“Danty. And it says CowvMe in my redbook.”
Rollins betrayed obvious relief. Cowville was right next door to Lakonia; in fact it was the nucleus from which Lakonia had spread like a stump of wild-rose root with a gorgeous over-blown double floribunda grafted on it. Taking a man back to his home city wasn’t too bad. Danty let the idea curdle.
Then he added mildly, “But mostly I’m from all over.”
“You make a habit of traveling this way?” Rollins curled his lip. It was probably in his mind to add: Because if you do, you must be a lousy rebl Everybody knows they shave and cut their hair nowadays!
“No, this is kind of a special case.”
“Glad to hear it!” Rollins snapped, and fell silent. After a moment he reached for the radio buttons and snapped on an early-morning music program. Soothed by the sound of the current chart-toppers, the Male Organs, Danty dozed.
He awoke to a prod in his ribs and the sound of the gas-gauge emitting a penetrating hum.
“Got to pull in for gas,” Rollins told him unnecessarily. “Now you watch how you act, hear? Don’t want some radiated gas-attendant to turn me in for free-lifting!”
Danty touched the gritty mud on his face. He said, “Well, then I can get to a washroom and clean up.”
“You do that! And watch yourself!” Rollins ordered.
His imitation bravado leaked away as the car slowed. His lips moved as though he were rehearsing what he would say when they stopped.
He was. Therefore it came out smoothly enough. “Fifty, please!” he called to the attendant in his overhead booth, watching the forecourt through armour-glass with his hands poised above the triggers for his guns.
“Fifty it is,” the man answered, and began to haul on his waldoes. Angled, a fuel-pipe launched down from its high hook and sought the car’s filler like a blind snake.
So far, so good. As Danty left his seat, Rollins breathed easier. Hell, was anyone–even a gas-attendant, in a trade that encouraged paranoia-going to turn him in for a little free-lifting? Of course not!
And then his stomach filled with ice-cubes. There was a cop rolling into the gas-station, masked and armored, like a mere extension of the single-seat racer that he rode.
Patrolman Clough yawned hugely as he dismounted. That was a slow job, involving a thorough survey of the vicinity, then the folding back of four light-alloy bullet deflectors. But finally he freed himself, stood upright, and stretched and yawned again. The quick dash of midnight had worn off, and he was having to pull in more and more often to rest up. The endless concentration tired the brain. Police racers had no governors on them, only a red line at the hundred-fifty mark that the rider was forbidden to exceed except in emergency. Something to boast about in company-“they don’t turn loose any but the picked best on the superway without a governor!”-but on the job, not so much fun.
Only one car in the station. Banshee. Cheapjack make. Slick lines, sure, but inside-well, built-in obsolescence. of course. Trouble being they sometimes guessed wrong, the obsolescence progressed too quickly, and then he or someone was picking bits of people out of the wreckage.
Not this one, though. A last-month’s model, red and gold.
Driver sort of nervy . . Wonder if he’s disconnected his governor. Sort of thing the guy who buys a Banshee might do. Easy to short the governor circuits on one of these. Not a bad idea to have him lift the hood, take a quick squint.
He snapped back the visor of his helmet and strode towards the car.
Rollins rubbed sweaty palms inconspicuously on the sides of his thighs. “Morning officer!” he exclaimed, and damned his voice for skating up towards the treble.
The patrolman gave a neutral nod. Rollins told himself he couldn’t possibly have seen the disreputable passenger, and whatever was bothering him with luck he’d guess wrong and be away before Danty emerged from the washroom. In fact it might be a good idea to get back on the road without Danty, if he could. What in the world could have possessed him to stop for a free-lifter? And a reb at that, more than likely!