“Yeah—yeah,” Ormand agreed eagerly. “Keep the money. Just—”

  “Yola, if I arrange a legitimate adoption, court-approved, so you’ll never have to go back to—”

  “Yeah—” she echoed fervently.

  “Time,” the lieutenant called.

  Fisk stepped to the desk. “As I was saying,” he said so smoothly he surprised himself, “it was all a misunderstanding, Mr. Ormand was looking for a wife to take to Venus—he’s going to be cultivating exotic Venus plants for export to Earth, you know—and the agency thought he meant the phrase ‘little girl’ literally, not knowing the way spacers talk. When the two were introduced, the error was quickly apparent. He was naturally upset and so was the girl, as you can readily understand. In their confusion they exchanged some unkind words—”

  “Yeah—” Ormand muttered thoughtfully.

  “So Mr. Ormand may have said ‘kidnaped’ when he meant ‘defrauded.’ A natural error in the circumstance. Actually I was taking the child back to—” Here Yola opened her mouth, but he elbowed her warningly. “To assist me in locating the correct subject. One of the sixteen-year-old girls just graduating from the orphanage, eager for the security of marriage. Young enough to be, uh, malleable. Who likes to travel—even as far as Venus, where there would be no female competition for attention.”

  “Yeah,” Ormand said, his face lighting.

  The lieutenant nodded. “You wiggle pretty smooth for a worm in human clothing,” he said approvingly. “But what about Miss Tantrums, here? You have to shut her up before she says something I might have to jail you for.”

  Fisk could have done without such candor. “Once we have clarified Mr. Ormand’s situation satisfactorily, I will—” Here he paused to gird himself for the sacrifice. “I will take Yola to the court to—to adopt her myself. I am, I believe, an eligible parent.”

  Yola’s mouth fell open. “Gee—really?” she breathed ecstatically.

  “Yes, really,” Fisk said, hoping he wouldn’t regret this decision of expediency for the rest of his life. “I’m young enough to be your father, you know, and I’ve—er—always wanted a black baby.”

  Hurdle

  Nothing, Fisk Centers found, can be as dangerous as staying alive!

  I

  “UP FISK,” Yola said. “Earn your daily bonus and commission or else.”

  Fisk Centers rolled over groggily. “Else what?”

  “This.” An avalanche of icy foam descended on his head.

  He struggled up, gasping for breath, suddenly wide awake. “What was that for?”

  “Well, I did warn you,” she said contritely. “You look like a walrus surfacing.”

  “Nonsense. I don’t have tusks.”

  “A toothless walrus, then. Fat, wet, stupid—”

  “You’re about to look like a spanked brat.”

  “No time,” she said. “Bolt your food, Fisky. Today you go to work for your living.”

  “What makes you so sure I’ll have any better luck today than I’ve had all week?”

  “Because you handled the week. I set up today. While you snored.”

  “I should have stayed single,” Fisk muttered as he stumbled to the suiter and let it dry and dress him. “Or at least gotten married. The last thing any sane man would do is become an adoptive father to a pre-teen hellion.”

  “Right,” she agreed. “Especially when he has to live off her money.”

  “That’s my money! Twenty percent Commission just for—”

  “For selling an innocent child on the Hack mar—”

  “Shut up.” He stepped out of the suiter, resplendent in blue jeans, checkered shirt and goggles. “What did you do to the setting?” he roared.

  “You look just right for your job,” she said. “Hurry up.”

  He tore off the goggles. “My job—doing what?”

  “Selling cars, of course.”

  “Cars? I’m no mechanic—”

  “That’s all you know, Dad. Salesmen don’t have to know anything about the workings. Just believe in your product and sell, sell, sell!”

  Fisk punched a soyomelet. “Believe in my product? I haven’t even driven a car for five years.” He took a bite, but paused before masticating it. “What car am I supposed to sell?”

  “Fusion. They’ve got a real nice commission deal—”

  The mouthful of omelet sprayed over the table. “The atomic racer? The radioactive juggernaut that makes the obituary headlines every other week? The—”

  “The same. They’re making a play for the middle-class market and they need middle-class salesmen. Hot chance for you.”

  “Hot? Listen, Yola—do you realize that my annuities don’t mature for another twenty-five years and are voided in the event of deliberate suicide? If I die tomorrow in a Fusion you inherit nothing.”

  “Term life insurance,” she answered. “That’s their bonus. Life and commissions. You live off the commissions, of course. But if you die—”

  “Enough, child. The longer I listen to you the worse I feel. I’m not going near any—”

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “We’ll run out of money tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? There’s enough for at least another week.”

  “You forget you have a family to support. Two don’t live as cheaply as one, you know.” She paused, serious and for the moment rather pretty in her brown-faced way. “Fisk, it’s a good chance for you. I thought you’d really go for a decent income—”

  Fisk sighed. “I’ll talk to the man. But it had better be strictly salesroom. If I have to go near a living Fusion I’ll resign on the spot.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Come on—you’re due to report in twenty minutes.”

  “FISK CENTERS? Right,” the executive at Fusion Motors said briskly as Fisk introduced himself. “Your daughter here set it tip. Glad to have a man of your experience with us.”

  “Experience? I haven’t—”

  Yola tromped his toe and Fisk realized that she had invented suitable qualifications for him. Time to set that straight right now. He took a breath.

  “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 crosscountry 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 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 straightimmediately.

  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 XX 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 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.

  “Look at the map,” Bill shouted. “What’s the first hurdle?”

  Fisk opened the map hastily and scanned it. He had been day-dreaming 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 soundproofing 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 . . .

  II

  “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.”