Now that the fight was over, Frank floored the accelerator again, throwing the victorious driver a fast salute. It was returned gracefully. Considering his limited stuff, the fellow had done very well. He’d handled that figure C with ease, but the maneuver would have been useless against a larger car. Frank’s own, for example. Still, compact drivers were a special breed and often made up for their lack of power, engine, and fire in sheer guts. He still watched Don Railman and his Supersub religiously on the early Sunday Tele, even though the ratings were down badly from last season. He’d also never forget that time when a Weekly Carippefs Telemanual with old Ev Kelly had done a special on some hand-tooled Mighty Mite, low bore, cut down, with the Webcor antitank gun cleverly concealed in the front trunk. No, it paid not to take the compacts, even the subs, too lightly.
He passed the Santa Monica interchange without trouble. In fact, the only thing resembling a confrontation he had on the whole L.A. portion of the drive occurred a few minutes later as he swept past the Los Angeles Sub-International Airport rampings. A new Vet, all shiny and gold, blasted up behind
47
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
him. It stayed there, tailgating. That in itself was a fighting provocation. He could see the driver clearly— a young girl, probably in her late teens. About Bob’s age, he thought tightly. No doubt, Daddy dear had bought the bomb for her. She honked at him sharply, insistently. He ignored her. She could pass him to either side with ease. Instead she fired a low burst of tracers across his rear deck. When he resolutely continued to ignore her she pouted, then pulled alongside. Giggling, she threw him an obscene gesture which even his not-so-archaic mind could identify. He jerked hard on the wheel, then back. Her haughty expression disappeared instantly, to be replaced by one of fright. When she saw it was merely a feint on his part, she smiled again, although much less arrogantly, and shot ahead at a good hundred miles per.