Tires squealed. The car rushed across the graveled berm, bounced as
wildly as if the springs had turned to rubber, and kept on going.
Doyle realized that he was attempting to pull off a stunt which only a
short while ago he had thought impossible. Now, whether it was
impossible or not, it was their only hope. He was terrified.
The car plowed into the grainy white soil that edged the highway, and
alkali dust plumed up behind them like a vapor trail. Their speed was
cut by a third in the first few seconds, and the Thunderbird lurched
sickeningly in the sandy earth.
It’ll stop us, Doyle thought. We’ll be stranded here.
He stomped the accelerator to the floor.
Although they were still doing better than fifty, the wide tires
protested the loss of traction, spun furiously. The car slewed
sideways, fishtailed back before picking up the speed demanded of it.
They passed the Automover.
Doyle angled back toward the highway. He kept the accelerator pressed
all the way down. Through the partially unresponsive steering wheel, he
felt the treacherous land shifting beneath them. However, before the
sand could capture one or more of the wheels, they reached the shoulder
of the road and kicked up hundreds of small stones as they plunged
back onto the pavement.
In seconds, they were doing eighty-five again, heading west, the van
behind them.
“You did it!” Colin said.
“Not yet.”
“But you did!” He was still frightened, but he also sounded pleasantly
excited. Doyle looked in the mirror.
Far back there, the van was starting after them, a white speck against
the whiter land. “He’s coming?” Colin asked.
“Yes. ”
“See if it’ll go past ninety now.”
Doyle tried, but the car began to shake and rattle. “No good.
Something was damaged when he slammed into us.”
“Well, at least we know you can drive us around any roadblock he throws
up,” the boy said.
Doyle looked at him. “You’ve got more faith in my driving than I do.
That was pretty hairy back there.”
“You can do it,” Colin said. Desert sunlight, coming through the
window, made his wire-framed glasses look like tiny tubes of light.
Three minutes later the van was on their tail.
But when it tried to come around them, Doyle swung the Thunderbird into
the left hand lane, blocking the van and forcing it to fall back. When
the Chevy attempted to move in on their right, Doyle weaved in front of
it and blew his own horn to counter the other’s savage blaring.
For several minutes and miles they played that game with an
unsportsmanlike disregard for rules, cruising from one side of the road
to the other. Then, inevitably, the van found an opening and took
advantage of it, drawing even with them.
“Here we go again,” Doyle said.
As if he had cued it, the Automover closed the space between them and
brushed the car. Sparks showered up and sputtered out in an instant,
and metal whined, though not as loudly or as gratingly as it had the
first time that they had collided.
Alex fought the-wheel. They plummeted along the gravel shoulder for a
thousand yards before he could get them back onto the highway.
The van hit them again, harder than before.
This time Alex lost control. He could not hold onto the sweat-slicked
steering wheel which spun through his hands. It was slippery as a stick
of butter. Only when they were off the road, grinding crazily through
the ridged sand, was he able to get a good grip on the wet plastic and
regain command of their fates.
They were doing forty-five when they came back onto the road, and they
were a few yards ahead of the van. But it caught up with them a moment
later and hung beside them until they were doing eighty-five again. The
whole right side of the Automover was scraped and dented.
Doyle knew, as he looked anxiously at the other vehicle, that the left
side of the Thunderbird was in much worse condition.
The van swept in at them again. There was a sudden bang! so loud that
Alex thought they had been hit a fourth time. However, there was no