"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.