"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?"