Car Sinister

by Robert Silverberg

  Wotta zump! Fifty light-years? Gimme a yippee-cart on Thrill-Hill! No stars streaking past, no roar, no icy chill. Just a jutter in your gizzard and there you were on a street like the old one with the houses shuffled. Even the crew to take down the frame looked the same. But not the guy who was there to welcome us; he had a lah-de-dah coat with wide skirts and lace like in Abe Washington’s time, but he was a big, hard-looking zow like a zoom-bike cop. His zoom was a weirdy, too. Whee enough like an import job and done in this novelty one-tone finish, but no jem-krust trim, no swordfish roof-crest, no flared bumpers; it wouldn’t have helped my eggo much. The only real decoration was a leaping red tiger on all panels. He said he was to be our Patron, name of Thrangar Glash.

  I gave him the old Hi-de-ho and he froze my fuel-line. But when Mom and Judy came out, he swooned them with his bowing and oil-pressure. And when Mom was disappointed at the view, he explained, “This is just the Terran suburb, Madam. When I have advised you all on our, ah, driving customs, you can visit the main city.”

  Pop scowled: “I was told you drove by common sense.” Glash gave him a lopsided look: “True. But common sense differs in different places, sir. Shall we go in?”

  So we did, and Pal Patron Glash gave us the route-map. And had I been mucho right about old Schnooks Craik!

  Sure, they had no traffic laws or cops, no penalty points, no fines, no nothing. Sure! Only just this: If you merely annoyed another driver, much less bent his tin, he could challenge you to fight him. They fought in a public arena, on a sort of yippee-cart called a whippet, with sort of bull-whips. You wore leather armor, only the defender got less, and dam little if he’d hurt or killed someone. “ ‘Course,” Glash drawled, “even for blood-guilt, the limit’s twenty minutes, and sometimes a dashing player comes off with his life.”

  “His l-life?” Mom said. “With whips?”

  “Oh, a very spirited weapon, ma’am. I’ve dueled little, having been bred to courtesy, but”—he touched his left cheek, which was all scarred—“one keeps in practice with one-cheek affairs, in case one becomes seriously involved.” So he gave us the layout, and they had it set up like some game. Kids, gals, old gaffers, if you drove you were liable. No subs, not for wives or kids or sweeties. Only a Court of Honor appointed one if a bully had fixed a fight on somebody weaker or when an innocent guy was killed or disabled. A woman bashed a man’s zoom, she fought. Fair enough. Like pal Thrangar said, “We’re all equal, eh? Well, there’s no chivalry between equals, only courtesy.” And if you didn’t play up you were outlaw, and they’d ram you, or run you off the road and you had no comeback. All tied up tighter ’n a sales contract.

  Finally Pop said, “I’ve been framed. I was lied into this.”

  “Really, sir? Our embassy provided no literature?” Well, who reads literature? The real dope they’ll shove in your face, Pop always says. And they hadn’t. So it was same as lying. Huh?

  Pop said, “I was told this was a free society.”

  “My dear Blaire, a society is free only to choose its rules. An aggressive race like yours, or mine, craves to domineer. You’ve got to control that itch from running wild in millions of free spirits.”

  “Yeh-yeh, sure. By common sense. Now me . . .”

  “Ah, yours, naturally. Mine too, I trust. But—everyone’s? No, you’ve just three systems that work: Public law, which irked you; posse law to hunt down pests, which”—he flicked an eyebrow—“irked you even more; or a code of honor.”

  Pop scowled. He always says, the first freedom oughta be freedom from preach. Then he hit back: “O-kay! Anything you jokers can do, I can pass you.”

  And I felt proud again.

  “True sporting spirit, sir. So, study our code and our manners in practice. Get your whippet and join a school of arms. Then I’ll introduce you to our Arena.” And he flourished himself out.

  Back in the hall, Pop said “Hullo!” and picked up a letter that must have come before we left Earth. Inside was a sheet of letterhead, “Craik, Creak, Croak and Crock,” and on it, in quotes:

  “When insolence outrunneth law, men customarily arm themselves to chastise offense on the body of the offender. As the proverb saith: No courtesy sans valor.”

  Leon da Milhâo.

  The old speed-trap! He was giving us the razz. But we’ll show him.

  II

  Oct 3, 1987

  Well, we’ve started. At first Pop was sore all the time, like he was stuck behind a squad-car. At dinner he’d burst out, “Ahhh, what yokels! Yap-yap with the horns every move you make, yap-yap. Back-seat driving from other people’s back seats—it’s going to rattle even me into fender-denting. It’s a good thing our Thunderbolt Twelve can accelerate out of anything these lunks can mess up.”

  “Ahh, you’ve been skull-scrubbed by Triple-L. Let ’em try.”

  As for us, this town’s got nothing for Teeners. Whippet-school could be fun. Whippets are like a yippee-cart with a saddle instead of a seat, to give you free action; not real fast because you fight in a half-mile arena, but they turn like squirrels. But the teacher red-lights any fun. He has moustaches like wind-swept fenders, and he’s worse than the hom-yappers: “Do that over, young fool. Recover, recover, you’ll get your face opened. With little-stuff brains don’t try to be big stuff.” Spoils your nerve. I’m beginning to catch on. Mom’s slower, and she won’t drive on the street nohow, even with the novice plates. Judy’s real sharp, but Mom won’t let her out either, in spite of her having natural-born driving rights here.

  But Pop’s a wham, a natural. After Lesson 3, he came striding out: “See me clip the pro, keeds? I think I’m gonna like this.”

  “You’ll feel different if you were risking a real cut, Gail”

  “Nyahhh! Steady nerve and educated reflexes, that’s real safety.”

  Well, on the way home, there’s this traffic signal down past our house. You don’t have to stop, just yield right-of-way, which Pop says makes sense, though the other zoom’s gotta be half across for Pop to yield, but Jehuans threat them real bunny. So, this native zoom ahead of us dragged down slow to make the comer just as it changed, like mokes do. Well, we should linger while he played games? Pop whipped the Stumblebum past and across the guy’s front into our drive, sprayin’ gravel, and pulled the foaming steeds to their haunches. Ye Olde High Style!

  So here comes this Jehuan stalking across the lawn, a skinny guy in floppy green. He makes a bow to Mom and Ju and a stiff inch to Pop: “Sir, you drive with novice plates.”

  “A blind cop could see that.” Pop said, “What about it?”

  “Just this, sir. When you can no longer hide behind them, you will put your hog’s elbow in my face again, and I will bleed your insolence. I will watch for you, believe me.”

  “Don’t bother,” Pop said. “Gimme your address, and I’ll drive up and down your block till you come out—if you do.”

  So the guy gave him a card and bowed himself off. Pop looked after him, jingling his pockets. “He’ll do to start on.”

  Then Glash took us to the Arena, in his zoom. I’ll say this for Jehuans, when they go, they Go; so when they do tangle, it’s a dilly. We went down the main drag in a stream of zooms at sixty steady, with Glash giving exhaust about the average being twice the speed in any Earth city, and how he never needed to use his brakes. Sure, but in two blocks I was antsy-pantsy with that old bull-man urge-to-surge, while Glash defaulted chance after chance to Score.

  So, out where you’d expect a ball-park, was this Arena like the Colossus of Rome. It wasn’t a tenth full, but two guys were looping and lashing, like at the school only more exciting because they had open left cheeks. But neither scored, and another pair took over.

  Glash looked bored and I lost interest too after five of these quickies and only one guy cut. But people kept trickling in, and Glash said, “Ah! About time for the main event. This high-ridin’ ass, y’know, ran down a child on a back street. City’s been debatin’ how much leather he should get for chal
lenger’s parental negligence. I hear it’s only a collar. Minimum. A cut to the larynx or big neck vessels ends a bout without a sportin’ chance.”

  Pop said real cool, “Well, what chance does that give him?”

  “Say fifty to one. Challenger’s a tough whip and deadly angry.”

  Mom and Ju looked green. They’ve stopped more than once to view a crash but maybe they figured deliberate gore was something else.

  Mom said, “Well, I don’t think the little girl should see this.”

  Glash made a fish-mouth: “I cannot agree, madam. If a child isn’t blooded young, it’ll play the fool in emergencies.”

  Just then, a referee came out on a platform halfway down the arena and the duellers appeared at opposite ends with their seconds and doctors, which they have for serious fights.

  People were piling in till there wasn’t standing room.

  My heart was going bu-bop bu-bop.

  Glash drawled, “Ha! They’ve made challenger bare his right arm. That narrows the odds somewhat. This should be a notable Drive.”

  Yeh, and he’d fixed to have us see the execution. Thanx!

  Came a pistol-shot that yanked the props out from my stomach.

  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, ’87.

  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 elbow 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.