A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  The crowd gasped “Off!” Then not a peep—you could be challenged yourself for a disturbance. You could hear the motors snarl, even the sand grunt at swerves.

  They didn’t come right in, like in spite-fights. Defender swung wide and then, when challenger closed, whipped behind him on two wheels and zipped down the arena. And they kept on swingin’er big and snappin’er tight till I began to think defender would make it. Then a look at the big arena clock showed only six minutes gone.

  Challenger had lashed twice and missed. Then, before I knew it, he did a skid-curve and nicked defender’s shoulder. Not much, but the guy began to bleed, lost his nerve and got two more in two minutes.

  He pulled himself together and kept clear for a bit again. Then, just half-time, he goofed. He’d got on challenger’s tail, and the old scoring spirit surged, and he took a crack at him. It only hit leather, and a crack costs time. Challenger veered, slam-braked, swiped as the guy shot past and scored an awful slice on his arm.

  Well, that was it. Defender dropped his whip and just steered. But he was dazed and losing blood. Challenger flicked and flicked.

  I got all churned up. Here was this guy, could see the arena, and hear the whippets yarrr, and feel his cuts. And if he didn’t do more than he could do, in a couple of minutes he wouldn’t know anything.

  Same time, challenger was coming through like on mental FM: “She’ll never pounce onto the bed with me again. (Crack!) Never have college and a wedding. (Crack!) How many thousand of your smart tricks was that worth? (Ca-rack!).” It made me sick and dry.

  Defender played so crazy, he hung on for a bit, and I began to wonder again, would he make it. Six to go and my lungs were tied in a bowknot. Challenger figure-8ed but reversed in the second loop; defender saw a big body-slash coming, just too late. He banked so tight, he toppled. He kicked the ejector-lever and flung clear.

  Everybody stood up.

  He spread-eagled, like in a wreck I saw once, and his whippet batted around spinning and scrabbling on its side. Challenger cut around it so sharp, I thought he’d tip too, and headed straight for the guy. Defender tried to heave clear . . . “My little honey!” . . . Ribs crack like wet sticks . . .

  Nobody talked. Even Glash didn’t pump any pi-jaw.

  But when we got home and Mom was hoping that now he wouldn’t take so many chances, Pop said, “Look, keed, in this life you take chances or live in a keg. You just gotta be equal to them.”

  And the very day the novice plates came off the Stumblebum, he came home whistling and announced he’d fixed a fight with this guy who’d left his address. “Keep me in practice, like Glash says.”

  Well, I guess he needs it. So far, they could only yap-yap when he double-parked at rush-hour, or blocked a side-street, or motor-boated through puddles. Now, he’ll spend half his time in that arena. And some day he’ll outsmart himself into a biggie.

  III

  Oct 28, 1987.

  THE day of his first duel, Pop came home free-wheeling as a tomcat. Ju and I had the day off from school, but we weren’t going.

  “No family.” Pop had said. “This new back-seat driving would put me off. I could feel it from ‘way up in the stands. Jonesie and I have arranged to back each other in these deals.” So he had lunch and they took off on their whippets.

  I got myself into sporting bags for an afternoon all to myself with the zoom, and tip-toed down to the garage.

  Well, the zoom was gone. That stalled me. Pop had his whippet. Mom still wouldn’t drive a block alone, or let Judy, to Ju’s permanent sulk. Maybe Mom and Ju . . .? Then I heard Mom upstairs, and called, “Mom, where’s Ju?”

  Mom dashed down like beating an amber. But no Ju anywhere. Mom kept breathing, “The little fool! Oh, the little fool!” Then aloud, “She’s your father all over. Oh, if she’s gone in that car . . .”

  Of course, Ju had. Pop’s fight had revved her up to thirty over the limit, and she’d gone to see. Like that, she was a suicide menace.

  The police just shrugged over the phone: “Driving is private business, madam. We do not interfere.” (Pop’s standby!)

  So, without a car, what could we do? Mom took a calmifier and lay down. I sat on the front steps and strewed cigarette butts.

  At that, I didn’t see Judy coming till she turned up the walk, on foot. She was a mess, all blowsy from crying. If she’d crossed many streets, it was just luck we didn’t have to whip someone for running her down. She blubbered, “Duu-duu-don’t start ku-questions, pu-please.” But Mom didn’t swallow that line and shook her till her hair flopped. So she told.

  She was near the Arena, feeling pretty high, when some moke ahead slowed for a right turn, like mokes do. Well, you don’t pass any faster, I guess, but a Regular like Pop swings big left to show his Style and opinion of mokes. So naturally Ju swung and bashed head-on into another zoom at these Jehu speeds. She said, “The wu-woman was in the middle, I swear. But she claims she hadn’t room.” Another woman was bad. Even against rules, men often go easy on a girl; a woman, never. This zee claimed injury, and several other drivers were mad enough to swear anything. This wouldn’t be any one-check deal.

  We were so razzed, we never heard the whippet pull in. But I heard Pop clickety-clacking up the path, and got to the tridiroom door as he flipped his hat onto the rack: “Well, well, is this all the victor’s welcome? Where’s Mom and Judy?”

  Mom pushed by me and stood glaring at him. But Pop never did notice red lights much. He breezed on, “Yezzir! Ol’ Killer Blaire clipped him, and him a thirty-fight veteran. And not a mark on me. Reflexes, like I’ve always told you. Now, how’s about . . .”

  Well, I’d seen it in boffies but never expected to in real life. Mom smashed a vase-lamp on his head and towered over him. “Well, that’s a mark on you now, Reflex-brains!” . . . and told him the score in about ten words, ending, “And I haven’t raised a sweet child to be disfigured because her father’s a retarded Teener.”

  “Aw right, aw right! No reason to blow your tires at me. What’ve I done? We’ll fix it. I suppose you never thought of Glash?”

  She said, soft, “You fix it. You call Glash, you and your steel nerves. I don’t believe you grasp the situation yet.” He slouched to the phone and I snaked up to the bedroom phone extension. Well, Glash had a big pick-up for Judy, like they all do, but he couldn’t fix the ticket. “Blaire, if defender could substitute, I’d go in for her myself. What was the woman’s insignia? . . . Red tornado? Hah! Slada Goy, hard as they come . . . No, you fool! You mention money, you’ll be outlawed . . . You’ve no damn right to be ignorant of manners, sir.” I’ve never seen Pop so slowed down. Even Mom’s laid off him.

  Dec 1, 1987.

  I’VE NEVER lived through such a grim month. Judy had lessons daily, and then I’d practice her. No bon. She was great in rehearsal, but in that Arena she’d freeze. She knew girls at school who’d been cut. She’d never been really hurt in her life, and got shivering sick just at the idea. It sure dulled her polish; and yet she was more appealing to me, like when she was a brat and I’d pick her up when her Toddle Typhoon dumped.

  It wasn’t fair. Pop’s a real hero-type adult to these Teeners. Was she supposed not to learn off him? And he’d never get touched.

  Then this Slada’s deputies came, big squaws with muscles in their calves, and tried to right-lane Mom because she’s custom-built and they were trucks. But Mom had evidently boned up on Jehu law, and beat the time down from twelve to ten minutes, and fixed Judy’s leather so she’d only have one arm exposed besides her cheek, and sent them off bow-legged. I felt real proud of Mom then.

  But it wouldn’t help Ju. Five minutes would be too much. And a week before the fight, she podded into my room in her bathrobe and plopped on my bed: “Oh Chuck, what’ll I do-oo-oo? We’ll be put off the road here too and Daddy’ll be ruined. Bu-bu-but I can’t fight that awful old woman. I couldn’t even steer.”

  Well, I’d hoped for a break in the traffic; now I’d have to el
bow one. I patted her shoulder: “Opey-dopey, kid, I’ll fix it.”

  She grabbed me: “How? Daddy can’t. Mr. Glash can’t.”

  “I’m not much bigger’n you. In leathers, nobody’d know the difference. I’ll fight her.”

  “Oh, but Chuckie, I beat you all the time at school.”

  “So who cares if my manly beauty gets marked?”

  I bet we both slept well that night, for just about the first time in weeks.

  BOTH our leathers had Pop’s charging-quarterback insignia, and Ju faked her 4 for my 3 on mine and fixed some of her slacks to fit me.

  Came the day. I was to drive the whippet to the Arena, while the others followed in the car—Pop’s real expert at getting deadline repairs done. So, I sneaked off in Ju’s slacks, with makeup and a kerchief to hide my buzz-cut, and parked in the entrance tunnel to Defenders’ End. And right on tick, Ju came out of Lady Defenders’ Dressing Room and dodged around into the public Ladies’ Room. I skulked after her. We took adjoining booths, and clothes came flying over the partition. And with three minutes to spare, we walked out again, one in slacks and one in leathers.

  We still damped our mufflers—you never know who might be parked—but Ju threw her arms around me and kissed me on the open cheek. It made me feel pretty brave. Then she shooed me ahead.

  I mounted and rolled into the arena. A pro mechanic-doctor came with me and checked my stirrups and ejector and stuff, and said good luck, and stood back. I’d cut things close, to avoid idle chat.

  Then I really began to get Lepidoptera in the viscera. The far end looked five miles off with the stands curving around, and the enemy whippet toy-size—denture-pink and a red tornado on the panels. I’d watched outside Slada’s house: She was mid-thirties but made up to look older, like mud on a moke’s windshield, as if she had more to hide than she really did. That kind’s always proving they’re just as good as ever, which is bad. Another muscly dame. With swords or something, I might have felt different about fighting a woman. But this was like on the road where she’d ditch you to show her peerless skill. Maybe she was a moo-cow at home, but in a zoom her reality came out and you could drive her into a board with a hammer. So, I was going to do all I could to her—if any.

  At the pistol, I sure gave my pro a dust-bath. I wanted to get Slada off balance. She was just flipping a cigarette butt—the old Nonchalant Flair like she’d do whipping in and out of lanes with a kid doin’ Ben Hur on the seat beside her—when I was suddener than she’d expected. You know, when there’s a gap two cars could pass in at a humble speed, and you just head for the middle? The other guy’ll concede! So did Slada, and nearly dumped swerving. And I cleared the end wall by about two feet, and her pro jumped.

  Well, she was madded up at being bluffed by any Young Girl, and began to show her old-hand knowhow, to restore her confidence. She’d wear me (Judy) down till she could lay my (Judy’s) face open good. (And it could have been Judy.) And she sure played rough.

  STILL, I could read her far enough ahead to hold her off. And all the time, something was building up in me like those Civil War radio tubes that took hours to get hot. This stuff was great for guys like Pop. (Zowrrr, whacko.) Put ’em in here and let ’em slug it out. (Here she comes.) Or for old-time Indians and Vikings who’d kill anybody for kicks, including themselves. (Zgrrrrunch, whack-crack.) But when those types got too gay, people just abolished them. (Now what . . .?) So why should Judy get her arm crippled or her face ground in the sand? (Whoooom, oofie.) Or even me, dammit?

  I’d planned just to steer and try to bull through. But suddenly it burst on me: In three minutes, she hadn’t nearly touched me; and when I’d bluffed her at the start, she’d crumpled. (Watchit!) And why could I read her? (Vrooom, missed again.) ’Cause I could read Earth traffic, see? (No ya don’t, sister.) These jokers trained for scientific hell. (Zwoooo, Brrrotherrr.) But I’d been trained dirty.

  I wasn’t so proud of it now. But this was the time for it if ever. (Grrrrup.) Show ’em how to really play Russian roulette, and if a dumb little punk like me was champ at it, where was the Glory?

  So when she slowed on a turn, I timed her to a hair, zoom across her bumper (like beating the cross-traffic on a red). I’d have cut her too but she braked so hard she nearly went over her wheel and I only clunked her ka-whack across the helmet. But it sure shook her nerve again, and I got on her tail like a moke who can’t decide to pass, and began clouting her, thunk, whap. Not sportin’ ? Who cared! To cut her cheek, I’d have had to pull level; but a whip stings and bruises even through leather. And I just glorified! I couldn’t hate my own Pop, but I sure hated her. Show the kids how, huh?

  Then I gave her the Technique. Foo! Any Grampaw, driving to work with his mind on his dyspepsia, can do it by force of habit to score three car-lengths per block. She suddenly slowed to force me ahead, and I surged and cut in front of her, like beating a guy to a red light, and braked so she had to swing to pass me, and I clunked her. I snakehipped her both sides. I crowded her from behind and when she swung away, there I was crowding her on the other side. It’s amazing how much supremacy you can jam into a few minutes.

  Only I forgot she wasn’t a Regular or even a good old Earth moke. And sometimes these Jehuans go even Earth one better, when they’re losing a fight, and do a kamikaze crash. So when she threw her whip away and opened her whippet out full, which is dangerous, I was too terrified to be scared. Geez guys! Those last two minutes were the longest hour I ever lived. We covered a good two miles in tight loops, I swear. Then, twenty seconds to go, she swung too tight, that gooey pink thing toppled, and the ejector threw her, all in one gasp. No time to brake. Left, right—I could just feel that I’d hit her whippet and crash; soft bump and snapping bones. I went between with my head and eyes scronched down.

  I near rammed the wall before I realized neither crash nor bump had happened.

  Marshals came tearing out, zrowww. But Slada was already rolling over. My muscles sort of melted: For once I’d gotten a closeup of how it’d feel to Get It—or Give It. But I hung on and drove slow to Defenders’ End, just as the gate went up.

  SOMEHOW, I’d never figured how to get out of that jam. People were helping me down, patting my back, pulling at my helmet. I bolted for the only possible cover, that Ladies’ Dressing Room. I expected a riot, but nobody realized I was a Him. And in my state of mind, the scenery didn’t matter. Then Mom grabbed me: “Darling! You’re all right?” and started on the helmet. I had to bolt again, for the cubicle she’d come out of.

  But she caught on fast, and I got another high-octane kiss all in the family. Hot coffee too. But she kept saying, “Now, from now on, Judy—I mean Chuck—no more of your father’s nonsense. Now promise!”

  Well, all I wanted was to sit with my hands between my knees, but finally I hove up: “Look, Mom, I don’t need to promise. I’m sick of the adept stuff. Judy’ll promise anything right now, but she’ll get yippee-pills in her tank again because she’s a born show-off. And as for Pop . . .” I just shrugged.

  “Well, if your father isn’t impressed now . . .”

  I said, “Mom, the only cure for Pop is breaking his back or going where he can’t drive.”

  “Well, Chuckie, I did check, and there’s a place called Bolgwalk where Plutomat wants a man, and they have no roads to speak of, just bogs.”

  Well, we both knew Pop’d never ride in any such back seat.

  Just then, Judy burst in. She’d gotten by as “Miss Blaire’s sister.” And as we switched clothes again, she reported that the fight had been a sensation. (She’d watched, though Mom wouldn’t.) Half the audience was wild over the greatest daredevil show in history, and half was honking mad at my unsporting tactics and wanted Slada to rechallenge. (I bet!) Nuts and bolts to both halves.

  Outside, Mom gave the old elbow to a mob of reporters: “Stand back, there. The girl’s exhausted. You can call tomorrow.”

  And there, at the whippet, was Pop. All month he’d been sulking as if the
whole deal were a plot to cramp his style. But now he had that quirk smirk like the guy in the ad: “Drive cautiously with our Triple-Threat Modern Storm-Trooperol.”

  The newshounds popped some bulbs, and he said, “Okay, keeds, you whisk along. I’ll handle this.”

  Mom walked at him. “You’ll handle nothing. Get along to the car.”

  He tempered: “What’s this? I thought we’d celebrate for my famous daughter. So . . . you go home in an armored car if you like. Come on, Judy, you’re a sport anyway. You and me, hey?”

  But Ju was still scared, even if it was wearing off, and said “No!” in that spoiled-brat voice he always thought was so cute.

  He sneered like when some moke elbows him in traffic, and swung away, beat us out to Spectator Parking, legged into the car like forking over his cayuse, whammed the door and roared the engine, all in one snappy action. He shot out of his stall with one deft whirl of the wheel, fixing to surge straight ahead out of the lot.

  Maybe if he hadn’t been so mad, even he would have seen the other car. But he felt it first, a crash that knocked his hat off. He and the other guy, with a passenger, charged I out to inspect the slaughter.

  Stumblebum had taken it on the rear bumper, but the side of the other looked like a discarded candy-wrapper. Well . . . Pop had hit him. The only good feature was that the other guy, though big, was gray-haired with a high complexion. Pop saw it too and, after they’d all asked couldn’t they look where they were going, he began the old Road Lawyer line: “Well, now, Mister, this isn’t an open street, y’know. How’m I to back blind with you crashing through full speed?”

  The old guy went turkey-red; “Why, look where you hit me! I was half way past you, sir.”

  “All right. Challenge if you like. My little girl just made a monkey of a better fighter than you’re likely to be.”

  The old guy went beet-red. On Jehu, if an old guy doesn’t want to fight, he better drive real humble. His jaw stuttered, then he grabbed for his fender, and slumped to the ground, and lay there grunting and not even pink.