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.