust guaranteed that the on-rushing vehicle would not see the Fusion in time to stop, even if it were in condition to do so.

Something knocked on the bubble and for a heartbeat Fisk thought a collision had already occurred. But the figure who had started this disaster by materializing in the forbidden territory of the Hurdle Hairpin had rematerialized and was dancing outside. This time Fisk recognized her.

"Yola!" he cried in dismay. He should have known.

She yelled something, he couldn't make out in the confusion. Then she pointed at Bill.

"Duperjet clipped him, thanks to you—" Fisk shouted.

"Fisk, let me in!" Her voice came through the unnatural vent.

He found the canopy switch on Bill's side and jerked it. The bubbletop yanked itself up, its ripped portion catching, then springing loose. Yola jumped about inside.

"Close up and get rolling," she ordered, settling into Bill's inert lap. "First car that misses that pretzel—pow!"

An apt summation. "But I can't—my controls don't—"

"Don't give me that. You'll kill us all—" She looked back. "Here comes one now!"

Fisk's hand found the changeover switch and his foot came down on the accelerator clutch. The car lunged aimlessly, all eight wheels spinning in the dirt. He grabbed at the steering wheel, easing up enough on the clutch to let the wheels catch.

"But there's nowhere to go—" he protested belatedly.

"Back on the main track, stupid! We've got to get this guy to a doctor. He's bleeding—"

And Fisk was somehow guiding the behemoth down the track at rapidly accelerating velocity. His lightest pressure on the pedal elicited a surge of brute animation that was frightening in its strength. No car was behind—that had been a false alarm. But he knew they could not have remained in the escape lane—and Yola was right about Bill. The man was hurt and every minute that kept him from medical attention might reduce his chances of survival. The only way out was straight ahead.

Then a car did appear in the escape lane, nosing out of the dust cloud as though from a brown tunnel,—and Fisk involuntarily goosed the Fusion back onto the main track, his tires screaming as he turned. Fortunately for him there were no further hairpin loops.

"What are we in for next?" he asked her, his hands sweating. He was moving the monster—but how long could he control it? Every time he pushed down on the pedal the wheels destroyed themselves a little in their effort to accelerate the vehicle instantly. But it was either ride this tiger or be smashed flat by the one following.

Yola scrabbled for the map, which had strewn itself across Fisk's feet. "The Elevated," she said. "Better get up speed."

"No, thank you. I'm doing eighty now—and I know my limits. We're just going to limp out the safest way we can find and—what were you doing on the track, anyway?"

"Have it your way," she said with affected nonchalance. "But I'm a race fan from way back and I think you'd better get it up. Ever see the El on the newscreen?"

"Brilliant recovery by Duperjet," the radio blared. "Fusion is not out of the race, but trails the pack and is moving erratically. Sales: Duperjet fifty-five, Steamco forty-nine, Gasturb thirty..."

"Never watched sports." He looked around nervously. "Look, Yola—Bill's a nice guy and it's your fault he's hurt. See if you can bandage him up—or something."

"What do I know about firstaid?" she demanded as rebelliously as always when told to do something. But she began looking in the car pockets for the medical supplies that had to be there.

"...and Fusion twelve—no, ten."

Fisk saw what lay ahead of them. "That?"

"What do you think? Watch those cars behind you." Fisk saw them come up on him at an alarming clip as they navigated the last of Hairpin and accelerated. The track was widening here, but one slow vehicle could be disaster. He speeded up.

Yola found a rolled bandage and began stretching it out. Fisk knew her hands were dirty—they always were—but kept his peace. Infection was the least of his present concerns. "We're taking a beating at the box office," she said. "But we're still in the race and we're not last either. Yet."

Still the cars came, showing no inclination to avoid a possible crash. Fisk's adrenaline squirted. He stamped down hard and the car surged forward as though its speed of a hundred miles per hour had been mere idling. It was a fine piece of machinery and it could hardly perform like this if it had suffered mechanical damage in the accident. There was, indeed, a certain exhilaration in managing a brute like this, Fisk discovered.

They were booming up the steep approach ramp of the Elevated. The combination of acceleration and angle shoved the riders back into their seats, hard. Yola balanced precariously and Fisk felt the first twinge of nausea. He had a circulatory disorder that could be aggravated by sustained physical stress. Ordinarily it didn't bother him—token medication kept the symptoms suppressed—but ordinarily he didn't tackle obstacle races in 500-mph juggernauts.

Yola complained, "His neck is all icky with hair and gore—I can't make the bandage stay."

"Then hold it in place with your hand," Fisk rasped, resenting the need to split his concentration and expend his breath in a situation like this. "We've got to keep him from bleeding too much. If Bill hadn't swerved to avoid you—"

She uttered a monosyllable Fisk didn't recognize—fortunately. He was pretty sure it would have earned her another week in solitary back at the orphanage from whence she sprang. But somehow she fixed the bandage in place.

Then they were up, other cars ahead and behind. Ahead also stretched mind-numbing miles of twisted ribbon, five hundred feet above the ground, tapering into a thread in the distance, though it was four lanes wide.

Two following cars charged past, the whine of their tires momentarily loud. The odor of oil and hot rubberoid swirled in through the rent in the bubble.

Yola sneezed. "There can't be many more behind us," she muttered, torn between hope and regret. She clung to the straps of Bill's harness as the incoming gusts swept black hair across her brown face. "But don't stop now—you have to take the El at speed or you fall off."

She was speaking literally. The paving contorted like a living tapeworm, given animation by his speed of 170 mph. In addition, the hole in the bubble interfered with the streamline contour and created a dangerous drag that Fisk seemed to feel all the way down to the sliding tires. But their forward momentum was not enough. The road tilted now into a forty-five degree embankment—he would indeed fall off unless he maintained speed sufficient to match the needs of the curve.

"Yeah," Yola said, licking her lips. At eleven, with her deprived background, she was more enthusiastic than afraid. He hadn't really needed to ask why she had sneaked into the racegrounds. She had done so because it was forbidden. She had wanted a ride and now she had it. Quite possibly her last.

More wind blasted in as he accelerated. "Close up that hole," Fisk snapped as another warning wave of dizziness came over him. The blood circulation to his brain was being inhibited—but to stop was to die. Already they were sliding toward the nether perimeter and the drag was making matters worse. He had to keep turning the wheel and bearing down on the pedal to counter the drift. But if he accelerated too strongly and broke the wheels free of the surface...

"Don't tell me what to do!" Yola flared.

Fisk twitched the wheel the other way. The Fusion jerked toward the rail. The bright water of a scenic lake spread below—a natural safety net. But they could drown, for the massive car would plummet to the bottom.

"Okay! Okay!" she exclaimed with bad grace. "You're the driver—" She dug out some harness strap and additional bandage and wedged the mass into the gap. It helped.

Now Fisk was able to gain the speed he needed: 200... 250... 280—finally the drift abated and they were cruising in a kind of stasis. It was, actually, rather pleasant in its way—the velocity anesthetized his sense of proportion and the balancing forces lulled his circulatory incapacity. What remained was a growing sense of well-being and power. He was no longer Fisk the hard-sell sucker—he was Fisk the Supreme! The Secret Life of Fisk Centers...

Then the curvature and banking reversed.

Fisk was driving for his life and there was suddenly no joy in it. He slued across the strip at 300 mph without any exact knowledge where he was going or how long he could last. His brain tried to black out. He tilted his head back as far as he could, trying to let the blood in his system flow level to the gray region that needed it.

"Slow up! Speed down!" Yola screamed. "Watch the sky below!" Which was just about the way Fisk saw it.

"Duperjet is still the leader," the radio announced. "Sales: Duperjet seventy-eight, Steamco sixty, Electro forty-four..."

The tilt decreased and the car was rolling down the steep exit slope at 350 mph. Fisk knew there had been many miles of elevated ribbon and that he had covered every twist at daredevil speed, but his memory had a short-term blank on the subject. That was fortunate for his equanimity, unfortunate for his security, since memory lapse was another signal of his functional impairment. Nothing but blind reflex had carried him through, but before long his reflexes would cut out, too.

Yola sat silent and staring. The ride must have been good to faze her like that, Fisk thought. "...Fusion thirteen..."

At the foot of the ramp was an impenetrable bank of fog. The road led directly into it.

Fisk sighed. No way to avoid it. This was obviously part of the course. Another hurdle. He turned on lights, searing beams of brilliance that might well have been windowed from the solar activity of the engine, but the best they could do here was about two hundred feet. The car was moving at more than five hundred feet per second, according to the relevant scale of the speedometer—360 mph. How many seconds would it take him to come to a stop?

He applied the brakes. The car slowed with neck-wrenching suddenness. Bill groaned. Good—the sound proved he was alive. The smell of burning rubberoid infiltrated from somewhere.

"Keep moving!" Yola screamed. "Fogbank always has stuff in it—"

A gap opened in the road. By the time Fisk reacted, it was too late to react. The car hurtled the twenty foot void with no more than a nasty jolt.

"Try that at half the speed," Yola muttered faintly. Fisk had to agree with her. Undervelocity was just as dangerous here as overvelocity. His conservative course was to maintain middle-range speed—say 300 mph.

A wall appeared, made of stone and steel by its look. Fisk swerved left barely in time. The wall was oblique, cutting across the lane only gradually, right to left. His instinct had been accurate and he had dodged the hurdle.

"Try that at half speed," he mimicked.

"Luck," Yola said disparagingly, as though her own life were not part of the stakes.

Not all of the fog was outside. Fisk's arms were becoming leaden on the wheel and his eyelids felt heavy. His system had taken just about all it was going to. He was out of adrenaline. Wisps of cloud passed between his face and the instrument panel—or perhaps between his eyes and brain.

"Wake up!" Yola screamed.

Fisk snapped alert, laughing—and momentarily felt refreshed, ready to continue another couple of minutes. He was giving Yola all the thrills she had asked for—and more.

"Duperjet is out of the race," the radio announced. "Crackup in the Slalom—"

Fisk bounced over a washboard trap and emerged from the fog. Fogbank hadn't actually been so bad. It would have been another matter in the press of the pack, however.

They were out of the fog and into a forest. Green concrete pseudotrees or pilings rose from the highway in a seemingly solid mass. They were cold—ice had formed on them and snow coated the ground.

"The Slalom," Yola said despairingly. "Doom!"

But the pilings were less impenetrable than they seemed from a distance. In the seconds it took to reach the first, Fisk saw that they were spaced well apart. There was room to skid around them if forward progress were not excessive. The tracks of many wheels showed the routes other cars had taken.

But across the main trail were wheels themselves, and jagged pieces of metal—the debris of a recent accident strewed across the course, Duperjet, surely. This was dangerous territory.

"...Fusion nineteen... Duperjet nine..."

The buyers certainly had little sympathy for a loser. Yet Duperjet was a fine car. It had led the pack after that spinout. Fusion was recovering sales—but what a grisly way to succeed.

Fisk was falling under the sway of stress fatigue again. He willed his remaining strength into his hands and aimed the vehicle at the widest aperture between groups of pilings, following the common trail. Here and there the refrigerative grid showed, scraped temporarily bare by the passage of the pack, giving him slightly improved footing. He was still doing over 300 mph and he knew better than to attempt to change speed here.

Yola covered her eyes. "You drive like a zombie," she said.

The trail split. A piling lay dead ahead. Fisk forced a message down along the resistive nerve tissue of his right arm and the arm convulsed a bit, pulling the wheel around just that necessary fraction. The car slued, scraping against the piling on the left and almost dislodging Yola's hole-stuffing. At this point Fisk hardly cared—it was as though car and racetrack were far away. Even his own extremities were almost beyond reach. His heart was laboring to the point of collapse, but the life-sustaining blood was not getting through. He was numb and terribly tired.

Yet he would not let go entirely. He hung on. A thin rivulet of animation trickled along the buried conduits of his pallid flesh. As the pilings loomed his muscles twitched and the car shaved by, never quite hitting, never quite sacrificing the traction so necessary to keep it from following the Duperjet into destruction. But Fusion's huge mass gave it traction where a lighter car might have skated. The impact of their passage howled about the myriad death traps of the Slalom—if he had been the lyrical type he might have immortalized the experience in poetry—and then they were out of it.

"We're alive," Yola whispered, amazed. "At least I am. For a while I almost wished I was back at the orphanage." She looked at Fisk. "You can stop here. We're out of the woods and nobody's behind us any more."

Fisk ignored her. Now he faced a straightaway, long and level and dry. Far ahead he could see several other cars. The Fusion had actually gained on them during this last hurdle. The race wasn't over yet—and as long as he was in it, why not win it?

It was madness, he knew—the futile delusion of grandeur of an oxygen-starved brain, its frontal lobes anesthetized. He didn't care. Bill needed the large sales tally for his friend's medical bills—and perhaps for his own. Fisk was indirectly responsible for the Fusion's fall from first to last place in the Hurdle and for Bill's injury. There was power under his foot if not in his body or brain. Why not invoke it, double or nothing?

"Daddy, what are you doing?" Yola whispered as the car accelerated.

"You willful little brat—you got me into this," he snapped. "Now you're going to see it through."

He was mad—insane, not angry. His brain had gone berserk and was running faster than the car. He had never suffered this effect of his malady before. It was as though another personality had fought to the surface—a completely un-Fisk monster. No, not true. This was his true personality. Shackled by decades of civilized restraint, it had emerged at last.

"So it's like that, Centers," Yola muttered. "Well, want to know what's next? The Mountain."

Fisk-normal quailed, but the demon aspect who had usurped control of his body said in fine detergent-opera fashion, "Yeah? So watch this." And his right foot crunched down harder.

The speedometer read 400 mph. It climbed rapidly as the tireless machine obeyed the imperious command of a lunatic.

"Steamco eighty-six, Electro fifty-nine, Gasturb forty-nine..." the radio said and continued on through the entire list of twenty-six cars remaining in the race. Fusion was back up to twenty-four.

The car was doing 500 now and Fisk's foot was a marvel of unremitting ponderosity. This was a fair-sized straightaway—the kind where power counted. Fusion's favorite track. The gap between him and the pack was closing. How much would this buggy do?

"This is suicide," a small voice whimpered. At first Fisk thought it was that of his civilized-self conscience, but it turned out to be Yola's.

Fisk's eyeballs seemed to be locked in their sockets, able to move only marginally to cover the contours of the road.

He himself was a machine, his arms levering more or less together, sharing his drastically limited muscular power as though connected by an old-fashioned limited-slip differential.

600 mph...

Suddenly the straightaway was ending and he was overhauling the pack at a phenomenal clip. The demon in him exulted.

"You fool—it's the Mountain!" Yola screamed, afraid. But Fisk saw only his beautiful passing of competitors on the fast track. So they had written off Fusion, had they?

Then his foot came up involuntarily. Yola was down beside the pedal, prying it loose. And the pack moved ahead again and crammed like so much floating refuse into the drainlike access to the next hurdle.

"Fusion has merged with the pack." The radio sounded surprised. "Looked for a moment there as if—but the driver was too smart to risk a pass on Mountain. We thought Fusion had mechanical trouble, but obviously not! Sales: Steamco a hundred and one... Electro seventy-five, Gasturb fifty-five, Vaporlock forty-four, Fusion thirty-eight..."

"Wow!" Yola cried, forgetting her apprehension of the moment before. "You may be crazy, but we're back in the sales money! What's your cut of the gross, Fisk?"

He didn't answer, knowing how little the money meant, compared to the lives depending on it. She had climbed back into Bill's lap and Fisk's foot was free, but now the ascent was too steep to permit high velocity. He trailed the pack at a poor 380 mph.

The course wedged into a two-lane thread, along which cars were spaced like traveling ants. A cliff developed on the right, the drop-off becoming tall and sheer. A car ahead tried to pass another precipitously. The banking of the road reversed, throwing it too far out and the vehicle sailed into space to torpedo into the water trap below.

"Coaldust slipped," the radio cried. "Twenty-four cars remain in the race at the two-thirds point..."

The demon that now governed Fisk's ailing body took note. A lot of cars would not finish because their drivers were too eager. He had better bide his time until he hit another straightaway.

Meanwhile, Mountain was a terror. Visibility declined as the blind curves became sharper. A small thunderstorm was anchored at the crest, pelting the entries with rain and hailstones. He had to slow to 280 and pace himself by the car ahead through the blasting rain. Then came the descent and Fisk accelerated down the glassy slope.

"Steamco one-twenty-nine... Electro one-fourteen... Vaporlock sixty-eight... Fusion fifty-nine..."

Fusion and Fisk were moving up on sales faster than on the pack, perhaps because the spectators knew what would happen on the next level heat, but not fast enough. The demon would settle for nothing less than total victory.

"Oh-oh," Yola said. "Loop's coming next. Cool it, leadfoot."

Bill groaned again. He was showing signs of recovery.

Fisk's eyes were on the desertlike sandflat beyond. Gently rolling dunes were artfully placed to alleviate the monotony and impede progress—a straight-line route would necessarily take in several of them. The alternative was to waste time going around them. He had no idea of what it was like to drive on sand. But if the other cars could handle it, so could Fusion—and this might be its last chance to pass the pack before the finish.

"Steamco still leads going into the Loop," the radio said. "Pack's pretty close and tight, though. There's likely to be some action..."

Indeed there was. Fisk observed the Loop, nestled in the angle between the Mountain terminus and the Dunes plain. It seemed to be about three lanes wide—but the pack contained about fifteen cars and few of them were giving way to let the procession become orderly. The Fusion was gaining, but would strike the Loop just after the pack did.

It didn't look as though there were any inherent limit on speed here—the faster he went, the less likely he would be to fall off at the upsidedown apex, provided he had the car under control. And as long as nothing got in his way. But could his defective body take the strain? The Fusion was willing—the flesh was weak.

The first car hit the Loop. Up and over it went at some five hundred miles per hour, like a toy. Only car lengths behind it came the second, closing. Then, squeezing in two and three abreast, the pack, vying for position even as they encountered the vertical ascent. And the Fusion was bearing down at 550 mph, still accelerating, still gaining.

Steamco shot from the corkscrew exit and landed on the fringe of the sandflat. Dust billowed up momentarily. Electro smacked into this and swerved, stirring up a greater cloud. Then the pack was tearing through like so many piranhas.

Fisk was entering the Loop at 600 mph.

"Hang on!" he yelled, though Yola needed no warning. They smashed into the vertical curve and Fisk's breath left him. This was in effect a ten- or fifteen-G takeoff, he was sure. He clutched at a painful gray awareness.

"...spectacular crash!" the radio blared avidly and Fisk realized he had failed and could expect nothing but agony before he died. "Pileup just beyond the Loop..."

Not me—someone else...

He was headed up at 650 mph. The reality that kept him fighting was the climbing needle, signifying conquest.

Yola screamed thinly. They were upside down, plummeting headfirst, leveling, taking off, upside down, proceeding along the awful corkscrew of the Loop. Fisk shoved the pedal all the way to the floor, connecting engine to wheels without any bleeding of power. He rode the descent lane into ever increasing velocity.

670... 685... magic pictures on his retina... 700... 715... 730... and they were sailing off the skirt of the Loop. 740... the wheels seemed hardly to touch the sand and only the little vanes kept the car level. 742... 744... acceleration was slower now. The great machine shuddered as though its stress limit had finally been met and all that was left for Yola was a shaken moan.

745... and the needle quivered, seemed to strain. This was ultimate glory!

"...fire prevents recovery of the bodies... total loss... worst disaster of the year... look at Fusion!"

Dead ahead, half concealed by a low dune and a sinking dust cloud, was the roadblock. Licks of flame shot up and smoke was piling into the sky. No chance to turn. A thousand feet away—and in less than one second they were upon it, traveling at 750 mph, Fisk's foot still savagely mashing the pedal. The Fusion was tearing itself apart and eradication was a microsecond away, but he would not even attempt to ease up. Already he was touching the vane-angle switch.

The low dune shoved the rubberoid and metal aloft in a single mighty convulsion. The great wheels barely touched the flaming corpse of the nearest car.

And they were airborne as the shaking became almost intolerable. Fumes siphoned in through the stuffed hole as the car was bathed in fire. The speedometer stood at 760. "Great God," Yola screamed in a whisper. "We've cracked the speed of sound!"

"Fusion is past!" the radio gasped. "Fusion hurdled pileup..."

The car landed, and sand swirled up behind it in little tornadoes spawned by the vacuum of their passage, but the mighty machine crunched on. The flames were far behind. Fisk's hands and arms were senseless and stiff in a kind of living rigor mortis, but straight ahead was all the car needed in the way of a directive. Now at last his foot began to creep up from the pedal.

"What—what?" a voice mumbled.

"Hey, he's coming to," Yola cried as Bill stirred.

"Keep him quiet." Fisk's voice rasped. "We're still doing six-ninety on sand—"

"Sales," the radio said "Steamco one-fifty-two... Fusion—one moment, it's still changing—that feat of piloting really stirred up the—never saw anything like it. Fusion takes the lead in sales! Fusion one-seventy-three... And Steamco—one moment—"

Bill lifted his head. "God, man, that's near my best. What—"

"I had to take over," Fisk said tersely. He was still fighting the rising tide of gray behind his eyes.

"Yeah—but—"

"Revised sales," the radio said. "Fusion two hundred and eight—folks, it's still changing. We can't get a fixed reading. The race isn't even finished... Fusion two-forty-nine... two-sixty-one—" There was an unexplained pause, then: "Folks, to recap: there has been a fifteen-car collision on the Dunes just beyond the Loop, but the remaining cars are still running. Here's the replay—" Another pause as the screen viewers saw the film. "Steamco retains the lead on the track, but that's all—and Fusion is coming up fast. The others—seven cars, I believe—are picking their way around the wreckage, avoiding the flames. None of them will finish in the money. It's a two-car race! Fusion, not known for its maneuverability, pulled such an extraordinary feat of—Fusion three hundred and nineteen! Those orders are pouring in! Here's the replay on that hurdle of death. That's Fusion firing out of the Loop—look at that! It cracked mach one! We thought the car was out of the running, then this! The buyers are really impressed. Hell, I'm impressed, and I've been in this business for—Most racers would have been smashed to pieces, busting sound like that, let alone doing it through flame! Fusion three-seventy... four hundred... Folks we can't keep up. Unprecedented sales for an unfinished race. Looks like a record in the making, even if Fusion doesn't win the Hurdle. Four-fifty-two... I gotta buy one myself..." The announcer panted into silence.

"That tells it," Bill exclaimed. "Sweetest music I ever heard. And I thought you couldn't drive—"

"I can't," Fisk said. "I'm sicker than you are."

Bill looked at him. "You're white as bones—you have a heart condition? I've lost some blood, but I've taken lumps before—better let me take over. Kid, get down on the floor or somewhere."

Yola scrambled down, finding a place to squat between the bucket seats. Bill threw the switch and Fisk's controls went dead. Now he could relax. These regular racing drivers were almost as tough as their cars.

"What's next?" Bill demanded, angling the car gently around another dune.

"Tunnel," Yola said, wrestling with the map.

"Fusion six hundred and seven..."

Fisk lay back and let himself slide into whatever oblivion awaited. The demon had left him, but Fisk-normal still needed his medicine. The race's end could not be far off and it did look as though he were planning to survive.

"Fusion seven-twenty-six..."

Bill shook his head. "Fisk, I don't know exactly how you did it—but you've just made us rich. Those sales are going to hit a thousand. It's a bandwagon now—everybody in the world will want a Fusion. We'll get a quarter million dollars in commissions—"

"They'll come to their senses and begin canceling after the excitement passes," Fisk pointed out. Now that he could afford to faint, he seemed perversely to be recovering strength.

"Sure—but the cancellations will be made up by other buyers reading about this in the fax. That always happens. Don't worry—we've got record winnings and the credit's yours. So you took her through mach, did you? I never had the nerve."

"Terrific!" Yola cried, liking the idea of fame.

"Uh—better not," Fisk said, eying the tiny mouth of the approaching tunnel. Bill sounded normal, but Fisk didn't trust the man's condition. He had been unconscious for a fair period and must have lost a significant quantity of blood—and an error in judgment of so much as six inches could be fatal, in that tight passage ahead.

"No, no. Fisk—you did it and you'll get the commission. When I tell the boss how you pulled it out—"

"We'll be rich!" Yola exclaimed with childish avarice.

Fisk hadn't been talking about money. His concern had been to see them through the tunnel alive. Steamco had just entered and at the rate the Fusion was going there would be contact between them inside that darkness. Was Bill intending to vie for position even now?

But it seemed money was a factor, because of the tremendous sales spurred by his mad exploit of moments ago. Yola's greed and Bill's misunderstanding sent a negative ripple through the weary convolutions of his brain. "When you tell your boss that he'll fire you for allowing an unqualified driver to take over and play roulette with machinery and people's lives in the Hurdle. Because you knew about me and he didn't. It was blind luck that got us through—as the tapes of the race will show."

Bill slid the car into the Tunnel as though he had done it all his life—as perhaps he had. "Maybe so," he said soberly. "But luck doesn't usually operate that way—not on the El or the Mountain—and especially not in getting up speed to hurdle wreckage. There was driving genius in your hands and feet, like it or not. But you're right—it's bad business and my boss would rather not know. Okay—we'll split the take, half and half. It's right to share, because I got hurt and you—"

As the Tunnel closed about them the rag-and-strap plug popped out of the hole in the bubble, urged by the suddenly compressing air within the confined space. An almost solid blast of atmosphere rammed in, striking Bill in the face and making a stormlike turbulence within the bubble. The car swerved, partly because Bill could barely see in the gale, but mostly, Fisk knew, because of the drag of the aperture itself. There was no room to compensate here. The stony walls were inches away.

But Yola knew what to do and since no one had told her to do it, she did it. She crawled across Bill's lap, probably kneeing him painfully in the process, fetched in the tattered wad and jammed it back into the hole. The storm subsided.

Fisk was able to speak again. "You were hurt because my daughter ran out in front of us while you were going through Hairpin. She almost killed us all."

"Take the money—take the money!" Yola cried.

"You sure are one for making objections," Bill said ruefully. "What do you want?"

"I think we'd better just walk out of your life when the race is over. A good—"

He had to pause, for they had caught up with Steamco. The Tunnel was lighted, but irregularly—the width varied from one to three lanes with curves thrown in. Passing could be tricky—and Steamco had no intention of being passed.

"A good sales day is the least we can do to repay—"

But Fisk had to stop again as Bill swerved to pass on a subterranean straightaway and was quickly blocked off. Steamco had to know that there was no car to beat but Fusion—all the drivers would have been hearing the radio reports. The only way Steamco could recoup was by finishing ahead—or by putting Fusion out of the race entirely.

The passage narrowed, halting the maneuvering for the moment.

"—the trouble we have caused you," Fisk continued. "I'll find another job."

"Fisk, shut up," Yola said. "You're throwing away a quarter million dollars."

"Fusion nine hundred and eighty-one sales..."

"Look, Fisk," Bill said earnestly as the dark walls rushed past and trickles of wind whined in through the stuffed hole. "I told you I'd cover for you about your lack of experience, laughable as that seems now. You've had experience somewhere—somehow—even if you don't remember it. You're covering for me, really. And I'd never make trouble for your little girl. You don't have to sign over the money for that. I want you to have your share because you earned it. I wouldn't feel right letting you go away with nothing after the way you—"

"I wouldn't feel right taking it." Fisk said firmly. "You were right—any idiot can drive this car and one just did—"

"Fisk," Yola said, "if you don't take that money, I'm going to—"

The dark track opened into a dual lane, then into a broad cavern spiked with stalagmites casting multiple and deceptive shadows. Many trails seemed to be open. Bill goosed the Fusion and angled for the far right opening. The Steamco moved over to block him, staying just ahead so that passing was impossible.

"I'll take the commission myself and make out a check for you," Bill said, as though nothing special were going on. "I'll take all the credit for the race, if that's the way you want it—but you've got to have your share of the commission. I can't take all the money for a race I didn't drive."

"I don't want it," Fisk said.

Bill tried to pass again. The maneuver was impressive at 400 mph in the partially lighted cavern. But Steamco was ready and stayed ahead.

"Fusion one thousand and thirty-eight..."

"I'll give it to your daughter, then," Bill said. "An irrevocable trust for her education, so she doesn't have to run onto any more racetracks."

"Yeah, yeah!" Yola agreed, but with less enthusiasm.

Fisk shook his head. "That money should go to your injured partner."

Another dangerous dodge that nearly put both cars into a post. "Twenty-five per cent to your little girl, then." Bill looked grim. "A hundred grand will cover my friend's bill. You're making me settle for twice that. I don't like profiteering on something like this. I'm hurting in my conscience worse than on my head and I can't dicker with you any more. That's my final offer."

"Flip for it," Yola said. "You go left next split—last moment. If Steamco goes right, you pass and Fisk takes the share."

"Okay."

Fisk was about to demur again, when the radio interrupted: "Folks, you'll be glad to know the drivers survived Duperjet's crash. They blame themselves for misjudgment—too much speed in the Slalom..."

Fisk felt a tremendous relief.

Bill accelerated again, almost touching Steamco's persistent tail. As the post zoomed in on them, the first of a line of them, he nudged right, then cut sharply left. Steamco was caught on the right side, too late to compensate without cracking into the pylon.

"What's the matter with you?" Yola demanded as she and Fisk stepped out of the tube at his apartment building. "We need money and you know it. Why wouldn't you take your share?"

Fisk himself hardly understood his reasons. "What I did wasn't real. Some demon in me wanted the glory of winning the Hurdle, no matter what the cost. I was too sick to control it—"

"That's right. You looked like a corpse, I thought sure you meant to kill us."

"But once the pressure was off I regained control. By then it was too late to undo the damage—"

"But you're the one who brought off the win."

"The demon brought if off. But at least I didn't have to give that demon the satisfaction of making a profit from the episode. With no credit and no money—"

"Except that trust Bill's setting up for me that nobody can touch," she said. "Fisk, that money would have bought a lot of fun for both of us and now all it's good for is education. Ugh!"

"Precisely. Education abolishes demons."

"I just don't get it," she said crossly.

"Neither do I," Fisk admitted. "I just knew that neither the racing credit nor the money was rightfully mine. "I will earn my fortune in my own way or not at all. That's my particular hurdle. Maybe it's a question of whether Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde will govern."

"Who?"

He sighed. "Never mind. It's a devious point of characterization—and perhaps illusory. But disaster strikes every time I compromise my principles. I tried to make an illicit profit in Marsland speculation and lost everything. I got involved in black market adoption and almost landed in jail. This time I very nearly killed us all. The demon offers material riches, but his real goal is misery."

She uttered the expletive he still didn't understand. "The first time you got a new, exciting life. The second time you got me. This time you could have had—"

"At any rate—I'll never go near another racing car as long as I—"

"Hey, what's this?" she cried, lifting something out of the package slot of the apartment door.

Fisk looked at what she had found. It was a small square item with a gift tag.

Yola read it aloud. " 'You're a great sport. Sink Bill.' "

"That's 'Sinc.,' not 'sink,' " Fisk said. "For 'Sincerely.' " But she was already tearing open the wrapping with juvenile impatience.

Inside was the personalized ID ownership key for a new Fusion Special.