Starrigger

9

She was face-down with her head resting on her right forearm. I turned her over to find unfocused eyes looking through me. She had changed clothes and was now in a dark green, ersatz-velvet jumpsuit, with black knee-high boots. She looked very different. I got her to sit up and she responded somewhat, moving as if underwater, limbs like taffy on a warm day, but when I got her to her feet she couldn't walk, couldn't draw it all together to perform all the motions in proper sequence. I leaned her against me, reached over the desk, and pushed Petrovsky back in his chair. I opened the top desk drawer and searched through it for Sam's key, but found only Darla's Wanner. I took it, then reached inside Petrovsky's jacket for his pistol. I stooped, put my shoulder to Darla's midsection, and she went up and over into a fireman's carry like a sack of wheat. Her pack was near the overturned chair, and I threw her gun into it and grabbed it.

As I carried her through the station, I wondered how much time I had. I was getting the feeling that everyone would be coming around soon enough. I didn't bother to guess what had caused the phenomenon, since several methods were likely candidates, but the extent and completeness of the effect were impressive. Nor did I waste time wondering who had done it. Later ― if there was a later ― I'd write a thank-you note on nice stationery and think about whom to send it to.

I reached the garage, went on through to the man-size door, thinking it strange that no one had come in from outside, unaffected and wondering what the hell had happened ― cops returning from driving their beats, coming back from lunch, etc. I cracked the door and looked out into the lot. Two stalwart constables were slouched in their car parked near the door, stupefied grins beamed at no one in particular. I was really impressed now; even more so when further outside I found another cop who had been pulling into the lot when the effect hit ― either that or he was in the habit of wrapping his vehicle around a heat-pump unit when he parked. His face was squashed up against the front of the bubble.

Which brought up our immediate transportation needs. Steal a squad car? No chance. No time to hot-chip the thumbprint-lock or deactivate the tracing beacons. Besides, they'd know what I was driving, down to the serial number. Then I forgot the problem momentarily, staggered by the fact that pedestrians on the near side of the street had been hit too. Three people lay face down on the sidewalk. Good trick, that. I cut down an alleyway going parallel to the street behind the station.

Darla couldn't have massed over sixty kg at one-G, but she was a burden on Goliath. Her pack was no bagatelle either. I found a walkway between two outbuildings, put her down, and propped her up against a wall. I firmly swatted her cheeks a few times, crossing carefully over the pain threshold, then shook her as hard as I could. Her cheeks blushed the color of winter dawn, her eyes fluttered, and she sighed, but she was still out on her feet. Well, time to get moving again. I levered her up on my shoulder, hoisted the pack, and stood mere debating where I should go. Then I sensed movement behind me. I whirled around, almost toppling over.

Two Ryxx stood in the alley, gawking at us, scrawny bird-legs thrust out at oblique angles to the pavement, shoring up their fat ostrichlike bodies against at least twice the Ryxx homeworld's gravity. Clear assist masks covered their faces, faces that did not belong on bird bodies, sour old faces like those of Terran camels, but the eyes were much bigger, and there were four of them, two above the snout in the usual configuration, two at the base of the long slender neck. They liked to look where they put those taloned avian feet. They were dressed in the usual manner, in skintight body suits of brightly colored material with embroidered gilt designs around the lower eyeholes. Their huge bony hands ― hands that once were framework for wing membrane ― were folded up with | spindly arms in a very complicated manner at the sides.

I clucked the appropriate greeting, all I knew of their language, which, written out, comes out to: "R-r-ryxx-ryxx (click) r-r-ryxx," with each morpheme at a slightly different pitch. With my language ability, I had probably asked them to pass the salt.

The one on the right returned the greeting, and added in 'System, "And hello to you, Roadbrother."

"And to you, Roadbrothers," I said, "many thanks, if I am indebted to you for my freedom."

I turned and walked away after I decided they were not going to respond or change facial expressions to give me some sort of clue. I didn't look back, knowing they were following at a discreet distance.

I went out to the street on which the Militia station fronted further down. This was risky, but I had walked away from the Ryxx automatically, even though they made no move to obstruct me. I stood at the mouth of the alley next to a Stop-N-Shop. Colonists passed by, looked at me and the lithe young girl slung across my shoulder, frowned, and walked on. But I didn't look at them.

There it was. The antique automobile, parked on the street in front of the store. The motor was running.

It had a key! Not an electronic signaller/beacon/radio like Sam's key, but a key, for God's sake, a piece of metal that fit into a mechanical lock. I marveled at the interior, the metal grillwork of the dash, the blue fur of the seats, the pink shaggy carpeting of the floor, the pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror… and the wheel, the steering wheel. Sweet Mother, a wheel with a shiny knob stuck to it. What was this? A gear shift, angling out from the salient hump on the floor that bisected the interior, a big old gearshift tipped with a bulbous handle with an H engraved on it, like so:

Gears? Steering wheel? Manually operated windows that appeared to be made of glass? This was no Skyway-worthy vehicle. Wait a minute. Oh, here they were, under the dash, the readouts. Not the funny oil pressure and water-temperature gauges, the real ones hidden away: plasma temp, current delta, everything. This was a fusion-powered roadster. A mock-up, not the real thing. But still.'what the hell was this? A clutch! Just like in the books. It couldn't be, but I saw no other way of operating the thing.

Let's see now, if I remember correctly.. depress clutch pedal ― letting out the clutch ― and it should be in neutral. Where was the N? No N. Okay, the line connecting the two uprights on the H. Neutral. Now, shift into 1. First gear. Right, now…

The car lurched forward, and I felt the motor dying on me. I floored the pedal again and the car stopped, but something had been straining to hold it back. What was this, this handle over here? Ah, a mechanical brake. I guessed. Sure. I fiddled with it until the shaft popped back into its hidey-hole under the dash. The car rolled forward slowly, coasting down the gentle incline of the street. I finally got the car in gear, and we started moving. Darla was lying faceup on the seat next to me, showing signs of waking up. She moaned softly and moved her head from side to side.

As we pulled away, a tall young man with an odd haircut came running out of the store, yelling.

"Hey! Where the hell do you ―? HEY! COME BACK HERE!"

I depressed the accelerator pedal and the car shot forward with alarming speed, the sound of the engine rising to a high-pitched whine.

"You lousy bastards!" the kid yelled as we roared down the street.

Lousy? I hadn't heard the word in years. It was distinctly American and archaic.

The engine howled in protest, demanding to be shifted. I let out the clutch, and the engine raced wildly until I decided it would be a good idea to lift my foot from the accelerator. I wrestled with the gearshift until it found a notch to rest in, then tentatively eased up on the clutch pedal. The car gave a little shake and jumped forward in second gear. The owner had given up running after us and stood arms akimbo in the middle of the street. I waved.

The car had amazing power. More remarkable was how the guts of the machine had been altered to perform as if it were really an intemal-combustion-driven vehicle with a mechanical transmission. I turned a corner to the left.

"Jake!" It was Darla, snapping awake. She sat up with a jerk, braced herself with one hand on the dash, one on the seat back, looking around.at me and the car, her face frozen in wonder.

Finally, she gasped, "Jake, what happened?"

"Good morning. I don't know, but we're out of one pickle and into another."

"Where did you ―?" The strangeness of the vehicle hit her. "What is this thing?"

"Somebody's idea of history on wheels. I stole it, if you must know. But first, tell me how you avoided getting burnt to a crisp back at the ranch."

"Huh?" She "screwed up her face, rubbed her eyes, and leaned back into the seat. "Sorry, I'm still feeling a little strange. How did I…? Oh, yeah." She turned her head sharply to me. "They didn't tell you? You mean, you thought I was dead?"

"Thought you were scorched meat."

"Oh, Jake, I'm so sorry."

"Never mind. Well, how did you manage it? That bolt was dead on target." I clucked disapprovingly. "Little foolhardy to take potshots at a Militia flitter, don't you think? Silly girl."

She grinned sheepishly. "Dumb but proud, I guess." Her expression changed. "Damn it, Jake, I didn't want them to take you. I aimed for the impeller, thinking to send them out of control for a second so you could duck out of the light."

I turned into a side street, getting off the main boulevard. The tires squealed. They didn't crackle ― squealed like a puppy getting a paw nipped underfoot. "Wouldn't have made any difference. With their night-sight gear it was broad daylight to them. The searchlights were for our benefit. The human prey instinctively thinks darkness hides him."

"I never thought of it." She bit her lip and frowned, then shrugged it off. "Anyway," she went on, "the impeller had extra shielding, so the point's academic. I fired, then immediately hit the ground and rolled. Even so, I barely made it." She pulled down the wide collar of the jumpsuit to reveal a soft bare shoulder seared with angry red bums. "I had them treated. It's not too bad, really. Second-degree."

"Still," I said, "it was stupid, but I love you for it." I leaned over and kissed her shoulder.

She broke into a big grin and threw her arms around me. "Jake, darling, I'm so.glad!"

"Whoa! I have to steer this thing." Heedless, she covered my mouth with hers and blocked my view. My arms were pinned by her hug, and the car swerved to the right toward a rig unloading a pop-up dome at a vacant lot.

"Hey!" I yelled when my mouth was finally free, grabbed the shiny knob on the wheel, and shoved it to the right. A woman unloading the rig dodged out of the way, then cussed us out in what sounded like Cape Dutch.

"Whoops! Sorry." Darla climbed down off me. She went through her little straightening-up routine, then looked at me. "Where're we going?" she asked.

"If I knew where Sam was, I'd get out of town fast. I have a feeling that this thing could outrun any Militia vehicle, even an interceptor, maybe. But―"

"My God, I almost forgot," she interrupted, and reached into her right hip pocket, took out Sam's key, and handed it to me. "Petrovsky was trying to persuade me to call Sam in, lure him so they could immobilize him and search the rig. For the map, I guess. I managed to get the key in my pocket before I passed out."

I took the black oblong box and pressed the call tab.

"Jake! Where in the name of Jesus are you?"

"Tooling around Maxwellville, looking for you. Where the hell are you?"

"Out in the bush near the Skyway to the Seven Suns Interchange portal. Looking for that damn ranch, or John, or Darla, or anybody who can… [sputter]… what the hell's going on?"

"Everybody's in town. Can you give me your position more exactly?"

"Not exactly. There's no navigation satellite around Goliath. But I'm about twenty klicks north of the Skyway … [crackle]…"

The rest of the transmission got swallowed in static.

"Sam, you're fading out. Repeat."

"… ten klicks above the road… use the beacon…"

"Sam, t can't read you, but stay put and turn on your beacon. Repeat, stop and turn on your beacon. Acknowledge."

"… on beacon, rodger. I read you loud and…"

"Jake," Darla said. She was looking back through the oval rear window. "A cop car crossed the intersection we just passed through, going to our right. Don't know if he saw us."

"Right. Well, they're up and about. And that kid probably wasted no time reporting his horse-and-buggy stolen."

"I should have given you the key right away, but I was groggy as hell.'.,

"Doesn't matter," I said. "In order to slip out of town, we need a nondescript vehicle. Trouble is, if we steal another…"

At that moment we saw John and company in their Gadabout coming from the opposite direction. Winnie was with them. I rolled down the window and yelled to no avail, then remembered the hom. Where? A button? No, right here, the padded knob at the hub of the wheel. The nom tootled its absurd herald, and in the rearview mirror I saw John leaning out the driver's port, looking back. I did a fast U-turn, drew up to them and leaned on the hom. They pulled to the curb beside a vacant lot. Darla got out her gun and I looked around. Maxwellville reminded me of the little Jersey resort towns we used to vacation in when times were good ― flat, with low white or pastel buildings, but here there were numerous vacant lots and a great deal of open, space. I hoped this wouldn't take long.

Winnie scrambled out of the Gadabout and ran over to us. I got out of the vehicle and she hugged my legs, then jumped in to embrace Darla. I told Darla to keep a lookout, then went over to the Gaddy.

"Jake!" John greeted me cheerily. "You're out!"

"Not for long, if I don't get out of town."

His smile faded. "Oh. Anything we can do?"

"Yeah. Lend me your vehicle."

"Uhhh…" His expression froze.

"I know it's a lot to ask," I said, filling up the silence in a hurry. 'Tell you what. Why don't you pull into that little diner over there, go in, leave the key in the Gaddy. I'll steal it. Give me about a half hour, then report it. I'll leave the car out on the Skyway, and there'll be no problems."

Susan was in the back seat. She leaned forward and spoke into John's ear, but not so that I couldn't overhear.

"John, don't do it," she pleaded. "We're in enough trouble. Colonel Petrovsky said―" She broke off and looked at me guiltily. "Sorry, Jake, but we'd like to stay out of this."

"I can understand," I said, wondering if I had the callous gall to yank John out of his seat, shoo Roland and Susan out… or just pull a gun on them. But, damn it, you just don't do that sort of thing to friends.

John looked depressed. "I really don't know," he said, shaking his head wearily.

Nothing like the sight of Reticulans to take your mind off a moral quandary. They came ghosting by, four of them, rolling along in their low-slung, bright blue-green roadster. It was a big machine with a trailer tagging along behind, attached by accordian joint. The trailer was easily big enough for an off-road buggy. The vehicle proper was a rhapsody of arcane aerodynamic surfaces, curving sinuously, set about with clear low bubbles, tiny minarets, spikes, and knobs. The aliens weren't looking at me ― by that I mean their heads weren't turned ― but I knew those camera-eyes were set at extreme wide-angle.

Had they followed from the station? How? I hadn't seen them. Uncanny, I heard Petrovsky say. But who can understand aliens? And wherever the Reticulans were, the Militia would be close behind.

"Jake, we'd really like to help," John was saying. I don't think any of them noticed the Rikkis.

I turned back to him. "It could mean my life, John."

" ― but I… Oh, dear." John looked completely lost.

"Let's do it," Roland said forcefully. "We have no choice, morally speaking."

"But the authorities," John wavered. "What exactly is our responsibility…?"

"I think the moral issues are clear," Susan said. "Jake helped us, and last night we helped him. At least we tried to."

"You're doing moral bookkeeping?" Roland chided. "Since when was an ethical issue a matter of debits and credits?"

"I am not keeping books," Susan retorted, a little hurt. "I just don't think it wise to get involved any more than we are. We're going to be living on this planet―"

"Jake, as far as I'm concerned," Roland told me, leaning past John to look out the port, "you can have the Gaddy."

"You didn't let me finish," Susan said hotly.

"I suppose it's up to me, then," John lamented, the democratic process weighing heavily on his shoulders.

"Jake, do you really think it's fair," Susan appealed to me, "to ask us to risk being dragged into whatever you're involved in?"

"Huh?" I was looking at the Reticulans. They had turned a comer to the left and had stopped, the rear end of the trailer sticking out from behind the comer of an auxiliary building to a farm-equipment stockyard. I wasn't overly concerned with them at the moment. They were taking a risk cruising around a human city. Darla had her blunderbuss aimed in their general direction. She'd blast first and inquire later if they showed. I kept one eye on the other side of the building. "I'm sorry, what did you say, Susan?"

"Susan has cast her vote," Roland said. "John, what's yours?" John started to say something when Susan blurted out, "I am really angry with you two!" Her cheeks glowed and she was on the verge of tears. "I'm being totally ignored here and everytime I say something―"

"Nobody's ignoring you," Roland said sharply. Susan was exasperated. "There you go again!" "People, people…" John intoned placatingly. Darla was looking back at me, as if to say. What gives? A good question. I had my own moral decision to make, and time was running out. I fingered the handle of Petrovsky's pistol inside my pocket.

"We must approach this rationally, as always," John told his congregation. "Now, there's really no big hurry to get back to the ranch. I suggest we go into the diner… and not leave the key ― Jake here being the resourceful sort that he is…" He looked at me for support.

"That'd be fine," I said. But it would mean more time wasted, time to hot-chip the antitheft systems. And tools? Where would they come from? "One thing, though," I said, "Do they give you a handikit with one of these things? Tool kit, for emergencies?"

Roland opened the storage drawer under his seat and began to rifle through it.

"That way," John continued, "we could claim we had no intention of helping Jake get away. Aiding and abetting, and all that noise." He turned to Susan hopefully. "Is that acceptable?"

"Lots of debris in here," Roland said, hunting frantically.

"Can't seem to find… what's this?" He held up a greasy thing-amabob with a stray wire hanging from it.

"Old engine part," I told him.

"No, it's not acceptable, John, and you know it," Susan said huffily. "They'll never believe us. I'm getting out of this car right now."

"Now, wait a minute, please," John said.

Roland looked up. "Oh, she's not going anywhere," he scoffed.

"Watch me," Susan retorted frostily, and started sliding toward the curbside door.

John reached.back and grabbed her arm. "Susan, please," he pleaded.

And I grabbed John's arm. "People, I really don't have time for this."

John turned to me, a bit annoyed. "Uh, wait Just a moment, will you?" Susan tried yanking her arm free but John held fast. "Roland, talk to her!"

"No tools," Roland said to me.

I grunted. Well, no choice, really….

Susan had the door open and one leg hanging out, trying to pry John's fingers from her arm. "Let me go," she said through clenched teeth.

"Roland, please, talk to her!"

"Quit acting like a child," Roland snapped, glancing up at her while still trying;to find something useful in the drawer.

"Go to hell. John, let go!"

"Suzie, please," John said, his voice low and appeasing. "We'll sort this out. Just wait one more minute before you―"

"Oh, let her leave," Roland told him, disgusted. "Where's she going to go?"

"Anywhere! If I can get out of here. I'm warning you, if you don't―"

"Susan, sometimes you're a complete shit. Do you know that?"

She stopped struggling and glared at Roland. "You bastard! How dare you say that to me!"

"Well, you tell me how we're going to make a go of this colony when people bugger off at the first sign of trouble."

"The first sign of ―?" Susan's rage turned to disbelief. "As if this expedition hasn't been a disaster from the day we left Khadija! Three of us are dead, for God's sake."

"Yes, I know," Roland said, "but we've lost others. A i planet, new dangers―"

"Ever hear of trying to prepare for those things? First silly breakdown… and whose idea was it to disturb those nests of whatever the hell they were? Isn't the first rule you should follow on an unknown planet ―?"

"Yes, the first rule is 'never assume,'" John said, "and I broke it. I take complete responsibility."

"And that makes it all right?"

"No, it doesn't."

"Let her go." Roland was fed up. John sighed.

Susan took advantage of the slack and jerked her arm free. Roland immediately reached back and gripped her wrist.

Darla was saying with her eyes: What are the morons doing now? I shrugged helplessly.

"Look, damn it, I want everyone to stop grabbing me… this instant!" Susan slapped at Roland's fist.

This was getting out of hand. On top of it, I was coming down with the creepy itches again. I brushed off both shoulders. What was it? Nerves? Bugs?

"Susan, please, please calm down," John was saying.

"Let go of me."

"Roland, let her go."

"Where exactly do you think you're going?" Roland asked her.

"To the motel where Roger and Shari are staying."

"We'll drive you there. All right?"

"No, thank you. I prefer to walk."

"Susan, be reasonable. Let her go, Roland."

"Don't be stupid," Roland told her.

'Take your bloody hands off me."

"No, I won't take my hands off you until you listen to reason for one goddamn minute."

"I said take your hands off me!"

"JAKE!" It was Darla, standing beside the car with the door open, pointing with urgency to something behind me. I whirled and saw the front end of a squad car peeking from behind a pile of junk in the vacant lot across the street.

"Everybody down!" I dove over the engine housing of the Gaddy, glided over the slippery finish, went end over end to hit ground with a turned shoulder, and rolled to a crouch. The Teelies looked at me as if I were insane. I crawled over, opened

Roland's door. "Get down! DOWN!" Roland got the idea first, grabbed the collar of John's funny-looking gray cassock and pulled him over down to the seat. I was reaching for Susan when the first salvo hit. The aeroglass windscreen of the Gaddy erupted into crushed ice. Susan still sat there ― miraculously unhurt ― shaking her head, baffled.

"Why… why are they shooting at us? We're not―"

I yanked her out of the car and down to the pavement just as the next salvo slammed into the Gaddy. The air was alive with high-density slugs, their hypersonic cracking louder than the report that sent them on their way. The Gaddy shook like green jello as slugs chunked into it from at least three directions. John and Roland tumbled out of the front door in a pile.

"Stay low!" I told them. Looking around, I saw no cover. The lot on this side had nothing to offer but dry scrub brush and a few Wurlitzer trees.

I heard Darla gun the automobile's engine. The tires wailed as she popped the clutch pedal and jumped the curb. She came toward us swerving crazily. A steering wheel's hard to get used to. She crossed the paved sidewalk and ran the car into the loose sandy soil of the lot, sideswiped a Wurlitzer, then straightened out and came at us, the tires shooting streamers of dirt behind. She pulled up alongside the Gaddy and slid to a halt, racing the engine noisily. Then she accidentally let up on the clutch while in gear and nearly stalled the engine, but managed to keep it going. As she opened the driver's door an HD slug whanged off the Chevy, screaming away in ricochet. I didn't have time to be surprised at that. The door now effectively blocked the cops' angle of fire from one vantage point. I helped John get past me, then Roland.

"Everybody in!" I said. "Stay low!" I shoved Susan through the door, Darla helping inside. The antique vehicle was now attracting most of the fire, but it was partially blocked by the Gaddy, which was flying apart in frayed pieces. Roland crawled through, then John hauled his lean frame up and over the seat. Right then another shot hit the door, spanging off as well, but the impact nearly knocked me aside. I pushed and shoved John's skinny bun up and into what I now knew to be an HD-proof vehicle, miracle of miracles. A high-density slug is hard to stop.

The front seat was a tangle of bodies. I pulled myself in, wedging myself into position, trying to force my foot through a snake pit of arms and legs to the accelerator pedal. I got to it and pressed down. The engine howled, but the buggy didn't move. I had to shift into first but couldn't reach die clutch pedal. My left foot was lodged between the door and the front seat. I bent over and ducked my head under the wheel, painfully contorting myself down to where I could push me pedals with my hands. Someone drove an elbow into my ear.

"Darla, shift! Put the thing to number one!"

I felt the shaft move against my neck. I let the clutch pedal slide out from my hand and flattened the accelerator with my forearm. The motor howled and the G-force pinned my neck against the gearshift. We were moving.

"Steer!" I shouted. Out of the comer of my eye I saw her leaning over the back of the seat with her hands on the wheel.

A sudden flash and an explosion. They had brought up exciter cannon. The Gaddy was no more. It also meant we didn't have a chance. Seconds later a white-hot cloud of brilliance enveloped us ― and just as quickly we were out of it. An exciter bolt had hit us dead center and we were unharmed.

The vehicle shook with impact after impact, shots bouncing off like stones from steel plate. Darla wheeled to the left and we hit something, but it didn't stop us. The engine was shouting for second gear, but I didn't want to chance it.

Then I suddenly realized we had time. We had taken the worst they could throw at us. "Everybody off!" I hollered, stupidly, because I was the one on top. I let up on the accelerator and untangled myself.

"Ouch!" came Roland's voice. A hand clawed at my face.

Darla took her hands from the wheel and helped pull me off the pile of Teelies.Susan got free and crawled into the back seat, leaving Roland, John, and me to sort ourselves out. We finally did and I came up for air, cracked the door to get my foot free, slammed it closed again. We were coasting through the brush on the other side of the lot. We reached the sidewalk, bounced over the curb, and by that time I had the transmission rammed into second. I floored the pedal and we roared out into the street, the tires yipping like hounds at bay.

"Which way to the highway?" I asked, but didn't get an answer. Two squad cars angled out into the street presented a more pressing question. My answer was straightforward. With all the confidence in the world, I blithely aimed our anachronistic vehicle for the apex of the triangle the blocking cars formed.

"Hang on, people."

Shots caromed off the glass ― which wasn't glass at all ― and coherent beams played over the curving, glossy hull. Impervious. We hit the squad cars with a loud bang but a mild jolt, shoved them carelessly aside, and raced on down the street. We passed other cop cars, an armored personnel carrier, then broke through the perimeter the Militia had secured. Their second line of defense was negligible: wooden barriers. I made toothpicks of a few of them, screeched around a comer to the right, hung a left, then a right again, then debouched onto a wide boulevard mat seemed to lead away from town.

Frightening power throbbed beneath my foot. I'd never driven anything with comparable performance. And it was still in third gear. The "speedometer" read ninety somethings per hour. Miles? Sure. Appropriate to the period.

For the next twenty minutes I drove with nothing in my way but air. Maxwellville thinned to suburbs, then to development tracts, then to nothing but open road with bare land on either side. No roadblocks; they hadn't had time. Everyone sat in dazed silence. The Teelies were stunned, blank faces staring at the mesa rolling by.

Flashing barriers ahead, a new section of Colonial highway, and a sign. TO SKYWAY AND SEVEN SUNS INTERCHANGE ― ROUTES 85, 14 AND POINTS SPINWARD. I managed to avoid hitting the barriers. We shot over the entry ramp and out onto new Maklite surface six lanes wide. I called Sam.

"I got a fix on you now, boy."

"That's good," I said. "Where are you?"

"Out in the bush by the starslab. But don't worry, I'II pick you up. What are you driving?"

"You won't believe it, but you'll know it the moment you see it. Old Terran automobile. A replica, of course. But, Sam, I'll need to know where you are. We have to make the switch off the road somewhere, out of sight. Everybody in the galaxy's hot on my trail."

"Really? Hold on." A pause. "Yeah, I'm painting them now. Too far away, can't tell exactly how many… Hey! What're you trying to do, bum up the road?"

"That's the general idea."

"What's your speed?"

'Two hundred miles per hour."

"What? Oh, I understand. Wait a minute. If it's a true replica, the speedometer wouldn't read that high."

"The needle buried itself at 100, then came up the other side again, and the numbers changed. This buggy's a replica as far as looks, but under the engine hous ― I mean the hood ― she's something else again. I'm waiting to get to the Skyway to see what she can do."

"Better step on it now. Something's gaining on you."

"Okay." I thought it was about time for fourth gear. I slid it in smoothly and the car surged ahead, pressing us back into our seats. The numbers on the speedometer now ranged from 200 to 300. I urged the car onward and the needle crept up to 250.

"God, I can't believe this old rattletrap―" I looked at the speedometer again and did a take. "What? Now this thing reads like a machometer!"

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It is a machometer."

"And it's not a reaction-drive vehicle?"

"Negative. I'm at Mach point three five and holding. Sam, how's the Skyway up ahead for high-speed travel?"

"It's all straightaway to the portal, but be careful. You know what they say. No ground vehicle is safe anywhere at over Mach point five."

"Right, but let 'em eat my dust for a while back there."

"They're still gaining."

"They are? Sam, get moving!"

"Say again?"

"Get rolling now. If they're still gaining, it's a Militia interceptor, and I know exactly who's driving it." The ambush hadn't been Petrovsky's doing. That had been Elmo reasserting his authority. But Petrovsky was on his own now, that wide Slavic nose pushed to the scent. "No chance of us meeting anywhere on Goliath. Get moving toward Seven Suns and we'll play it by ear from there."

"Hold on, now, I'm getting more than one blip. There's the fast-moving one, and then there're two behind him, a little slower."

The Reticulans, with a backup vehicle?

"And tailing them at a fairly good clip is another one."

The Ryxx, maybe.

"And behind them…"

"More?" Well, hell. "Move it out, Sam. You'll have a lot

more speed on the other side. Vacuum."

"You don't know what Stinky did to me. Feel like a new man. I haven't opened it up yet, but my cruising speed's up by at least thirty percent. Stinky outdid himself this time."

"Good, but get rolling!"

"Okay, okay!"

In no time we reached the old Skyway, pointing straight and true toward a limitless horizon. The machometer crept upward ― but what about aerodynamics? The vehicle's shape was rounded, "streamlined" was the word that came to mind, but the surface didn't look capable of slicing an air mass at Mach one. There were no stabilizer foils, no GE flange, nothing. There'd be heavy turbulence ahead if I kept pushing, and possible disaster. But how was the car staying on the road at the speed we were doing now? And in Goliath's soupy air to boot? To say there was more to this vehicle than met the eye was an understatement by several degrees.

"Sam, are you grabbing slab?"

"That I am, son. I'm tracking you at Mach point four. Where's the fire?"

"Up my kazoo. By the way, what happened at Stinky's?"

"Well, it's a long story."

"Edit it severely."

"Right. Stinky worked on me all day yesterday, then into evening. He said it was a challenge. It was 'way after dark when he finished, and I insisted he rehook me to the trailer and let me squeeze into the garage. I hadn't heard from you, and I thought it best. He balked at that, but gave in. It was a tight fit. Anyway, about an hour later I hear somebody breaking into the place. So I took off, not bothering to open doors. Stinky's garage is now naturally air-conditioned."

I winced. Stinky would go for the jugular next time he clapped eyes on me. "Got you. Then what?"

"Then nothing. I took off in the general direction John had said his farm was in, but couldn't find anything. I had half a mind to give you a buzz, but it just didn't seem like a good idea."

"You were right. Would've given you away. Besides, I had the beeper turned off. God knows why, but I thought it'd take them a while to trace us to John's place, thought we were safe. But, go on."

"Well, there isn't much more. Wandered all night in the bush. Spotted a couple blips once, powered down and made like a rock. Airborne bandits, and they passed right overhead The cops?"

"The same. Sam, you were nearer than you thought. But if that's true, I can't understand why I had trouble reading you."

"Probably because I hid in a deep arroyo. Had a hell of a time getting out of there. What's more, you called on FM."

"Merte. Remind me to have the key redesigned so that the AM and FM select tabs are on opposite sides."

The silence in the car was getting me down. "Anyone for Twenty Questions?" I asked, and felt immediately inappropriate. I glanced around to find Susan glowering at me. "Sorry," I said lamely.

"Now you tell me your life story."

"That is much too long a tale, Sam. Later." "Damn it, you never tell me anything."

"Okay, a synopsis. The cops nabbed me, then someone sprang me. Don't know who, but I think it was the Ryxx." "The Ryxx? What the hell do they have to do with this?"

"Don't know that either, exactly, but I have an idea. As I said, later." '

Roland surprised me by asking, "Jake, how did you get… uh, sprung?"

I told him about the neural-scrambler field. "Then someone tickled me with something to bring me around, and I got out."

"Can you describe the symptoms?"

Darla and Winnie began talking in the back seat as I told him.

Roland smacked fist into palm. "Then, I didn't fall asleep on watch!"

"Yeah?"

"I knew it! I've never done that, and I've stood watch more than most soldiers."

"You're telling me the same thing hit us last night?"

"No question. I remember sitting there by the fire, feeling a headache coming on. Then a buzzing sound… and then there was a strange interlude there. I wasn't asleep. It was like an extended daydream. A reverie. And the next-thing I knew you were kicking me and the flitters were on us."

Which meant that it had been the Reticuians who had en-" gineered my escape from the station. One more unfittable piece in an ever-growing puzzle.

Darla leaned over the seat. "Jake, from what Winnie tells me, Roland's right. She wasn't affected by the field, or the effect, or whatever it was."

"Most likely it was attuned to human neural patterns," I ventured. "I'll buy that. What else did she say?"

"She said she heard someone walk up to the house. She got frightened, tried to wake us, but we were out cold. Then she ran outside and hid in the bush."

"Did she see anything?"

"No, but she says she knows that two humans came into the house, and one nonhuman. She says the nonhuman frightened her a great deal. The smell was bad."

"Does she have any idea what they did?"

Darla asked her. I realized then that, while I couldn't understand Winnie most of the time, Darla never seemed to have any trouble.

"She doesn't know," Darla reported. She looked over my shoulder and then said, "Jake, how fast are we going?"

I looked. The needle had just edged past Mach point five. "Wow," was all I could say.

"Jesus Christ!" John shouted.

I looked up. Sam was ahead. I swerved to the left and we passed him like he was painted on the road.

"Slow down, speed demon!" Sam's voice came from the dashboard under the windscreen, where I had thrown the key. "Crazy kids! No sense of responsibility." He chuckled. "You're right. That buggy is a blast from the past. Look's like a middle-twentieth-century Chevrolet to me. I'm no expert, though, on these things."

I eased up on the pedal, and the needle fell off to saner speeds. "How's our pursuit doing?"

"He's pacing us now. Knows he can't catch you."

"Yeah, but he can catch you, Sam. Dump the load. Unhook the trailer."

"Not on your life, son. We're paid to deliver goods, not leave 'em strewn over a hundred klicks of road. Besides, he's after.you now, not me."

"Sam, I'm not so sure of that. If I had any sort of priceless artifact, especially a map, wouldn't I leave it with you? Why do you think they wanted to search you? Petrovsky might try to disable you and do just that."

"Who the hell's Petrovsky?"

"Sorry. The guy nipping at our tail."

"I can handle any cop who has a notion to breach my road rights."

"Sam, you know you can't. So, cut the crap and dump it." "Is that any way to talk to your father? Moreover, my disrespectful son, you forget something. I'm still mostly machine ― in fact, let's face it ― I'm nothing but, or so they tell me. Machines must obey programming. And I can't circumvent your tricky anti-hijack program. Only you can detach the trailer with your thumbprint."

He was right, and I had forgotten completely. "Sorry, Dad."

Alarms blared from somewhere inside the vehicle, startling everybody. We then watched goggle-eyed as strange things began to happen to the instrument panel. Magically, the funny dials and gauges metamorphosed into more conventional-looking readouts, melting and reshaping as if worked by the hand of an unseen sculptor. It took but a few seconds, and the final result was a complete portal-approach display.

"Remarkable," John said beside me, his bony knees sticking up sharply.

"Roland, change places with John. Give me a hand with these readouts." They did. John breathed easier and stretched out, glad to get off the hump that housed the drive train… at least I thought that was what it was.

I missed the warning signs, a blur beside the road. The cylinders split the sky ahead, towering columns of unknowable energy and substance. As we watched, a phthisic finger of lightning crackled down from a clear sky to touch the lead left cylinder. Branching secondary tendrils snaked from it to link the others in a fiery web, and for a second an eerie bloom of pale blue light grew around the whole portal array, then shrunk back on itself, vanished.

I had only seen it happen once before. You can divide your life into sections marked off by the event of witnessing a portal call down a bolt from the clear blue. Everyone exhaled.

"Seat belts?" I blurted. "Any safety harnesses in here?"

"No," Darla said. "Don't see any, except for this funny hand strap hung between the windows."

Strange. "Well, grab it, or something. Anything." And then I remembered what was on the other side of the portal. "Windows? Are all the windows shut?"

Are all the windows shut? I couldn't believe I was saying it. Could it be that this contraption wasn't vacuum-worthy? But no. Its rightful owner had passed us on the Skyway, and

he could only have come from Groombridge, the only portal leading to Goliath. Unless he'd been out on the plains punking around. But there was nothing out there but hoplite crabs and misery. The possibility lingered, but surely the windows weren't glass….

"All shut, Jake," Darla said. "As a matter of fact, the back window on Susan's side was open just a slit, and I happened to catch it closing by itself when the needle went over one hundred. Now my window handle won't budge."

Things were happening too fast, and I was disoriented. The commit marker streaked past, and the guide lane skittered beneath us. We were streaking across a perilously thin edge of safety at a speed that was too fast for reaction, almost. But through the wheel I felt another controlling force, an assisting hand ― an automatic system of some sort. The instrument panel was lit up in reassuring green, and things seemed to be going fine.

The cylinders whizzed by in a flickering blur, and we were through the aperture.

We arrived smoothly on a world of mirror-flat ice plains, broken by low outcroppings of dark rock and occasional fracture rills. The road cut straight ahead to a deceptively close horizon. It was dead night, but a million stars gave the ice a sheen by which you could pick out features of the landscape. And almost directly overhead there hung a chandelier of seven bright stars, brighter by far than any seen on most planets. I pressed my face against the window and looked up for a second or two.

There had been no surge of speed when the car had hit vacuum. I checked the machometer. Yes, only a slight increase. The car had some remarkable aerodynamic properties.

I tried calling Sam, but there was no answer. Too early. I had no idea how far behind he had been, and now I was worried.

Alarms sounded again. The sound was different this time. A scanner screen appeared on the panel, showing traffic ahead, and I slowed down. Soon we were down below Mach point three, and decelerating. I didn't want to get too far ahead of Sam. There was now a decision to make: where to go? Seven Suns offered three portals, with three separate ingress points feeding into them: one from Goliath, two from other interstellar routes. One portal led back to the heart of the Terran Maze by a many-light-year jump, another to Ryxx territory. The third was potluck, so there were really only two choices, unless we felt very lucky.

"Sam, come in. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Captain. I've got a cop on my tail, though."

I made a decision and braked. "I'm slowing down."

"Negative! Get your butt through that Ryxx portal! Get out of T-Maze. It's your only chance."

"I think I can handle him. This car is some kind of fused-up alien buggy with all kinds of surprises in it. Haven't found the armaments yet, but I've a feeling I may be able to outshoot an interceptor. Whereas you―"

"Son, think a moment. What can this Petrovsky character do to me? If he pulls me over, so what? If he searches, what'II he find? Meanwhile, you can get away."

"He may impound you."

"Again, so what? I'll cool my rollers for a while till you get back."

It did make sense. "Okay. I guess." I didn't like it.

"In fact, I'm kind of hoping he does pull me over. Maybe a Roadbug'lt come along and ― Hold on."

The key was silent for half a minute. Then I said, "Sam? What's going on?"

"He passed me. I said he was after you."

"Yeah." I upped our speed as much as the traffic would allow. I was weaving in and out of lanes now, passing rigs, roadsters, alien conveyances of every sort and description. "One problem about ducking into Ryxx Maze, though. One of those blips you painted was a Ryxx vehicle."

"They sprung you, now they're chasing you. Logical."

"I've learned through the Teelies here that it wasn't the Ryxx who got me out."

"Who did? I'm confused."

"That makes three of us. I'm twice as confused as you. I think it was the Reticulans."

"Oh, well, that explains everything."

"Clear as shit, isn't it?" Something occurred to me. "The thing that really puzzles me is how the Rikkis traced us to the Teelies' farm. The Militia did it by making inquiries in town, but the Rikkis couldn't have done that. And Petrovsky told me that he was following them." I realized that Sam was in the dark about all of that. "Sorry, Sam. I'll fill you in when we have time."

"Oh no, go ahead. I'm writing this all down. What about Wilkes?"

"No idea. As far as I know, he's out of this whole mess." "Well, that's one less fly on the pile." A pause. "Jake, you'd better see about what guns you can bring to bear on the cop."

"It'll be hard, on the run like this, but as I said, you wouldn't believe what this buggy's capable of."

The tumoff for the T-Maze portal came up. The Skyway split into one branch that curved gradually to the left and one that continued straight. Most of the traffic veered left, but I kept our bow pointed dead ahead. "Okay, there goes one option. Now it's either Ryxx country or oblivion."

"Are you sure the Ryxx are in on this snipe hunt?" "I have it on good authority that they are." "Uh-huh. Beats me what you should do, then. Maybe you should've taken that turnoff."

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't. If I head on through to Theron, it means another high-speed chase and few places to duck off-road, because of the bogs. Next up is Straightaway, which is all salt flats and no place to hide, then Doron, where there's another Militia base. If you remember, we were guests there once."

"Oh, yes. I remember. Hm."

"So, I'd rather take my chances with the Ryxx. Besides. you used to have friends there. Maybe Krk-(whistle/click) knows something about this. Wasn't that his name?"

"Approximately. Of course, it's 'she' now. They all turn diploid in later life. But her nest is ten thousand klicks into the Maze. And that was a hell of a long time ago."

Options were indeed dwindling. I half-entertained going off-road over the ice to find the T-Maze road ― but I had five innocent lives to consider. I hadn't begun to decide what to do with the Teelies. Maybe turning myself in would be the best thing after all. Finally clear up this mess. Except…

Except for the small matter of the Delphi series. But then, maybe it wouldn't be all that bad. Hell. So what if it meant a stint in a psych motel, drooling and finger-painting the walls with my own feces? Couple of months learning all over again to go potty, wave bye-bye. Could do that standing on my head. I'd come out of there a new man. Um.. no thanks.

The traffic thinned. The terrain flattened even more, low ridges becoming more scarce. The car became a mite scurrying across a giant billiard ball. Above, the stars were crisp and clear, like clean little holes drilled through black velvet. Around us, in the biggest hockey rink ever, ice glistened in the interstellar night.

A warning tone sounded once again, this time a gonging bell that said, "Battle stations!" The instrument panel underwent still another transformation, while the scanner screen tracked a fast-moving blip. Looked like a floater missile.

"Roland, see what you can do with this fire-control board."

Roland scrutinized the panel, tentatively fingered a few controls. "Hard to say what's going on here," he said. "All these systems have funny designations. What's 'Snatch Field Damp' supposed to mean?"

"I can guess," I said, amazed.

"It's closing pretty fast. What's your speed?"

"Point three."

"Well, I'd advise accelerating."

I already was. The car surged f6rward, pressing us into our seats.

"I think it's at two kilometers, still closing."

"Point three five."

"Still closing."

"Coming up on point four."

"Still closing, but slower." Roland tested a switch or two. "This says 'Arm' but I don't know what it's arming. Some very strange things here."

"Point four."

"Still closing."

I floored the pedal. The engine sent furious vibrations through the wheel and into my hands and arms. A high whine, barely audible, was all that conducted through the hotwall. "Point four five."

"Still closing, I'm afraid. Must have variable thrust. Emergency boosters. Oh, damn. Wait a minute, this must be it. 'Antimissile Zap.' God, this is crazy."

"Point five."

"Closing. Has to run out of fuel sooner or later."

"Don't count on it," I said. "Point five five."

"Still closing. About a kilometer." Roland grunted. "G-force makes it hard to bend forward." He strained to read the panel.

"This must be an automatic system. All right, I've armed it.

Now what?"

It struck me that Roland should be having a little more trouble in bending forward. Our acceleration was rapid, should have been something around three Gs. But it didn't feel like that much. "Point six."

"Closing, but slowly."

Another moment. The acceleration seemed to be picking up even more. "Point six five."

"Closing."

"Point seven! God help us."

"Closing. Half a klick."

"Point seven five!"

"Closing! But barely."

Everything was a blur outside. The car swerved murderously with every random movement of my tensed arms. "I don't know how long I can keep this up," I said.

"I'm working on the problem," Roland said calmly. "All right, now, everything seems to be set, but what activates the whole system?"

"Point eight!"

"Um… wait a moment. No, that isn't it. 'Antimissle Zap.' Remarkable way of putting it. What's this? I can't understand… 'Eyeball' and 'Let George Do It.'" Roland looked at me, baffled. "What could that possibly mean?"

"For Christ's sake, Roland! LET GEORGE DO IT!"

"Huh? Oh, okay." He pressed a glowing tab and something left the rear of the car in a green flash. A few seconds later a brighter flash lit up the road behind us in a soundless concussion.

Roland studied the scanners. "No more missile," he said with satisfaction. He turned to me and grinned. "That was easy." He looked back, then said with concern, "But a bigger blip is gaining on us. The interceptor, I guess. Looks like he's

on afterburners."

"I believe," John broke in with a solemn voice, "that we just passed the turnoff to the Ryxx Maze portal."