"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."