Patrol Trooper Clay Ferguson hummed happily to himself and eyed the chronometer in the center of the instrument panel. The night sky thirty miles ahead glowed with the lights of San Francisco and it was just a little past midnight. If they could only have a few more hours of relatively quiet traffic, they'd hit Los Angeles Barracks about daylight and a five-day rest before the start of the next leg of the patrol. To either side of the bubble canopy that covered the cab of North American Thruway Patrol Car 56, two rivers of moving lights flowed with the police vehicle in the four variable speed lanes of the superhighway. But traffic densities were relatively light on all four of the southbound lanes. This was NAT 99-S—North American Thruway 99-South—stretching from Fairbanks, Alaska to San Diego. A half mile east of the high-speed southbound yellow lane was NAT 99-N, four identical half-mile-wide lanes of northbound traffic plus the northbound police lane.

In the left-hand bucket seat of Car 56—"Beulah" to her three-member crew—Patrol Sergeant Ben Martin relaxed with a cigarette. The lights of the much heavier northbound traffic silhouetted Martin's crop-haired head.

The sixty-foot-long police cruiser glided smoothly down the center red emergency lane of the thruway at a steady hundred miles an hour, just keeping pace with the slowest vehicles in the slow white lane a mile to the right.

"What's 'fleshpot' mean, Ben?" the Canadian asked.

The senior officer turned his broad-planed face and grinned. "You planning on finding one when we hit L.A.?"

Clay shrugged. "I've heard the expression and it sounds interesting. Only trouble is that I've never been able to find out exactly what it means. But after ten days in this oversized sardine can, almost anything would sound interesting."

Below the chronometer, the big radiometer clicked off another mile marker as Car 56 rolled past the beamed signal from the automatic radio marker posts that lined the thruways from one terminal point to another. Beulah's crew was now two thousand nine hundred four miles and nine and a half days out of Fairbanks with a half a day and a little more than four hundred miles to go to the end of this patrol.

Clay reached up to fiddle with the focus knob on one of the four video screens on his control panel. The screens transmitted views of each lane from tower cameras mounted above the lanes at every ten-mile interval.

"Anyone who takes a girl for an aircar ride in the middle of an Alaskan summer and then parks on the edge of a lake in the center of a swarm of mosquitoes," Ben said, "has a built-in fleshpot."

Clay grinned sheepishly, "Cut it out, pop. I still itch every time I think about it."

Car 56 started a gentle climb into the hills to the north of the Golden Gate and the tracks rumbled slightly as the roadway passed over a high culvert. Ahead, wisps of fog drifted into the great white beam from the three-foot wide variable intensity headlight strip across the cruiser's bow. Ben reached forward and shifted the light color spectrum into the yellow range.

A bank of speakers above their heads came to life. "Frisco Control to Car Nine One One." Car 911 came back with a "go ahead." Frisco Control continued. "You've got a bad one at Marker 3112. Cargo carrier took out a passenger vehicle in the blue. Take it Code Three. And watch the fog."

"Car 911 on the way," came the reply. Fifty miles ahead of Martin and Ferguson another Nor-Com police cruiser slammed forward, lifting from the roadway and its tracks

Illustrated by John Schoenherr

•

as its fan drive impellers roared into action. Riding on an air pad, the cruiser's twin jets kicked to near full power under the drive of the pair of one hundred and fifty thousand pound thrust engines.

The radio continued: "Frisco Control to all cars on 99 north and south from Markers 2900 to 3100. Heavy fog conditions now exist. Yellow lanes closing in two minutes. Speed reductions in force throughout designated area. Observe caution."

The last transmission was broadcast on standard, all-vehicle frequency and was received by all cars and cargo carriers as well as Nor-Com police cruisers and work vehicles.

The fog was getting thicker and Ben again shifted the spectrum of the headlight deeper into the yellow. Car 56 topped the hill and the sky ahead was a solid glow of light from the buildings of Bahgdad-By-The-Bay. But the fog obscured any details beyond the limits of the brilliant headlight. On either side of the police cruiser, only the lights of vehicles running close to the east and west edges of the green and blue lanes could be detected.

The white lane traffic, with its 100-mile-an-hour speed limit, was lost in the fog as was most of the traffic in the green 100-to-150 mile an hour lane. To the left, the 300-mile-an-hour blue lane still carried its previous loads. Out beyond the vision of the police cruiser, huge flashing amber and then amber-and-red lights were in action in the ultra high speed yellow lane, warning drivers to slow down and shift back to the blue. Barriers had risen out of the crossovers to prevent any further traffic from moving into the yellow lane.

Again Frisco Control came on the air on police frequency. "All cars on 99 north and south. Additional information last broadcast. Video monitors to infra in one minute. Repeating, video monitors to infra in one minute."

Ben and Clay reached for their work helmets beside their seats and pulled them over their heads. Each officer flipped down the infra-red filter mask and Ben flicked a switch on the arm control panel of his seat. Above the regular headlight strip on Beulah's bow another strip, black to the naked eye, came to life and a brilliant band of infra-red light now cut through the night and fog. At the same instant, the video monitors shifted into the infra spectrum and the officers again had "eyeball" contact with the traffic.

"This is going to slow things down for a while," Ben said. "You go hit the sack, kid, and I'll take it until three."

Clay nodded and climbed out of his seat, first racking his work helmet back into place beside the seat. "Want a cup of coffee before I turn in?" he asked.

"I could use one," Ben replied.

The younger trooper turned to the door at the rear of the cab. He thumbed a switch killing the lights in the little galley just behind the cab before opening the door, then slid the door open and shut behind him before turning the lights back on.

Designed for long patrols on the thruways, that spanned the North American Continent from Mexico to the Arctic Circle, the thruway patrol cruisers were virtually self-sustaining units for their three-member crews while on the road. The tiny galley contained built-in range and oven, freezer locker and pull-down tables. Dishes, glasses and eating utensils were all of disposable plastic, eliminating the need for washing up after meals. Aft of the galley were the male crew quarters and then the huge engine room with its big Diesels for track drive and the jet and air-drive assemblies. Heading farther astern was a small but complete machine shop, while the last compartment contained the dispensary. This was headquarters for the third crew member, Medical-Surgical Officer Kelly Light-foot, combination doctor, surgeon and nurse—and delightfully feminine.

Ferguson turned up the heat under the coffee flask racked on the range, then opened the door to the crew quarters. Double bunks were built into one wall and across the narrow passageway was the latrine and shower they shared with Kelly. During patrol, Kelly used one of the six hospital bunks in the dispensary for sleeping but the toilet and shower facilities were on a "knock before entering" basis. Clay tugged off his boots and then padded back in stocking feet to the galley to pour his partner a cup of now-hot coffee. Again he flicked off the lights in the galley before opening the door to the control cab. The glow of the city lights dimly illuminated the cab enough for Clay to make out the helmeted figure of the sergeant. He eased into the cab and set the coffee down in a recess in the arm of the senior officer's control seat. "Watch it, Ben," he warned, "it's hot."

"Thanks, Clay," Ben said. "See you at three."

Clay slid back out of the darkened cab and closed the galley door behind him. In the crew quarters, he dropped onto the lower bunk, reached up and set the alarm chrono mounted in the bottom of the overhead bunk to awaken him for his next watch at 0300, then rolled over and shut his eyes.

The muted throb of the big Diesels that drove Beulah's track assembly at speeds up to two hundred miles an hour echoed faintly through the insulated walls of the bulkhead separating the engine room from the crew quarters. The sound lulled Clay to sleep in less than a minute.

Car 56 rounded a sweeping curve in the hills and a blaze of light struck the gun-metal blue hull as the lights of the Golden Gate Causeway came into view. Ben flipped up the infra-red filters. Solid banks of mercury tubes lined the length of the Causeway, cutting through the fog and turning night into day. The great bridge was in reality a roof over the bay, five miles wide. It was lighted underneath as well as above for surface shipping that sailed under its protective cover for miles around the old Embarcadero to South Bay. NAT 99 north and south soared across the bay and sped high above the eastern fringes of the great city, angling southeasterly towards the peninsula where it once again dropped down to the surface of the land. Although it was unseen from the heights of the thruway, Ben knew that a maze of lesser elevated highways crisscrossed the city fifty feet below, carrying local traffic to interchanges leading to the thruways north, south and east out of the city. Another belt of light to the east was the five-mile swath of NAT 50, entering the city from across the continent.

He held Beulah at a steady hundred as she glided along the edges of the bay. The radio sounded briefly as Car 911 called for a wrecker and ambulance. Traffic densities continued to rise in the southbound lanes as Ben knew they would. At this time of night, traffic would be leaving the city, heading for the bedroom communities to the north and south. Traffic had been light coming into San Francisco from the Marin side. Now it would increase, and with the densities would come the problems.

The fog hung like a porous pillow over the city, muffling sounds and grudgingly giving way only to the banks of mercury tubes that lined the thruway and the city express. ways and streets below. The intensities of light would hold the length of the peninsula to the southern limits of the city in the San Jose residential district. Then it would be infra driving until the fog lifted. The thruway curved gently to the right around the backwaters of the bay. Ahead, Ben saw the sweeping arches of the interchange that switched traffic from NAT 50 to NAT 99. He eased off power and let Beulah drop to a snail's pace as she approached the interchange.

Just past the merger lanes, Ben pulled the cruiser off to the left-hand service strip and stopped. Since only police and other emergency vehicles were allowed in the red lane, there was no worry about other traffic. He pulled the work helmet from his head and ran his fingers over his crew-cut hair, then fished for a cigarette.

He thumbed the transmit button on his arm panel. "Car 56 to Frisco Control."

"This is Frisco Control. Go ahead Five Six."

"I'm taking five at the 50 dash 99 interchange," Ben said. "Looks like a lot of traffic coming from across the bay so I thought I'd watch it here for a while."

"Affirmative, Five Six," the Frisco controller said. "South Frisco Check estimates white density seven hundred; green, nine fifty; blue, five hundred; yellow is closed to Gilroy. Report when you're rolling again."

"Affirmative," Ben replied. He jotted the densities on his log. The estimates meant an average of seven hundred vehicles for every ten miles of roadway in the white lane, nine hundred and fifty vehicles for each ten miles of the green for the next hundred-mile stretch, and five hundred per ten miles of road in the blue. That meant more than twenty-one thousand vehicles moving south in the next hundred miles of NAT 99; more than fourteen thousand of them traveling at speeds between one and three hundred miles an hour. Each lane was a half-mile wide with sweep-

Bing crossovers to the next speed lane. Ben wasn't too concerned about the green and white but a five hundred density in the blue on a foggy night could mean possible trouble. At least the ultra-high yellow, with its 500-mile-an-hour limit, was closed. He leaned back in his control seat and smoked quietly, keeping his eyes on the video monitors. Each screen had individual controls so that the patrol officer could monitor the ten-mile stretch of roadways he was in, or switch either to the next ten-mile block ahead or the block to his rear. Ben flicked the blue monitor to the block ahead, put the green and white on his own block. He started to cut out the yellow since that lane was closed but decided to leave it on, set for the present block.

Moisture from the fog-wet night beaded the plastic canopy of the cruiser and glistened on the roadway twelve feet beneath Ben's feet. His eyes flicked from the monitors to the racing bands of lights on either side of the police vehicle. The brilliant lights of passenger cars and cargo carriers whipped past, leaving glowing dots of reddish light from their exhausts. Amber lights flashed up from the rear in the blue lane and the massive bulk of a 500-ton cargo carrier whipped by at a steady 250 miles an hour. In the instant it vanished, the driver of the carrier must have caught a glimpse of the patrol cruiser's bulk parked beside the roadway. He flicked his running lights in a brief "hello" as he passed.

When he had finished his cigarette and coffee, Ben eased Beulah back into the police lane and called Frisco Control. "Car 56 to Frisco Control. We're rolling."

"Affirmative, Five Six," Frisco acknowledged. "The fog's getting thicker. Keep alert for any shipping that might wander off the bay. Frisco out."

Ben grinned and settled comfortably into the control seat. His fingers rested lightly on the twin control panels that lined the arms of the seat. All essential vehicle controls were mounted for fingertip use with the exception of acceleration and braking controls that were in footrest bars beneath his feet. On emergency runs at speeds in excess of 200 miles an hour, safety cocoons snapped out of the seat backs and locked both driver and assistant driver into their seats, leaving only their hands, feet and face clear. A band across the forehead kept their heads locked against the cushioned seat back. Other cocoons were located throughout the sixty-foot length of the cruiser in case a crew member was away from his or her regular station when sudden acceleration was needed.

Ben pushed Beulah up to a leisurely 75 and eased into the center of the police lane. He glanced over at the radiometer as it clicked to mile marker 2944. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash on his yellow lane monitor. By the time he turned to look at the screen, the flash was gone. The senior patrolman started doing several things at once. Beulah surged forward under Diesel drive to 150 miles an hour while Ben reached over and switched the yellow monitor to the next ten-mile scanning block and, at the same time, called Frisco Control. The screen showed a lone vehicle barreling down the yellow lane, ignoring the flashing amber and red lights and arrows indicating the lane was to be vacated.

"Frisco Control, this is Car 56. I have a vehicle in the yellow," Ben called.

"This is Frisco. The yellow is closed, Five Six. That car has no business in there. What's the location?"

Ben glanced at the radiometer. "He's past 2950 and he looks like he's wide open; probably near 2960 now."

"Get him outta there Five Six," the Frisco controller yelled. "We've been routing into the yellow around 3112 to clear traffic for 911's accident. That idiot may plow right into them."

Ben slammed into high. A bullhorn began blaring throughout the vehicle and Ben's safety cocoon snapped shut, locking him into his seat. In both the crew quarters and dispensary, similar horizontal cocoons slapped down on the sleeping forms of Clay Ferguson and Kelly Lightfoot. Car 56 lifted from the roadway on its airpad as synchromechanisms meshed both the impeller and ramjet thrusts. In five seconds Beulah was hitting three hundred fifty miles an hour and still accelerating. From the bow, piercing red emergency lights were flashing and both an outside and radio broadcast siren screamed. Beulah came roaring into the crossover to the blue lane as vehicles scattered to give her room. Still holding at close to four hundred, Ben sailed across the two-foot rounded curbing between the blue and yellow lanes and straightened out in pursuit of the racing vehicle. Ahead, the exhausts of the speeding car were visible to his naked eye. "I've got him in sight," Ben reported. "He's on air-jet lift and he's weaving all over the road. Looks like a drunk."

"Get him, Five Six," Frisco exhorted. "You can't herd him into the blue either. That's where the mess is now. Car 911, Car Nine One One, this is Frisco Control."

"Car 911 affirmative," came the reply. "We hear. We're trying to get these vehicles outta here but I've got this wrecker and a pile of junk halfway across the lane. We'll try. But stop him if you can, Five Six."

"Affirmative," Ben replied. His foot jammed to the floor and Beulah rammed towards peak speed. In seconds the cruiser was less than two hundred yards behind the speeder. Ben opened his mike on standard frequency. "You are directed to stop immediately. This is a Thruway Patrol order," Ben said. He peered at the weaving vehicle. "I repeat, you in the Cadillaire. This is a Patrol vehicle. Stop immediately."

The speeding car veered off to the right but didn't slow its speed. Ben glanced up at the blue and yellow monitors. The lights of the accident scene ahead and the shifting traffic were just coming into view on the screens.

The patrolman whipped the cruiser abreast of the speeder and then pulled ahead. Beulah was hitting 590. Ben fingered the emergency after-burner and the cruiser jumped ahead. When Beulah was one hundred yards in front of the Cadillaire, Ben touched another switch. Twin ports in Beulah's stern snapped open and a pair of flared nozzles popped out. Like a giant squid spewing inky secretion to blind its foe, a dense black cloud sprayed from the twin nozzles. Thousands of tiny, dark plastic flakes shot out under high pressure into the night air, and into the path of the speeding Cadillaire. The car plunged into the cloud and the impact-adhesive plastic slammed against the friction-heated face of the vehicle. The flakes were designed for adhesion only under heat and impact. The hurtling car created both forces and the plastic welded to the entire front surface of the vehicle, covering the driver's canopy, lights and prow, building up in a distorted mass around the nose of the car. Thousands more particles were sucked into the impeller air intake to adhere to the balanced fan blades and turn them into wildly vibrating clubs. The car veered and lost speed as the air-pad system fouled and then failed. Inside the now-blinded bubble, the driver panicked and hit the brakes the instant the wheels were back to the surface. Brake locks and bearings glowed red under the sudden friction and more of the plastic particles built up along the underside of the Cadillaire. coating the wheels and wheel-wells in a steady built-up mass of welded plastic until the wheels could no longer turn. A rear tire smoked and then blew. A second later the car rocked to a halt.

The moment the impellers of the Cadillaire fouled, Ben whipped Beulah to the left, angling for the outer railing of the lane. He fired all retrojets. Less than five miles ahead was the barrier that blocked the lane to allow traffic to be diverted around the cargo-passenger accident.

Ben. Clay and Kelly momentarily blacked out under the force of ten gees as Beulah lost speed. The cruiser dropped to her tracks and brakes added to the retrojet effect. Sliding like a mammoth on ice, Beulah shrieked to a stop less than a hundred feet from the barrier. The safety cocoons snapped open.

Before Ben could get the cruiser turned around and headed back to the stalled Cadillaire Clay was out of his bunk and in his seat in the cab. "What's up?" he asked.

"Speeder," Ben snapped, "probably drunk." He flicked to intercom.

"Kelly," he called, "you O.K.?"

"I'm fine," Kelly replied. "You need me, Ben?"

"Better be ready," he replied, "I think this one's a drunk and I want him tested right now if he is. Also, he might be off his rocker. Stand by, princess."

Ferguson was down the steps from the cab deck to the side hatch, waiting for Ben to bring the cruiser to a halt. His helmet was on and he had buckled a pistol belt around his blue uniform coveralls.

"Frisco Control, this is Car 56," Ben reported. "We got 'em but you better get a surfacing and vacuum cleanup crew out here. We had to 'stop cloud' him and we dug up a little road getting ourselves stopped."

"Madre de Dios," Car 911's patrolman broke in, "I theenk you never stop. I weel light candles to the Virgin for you, Five Seex."

Ben grinned at the Spanish accent. NorCom's officers were drawn from the three nations of the North American Thruway Compact, Mexico, the United States and Canada and the teams were intermingled from one end of the continent to the other.

"Gracias, amigo," he called back, "de nada."

Ben brought Beulah to a halt with her bow aimed at the Cadillaire. In the yellow glare of the headlight, a man was staggering around the front end of the vehicle, pawing at the soft mass of warm plastic molded to the front of the car. "Check the car, Clay," he called as he headed for the man on foot. One of the inviolate laws of the Thruway was that no one but a NorCom officer or worker ever stepped out of his or her vehicle on a Thruway without express permission of an officer, except in the case of fire or explosion. At speeds from one to five hundred miles an hour, a pedestrian's life expectancy could be measured in milliseconds.

Ferguson moved to the side of the car and flashed his light through the open driver's hatch. A woman sat in the front passenger seat and another couple were in the rear seat.

Ben approached the wavy-haired blond man at the front of the car.

"You the driver of this vehicle?" Ben asked.

The man spun around, a silly grin on his face. "In a manner of speaking, you might say that t' be more correct officer, I WAS the driver of this now-thoroughly fouled-up Caddy."

Ben eyed the man. The driver, dressed in a dinner jacket, pulled at his collar, knocking his tie askew. A jewel-studded watch flashed in the lights of the police cruiser as the man ran his hands through his hair.

"May I see your driver's permit, please?" Ben asked.

"Oh, come off it, officer," the man smiled and slumped against the front of the car. "We had a fine HP run there for a while and you won. Not fairly, but you won, nevertheless. Good show. But let's not get stuffy about it, eh?"

"I repeat," Ben said in a level tone, "show me your permit. This is a Thruway. I am a Patrol officer. You have violated the law. And this is no game."

The tall blond stared owlishly at Ben, a half-amused smile on his lips. "You really are going to try and be stuffy about this, aren't you?" he queried.

Ben's mouth tightened. "Kelly," he called over the helmet intercom.

"I've been listening, Ben," the medical-surgical officer replied. "Bring him in. I'm ready for him."

Ben reached for the man's arm. "If you'll just come with me, mister."

The man yanked his arm from Ben's grip. "I'll thank you to take your han's off me, officer. I'm no common criminal, nor do I intend to be treated like one. That's the trouble with you public servants. Give you a little authority and you think you can treat anyone like a public enemy." He straightened himself up with a dignified air that was marred by a sudden loss of balance that sent him stumbling into Ben's arms. "Sorry," he muttered. "Must be all this fresh air. Not used to it in such big doses."

Ben hauled the driver upright and turned him so that he was facing down the roadway in the direction of the harrier a mile away. He pointed towards the barrier and the traffic moving from the blue to the yellow lane.

"See that," Ben asked. The man nodded mutely. "Do you have any idea how fast you were traveling?"

The driver blinked and shrugged. "Oh, three fifty, may be four hundred. But I had perfect control, absolutely perfect control," he replied.

Ben snorted. "I don't know if you have any idea how long it takes for a vehicle to come to a complete stop from four hundred miles an hour. For your information, you were traveling much closer to six hundred than four hundred. In any case, five seconds more and you would have slammed through that barrier and killed yourself and everyone in your car. That's bad enough, but in all probability, you'd have taken along a half dozen innocent occupants in those other cars."

"This is the yellow lane," the driver cried indignantly. "They have no business moving slow as that in this lane."

"And if you had an iota of brains in your head," Ben retorted, "you'd have seen the signals ordering you off the yellow lane forty miles back and you'd have obeyed my orders to stop. Now come on."

He took the man by the arm and led him around to the rear of the cruiser where Kelly had lowered the ramp leading into the dispensary. Kelly was waiting beside the surgery table, hypo poised. Beside the table stood the cruiser's diagnostican. The compact device was capable of analyzing virtually all known human ailments and diagnosing every possible bodily injury. At the sight of the table and equipment, the blond man stopped and pulled back in Ben's grip.

"What's this ?" he demanded.

"We have to run a blood-alcohol test," Ben replied. "Now if you'll just lie down on —"

The young man began struggling. "Oh no you don't," he yelled. "I'm not going to be subject to this kind of treatment. You'll hear about —"

Kelly had moved to his side and with a deft movement, slipped his sleeve back. She pressed the hypogun briefly against the skin. The man slumped in Ben's arms.

"Get him on the table," Kelly ordered. Ben heaved the inert body onto the table and Kelly made the necessary attachments. A blood analyzer needle went into an arm vein and then Kelly punched a series of buttons. Inside the machine, muted clicks indicated the data was being punched onto tapes. One copy of the tape remained sealed in the machine until the end of patrol when it was opened by a reviewing board. Another copy spewed from the key-punch orifice.

Kelly read the tape. "Two point eight five seven," she said. "This guy's so drunk he should be dead." Ben nodded grimly. "Bring him around, Kelly."

She picked up another hypogun from a rack and sprayed it into the man's bared arm. In a moment his eyes flickered and then opened. He blinked and tried to sit up and then retched. Kelly slapped a pan under his chin a split second before he vomited.

When the spasm had passed, the man sat up. Ben looked at him with disgust.

"You want something for that hangover?" he asked. The man nodded. Kelly fired another hypo into his arm and seconds later his face brightened. He smiled at Kelly.

"Great stuff, that," he said. "Should keep Florence Nightingale with me on all parties."

"Now that you can think straight," Ben said, "let's get this on record. I'm Patrol Sergeant Ben Martin. You are in the dispensary of Thruway Patrol Car 56 and I now formally tell you that you are under arrest. I am charging you with driving while under the influence of alcohol, reckless driving, ignoring instructions of the Thruway-Authority, ignoring the lawful orders of a Patrol officer and leaving the confines of your vehicle while on a Thruway. I further warn you that anything you say can be used in evidence against you in a court of law."

The man stared up at Ben in amazement. Suddenly he began to laugh.

"Why you really think you're going to arrest me," he said with a chuckle. He arose unsteadily from the table and grabbed for support. "This is quite ridiculous, you know, but I suppose it is my fault. You obviously don't know who I am."

"No, I don't," Ben admitted, "but that's what I've been asking you for the past ten minutes. Now may I see your driver's license, please?"

"By all means, officer," the blond man said with a pleasant and confident laugh, "by all means." He fished his wallet from a pocket and handed it to the patrolman.

"Please remove your license from the wallet. sir." Ben requested. The man stopped laughing and stared at Ben's craggy face for a moment, then slid the metallic driver tag from the wallet and handed it across.

"There you are, officer," he said. "Now you know. Kevin Shellwood. That's who I am."

Ben took the license and pulled his citation book from a pocket. He slipped the tag into a pocket of the citation book and unclipped a stylus from his top coverall pocket.

"Hey, wait a minute," the blond man protested. "Maybe you don't understand. I'm Kevin Shellwood." He peered at Ben's unmoved face. "Perhaps you've heard of my father. Quentin Shellwood? Shellwood Electronics? Chairman of the Continental Bank. President's right han' man? I'm his very own, lone and beloved son, tha's who I am."

Clay appeared at the door of the dispensary. "Ben, what do you want me to do with those other people in the car? They're pretty loaded."

"Be with you in a minute," Ben said, writing on the citation pad.

"Now hold on there, sergeant," Shellwood protested. "Perhaps I did get a little out of line, but there's no need for all this difficulty. Really there isn't." He fumbled with his wallet and withdrew a sheaf of bills and laid them on the surgery table.

"Now let's be reasonable about this little matter," he said. He pointed to the pile of bills. "There's at least six thousand there. Now I know you ladies and gentlemen are notoriously underpaid public servants. Risk your necks and all that sort of thing, very little to show for it. This would make better than two thousand apiece and if you'll just give me your names, when I get to L.A. I'll double it. In cash, of course."

The three crew members eyed Shellwood. The man moved forward with a confident smile. "I'll just pick up my things now and get out of your way, officer. The girls have enough cash to get us a cab to L.A. No hard feelings. old boy."

He stuck out his palm to shake Ben's hand. In the next instant a handcuff snapped on his wrist, he was spun around and the second cuff snapped on his other wrist behind his back.

Ben spun Shellwood back around. "Mr. Shellwood, I now further charge you with attempting to bribe three officers of the Thruway Patrol."

Sheliwood's face dissolved. "You're making a terrible mistake, officer," he cried. "You have no idea how bad a mistake you've made. You know you can't make this stick. And my father is a very vengeful man. This will mean your jobs, you know that, don't you?"

Ben ignored his protestations and frisked Shellwood, removing his belt, lighter, watch and necktie. In the presence of the other two crew members, he counted the cash, then put the entire contents of the wallet and Shell-wood's other possessions into a sealed plastic bag. He wrote a detailed receipt for the items and stuffed it into Shellwood coat pocket.

"Clay," Ben ordered, "take Mr. Shellwood forward and lock him up. Then meet me at the car and let's get this mess cleaned up."

Ferguson took the stunned Shellwood by the arm and led him out of the dispensary and around to the front of the cruiser. The trooper palmed a panel and a door opened in the bow. Inside were two fold-up bunks, a toilet and water tap. There was no handle on the inside of the door. A single light was recessed into the ceiling next to a small covered grill. Ferguson unlocked the cuffs and shoved Shellwood into the brig and slammed the door before the man could protest or turn around.

Clay walked back to the disabled Cadillaire where Ben was talking with the three occupants. "Now you just stay in there, Mr. Hawks, until we get this vehicle off the roadway. Then you and the ladies can leave. I'll see that you get transportation to the nearest 'phone. But don't get out of that car or I'll have to put you under arrest, too." "But what about Kevin?" the man in the back seat asked.

"Mr. Shellwood is under arrest," Ben replied, "and he'll have to remain in custody for the time being."

"Why that's utterly ridiculous, officer," the woman in the front seat protested. "You just don't arrest Kevin Shellwood like a common criminal. Why, he's a . . . a gntleman!"

Ben leaned down and looked intently at the woman. "M'am" he said quietly, "I have no doubt that Mr. Shell-wood's a gentleman. But Mr. Shellwood is also the gentle. man who in another five seconds would have killed you like a bug squashed against a windshield." He pointed to the barrier ahead.

The woman gasped and put her hand to her mouth, then lapsed into ashen-faced silence.

Ben walked around to the front of the car and jotted the license number on his citation pad. Before returning to the cruiser, he reached into the car and removed the car registration tab from its rack on the dash.

Back in Beulah's cab, he got on the radio.

"Frisco Control, this is Car 56. Send me one wrecker and permission for three passengers to ride wrecker to nearest off-road 'phone. Also, I have the driver in custody on `DWI' and assorted other goodies. Where shall I take him?"

"Car 56 this is Frisco Control. Wrecker on the way with O.K. for riders. Where does your driver reside?" Ben glanced at the license.

"1421 Claremont Drive, Malibu Beach, California," he replied.

"Have you checked for previous violations?" Frisco asked.

"Not yet."

"Check it out and then report back."

"Affirmative," Ben replied. He slipped the driver's license from his citation pad and inserted it into a slot in the cruiser's instrument panel. The vehicle registration tag went into an identical slot beside the first one. Then he pushed a button above each slot. A magnetic reader and auto-transmitter scanned the magnetic symbols implanted in the tags. The information was fed simultaneously to Continental Headquarters records division at Colorado Springs. There, computers compared the information on the driver permit with all previous citations ever issued by a NorCom unit. The vehicle regitration tag also was checked for validity.

A light above the registration slot flashed green, indicating the registration was in order. But the light above the permit slot turned amber, indicating a previous but minor violation.

Barring the current difficulties that Shellwood was in, had the registration light turned red, showing improper or illegal registration, he would have immediately been arrested. The driver permit light could only have been green or amber. Green would have meant no previous convictions. Had he had two such violations he would not have had a valid license. It would have been a forgery and brought equally quick arrest.

In this age of five-hundred-mile-an-hour speeds, leniency led only to death. NorCom courts, that acknowledged no state or national authority within the three nations of the compact, were absolute in their justice. One major violation and a driver was barred from the Thruways for life, possibly fined and jailed as well. Two minor violations brought the same result. If convicted, Kevin Shell-wood was through driving for life.

Ben called back to Frisco.

"He's got a previous minor," he reported.

"Take him on into L.A.," Frisco Control replied. "The fog's lifting now and you can make good time down the red lane. I'd take you off the board except for a really bad mess since you're almost at the end of your patrol anyway,"

"Thanks," Ben said with a touch of bitterness, "if we hurry, we might get him down there and through court before we have to pull out again. This shoots any rest period for us. By the way, this guy says he's a wheel and that we can't do this to him."

"They all say that," the Frisco controller laughed. "Who is he?"

"Kevin Shellwood," Ben replied.

"Shellwood Electronics?" the controller asked.

"The old man's son," Ben replied.

"He really IS somebody," Frisco replied. "You've bought yourself a bundle of trouble tonight. Lots o' luck." "Yeah," Ben replied thoughtfully, "thanks."

Ten minutes later the lights of a bulky NorCom wrecker cut down the police lane and swung to the left, guided by the flashing warning lights on Beulah. Clay watched with a grin as the two evening-gowned women and their well-lubricated escort gingerly stepped up into the hatchway of the wrecker. The wrecker's stern crane clamps swung out and locked onto the Cadillaire. The entire vehicle was lifted into the air and another magna-clamp slapped it tight against the rear of the wrecker. The vehicle swung around and headed back up the emergency lane.

Clay swung up into the cab and slid into his seat. Ben was still writing up his report. The galley door opened and Kelly came into the cab and plumped down on the jump seat between the two troopers.

Ahead, the last of the earlier accident debris had been cleaned up and traffic once again was moving along the blue. Car 911 rolled across the median and alongside Beulah. The senior trooper flicked the car-to-car radio.

"Real nice work, Ben," he said. "That could have been a mess if you hadn't corraled them before they hit the barrier."

The younger Mexican trooper cut in. "I think maybe you ride rodeo sometime, amigo," he said, "like, what you call it - bulldozering!"

Ben smiled. "More like calf-roping. Well, we've got our calf thrown and tied. Trouble is, that now this little calf is beginning to look more like a tiger cub."

"So I heard," 911's senior officer said. "Sorry it had to be one of those but if there's any question, we'll back you to the limit."

Ben waved. "Thanks. I think we'll roll it now. Will you take a look at that roadway where we stopped? I was serious when I told Frisco it might be torn up a bit. If it is, better get a surfacing crew on it tonight."

"Right," the other officer replied. "We'll handle it. And thanks again."

The other cruiser pulled away and rolled slowly to the scene of Beulah's gut-rending halt. As Clay put Beulah in motion he saw the side hatch open and one of the 911's officers start an inspection of the paving surface. Even light corrugations could cause serious problems to vehicles traveling in excess of three hundred miles an hour.

Clay angled Car 56 back to the center police lane and again headed south. Ben completed his report and laid his clipboard down. Clay had the cruiser rolling just over a hundred.

"Kick 'er in the pants, kid," Ben said, "but keep her in track speed."

Clay pressed the foot feed and Beulah lunged up to 190. He eased back on the acceleration and held the car at 195, just under the speed where the synchrosystem would cut in the fans and jets—and would require safety cocoon driving.

The copper-haired medical officer looked at Martin. "What happens now, Ben?"

Ben settled back and fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and passed them to her. When they had lighted up, he smoked thoughtfully for a couple of minutes before answering.

"We take our boy into L.A.," he said, "turn him over to the prosecutor and from then on it's out of our hands."

Kelly hunched forward on the jump seat, chin in hands and peered into the dark of the Thruway.

"I hope it's that easy," she murmured. "I just hope it's that easy."

They were out of the Bay area fog belt and traffic had reopened on all lanes. Beulah rumbled along at a steady 195, moving faster than the white and green lane flow but still under the thundering speeds of the blue and yellow lanes to the left. The radiometer clicked off better than three miles every minute and at fifty-mile intervals, the cruiser flashed under arching crossovers that carried traffic across the police lane from green to blue and back. The radio chattered with instructions for other patrol units along the Thruway. Just north of Bakersfield, Beulah rolled past another cruiser, idling along on patrol at a mere hundred miles an hour. Normally, one car never passed another without specific leap-frog orders from Control. But Car 56 was officially off the Patrol board, barring major emergency. Dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern skies and already densities were building up for the work day in the sprawling metropolis of the Southland. At mileage marker 3300 control shifted from San Francisco to Los Angeles. The Los Angeles Controller came on the air at 0400 with the density reports for all Thruways leading into the nation's largest city.

Kelly went back to her dispensary for another couple of hours sleep, first stopping in the galley to put a fresh pot of coffee on the range for the two troopers.

Ben had taken over controls and Clay pored over the Patrol records, making final entries and notations for the engineering crews that would take Beulah for a checkup at the Los Angeles Barracks.

Suddenly the floor beneath their feet resounded to a pounding from the brig. Clay swung over and lifted the hatch that covered the grill in the ceiling of the detention cell. Kevin Shellwood peered up at them.

"Is the condemned prisoner allowed to have a final cigarette before the execution?" Shellwood asked.

Clay pulled out his pack and lighted a cigarette and then handed it down through the grill to the prisoner. "Comfy down there?" he asked.

Shellwood dragged gratefully on the cigarette. "Oh, it's delightful, just delightful," he said. "Although I can't say much for your taste in interior decorating. How about sending the hostess up to keep me company? Now that's one bit of decoration on this tub that I really approve of."

"Sorry," Clay quipped, "the hostess doesn't mingle with steerage passengers. Next time, travel first-class. Come to think of it, the only traveling you'll be doing from now on is as a passenger."

He started to close the hatch. "Wait," Shellwood cried. "You two still determined to take me in?"

Ben glanced down to the open hatch. "We have no choice, Shellwood. I'm sorry."

Shellwood shrugged. "Oh well, have your fun now. I'll have mine when we get to your headquarters. Thanks for the cigarette. I may be able to do the same for you in a day or so."

Clay slammed the hatch. "I'd like to put my foot right through his smug face," he growled. "That kid is due for a big surprise when he shows up in court."

"Don't let him get you," Ben said. "His kind have always existed. They think that money and influence is the answer to everything and that laws are made for everyone else but themselves.

"As far as traffic laws are concerned, I guess before the Thruways, a man with enough money and power could buy his way out of jams. Every state had different traffic laws and you had a thousand different enforcement agencies, from town constables to individual state troopers. The worst part though, wasn't in the enforcement of the law—it was in the administration."

"How so?" Clay inquired.

"Well, you get the same thing today off the thruways and on state highways where we have no jurisdiction,"

Ben replied. "No matter how diligent a cop is about enforcing the law, in the final analysis it's up to the judge to determine the degree of punishment. And with all kinds of pressures on local judges and each with his own interpretation of what the law means, a driver charged with reckless operation in one state could get off with a twenty-five dollar fine and suspended sentence and lose his license and get socked a couple of hundred bucks in the next state. And probably pull thirty days in j ail.

"The same thing applies depending on who the defendant might be. A judge who lives in a community and is either elected to office or appointed at the pleasure of the current administration sometimes thinks twice before he throws the book at the mayor's son. But he doesn't have a bit of compunction about throwing the same book for the same charge under identical conditions at some poor slob who hauls garbage for a living."

Even though Car 56 was officially off patrol, force of habit kept Clay's eyes flicking to the monitor screens in front of him. All lanes were filling fast in the early summer dawn and already it was light enough to make out the shapes of the speeding passenger cars and cargo carriers. Most of the traffic now was passenger vehicles heading into the heart of the city to places of work. The big rigs did their traveling at night to hit the early morning dock loadings and there was just a scattering of trucks in the green and blue lanes.

He made an adjustment on his blue monitor to throw it into the block ahead and sat back. "One thing I remember from the academy," he mused, "was that no NorCom judge shall sit in judgment if he has had less than ten years of actual Patrol duty. That makes real sense, when you think about it. A guy who has had to help scrape some citizen off the side of a cargo carrier, has no illusions about the safety of the road when an idiot gets turned loose behind a Control column."

"That was the main purpose in setting up the NorCom courts," Ben said. "We have no political allegiances to either state or country; our appointments are for life or unless we're fired for real cause, or resign.

"Also, it's kinda nice to think that when you get too old to wheel one of these tin buckets around, there's a chance to move up the ladder to a quieter and better paying slot. Not that I'll ever make it," he added with a rueful smile.

The radiometer clicked to 3510. They were inside the city limits of Los Angeles and Ben eased back and let Beulah drop to a hundred. Overhead, two heavy Thruway air survey jet 'copters lazed along a hundred feet above the jammed Thruway, watching the flow of traffic and sending a running report to Los Angeles. Amber lights began flashing alongside the blue lanes, indicating overcrowding ahead and signaling a fifty-mile an hour slowdown for all vehicles until the jam cleared. Barriers rose out of the crossovers to prevent more green speed cars from moving into the already congested lane.

Suddenly the radio came to life. "L.A. Control this is Chopper 77. There's a light-over-dark green sedan cutting back from the yellow at about Marker 3540. He's going too fast."

L.A. Control cut in. "Car 412, this is L.A. Control. What's your location?"

"This is Four Twelve. We're at 3568."

"Drop back and cut into the blue and stop that vehicle, Four Twelve," L.A. Control ordered. "Chopper 77 continue to monitor."

"That guy's gonna kill somebody," the officer in the aerial cruiser shouted. "Get back fast, Four Twelve. He's cutting through traffic like a maniac."

Ben reached down and opened the brig hatch. "Lie down on your bunk, Shellwood," he ordered. "Don't argue or you'll be pasted against the bulkhead in just two seconds."

The prisoner threw him one quick look and then leaped for the bunk.

Ben slammed the hatch and flicked his transmit switch. "L.A. Control this is Car 56. We are now at 3515. Shall we pursue?"

"Affirmative," Control snapped back.

The bullhorn blared throughout the car as Ben slammed all drives full forward. Safety cocoons snapped shut on both officers in the cab and around the reclining form of the prisoner in the brig bunk. Aft, in the dispensary, Kelly made a leap for a corner cocoon at the first note of the bullhorn. With a screaming roar, Beulah's lift fans and jets thundered into action and rocketed the 250-ton police cruiser down the emergency lane.

Overhead, the two police air cruisers were hanging over the dense mass of traffic in the blue lane. "Car 56, this is Chopper 42. Watch yourself when you come into the blue. There's no room for you at the crossover. Pick your own hole in the median."

"Affirmative," Ben replied. "Where is the subject vehicle now?"

"He's at about 3555."

"I have him on the monitor, Ben," Clay said.

"Five Six this is Car 412. We're coming north. Watch out for us."

"Affirmative," Ben called out.

"Watchout, you fool," the voice of the air patrolman screamed. "That does it."

Five miles ahead of the hurtling police cruisers, a billowing ball 'of black smoke and red flame blossomed into the early morning sunlight as the speeder slammed into a jam of other cars. One explosion followed another in rapid succession until the entire blue lane seemed to dissolve into a blanket of fire and smoke. Ben cut power and punched the retrojets and Beulah came slamming back down onto her tracks at two hundred miles an hour and then continued to lose speed.

A mile away, Car 412 came rushing into view, losing speed and turning at the same time that Ben began twisting Beulah towards the carnage on the highway up ahead. "L.A. Control this is Chopper 77. Get us everything you can. We've got a major fire and major injuries and fatalities. Divert all blue and yellow. Clear 'em fast."

The two ground cruisers eased their way through the mass of halted and burning vehicles, trying to reach the heart of the holocaust. In the dispensary, Kelly unshipped the three collapsible auto-litters racked beside the rear ramp, then slipped on her work helmet and rolled her mobile field kit to the door.

Thick, oily smoke covered the entire scene, blinding the officers as they tried to probe their big car into the lane. The quiet morning air held not a breath of breeze to dispel the smoke.

"Choppers this is Car 56," Ben called. "Can you get low enough for your fans to blow some of this smoke away?"

"We'll try," came the answer, "but it'll spread the flames, too."

"Foam it at the same time," Ben called. "We've got to see what we're doing,"

More explosions ripped the air and a huge chunk of metal came flying out of the smoke and slammed off the impervious hull of the police cruiser. Clay had already left his seat and was standing in a retractable fire control turret rising out of the engine room. The cruiser's foam nozzles were already out.

A smashed car blocked Beulah's way and Ben pivoted the huge cruiser to the left.

Subconsciously, he heard L.A. Control ordering cars, choppers, wreckers, fire equipment, ambulances and hospital units into the area. Three cruisers working NAT 99 north within a fifty-mile radius of the disaster already had crossed the half-mile wide divider and were racing to the scene.

Flames erupted from out of the smoke ahead of Beulah and before Ben could give the order, Clay had the fire turret up and was laying a blanket of foam on the fire. The smoke began to billow and suddenly there was a clear view through the wreckage as the two police jet choppers hovered and turned their big blades on the fire.

To his right, Ben saw the other police cruiser a hundred yards away, spewing foam over the burning cars and pools of jet fuel burning on the Thruway. The tiro choppers maneuvered into position above the ground cruisers and kept blowing the fire away from the slowing police cars.

A figure burst out of the wall of smoke and flame ahead and ran staggeringly towards the cruiser, clothing in flames.

"Clay," Ben yelled, "hit him."

In the fire control turret, Clay slammed a valve back to minimal pressure and aimed the nozzle at the flaming figure. A thin stream of foam struck the man, knocking him down. He lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Ben brought Beulah to a halt.

"Kelly," he roared, "open it up. I'm going out and bring one in."

The trooper jumped down the steps and out the side hatch of the cruiser to be met by a roaring wall of heat. Above him, the chopper pilot kept a steady air current blowing the flames away from the car as Ben waded through the oxygen-absorbing foam to the body of the fire victim. He reached down to grab the man's body and bumped into Kelly fighting her way to his side with an autolitter. Ben started to say something and then just heaved the body of the man onto the litter and shoved both Kelly and the litter back towards the cruiser. The motor-driven litter with its radio homing device, rolled through the muck to the rear ramp of the cruiser, with Kelly riding the rear bar. Ben fought his way back to Beulah under a covering canopy of foam from Clay's turret.

He slammed the door shut and scrambled back up the steps and into the control seat. Four more choppers arrived overhead and began dumping bentonite and foam on the shards of burning wreckage.

He moved Beulah ahead through the maze of smoldering and foam-covered vehicles.

"Car 56 to Chopper 77," he panted, "how close are we now to the center of this mess?"

"Hard to say, Five Six," the chopper officer answered. "Looks like you're about a hundred yards north and a couple of hundred west. But this thing spread over into the yellow after that first impact. We've got a lot of equipment in here now. Looks like the fires should be out in another minute or two."

"L.A. Control to Cars 56 and 412. Hold your positions and prepare to assist ambulance and wrecker rescue operations," came the next order. Ben acknowledged and brought Beulah to a halt again, another hundred yards closer to the heart of the disaster. The smoke had cleared considerably to a thin haze and a quarter of a mile south of Car 412, Ben could see two other cruisers working their way towards them, squirting foam on the last wisps of fire that flickered from burning cars.

"Secure your turret, Clay," the senior trooper ordered, "then let's see what we can do in this mess."

The fire turret retracted into the hull and Clay moved up to the cab. As he was donning his helmet, Shellwood pounded on the brig hatch. Ben lifted the cover.

"What's happening, officer?" The frightened face of the prisoner peered up at him. "I heard the explosions and then it got hot as hell down here. What's going on?"

Ben glanced at his partner. Clay nodded.

"There's been a major accident, Mr. Shellwood," Ben said. "We've got people hurt, dead and dying all over the thruway. Both Trooper Ferguson and myself will have to leave the car to assist. I don't like leaving you in there with no one to move the vehicle or protect you if anything else should happen, although I don't think it will. Now, I'll let you out of there temporarily, Mr. Shellwood, if I have your word that you will not try to escape from custody. I might point out that it would be a very foolish thing for you to attempt, in light of the other charges against you and that it would be very easy for us to find you again. Do I have your word?"

"You have it, I swear it," Shellwood answered earnestly. Ben nodded at the junior trooper. Ferguson slid down the steps and out the hatch. He opened the door of the brig and stood back. Shellwood stepped out and stopped dead, his face ashen as he surveyed what looked like a scene from Dante's "Inferno."

Clay took him gently by the arm and led him around to the cab entrance and helped him up the steps.

Ben was buckling his helmet chin strap. He indicated the jump seat between the two control seats. "Sit there, Mr. Shellwood and don't touch anything or attempt to leave this cab. The only exception to this order is in the event that there should be another explosion and fire would again come close to the car. In that case, you may go back through this door," he indicated the entrance to the galley, "and follow the passageway back to the dispensary where Officer Lightfoot will give you further instructions,"

Shellwood nodded and sat down, staring out through the canopy bubble at the terrible scene. Ben jumped down the steps and out the hatch. Clay hesitated and then tossed Shellwood a pack of cigarettes. "Here," he said, "the matches are on the arm of my seat." He followed Martin out the hatch.

The heat, along with the smoke, had abated. Underfoot was a thick scum of foam and oil. The two officers skidded and slipped around to the rear of the cruiser.

"Kelly," Ben called on helmet radio, "open up and send out the litters."

A second later, the dispensary ramp flipped open and the three auto-litters came rolling out, homing on the beacon signal in the patrolman's helmet. Kelly waved and turned back to the still form on the surgery table.

h

"Might as well start close and work our way out,"

Ben said, indicating the nearest of the smashed and smoldering vehicles.

The two troopers plodded through the muck with litters trailing behind like trained elephants. The closest vehicle was turned on its side. Clay clambered up and peered into the smoking interior. The charred bodies of two men lay huddled against the far side. Clay eased back to the ground. "Two dead," he said, "none alive."

They threaded their way around a pile of smashed pieces, kicking some out of the way to make room for the litters. Next was a tangled heap of what appeared to be two or possibly three cars. It was virtually impossible to distinguish the parts of one from the others. The topmost vehicle held the smashed and burned bodies of three more men. Ben squeezed between chunks of crumpled paneling to peer into the second car. The mangled body of a man was slumped over in the seat and there was another form beneath him. Ben squirmed farther into the window and reached down to tug at the body of the man. The body slid sideways to reveal a woman lying twisted and bleeding on the seat. Ben stretched and found her arm and let it trail through his fingers until he had her wrist. There was the faint but distinct feeling of a pulse.

He worked his way back out and surveyed the wreckage. "There's a woman alive in there, kid," he said. "Now the trick is to get her out."

Clay turned and started back for the carrier. "I'll get Beulah and we'll lift that top car."

"Never make it through this mess," Ben said. "Hold on.."

Overhead, the police choppers were hovering over the scene, directing the stream of emergency vehicles arriving on the scene.

"Patrol Sergeant Martin to any chopper," Ben called. "Need an airlift immediately. We have an injured party under a pile of junk."

"This is Chopper 97," came the answer, "where are you, Martin?"

Ben pulled his flashlight from a pocket, flipped the red color shield down and aimed it in the general direction of the several hovering aircraft. One of them cut away and headed towards the two patrolmen.

"We have you in sight, Martin."

The craft came to halt above them and in the same instant, a magnaclamp descended on a cable. Clay scrambled to the top of the pile and grabbed the dangling clamp and guided it to one end of the smashed vehicle.

"Nine Seven to Four Four, get over here, Charlie, I need another lift on this one," the chopper pilot radioed. Another 'copter swung towards them and a second cable and clamp came down. Clay slapped it against the opposite end of the car and then slid down off the pile.

"Haul away," Ben called.

Both 'copters took up the slack in their cables and then with a slow increase of power, began to rise. There was the sound of tortured and torn metal being ripped apart and then the smashed car was swinging free, dangling beneath the two choppers.

"Set it down in the first clear spot you've got," Ben ordered, "and then stand by, please. We may need you again."

Clay had jumped up onto the side of the overturned bottom vehicle and was tugging desperately at the smashed door. The two 'copters backed away to a nearby open spot on the roadway and then lowered the wrecked car to the ground. They cut their cable power and the clamps swung free as the choppers moved back over the troopers.

"I can't get this door open," Clay yelled. He looked up at the clamp dangling over his head. "Give me another clamp, Chopper," he called, "then see if you can give this door a couple of jerks to swing it open. But, don't pull too hard or you may drop the car on the woman."

He secured the clamp to the smashed door panel and then backed off and grabbed a jutting piece of metal for a handhold. "O.K.," he called, "try it."

The winch operator on the hovering aircraft gave a tentative fast lift. The car shivered but the door remained stuck. "Put a little slack in the cable," Ben directed, "and then take it up with a snap."

The cable drooped, then suddenly snapped upwards and the door ripped open and off. Clay made a dive for the opening before the cable had stopped swinging. The broken door made a slow arc and slammed the trooper in the back of the head as he started to kneel by the open door. Clay hurtled headfirst into the smashed vehicle. The broken door swung once more across the metallic surface of the vehicle, raising a sheet of sparks. The next instant, the vehicle was enveloped in flames.

"FOAM IT," Ben screamed to the chopper as he leaped for the burning vehicle. A torrent of foam descended from the two choppers and in the split second before the chemical blanket dropped on him, Ben caught a glimpse of a leaping figure, jumping up into the foam and towards the burning car.

The fire was out almost as quickly as it had started. Ben fought his way to the top of the car, pawing the blinding foam from his face. As he reached down to grope for Clay's form, the body of the patrolman was shoved up through the gaping door. Ben caught his partner under the arms and dragged him down from the vehicle. He laid him on one of the auto-litters and turned back to the car. The torn body of the woman was rising to meet him. A foam-covered face appeared at the opening.

"Any more?" asked Kevin Shellwood.

Ambulance crews continued to probe among the shattered pieces of vehicles spread for hundreds of yards across and up and down the blue lane and parts of the yellow. Overhead, police 'copters lifted wreckage from the roadway and deposited it in tragic heaps along the service strips bordering the police lanes. Other choppers lifted litters and swung them over to the huge hospital carriers where surgical teams worked to save the pitiful handful of survivors.

In the dispensary of Car 56, Trooper Clay Ferguson was stretched out on one of the bunks, nursing a nasty lump on his head and a queasy gut. Kelly bad flushed his stomach to clear the residue of foam that he had taken into his system before Shellwood pulled him out of the wreck.

The woman victim was pulled out after Clay had been transferred to a hospital carrier. The first victim, he of the flaming clothing, was dead. His body lay in the morgue cabinet of the same hospital carrier that had taken the woman.

Most of the debris had been cleared from the roadway behind Car 56 and Ben slid into his control seat and kicked Beulah to life. The big cruiser slowly pivoted and then rolled back towards the police lane. Ben eased the car over the rounded curbing and parked. The galley door slid open and Kevin Shellwood, dressed in a set of Clay's spare uniform coveralls, stepped into the cab.

"Feel much better after a shower and change of clothes," he said. He sat down on the jump seat and eyed Ben innocently. "Got a cigarette, sarge?"

Ben fished out a pack and the two lit up silently. The trooper studied the man for a few moments. "That was a fool thing to do," Ben said. "I thought I ordered you to stay in this cab under any circumstances."

"Oh, you did indeed," Shellwood agreed amiably. "Never did take well to orders, though. As you well know." He paused and took a deep drag on the cigarette.

"As a matter of fact," he continued seriously, "I was sick unto death at what I saw. I just couldn't sit here and not do something. Not built that way. So I followed you. Good thing I did, eh?"

Ben sighed and snubbed out the cigarette. "I can't deny that. But I'm afraid that it isn't going to do you a bit of good on your other charges."

Shellwood smiled.

"Didn't expect it would with you, sergeant. Once a cop, always a cop, I've heard it said. Might put in a good word for me, though. Could mean an extra candy bar on visiting days, hm-m-m?"

"I just can't seem to get it through your head that you're in serious trouble, young fellow," Ben emphasized. "I'll put your actions on my report, and I'll see that it's noted by the proper authorities. But I warn you that it probably won't have one bit of effect on the court's action on your other charges. Apart from that, let me say that I'm personally grateful for your assistance and I'm sure that trooper Ferguson is equally grateful. But as for the rest of it, I dunno." Ben shook his head sadly.

Shellwood smiled good-naturedly. "And I can't seem to get it through your head, sergeant, that Kevin Shell-wood just doesn't get into serious trouble. Hate to disillusion you and all that, but it just doesn't happen. And when we get to your bastille or wherever you're taking me, I don't want you to feel badly about what will happen then. Don't you worry about me. There are things that can be accomplished that are beyond the wildest imaginations of a simple policeman."

"Let me ask you one question," Ben parried. "Have you ever tangled seriously with the Thruway Authority before?"

Shellwood shook his head. "Not seriously, sergeant, just that little thing about improper lane crossing. Got that minor on my tag simply because it wasn't worth quibbling about."

Ben nodded. "Then let me give you some of your own advice. Don't feel too badly about what does happen when we get to Los Angeles Barracks. And no hard feelings, either."

The trooper swung around into his control seat. He glanced at Shellwood on the jump seat. "I still have your word on remaining in custody?"

The young man just nodded, not saying a word. "Kelly," Ben called on intercom, "how's our patient?" "A miracle has occurred, Ben," she replied.

"You mean that door knocked some sense into him," Ben quipped.

"There's even a limit to miracles," Kelly said. "Nothing could knock any sense into this dumb Canuck. No, what I

meant is that for the first time in his life, his stomach

is doing handsprings at the thought of food. Otherwise, he's the same wet-eared juvenile he was an hour ago."

Ben could hear some mumbling in the background that suddenly was shut off. "Lie down lunkhead," he heard Kelly order, "or I'll give you an enema."

Ben chortled and shoved Beulah into gear. The car moved slowly into the police lane, threading its way through the parked wreckers and ambulances and hospital vehicles.

"L.A. Control this is Car 56," Ben reported, "en route your headquarters."

"Affirmative Car 56," L.A. Control came back "and thanks for the fast assist."

"Glad we were handy," Ben replied. "How bad is the tally?"

"Not good," the L.A. controller replied. "Right now it stands at thirty-two dead, fifteen injured. We still haven't finished digging everything out. But you're clear to head home."

Ben signed off and took a final look at the scene of the mass pileup. Television news camped in 'copters,

hovering around the outskirts of the area, shooting with

long lenses. All traffic was shut down in both the blue and yellow lanes and the green and white were jammed

hull to hull and moving at a snail's pace past the scene of the disaster. It was now past seven in the morning and the real business rush was on. But there were going to be thousands of Angelenos late for work this morning.

As it did in San Francisco, NAT 99 soared high above and around the outskirts of Los Angeles—or at least, what purported to be the outskirts of the metropolis that spread from the ocean eastwards for one hundred twenty-five miles in one direction and was eighty-five miles across from north to south. Near the heart of the city. a ramp angled down to the right. Above it was a sign reading "Los Angeles Barracks,"

Ben turned onto the ramp and Beulah glided down in a steady spiral, passing levels of other Thruways and then dropping lower to the levels of the state freeways. The ramp straightened out and then arrowed into a tunnel. Car 56 plunged into the brilliantly lighted tunnel and down into the bowels of the city. The tunnel leveled off for another mile, and then climbed back up.

As suddenly as they had entered the tunnel, they emerged into a huge cavern. Other portals dotted the wall they had just come out from and police cruisers and service vehicles were moving in both directions from the portals. Above each smaller tunnel was a lighted panel designating which thruway it led to. Ben slowed Beulah to thirty-five miles an hour and joined the stream of police vehicles moving towards the Los Angeles Barracks parking area. Another mile and they emerged into daylight and the vast terminal of the Western Division of NorCom. Ben eased Beulah into the parking area, following the hand signals of a techmech waving him into position. The tech made a chopping motion and Ben stopped the cruiser. With a sigh, he reached over and thumbed the master switch. For the first time since leaving Fairbanks, Alaska, ten days earlier, Beulah's complete power plant went silent.

"How's the patient, now," Ben called out to Kelly on intercom.

"A better man than you'll ever be," Clay answered in person as he walked into the cab. A neat surgical patch covered a small shaved spot on the back of his head.

Ben surveyed his grinning partner. "You look O.K. How do you feel?"

"Let's just say that Kelly's touch when she's ministering to your wounds is considerably lighter than when she's looking after me," Clay replied. "I don't see how that woman ever got to be a doctor. A vet maybe; a doctor, never."

"In that case," Ben said, "I'll let you turn Beulah over to the tender care of the grease monkeys and I'll take Mr. Shellwood to headquarters. See you at the BQO in about an hour."

Shellwood arose and Clay stuck out his hand. "I'm sorry you're in a jam, Mr. Shellwood," Clay said, "and I really mean that. I want you to know I'm real happy you decided to take a walk when you did." The two men shook hands.

"Glad to be of service, trooper," Shellwood replied. "Come see me on visiting days." He glanced at Ben. "Shall we go, sergeant?"

Ben climbed from the bucket seat and reached into a compartment beside the instrument panel. He pulled out the plastic bag containing Shellwood's possessions. Then leading the man by the arm, he climbed out of Car 56 and headed for Patrol headquarters.

As Ben opened the door to the headquarters building, a battery of cameras began clicking. In the far corner of the big Patrol dispatch room, teevee crews aimed their portable transmitters at the door to catch the patrol sergeant and Shellwood as they entered. Ben stood aside and motioned to the younger man to enter the room. As Shellwood entered, three men in business suits stepped forward. The older of the trio was unmistakably Shell-wood's father. He grasped the young man's hand.

"Kevin," Quentin Shellwood inquired, "are you all right? What the devil is this all about?"

"Hi, dad," Kevin smiled, "I'm fine." He turned to the other two men and nodded. "Mr. Quinn, Mr. Hackmore, good to see the legal eagles on the job."

"I'm really fine, dad," Shellwood turned back to his father, "just a little misunderstanding. Nothing to get excited about."

The newsmen were crowding in, recorders and mikes thrust forward. "Do you have a statement, Mr. Shell-wood?" one asked. Quinn, the older of the two attorneys, held up his hand to the newsmen.

"Mr. Shellwood has no statement to make at this time," he said. "We'll have a prepared statement for the press in a little while."

Ben indicated to Kevin to go to the dispatch desk where the officer on .duty was making hand signals. The dispatcher leaned across the counter.

"Captain Fisher is waiting for you in his office, Ben. He wants you and your prisoner in there immediately."

Ben nodded and led Kevin Shellwood through the counter door towards the inner offices. The elder Shell-wood and the two attorneys followed. Ben knocked on the Patrol captain's door and then entered. As the five men entered the office, Fisher, wearing the street dress blue uniform of the Patrol, arose from behind his desk. He leaned over and shook hands with Ben.

"Glad to see you, sergeant, and my personal commendation for your work in the pileup. I just got the report a few minutes ago." The captain straightened up and his face went stony as he eyed the younger Shellwood. "Is this your prisoner, sergeant?" he asked coldly, surveying the blue Patrol coveralls Kevin was wearing.

"Yes, sir," Ben replied. "Mr. Shellwood rendered some valuable assistance during the disaster and in the course of it, ruined his personal clothing. We loaned him the coveralls until he could obtain proper clothing."

"I see," Fisher said. "I assume you have a full report in writing?"

Ben laid his citation book and report sheets on the captain's desk. Fisher picked up the citation and read it carefully, then read the narrative report.

"I have called you all into my office," Fisher said when he finished reading, "to confirm for myself the charges brought against the prisoner and to make it clear that despite any so-called social status the prisoner may have . . ."

"Just a moment, captain," the elder Shellwood broke in, "my son is no common criminal and he is no prisoner, as you so grossly put it."

Fisher glared at the father. "Mr. Shellwood, you are in my office only at my invitation and not through any legal requirement. But for your information, your son is charged with a series of crimes—and I repeat, crimes—that, according to the international statutes of the Thruway Authority, are most serious in nature.

"Your son is, and will remain, a prisoner in custody of this agency until such time as he appears before a court of proper Thruway jurisdiction and is either admitted to bond, acquitted or sentenced. I hope this is quite clear."

"How dare you speak . . . " Shellwood spluttered, his face darkening in anger.

Quinn laid a hand on the father's arm. "Calm down, Quentin. You're only making things tougher for the boy. Now just be quiet and let us handle this affair." He smiled at Fisher. "We apologize for the interruption, captain, please continue."

"As I was saying," Fisher went on, "despite any protestations to the contrary, the prisoner will be processed in the same manner as any other person in custody of this Authority and charged with the same crimes by an officer of this agency. Now, if there are no further questions, Sergeant Martin will you please take your prisoner to the detention facilities and book him?"

Quinn asked, "May I have a moment to speak with Mr. Shellwood please, captain?"

Fisher nodded.

Quinn took Kevin by the arm and walked him to the far corner of the room where he conversed rapidly and in a low voice with the younger man. Shellwood nodded several times and then smiled. He turned and walked back to Martin.

"Let's go, sergeant," he said.

Martin took Shellwood out a side door of the Patrol captain's office and into a corridor leading to the detention rooms. Walking down the hall with the officer, Kevin asked, "How soon do you think I'll get into court?"

Ben glanced at his watch. "It's a little after nine right now, Kevin, I'd say that you probably will come in for a `preliminary' sometime before noon."

"What's that mean?"

"At that time the judge can set your trial date, assuming that you plead 'not guilty' and, at the same time, he can set bond if he feels you should be freed pending trial," Ben answered.

"Is there a question as to whether he will allow bond?" Kevin asked anxiously.

"Well, that's up to the judge," Ben said. "But just uessing that in light of the fact that there were no in juries or accident involved in your case and because of what you did later on, I'd say that he'll probably allow bond."

They reached the end of the hall and Ben motioned Kevin through a door into the detention room. A Patrol sergeant moved up to the booking desk. Ben laid the plastic sack with Shellwood's possessions on the counter together with a copy of the arrest report. The desk sergeant glanced at the report and then took Shellwood by the arm and led him to an upright metallic cabinet at one side of the room.

"Please stand inside the cabinet," the officer directed, "facing in this direction. Place your hands on the two arm rests you see at your sides and grasp the knobs."

Satisfied that Kevin was in position, the desk sergeant punched a series of buttons. "You can come out now," he said a minute later. When Shellwood emerged from the cabinet, a complete body analysis had been recorded. He had been photographed, finger printed, retinal image recorded, bone and muscle structure detailed, dental work described and encephalic pattern graphed. All of the information had been simultaneously transmitted to Patrol Headquarters records division at Colorado Springs, to be taped into his file together with his license, violations and convictions. Kevin Shellwood had been booked.

The desk sergeant inventoried the contents of the plastic bag, gave both Ben and Shellwood receipts and then took Shellwood back through another door to the actual detention cells.

Ben headed back for the dispatcher's desk. The newsmen were still there, apparently waiting for Shellwood to reappear. When Ben showed up without the man, they again crowded around him. "Where's young Shellwood, sarge?" "Is it true he tried to bribe you?" "How much did he offer?"

Ben held up his hand. "Mr. Shellwood has been detained in custody of the Patrol until his appearance in court, probably later this morning. I'm sorry but that's all I can tell you at this time,"

"Aw, come on, sarge," one of the teevee newsmen called out, "give us a break. We've been waiting since before dawn. You can tell us a little more than that."

Ben grinned at him and brushed the three chevrons on his sleeve. "I've put in a good many years getting these stripes," he said. "Any discussion of any Thruway violation case by an officer means automatic dismissal. Sorry, gents. I've got nothing more to add to what I've already told you." He turned his back on the crew and signaled to the dispatcher.

The grumbling newsmen gathered up their gear and streamed out of the room in search of a new lead to the story.

A half dozen other Patrol officers were checking assignments at the dispatch counter. On the wall behind the dispatcher, a mural-sized map of the western segment of the North American continent was emblazoned with lighted paths indicating the many Thruways that crisscrossed the land. Varied colored lights and symbols along the Thruways showed road conditions, repairs and other out-of-the-ordinary situations that would affect traffic on the roads. The outgoing Patrol officers made notes of the changes on their patrol logs. On another wall was an illuminated dispatch board with car numbers, the names of the Patrol crews to man those cars and their Thruway assignment. Car 56—Beulah—and her crew, wouldn't be back on the board for five days while the cruiser was given a thorough going-over by the shop crews and re-serviced and re-supplied. Three of the days ostensibly were for rest and relaxation for the crew before heading out on their next ten-day patrol.

One of the dispatchers came down the long counter at Ben's signal.

"Officer Ferguson is completing the cruiser report," Ben told him, "and he'll file our closing clearance in a few minutes. Tell him, please, that I'll be in the BOQ and also notify Medical Officer Lightfoot that I'd like to see her as soon as she is clear."

The dispatcher nodded and Ben walked out of the building to head for the transient Patrol quarters. The newsmen had vanished and only the blue coverall uniforms of Patrol officers dotted the walks leading to the various buildings of the Los Angeles Barracks. Ben waved at some friends and stopped to chat with two other officers before he got to the bachelor officers' quarters.

He stopped at the desk to register. The clerk assigned him to Room 218 and Ben walked up the stairs to the room. Sitting in the easy-chair facing the door as Ben opened it was Hackmore, the younger of the two attorneys who, had met with Shellwood at headquarters.

He smiled as Ben entered. "Shut the door, sergeant," he said, "and let's have a little talk."

Ben stood in the doorway and eyed the man coldly. "I don't know what you're doing here, mister," he said quietly, "but I have a pretty good idea what you're going to say. So I'll tell you right now—get out!"

Hackmore ignored the order. "I'm not here on business, sergeant, just a social call, you might say. I might add that if you think I came to talk about young Shell-wood, you're wrong. I'm not the least bit concerned about that young man's future. It's yours I'm concerned with at the moment."

Ben slowly closed the door and moved into the room. "What about my future," he demanded.

Hackmore took a notebook from an inner pocket and flipped it open. "Sergeant Benjamin H. Martin," he read, "age thirty-three, eleven years on Thruway Patrol. Graduated in upper tenth of his Academy class. Promoted to sergeant four years ago. Four citations for heroism and meritorious service. Twenty-five hours completed in work towards Master's Degree in Transportation Administration. Salary, eight thousand five hundred, annually. Unmarried. One sister, married, lives in Vermont. Brother-in-law is research engineer with Allied Computers. Parents dead."

"You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble to learn all that in so short a time," Ben said grimly. "Why?"

"You're quite right, sergeant," Hackmore smiled, "we have gone to a great deal of trouble to find out what makes you tick. In answer to your question, let's just say as I did before, we're interested in your future. It has some bright possibilities."

Ben moved across the room until he was standing directly in front of the seated man.

"Mister," he said levelly, "my future has all the possibilities that my career can offer and that I'm qualified to take advantage of. Those are the only possibilities I'm interested in."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so hasty," Hackmore said. "I can foresee a much brighter future for you. You are virtually a trained lawyer; you have sound education and training in mechanics and engineering, you specialize in administration and have demonstrated outstanding leadership qualities. All of these, plus several other attributes would make you a very valuable asset to any large corporation.

As a matter of fact, that's exactly why I am here now.

"Our evaluation of your background shows us clearly that we would be making a grave error not to employ your professional services in one of our several subsidiary organizations. And I'm prepared at this point to offer you such a position with a starting salary of say, twenty thousand a year for a starter. Plus a liberal expense account, of course."

"I just told you," Ben said, "that the only career and only job I'm interested in is the one I currently hold. Now, get out."

Hackmore rose and stood facing the trooper. "You realize that you're making a very unwise decision. I'll repeat the offer again and remind you that it is open immediately, but that it will only be open for," he paused and glanced at his watch, "the next two hours."

Ben stood aside and pointed towards the door, the muscles in his jaw twitching in his effort to hold his temper.

Hackmore shrugged and started slowly towards the door. Halfway across the room, he paused and turned back. "Oh, by the way," he said, "I forgot to mention that Allied Computers is also a subsidiary of Shellwood Electronics."

He consulted his notebook again. "I believe I mentioned that your brother-in-law is still a research engineer for Allied."

In two giant strides Ben was across the room and had Hackmore by the lapels of the man's coat. Lifting him bodily from the floor, he slammed the attorney back against the wall.

"Let me tell you something," he snarled. "That kid of Shellwood's has got more guts and decency than his old man and everyone of his rotten 'yes' men right down to the cruddy bottom of the barrel that you crawled from. The kid's in trouble, he's committed some serious offenses and he damned near killed himself and God only knows how many other innocent persons. But I think he realizes what he's done and he at least has the manhood to face up to his problem. And not all the dough that his old man could rake up can buy him out of this.

"Now as for you. If I find out that there's been so much as an eye blink in the direction of my brother-in-law or my sister, I'm personally going to find you and push your filthy mind right down into your equally cancerous guts."

Still holding Hackmore by the coat, Ben reached for the door, flung it open and heaved the attorney out of the room with such force that he bounced off the far corridor wall. The lawyer slid to the floor just as Clay Ferguson rounded the corner. The young trooper paused for a moment and looked down at the disheveled and frightened man and then stepped carefully over his legs and turned into Martin's room.

"Company just leaving?" he inquired pleasantly of the hard-breathing, red-faced Patrol sergeant.

At 1130 Kevin Shellwood, flanked by the two attorneys, stood before Thruway Authority Justice James Bell. Spectators packed the austere Thruway courtroom since the news of Shellwood's arrest had been on the vidicasts for the past two hours. At the side of the bench, the court reporter sat with headset in place, riding the gains on his taped recordings of the court proceedings. The crew of Car 56, dressed in their off-Patrol dress tunics, sat beside the Thruway prosecutor. An amber panel came to light over the judge's bench and the courtroom immediately fell silent.

Justice Bell leaned forward and addressed Shellwood.

"Kevin Shellwood, you are charged with driving on North American Thruway 99-south in the vicinity of Mile Marker 3112, this date, while under the influence of alcoholic beverages; you are further charged with reckless driving, ignoring instructions of the Thruway Authority, ignoring the lawful orders of a Thruway Patrol Officer and of leaving the confines of your vehicle while on a Thruway. And you are further charged with the attempted bribery of three officers of the Thruway Authority.

"At this point, I wish to advise you of your rights under this court. Although this court does not waive jurisdiction nor authority to the sovereign countries of the United States of America, the Republic of Mexico or the Commonwealth of Canada, you do not waive your constitutional rights as a citizen of the United States accused in a court of law. You may be represented by counsel and may at this time enter a plea to the charges. In the event you should enter a plea of 'not guilty' you are entitled to trial by jury or may waive such trial and be heard in trial by this court.

"Do you understand both the charges and your rights?" Shellwood cleared his throat nervously and answered. "Yes. sir, I understand them."

"Very well," Justice Bell continued, "how do you now plead to the charges against you?"

"If it please the court," Quinn took a step forward, "I represent Mr. Shellwood in this matter."

"Very well, Mr. Quinn," Bell said. "Do you wish further time to confer with your client?"

"No, your honor," Quinn replied. "At this time, we wish to enter a motion for dismissal of the charges on grounds of insufficient and improperly obtained evidence."

Bell thumbed through the sheaf of papers on his bench, pausing to study one of them in detail.

"Mr. Quinn," he then said, "I have here transcripts of all radio communications between Thruway Control points at both San Francisco and Los Angeles with Thruway Patrol Car 56 in regard to this matter, together with transcripts of tapes recording conversations between the officers of this unit and the accused. I further have prints of video tapes taken during the conversations between these officers and the accused while in the dispensary of Patrol Car 56 at approximately 0100 hours this date. I find them sufficient cause for action to hold the accused. Motion denied."

Quinn flushed. "In that case, your honor, we then wish to enter a plea of 'not guilty' to all charges."

Bell made notes on the papers before him. "Very well, counsellor. I assume then you will seek a jury trial?" Quinn nodded.

"In that case," Justice Bell said, consulting a calendar, "I will set a trial date for three weeks from this day at 1000 hours. In view of the recommendation of the arresting officer, I will further admit the defendant to bail, although under any other circumstances, I would refuse bond."

Kevin flashed a quick smile of gratitude at Ben sitting at the prosecution table.

"I will set bond at twenty thousand dollars in cash or forty thousand property. You may post the bond immediately with the court clerk."

"Next case."

Ben, Clay and Kelly got up quietly from the prosecution table and walked out of the courtroom just behind Kevin and his attorneys. In the corridor outside the courtroom, Clay paused and pulled out cigarettes and passed them around.

Young Shellwood was talking with his attorneys a few feet away. Hackmore nodded and then left them to enter the clerk's office. Shellwood walked over to the trio of officers.

"Thanks for the kind word, sergeant," he said to Ben. "You're welcome, kid," he said. "I just wish you hadn't gotten yourself in such a bind."

Kevin laughed bitterly. "You know, strange as it may seem, at this point, I wish the same thing. I'm just beginning to find out that there are some things that your old man's money and influence can't buy for you. There are some things you have to buy yourself—no matter what the cost.

"But, what the hell, it's done now. And sergeant, remember what I told you this morning. Don't feel badly about the outcome of all this. I'll never stand trial, you know that, don't you?"

"Oh, come off it, Kevin," Ben exploded, "you know you will."

Shellwood smiled and started to turn away. "You just don't know the determination of us Shellwoods.

"Oh, and by the way, I want to sincerely apologize for your visitor this morning. I didn't learn about it until a while ago. I assure you that it will never go any further. See you around sometime."

He waved and walked back to Quinn and the two of them entered the court clerk's office.

Ben ground out his cigarette savagely on the floor. "Come on," he snarled at his crew members. "Let's go get drunk. I need a strong mouthwash right now."

An hour later, Ben and Kelly were seated in a corner booth of a cocktail lounge. Three empty glasses were in front of Ben and much of the tension and anger had drained from him. Clay had had one fast drink with them and then pulled out a small address book and began thumbing through it rapidly.

He excused himself and went to the phones. A few minutes later he returned, reached over and drained the remainder of his drink and reached for his uniform cap. "Got to run, you two. See you in time to roll."

He waved the little address book at them and rolled his eyes up in mock agony.

"So much to do and so little time to do it," he murmured as he hurried away.

Ben grinned at the departing trooper and leaned back comfortably in the deep airfoam cushions. "That kid's been up all night, worked like a horse, been under heavy tensions for several hours, and look at him. Two gets you five he doesn't get any sleep for another twenty-four hours."

"No bet," Kelly replied. She leaned back and moved closer to the big trooper. "Tired, Ben?"

He ran his hand over his head and sighed. "I guess I am, princess. I'm not as young as that kid and this business is beginning to get me. I've had some rough days since I started on patrols, but God deliver me from another one like today."

Kelly reached out and slipped her hand into his. She rolled her head to his shoulder. "You could always ask to get off Patrol, darling."

Ben smiled down at the golden red hair resting against him and gently squeezed her hand. "Sure I could. I could have been moved to a desk job a year ago if I had wanted to, but I'm not ready to be turned out to pasture."

"Oh, don't be silly," Kelly retorted, sitting up and facing him. "Of course you're not getting old. It's just that Patrol takes so much out of a person that the human body and mind can only stand so much of it. Then something's got to give,"

"What about you," Ben inquired. "You've been riding the back end of these armored hearses for three years now and you get far more of the misery and pain than we do, right along with the rest of the dangers that go with the Patrol. When are you going to quit?"

Kelly looked up into the bronzed face of the Patrol sergeant. "I'll quit when you do," she said softly.

He studied her fine-boned face. His big hand came up and with tender touch, he lightly traced the lines of her cheeks and mouth. "You really mean that, don't you, Kelly?" She nodded mutely.

Ben let his head sink back against the cushions and punched the autobar for another drink.

"Look, baby," he explained, "another year, maybe, and then I'll be ready to turn in my work helmet for a vocawriter. But right now, with the Patrol expanding and the new designs in cars and engines that the industry is turning out, we're too short-handed as it is for experienced Patrol officers.

"Right now, the Thruways are designed to handle traffic up to five hundred miles an hour. But already, the new reaction engines can push well past the six hundred mark without straining and will probably go to eight hundred under stress. We've got to make modifications in both roadway design and patrol equipment. On top of that, consider how we're set up right now. We've got the Thruways with their four speed lanes. But how many drivers—especially those buying the new and hotter models—are satisfied any longer with drifting along in the white lane limits. Or even in the green. The bulk of the traffic is shifting to the blue and yellow and even the cargo carriers are hotter and are now moving into the blue.

"The system has got to be modified and that just doesn't mean raising the speed limits in all lanes. The roadways themselves have to be redesigned for the higher speeds. And there are more ground vehicles using the Thruways every day as the speeds increase. Air travel is picking up but the average man still can't afford to buy or fly an air-car, chopper or jet for the entire family when for a tenth of the cost he can get the same space and even speed, in a ground vehicle.

"We need more patrolmen, faster and better equipment - and the experienced officers to train them and work with them until they're ready to take over a cruiser by themselves. Clay is almost ready. Don't tell him this, but this is his last year on junior status. I hate to lose him but I'm recommending him for his own car at the end of this tour. So you see, I just can't walk out of the cruiser and say 'Chief, I've had it. Put me on a desk.' I'm still needed where I am, at least for another year or so. Then we'll see what the shuffle turns up."

He took a long drag on his drink and looked at Kelly. "You understand, don't you princess?"

Kelly sat with her head down, her face concealed. Without looking at Ben, she began talking.

"Ben," she said, "at the risk of losing all of my maidenly virtues, I want to ask you a direct question and I want a direct and honest answer." She hesitated and then blurted out, "Are you in love with me?"

Ben put down his glass and took her chin in his hand and raised her face.

"I love you more than anything in this world, princess," he said. Blissfully ignoring anyone who might have been watching, their lips met in a long and loving kiss.

Kelly finally sat back with a happy. glazed look on her face. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then the girl shook her head and smiled delightedly. "Now that that's settled," she cried, "a girl can settle down and do some planning."

She leaned over and kissed him again.

On the morning of their fifth day in Los Angeles, Ben Martin, and Clay Ferguson were again standing in front of the dispatcher's counter in the barracks headquarters. On the assignment board was the illuminated line reading, "Car 56—Martin-Ferguson-Lightfoot." In the next column was the assignment "NAT 70-E."

Both officers had their log sheets out to make notes as the dispatcher punched up the mural map and NAT 70-E on the big board.

"This is a milk run for you guys this time," the dispatcher said. "Since you've got this court hearing coming up in a little more than a couple of weeks you don't get a full run. You get 70-E to Oklahoma City, a three-day layover and then right back here on 70-W."

He picked up an electric pointer and began picking out salient trouble points on the route. There were very few discrepancy symbols on 70-E. He flicked the light at a stretch of the roadway just east of the Arizona state line.

"We've got crews working in the yellow on the outside rim just south of Kingman on the big curve." He moved the light eastward. "Gallup has been reporting some bad sandstorms and drifting sands with lowered visibility between here and Albuquerque. Other than that, she's green all the way,"

The troopers picked up their clip boards and with helmets slung over their arms, headed out to the parking area where Kelly was already aboard Beulah and checking her supply inventory.

A half hour later Car 56 rolled off the line and down the incline to the Thruway entrances. Clay at the controls, angled Beulah towards the portal marked "70-E" and ten minutes later the cruiser burst out into the bright sunlight and heavy traffic of the eastbound thruway.

The patrol quickly settled down into almost humdrum existence. The weather was clear and hot and once beyond the sprawling limits of Los Angeles, the traffic thinned out to a mere eighteen thousand vehicles per hundred-mile block. Ben took the first watch while Clay caught up on some missed sleep during the Los Angeles layover. Six hours and as many hundred miles later, they switched off. Traffic was light enough for them to pull off to the service strip and stop for leisurely dinner in the tiny galley-

Outside, the mercury hovered at the 100-mark, but inside the big cruiser the air conditioners kept it a pleasant seventy degrees. As predicted, the winds blew and the sand flew as Beulah rolled across the burning hot lanes east of Gallup, New Mexico. Caution lights were flashing in all lanes and Albuquerque Control had closed the yellow from Gallup to Grants. Visibility in the blowing dust dropped to less than a half mile but the only trouble came when a huge cargo carrier tried to get out of the blue and missed a crossover. Car 56, rolling along slowly at fifty, came up on the unsuspecting carrier gingerly feeling its way down the dead center of the police emergency lane. Ben pulled Beulah alongside the carrier and flashed his red lights.

The cargo driver brought his vehicle to a halt. Ben turned the radio to standard all-vehicle frequency. "You're lost, Mac," he said good-naturedly. "I hate to tell you this, but you're right in the middle of the red:" Both officers laughed at the gasp of stunned amazement on the face of the trucker. They waved to him and grinned and he returned the wave. "Follow us," Ben instructed him, "and we'll both see if we can find the edge of this road."

With the cargo carrier close behind, Beulah eased over to the right-hand curb of the police lane until Ben found a crossover. He hit his tail lights in rapid succession and aimed a side spotlight to indicate the ramp. The trucker blasted his horn in thanks as he turned off the police lane into the green.

Ben moved Beulah out and the patrol continued.

Beyond Albuquerque, the dust and sand subsided. The great Thruway arrowed mile after unchanging mile across the heart of the Southwest. Video monitor camera towers flashed by every ten miles, a turretlike Patrol checkpoint looming up from the side of the police lane every hundred miles. Beyond the outer and inner lanes were the green, reclaimed wastelands of what was once sagebrush and mesquite desert. Huge 200-inch plastisteel pipes crisscrossed the land, bringing de-salined sea water from the oceans hundreds of miles away. Nuclear reactor relay pumping stations sent the great torrents of life-giving waters surging across mountain and valleys to spill onto the mineral-rich sandy loam of the desert and turn it into the new salad bowl of the continent.

Five days out of Los Angeles, Car 56 rolled down the Patrol ramps and into Oklahoma City Barracks and a brief layover before the return trip. As the trio walked away from Beulah, service crews were already swarming over the big cruiser for a fast check out and refueling.

"Man, what a pleasure jaunt that was," Clay exclaimed happily. "First time since I've been aboard that bucket I ever really had time to get more than a half decent cat nap."

"It was a milk run, wasn't it," Kelly said, walking between the two tall troopers. She smiled up at Ben and winked. "Didn't seem like the sort of patrol that calls for very much experience, sergeant."

Ben smiled. "Just the lull before the storm, Kitten. You don't get many like this one. Enjoy it while you can."

They checked into the dispatch office, cleared the log and were assigned quarters. Clay fished in his pocket for his address book. He flipped the pages and then headed for the phones. "See you two Wednesday," he called.

"Oh no," Kelly moaned, "not in Oklahoma City, too?"

"Oh, it's not what you think," Clay called back. "There's this nice old lady I met in San Francisco. I promised her that if I ever got into Oklahoma City I'd call up her niece and drop in and then report back to the little old lady on whether her niece had grown up any since the last time she saw her. Just my bounden duty, you know." He galloped off to the phones.

Wednesday morning, Car 56 rolled back out of Oklahoma City Barracks, this time on 70-west, once again en route to Los Angeles. Clay slumped in the lefthand seat. Ben looked over at him. "Had the nice little old lady's niece grown any?" he asked.

Clay sighed happily. "Full grown, dad. Full grown." Shortly after the cruiser hit the outer Thruway, Oklahoma City Control was on the air.

"Oak City Control to Car 56."

Ben replied.

"Car 56, dispatcher says he had a telegram for you and forgot to deliver it before you got away. Sorry," the controller said.

"Who's it addressed to ?" Ben asked.

"To 'Patrol Sergeant Ben Martin.' "

"Go ahead and open it, please," Ben said, "and read it to me. This is Martin."

"Affirmative," Oak City said. "Message follows: 'Original offer remains open for another forty-eight hours. Additionally directed to offer post of Director of Transportation. Salary unlimited. Please contact me in Los Angeles."

"Is that all?" Ben asked.

"Yep. It's signed, 'Marvin Hughes, personnel director, Shellwood Electronics.' "

Ben signed off and looked at his partner. Kelly had come up into the cab in time to hear the message.

"Ben," she said, "I'm scared of them."

"They didn't get the message," Ben said grimly. "I guess I'll have to spell it out for them, this time more emphatically."

The weather continued to hold hot and dry all through Texas and New Mexico and even the winds had died away. Car 56 rolled slowly westward, pausing once to give assistance to a disabled cargo carrier. Once again it was an uneventful trip, with Kelly catching up on her medical journals and Ben and Clay taking easy six-hour tricks in the cab and time for letter-writing and study.

A summer thunderstorm was gathering in the west when Beulah rolled into the outskirts of Flagstaff, Arizona. It was close to 1700 hours of the third day out of Oklahoma city. The traffic was light and Ben gave the word to pull up for dinner. He pulled Beulah off onto the service strip between the police and green lane and then reached for the radio. "Flag Control this is Car 56. We are out to dinner in your fair city. Don't call us, we'll call you."

"Right, Five Six," Flagstaff Control came back. "We'll send out the keys to the city and a bottle of red. Report in when you're back in service."

With speakers mounted throughout Beulah's compartments and storerooms, Control operators could reach the crew at any moment of the day or night wherever they might be in the vehicle.

Ben slid out of his seat and headed for the galley. Dinner over, Kelly shoveled the dishes into the disposal unit and generally tidied up in the galley. Clay and Ben climbed back into their bucket seats and Ben reported Beulah ready to roll. Although it was still just a little after 1800 hours, the skies were fast darkening under the great mass of thunderheads and rain clouds moving closer from the west.

"Looks like we'll get a cooling off and a wash-down," Clay commented, pointing at the clouds.

Ben shoved Beulah into gear. "Water's always welcome out here, piped or natural."

Car 56 rolled back onto the police lane and continued westward. Fifteen minutes later, the first great, dusty drops of rain splattered against the cab bubble and a minute later they were deep inside the summer downpour. Ben switched on the headlight and wipers as the rain thundered down. He pushed the speed up to a hundred and the rain sailed off the rounded bubble much faster. Traffic was increasing in both the green and blue while an occasional car flashed by in the yellow, its headlights whipping up from behind in the rain and then winking out suddenly as it passed the cruiser a mile to the south.

At 1900 hours, Flag Control came on with the hourly density reports and weather picture. The storm, which had been moving eastward, was now stationary and the forecasters were calling for it to shift back to the west once again. Thruway predictions were for rain to the Arizona line just east of Needles.

Beulah rolled around the edge of Kingman shortly after 2100 hours and suddenly the radio sounded.

"Car 56, this is Flag Control. Just a few minutes ago Ash Fork Checkpoint reported a red and white Travelaire moving west in the yellow at maximum speed. In this kind of weather and with the repairs on the yellow west of Kingman on the grade, you might see if you can spot this joker before he gets into trouble. This might also be the same vehicle reported stolen from this city about two hours ago and believed to have been taken by a teenager. If it is, and it's the same kid we've had trouble with before, he likes nothing but speed. And he may have a girl friend with him."

"Car 56 affirmative," Ben replied. "We'll start looking for them right now,"

The senior trooper swung Beulah south and into a crossover to the blue lane. He increased speed to three hundred and the safety cocoons snapped shut. Beulah's warning siren cleared the way for her as Ben tooled diagonally across the blue and into the yellow. In the left-hand seat, Clay had his eyes fixed on the monitors. Using his arm panel controls, he kept the yellow monitor switching across its three positions from the ten-mile block to the rear, to the block the cruiser was in and then to the block ahead.

Just as Ben straightened the cruiser out in the yellow Clay yelled, "There he is. He's way ahead."

His monitor was in the block ahead of them and Ben shifted his monitor to the same block. The red and white car was whipping through the blinding rain at better than five hundred miles an hour.

He slammed Beulah into high and the mighty jets mashed the crew back against their seats as the cruiser accelerated. Kelly was safely enfolded in her station cocoon in the dispensary.

Only three cars were ahead of the cruiser as it flew on its airpad down the half-mile wide, rain-slick roadway.

"We'll never catch him before he hits the curve, Ben," Clay exclaimed. "He's wide open and wheeling."

Ben glanced at the tach and speedometer. Beulah was fast reaching the six-hundred-mile-an-hour mark and gaining. "We're closing up." He flicked on the standard all-vehicles transmitter.

"This is a Thruway Patrol car. The driver of the red and white Travelaire now west of Kingman on NAT-70-W in the yellow is directed to stop immediately. I repeat, driver of the red and white Travelaire in the yellow west of Kingman, you are directed to stop immediately. This is a Thruway Patrol order."

"Ben," Clay cried, "he's almost into the curve. He'll never clear it at that speed. They haven't got the bank into the road yet."

On the monitor screens the red and white car went hurtling into the curve at better than five hundred miles an hour. The curve down the long Kingman grade was gentle but never intended for such speeds. As the two horrified officers watched on their screens, the light sportster began slewing sideways to the left, towards the outside of the curve.

The driver obviously was fighting to straighten it out with short additional bursts of power, but the combination of the centrifugal force on the light car and the wet roadway and lack of surface adhesion on air drive made it impossible. The car's left jet burst into a blaze of flame as the driver kicked the full afterburner into action in a last desperate attempt to hold the vehicle on the road. Almost in slow motion on the monitor screens, the car went whipping sideways against the guard rail, hurtled up into the air and rolled over several times in midair before vanishing from sight down the side of the mountain.

Ben was already slowing Beulah while Clay took over the radio. "Flag Control, this is Car 56. Our red and white Travelaire has just taken the rail at the Kingman curve, Marker 4280. He's down the side of the hill. Get us a chopper on the double."

"This is Flag Control. Chopper en route, Five Six, also ambulance and wrecker."

Ben fought Beulah to a halt beside the smashed railing. Rain was still pouring down. He nosed the cruiser to the edge of the road and aimed a big flexible spotlight down the side of the hill, moving the beam back and forth. It came to rest on the shattered hulk of the car, several hundred feet down the rugged mountainside.

"Let's go," Ben said quietly. "Kelly," he called on the intercom, "get on your rain suit and your kit bag, although I don't think we'll need it. Clay, you work the winch."

He slipped on his helmet and climbed down into the rain. Kelly came up wheeling the mobile aid kit. Ben opened a panel in the cruiser's nose and pulled out the end of a cable and magnaclamp. From another side of the compartment came a wide plastic web safety belt and a pair of harnesses. Wordlessly, he and Kelly slipped into the straps and then hooked the medical kit to the belt. With the belt and harnesses secured to the cable, he gave Clay the order to lower, and the cable began to pay out down the side of the cliff. Ben kept an arm around Kelly as they backed down the almost vertical face of the slope, picking their way among the rocks and brush.

A hundred feet down, they reached the body of a young girl. Ben flashed his light on her head and quickly turned it away. "Keep going down," he said softly into his helmet mike.

Just short of three hundred feet of cable were out when they reached the wrecked car. Ben called to Clay to hold them there and then inched their way to the car. It was wedged upright between two boulders. Ben turned his light inside. The driver was smashed down against the seat, his face turned to the night sky and rain was pouring over his slack, bleeding features.

Blood bubbled from his lips with his shallow breathing. "He's still alive," Ben gasped.

Kelly was already shoving Ben aside and pushing her kit onto the seat. She whipped out a hypogun and slammed it against the youth's bared chest. "Give me your light," she snapped, "and get that chopper here in a hurry with a litter,"

Ben leaned back out into the rain-swept night and eyed the sky. Only the lights of the cruiser were visible.

"Clay," he called over helmet radio, "find out where that chopper is."

A new voice broke in. "This is Chopper 115. I'm about at Marker 4275 Car 56 and I have your lights in sight. Our litter is ready to go. Where is the victim?"

Now Ben could hear the roar of the chopper's jets in the night and its huge spotlight loomed out of the rain. He unclipped his smaller handlight from his belt and aimed its red beam at the approaching aircraft.

"Got you, Five Six," the chopper pilot called.

The craft came rushing in, stopped and hovered outboard of the cruiser but not dropping lower into the gorge. "We'll have to make the lift from here," the chopper pilot called out. "Too turbulent and too dark to take a chance on the side of the hill. Litter coming down,"

From the bottom hatch of the chopper the litter dropped swiftly on its cable, two small flashing lights winking at the front and back to mark it against the dark sky. It came to rest a few feet from Ben and he reached out and pulled it towards him. "Slack off," he ordered.

Kelly had squeezed into the blood-smeared interior of the car and was working around the boy's thighs. "Get his shoulders, Ben," she ordered, "and let's get him out of here fast. He's in deep shock and hurt terribly,"

The officer and the girl worked the inert form out of the wreckage and onto the litter. Ben pulled the plastic cover over the litter. "Take him up," he called. "And then lower the litter back for a DOA.

"Clay, stand by to haul Kelly up," Ben directed.

Kelly had closed her kit and hooked back onto the cruiser cable. Ben gave the word and the cable began hauling her back up the muddy, rocky slope.

The instant she was back on the edge of the road, Kelly slipped out of her harness and went racing to the ramp where the litter hovered a few feet off the ground. She snapped the wheels down from the side of the litter and on command, the chopper lowered the litter to the ground. Seconds later it was up the ramp and into the dispensary beside the surgery table.

The chopper hauled up the cable, affixed another litter and lowered it back down to where Ben was waiting. The senior officer caught hold of the basket and told the pilot to haul up slowly. When he came to the level where the dead girl lay, the litter was halted and Ben gently lifted the shattered form onto the litter.

"Take it up," Ben called, "I'll be hanging on for a hand up this slope."

Inside the cruiser, Clay had come running through the car and burst into the dispensary as Kelly was wheeling the diagnostican into position.

"Let's get him on the table," she ordered. She and the trooper lifted the unconscious youth from the litter to the table and Kelly slipped a plasma needle into a vein even before attaching the big machine. She sprayed another dose of heart stimulant into the boy and turned to the diagnostican.

The boy's eyes flickered open. He stared dully at the white ceiling of the dispensary, his eyes unfocused. "Kelly," Clay yelped, "he's conscious."

The medical officer whipped around and reached for the boy's pulse. She stared at his eyes and rolled the lids back, then quickly began making the diagnostic attachments. Minutes ticked by as the machine analyzed the damage to the injured youth. Kelly had slapped gobs of regen jelly into the superficial wounds that showed while the machine continued its diagnosis. A green light came on when the diagnosis was completed and the last of the taped data spilled from an orifice.

The boy's eyes had closed and his breathing became more labored. Outside, a Patrol ambulance came roaring to a halt and a team of medical technicians came running into the cruiser's dispensary. Wet, muddy and blood-splattered, Ben followed them into the car. While Kelly was reading the tapes, the techs were unlocking the table from the dispensary floor to wheel it out and into the ambulance.

Kelly glanced at the last few readings on the tape and leaned over and rolled the youth's head gently to one side. A stream of blood spilled down his neck from his ear.

She looked at Ben and shook her head.

The medtechs wheeled the table and its still form out into the red glare of the ambulance's warning lights. The crew of Car 56 watched the table vanish into the other vehicle. Red sheets of rain splattered off the hull of the vehicles and the wet roadway.

"You can't win 'em all," Ben swore softly, "but why can't we win the ones with the kids in them?"

A moment later, the medtechs came racing back with a new surgery table for the Patrol car. They rolled it up the ramp and Kelly grabbed it and waved. With Clay's help, she shoved it into the deck clamps and the medtechs ran back for their own vehicle. Seconds later, the ambulance with the dying boy and the body of the dead girl, was hurtling back down the police lane towards Ash Fork.

Ben recovered the cable and winch panel in Beulah's bow and then headed into the cruiser to the men's quarters to clean up and change into dry uniform coveralls.

The wrecker had arrived and the shattered hulk of the sports car had been hauled up the face of the slope. The crews were installing warning lights and temporary barriers along the smashed railing.

Ben got Flagstaff on the radio. "Better keep the yellow closed until this storm moves and at least for the rest of the night," he suggested. "You might lose another one over the side in the dark. Stand by for registration check."

Clay had removed the registration tab from the wrecked car and was back in the cab. He handed the tab to Ben and then checked with Kelly to see if she was ready to roll. "Go ahead," the girl replied. "I'm just cleaning up back here. But give me a couple of seconds warning in case we have to go Code Three in the next few minutes. I've got some of my equipment unracked."

Beulah rumbled across the Colorado River causeway shortly before two in the morning and the control shifted back to Los Angeles. At six in the morning, Car 56 jockeyed into a parking slot in the Los Angeles Barracks motor pool and the completion of the ten-day patrol. The two troopers spent a half hour with the maintenance crew chief going over a number of minor discrepancies in Beulah's operation.

"You •might as well give her a real going-over," Ben told the mechanic. "Don't know how long we're going to be tied up here in L.A. I know it's going to be at least six more days and it could run twice that long. She's due for blade rebalancing in another four hunderd hours so I'd just as soon get that done now and get new throat liners installed at the same time."

"While you're at it," Clay added, "we can use either a repolishing job on the cab bubble or a new bubble. That sandstorm scratched and pitted the canopy and we're getting halation and streaking at night,"

The crew chief made notes and then began unlocking outside inspection ports for the start of the routine vehicle inspection. Ben and Clay collected their gear and headed for the dispatch desk. Kelly had already left the car to report to the medical section with her tapes and reports and would meet them later.

At the dispatch desk, Ben shoved the closed log across the counter to the corporal on duty. The dispatcher glanced at the car number on the log book and then punched Car 56 off the ready board. He turned and reached into a cubbyhole behind the desk and extracted a memo sheet.

"You and your crew are to report immediately to Captain Fisher," he told Ben. He shoved the memo across the counter. Ben nodded and motioned to Clay.

"Will you call over to medical section and inform Officer Lightfoot to meet us here?" Ben asked the corporal.

"She's already been notified," the man said, "and she's on the way over here. Go on into the old man's office and I'll send her in when she arrives."

Ben and Clay headed for Fisher's office.

"We've had so-called 'VIP's' on the docket before," Fisher said, "but never of the political and economic influence of the Shellwoods."

He paused and studied the faces of the three members of Car 56 sitting across the desk from him.

"Since you left here ten days ago," the captain continued, "we've felt the start of the most vicious attack on the Thruway Authority since it was first created. Old man Shellwood has unleashed every one of his hounds on us in an effort to save that kid of his from jail. And this is only the beginning. Before we get through the trial, not only the Authority, but the three of you are going to be subjected to the toughest fight you've ever been involved in.

"Just for a starter, Shellwood's attorneys are entering countersuit charging false arrest, brutality, usurpation of authority and cruelty in subjecting Junior to the perils of disaster in the pileup that you handled while you had him in custody."

Fisher got up from his desk and went to a window that looked out on the huge motor pool area of the barracks. Scores of the sleek and massive blue Thruway cruisers were parked on the line while service crews swarmed over them. He continued his monologue with his back to Beulah's crew.

"We've worked like dogs to build this agency up for the sake of the people," Fisher murmured, "and now one lousy individual is trying to tear it down for his own personal gain.

"When you leave here, you three are to report to the prosecutor's office. He wants to go over all of the arrest reports and the rest of the material that he'll be using when we go into court next Monday. I've gone over all of the tapes and your written reports and I'm satisfied that you acted not only with proper authority but with the degree of propriety that I expect of every Thruway crew. But that may not be enough. There's more at stake here than a simple case of drunk driving charges against an individual."

Fisher turned to face them.

"Nobody loves a cop," he said grimly. "I don't have to tell you that. Everybody wants one in a big hurry when their tails are in the wringer but for the rest of the time, we're just trying to persecute innocent people when we apply preventative measures before they kill them-selves. There's been a lot of talk in Congress about the federal appropriations for Thruway Authority and about the abrogation of American Constitutional rights to the Authority. As usual, the people want to have their cake and eat it, too. They know they could never have had the road system that the Thruways have given them on either a state or national financial basis and that the only way it could be realized was through a continental sharing of costs between the three nations. Well, they've got the roads and now they want to pull out and stop sharing the cost of keeping themselves alive. And Shellwood's outfit is using every bit of anti-Thruway feeling possible against us."

The captain slammed his clenched fist against his desk. "That Shellwood would kill off half the population of this continent if he thought it would keep his kid out of jail."

Ben slumped in his chair, glumly surveying the mosaic pattern of the floor. "What's it take to stop him," he asked without looking up.

"Huh," Fisher snorted, "that's simple. We drop the charges against the kid and the old man grins and goes about his business. And he'll keep grinning until the kid goes out on the roads again and kills himself and probably some other people at the same time. Then the old man will scream for our scalps for not protecting his innocent child from the horrors of the Thruway. But the point is that if he wins this one, it can destroy much of what we've worked like dogs to create. Our biggest gun in the fight to keep people alive on the Thruways has been that the law is bigger than any one person or group of persons and that all violators are treated equally in the courts and on the roads. They know that their basic protection lies in the fact that major violators are barred from the Thruways for life through impartial justice by our courts. Let there be a break in that faith and the entire system is weakened.

"Well, enough of this. You three are now on detail to the prosecutor's office until the completion of this matter. Keep me posted on what's happening."

The trio saluted and left Fisher's office. At the prosecutor's office, Kelly and Clay were asked to wait in the anteroom while Ben was ushered into the inner office.

The Thruway prosecutor was in his middle fifties, slightly balding and beginning to run to paunch. He came around the desk as Ben entered. "I'm John Harvey, sergeant," he said with a smile, his hand extended. "Welcome to the siege of Troy."

He waved at a chair and Ben sat down. Harvey shoved a cigarette box across the desk and then reached for a thick file of papers and microtapes.

"I'm going to level with you, Martin," Harvey said, tapping the pile of evidence. "This is going to be a nasty one. I've set this interview up so that I can talk to each one of you individually and then check each of your stories against the other and then each and all against the reports and tapes. Now don't get me wrong. I haven't the least doubt in my mind that you all have acted in the best possible manner. But if there are any minor technical discrepancies, I want to know about them and be ready to counter them before that battery of defense lawyers has a chance to nail you to the cross,"

"Now let's start at the beginning and tell me the entire story as it occurred." Harvey leaned back and lighted a cigarette and Ben began talking.

While Ben was relating the events of Kevin Shellwood's arrest and the subsequent events, Harvey made occasional notes. When Ben had finished Harvey leaned forward.

"Is that the entire story?"

Ben hesitated thoughtfully. "As far as the actual arrest and the details of the patrol, that's the story,"

"What's that mean?" Harvey queried.

"There have been a couple of things that may have bearing on the case that have occurred since we first pulled into L.A. with Shellwood,"

"Such as what?" Harvey asked with a raised eyebrow. Ben related the visit to his room by Shellwood's attorney before the preliminary hearing.

" . . . And when I got through telling him off," Ben finished, "I threw him out into the hall."

Harvey leaned forward excitedly. "Was there anyone else present while he was making the proposition?"

"No," Ben replied. "Officer Ferguson arrived just as I tossed the guy out into the hall but I don't think he heard any of the conversation."

Harvey sat back disappointedly. "I really didn't expect anyone else to be there," he said. "Those people are too smart for that. You know, if we could prove any attempt by either old man Shellwood or his attorneys, we could bring them to trial, too. But, I suppose, that's too much to hope for."

The two men smoked in silence for a moment. "You said that there were a couple of things that might have bearing," Harvey said. "What's the other thing?"

"I got a telegram from Shellwood Electronics," Ben replied, "raising the ante and keeping the offer open."

Harvey snapped upright in his chair. "Where is the wire?"

"I don't have the actual wire," Ben explained. "It was relayed to me from Oklahoma City Control. The dispatcher forgot to deliver it before we pulled out and I had them open it and read it to me on the air."

"That might be the answer to a tired, old prosecutor's prayer," Harvey exclaimed. He grabbed his desk communicator. "Ruth," he said to his secretary, "get Oklahoma City Control headquarters right away and have them get hold of the original copy of a telegram addressed to Patrol Sergeant Ben Martin." Harvey paused and looked up at Ben. "What date was that sent to you?"

Ben told him.

"That was on the 15th, Ruth," Harvey continued. "Tell them I want that original, together with their log of the transmission to Car 56 concerning that telegram and their sealed tape recordings of the transmissions on the next jet for L.A. Tell 'em I want the entire package here no later than 1300 hours this afternoon."

Harvey sat back and smiled at Ben. "I think somebody goofed," he said gleefully. "I'll give you ten-to-one odds that that wire was never supposed to have been sent. What probably happened is that Shellwood's lawyers had a contract and binding papers drawn up and given to the personnel section and then were going to contact you in person but without witnesses after you got back here to Los Angeles. Probably some over-zealous apple-polisher in the personnel section, like the personnel manager, has taken it upon himself to get hold of you in hopes of currying the old man's favor. And if this is the case, and I'm almost positive it is, we have a chance.

"Now, how was that wire worded?"

"As nearly as I can remember," Ben said, "it said in effect that the original offer is still open for forty-eight hours and that they'd make me director of transportation with an unlimited salary. And I was to contact the personnel manager when I got here."

"Fine," Harvey said, "just great. Get on the horn and call the guy right now and make an appointment. You are about to become the new Director of Transportation for Shellwood Electronics."

Ben stared at the chubby lawyer. "Are you out of your mind, sir ?"

Harvey grinned. "I've never been more serious in my life. You're going to go down there and dicker with these people before their lawyers have a chance to realize what's happening. And you're not only going to dicker over your job—you're going to get plush offers for the other two members of your crew. After all, even with you out of the picture, we could still have a pretty good case against Shellwood with them on the stand. You've got to make the company see that and make them come up with a good offer. Then all three of you are going to take the jobs."

"But that means resigning from the Patrol," Ben protested.

"It sure does," Harvey said. "I'll see that the papers for your resignation and discharges are drawn up right away. Now let's get the rest of that crew of yours in here. We've got some planning to do and not much time to do it."

He barked into his intercom. "Ruth, send in the other two officers and get in here with your vocawriter."

When the crew of Car 56 was assembled in Harvey's office and when his secretary had adjusted her vocawriter mask, the prosecutor began outlining his ideas.

"Now if this works," he said, "by early afternoon you three should be discharged from the Patrol and well on your way to becoming employees of Shellwood Electronics."

"Now wait a minute," Ben growled, "I have no               ..."

"Shut up, sergeant," Harvey snapped, "and don't interrupt me until I get through. Then you can talk.

"As I was saying. You three should all get pretty good offers. But they may be predicated on your full discharges from the Patrol and they'll want to see physical proof of such discharges. We'll have them for the company to see.

"Ruthie, see that the paper work is done within an hour on the discharges of Patrol Sergeant Benjamin Martin,

Patrolman Clay Ferguson and Medical Officer Kelly Lightfoot. Also, draft up simple letters of resignation for their signatures. You know the word, 'for personal reasons, et cetera.'

"When you get those done, have one of the other girls working on three arrest warrants. The usual forms. The

charges will be identical for all three. Coercion and con-

spiracy to coerce and bribe and otherwise intimidate duly authorized officers of the Thruway Authority. The

warrants and the charges are to be drawn up for the arrest

of Quentin Shellwood, Paul Quinn and Theodore Hack-more. Have them ready for my signature before noon

and I'll have the tongues ripped out of the heads of anyone in this office that lets one peep of this out until the warrants are served."

Harvey paused and looked at the trio of patrol officers sitting with dazed smiles on their faces. "Starting to get the picture now?" he asked.

Ben nodded silently.

"That'll do for now, Ruthie. When you get back to your desk, get me the commissioner on the horn." The secretary left the room.

"Now here's a list of a few gadgets I want you people to draw from the investigation section," Harvey said, jotting information on a pad. "You'll need it when you talk about your new jobs in a little while."

"Who may I say is calling please?" the receptionist asked.

"Tell Mr. Hughes that Ben Martin wants to talk with him. Tell him he sent me a wire in Oklahoma City a couple of days ago, just in case my name doesn't ring a bell with him."

The visiphone screen went blank and Ben waited. When it lighted again the face of a man in his middle forties, sporting a small mustache, stared out at Ben.

"Ah, Mr. Martin," Hughes said, "nice of you to call. And just where are you making this call from, if you don't mind my curiosity?"

"I'm downtown at a pay booth," Ben replied, stepping back so that the busy street intersection could be seen over the visiphone.

"Excellent, Mr. Martin," Hughes beamed. "I just knew you would be a man of discretion and understanding. Now, just what is it you wished to speak about?"

"Is your offer still open," Ben asked. "I'd like to come in and talk to you about it."

"It most surely is," Hughes replied, "and I'd be delighted to talk to you about it. I assume then that you are interested?"

"I'm interested," Ben said guilelessly, "but before I commit myself there are a couple of other details that I'd have to work out with you before we could come to any terms."

Hughes eyebrows raised. "Matters of money?"

"Not exactly," Ben said. "I have a couple of friends who I feel would be invaluable not only to me as members of the organization but also invaluable to you as well. They are the other two members of my cruiser who were with me on the night we came down from San Francisco and have almost as much information about the incidents of that night as I do. I think you can see the wisdom of my point,"

Hughes nodded knowingly. "I see the point quite well and as a matter of real coincidence, we had already made plans to assimilate these good people into our organization at the same time we procured your services. I'm way ahead of you Mr. Martin. Now there is just one little detail I would like to arrange before we get together for our talk."

"What's that?"

"You realize, of course," Hughes said smoothly, "that we would be somewhat embarrassed by signing an officer of the Thruway to contract while that officer was still in the service. Therefore, I must insist that you be discharged and have completely severed your connections with the Authority before coming to final terms,"

Ben smiled. "This time, we're way ahead of you. Our discharges are now being processed and will be ready this afternoon,"

"My, but you certainly must have been sure of us," Hughes said.

"I was," Ben replied laconically. "You can't do without

us and if             back out now, even though we might be out

on our ears with the Patrol, we could still be brought to the stand as witnesses,"

Hughes smiled and shrugged. "Quite so, Mr. Martin. I can see that you're going to be a big asset to us. You already think our way. How soon can we get together?"

"I'll be at your office in an hour with my crew," Ben replied. "If we can come to terms, we can wind it up this afternoon,"

Ben broke off the connection and walked out of the booth. The hot summer sun filtered down through the maze of overhead state and city expressways and the highest level of the Continental Thruway running abreast with the twentieth level of the office buildings piercing the sky. He threaded his way through the pedestrians to an autocab parked at the curb. Kelly and Clay, both in civilian dress as was Ben, waited for him.

"We go up to Shellwood in an hour," Ben told them. "Let's get a bite of lunch and go over the operation once more before we go into the lion's den."

They left the cab and strolled along the busy thoroughfare to a nearby restaurant.

"That transceiver working O.K.?" Clay asked Kelly. "It was a few minutes ago," she replied. "You still there, Mr. Harvey?"

Hidden under the copper-red waves of her hair, a tiny earpiece was stuck with collodiplast to her left mastoid bone. "Just as though I were walking with you, Miss Lightfoot," Harvey's voice sounded in her ear. "We are monitoring all three of you loud and clear. And we've just had word that Shellwood Electronics is checking on your discharges and have been told they are being processed. The fish has taken the bait."

"He's there," Kelly told Clay.

An hour later they were seated in Hughes' office in the massive Shellwood Electronics headquarters building on the outskirts of Santa Monica.

"You understand," Hughes said, "that the contracts will become effective immediately upon proof of your separation from the Authority. Now here are the contracts we have drawn up for your approval." He shoved three documents across the desk.

"You will note," he continued, "that the contracts specify that you will accept employment at any place the company desires to assign you and upon the immediate notice of such assignment. Of course, any financial inconvenience brought about by such a move would be borne by the company."

"What's that mean?" Clay asked.

"Quite simply," Hughes said, "that we will have immediate assignments for both you and Mr. Martin at our operational offices in Paris. Miss Lightfoot will join our medical staff in London."

"All three of us out of the country before any trial date, eh," Ben said with a knowing smile.

Hughes returned the smile. "In the best interests of our organization, you understand."

"Get those contracts on film," Harvey's voice sounded in Kelly's ear.

Kelly shoved her contract over to Ben and then took Clay's and pushed it to the senior patrolman.

"You're the brains of this outfit," she said brightly. "Does the picture look all right to you, Ben?"

Ben smiled at her and laid the three contracts side by side on Hughes' desk. "Let's see how they compare," he said. He pulled a pen from his pocket and ostensibly went through the contracts rapidly, line by line. When he had finished, the contracts were on microfilm in the pen. "They look fine to me and the money sounds quite acceptable."

"Do we sign now?" Clay asked.

"There's just one more slight detail," Hughes said. "I have another document which needs your signature. I think that after you have read it, you'll understand the need for it." He pushed a single printed sheet across to Ben.

Ben read the document aloud.

"We the undersigned persons do agree not to testify in any fashion whatsoever against any member of this company or any subsidiary corporation in consideration of contractual employment with this corporation or any subsidiary thereof."

Typed in below the text were their three names and places for their signatures.

"Hell," Ben exploded, "if we sign this, then we become parties to a conspiracy."

"You have a quick mind, Mr. Martin," Hughes said. "I fully realize that this paper wouldn't save anyone from prosecution. But it will assure us that if any member of our organization should be prosecuted on the testimony of any of you, all three of you will then be in the same boat. Just let's call it a little insurance."

"Do your company attorneys know about this?" Ben asked.

"It was drawn up by them," Hughes said haughtily. "But I see no need to drag them into this discussion since we are doing so nicely.

"Now if you'll just sign both the contracts and this paper," Hughes said, leaning across the desk and pointing to the proper places. "You'll get copies of the contracts after we have certified your discharge papers from the Authority. There is only one copy of this other little paper. We'll hang on to that for safekeeping."

Ben held the camera-pen over the self-incriminating document.

"Stand by to assist boarders," Harvey's voice sounded in Kelly's ear.

The door to the outer office burst open and three men entered. One of them went immediately to the desk and seized the papers.

"What's the meaning of this," Hughes spluttered. "You have no right in here. Get out and put those papers down."

One of the intruders flipped open a leather case and held it up.

"Los Angeles Metropolitan Police," the man said. "You are under arrest, Mr. Hughes." He took the personnel manager by the arm.

Sixty floors above, in the same building, two other plainclothesmen shoved their way past the receptionist in Quentin Shellwood's private suite of offices. A uniformed Shellwood security guard rushed up to block their path.

"You can't go in there," he ordered.

"Want to bet," one of the officers said, pushing the man aside and flashing his identification. The uniformed guard continued to block the way. "I don't care if you are L.A.P.D.," he said, "you just don't barge in on Mr. Shellwood,"

The other officer displayed a badge and card case. "FBI," he said tersely, "now get out of the way." The guard paled and backed off. The two agents entered the inner sanctum.

Quentin Shellwood glared up at them from behind his desk.

"Who let you in?" he bellowed. "Get out."

The federal agent displayed his credentials. "Will you please come with us, Mr. Shellwood? We have a warrant for your arrest."

Shellwood's face purpled. "Just who do you think you are," he roared, "ordering me around? And what are you arresting me for ?"

The federal officer pulled out a warrant. "I have a joint Federal and Thruway Authority warrant charging you with conspiracy to coerce and with bribery. Now will you please come with us?"

"I will not," Shellwood cried. "I'll see you two in hell before I leave here on some phony trumped-up charge." He reached for the visiphone. The metropolitan officer reached out and clamped a hand on his wrist.

"Mr. Shellwood," he said softly, "you can come with us in good order, or you can come along in handcuffs. It doesn't make a bit of difference to us. But you are coming. And you'll make no phone calls until you are at headquarters at which time you will be allowed to consult with counsel. Now what's it going to be?"

The executive glared at the pair for a second and then got up from his desk. "Would it be all right with you gentlemen," he asked sarcastically, "if I call my wife and tell her that I may be late for dinner ?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the federal agent said, taking Shell-wood by the elbow and leading him to the door. "Perhaps you can contact your wife later."

Shellwood shook his arm from the agent's grasp. "Get your hands off me," he snarled. "I can walk by myself."

Flanked by the two officers, the head of the nation's largest corporation walked out of his office before the wondering and stunned gazes of his staff.

A half hour later at the opposite side of the city, a similar scene was being enacted in the offices of the law firm of Quinn, Reynolds, Chase and Hackmore. Accompanying the two metropolitan and federal agents were attorneys from the offices of the Thruway Authority and the United States Attorney for the State of California.

While the senior and junior partners of the firm were being taken into custody, other agents, armed with warrants, were moving down the line of vocawriters in the outer office, stopping at each machine to speak thirty-five words into each device. As each vocawriter spewed out its printed text, the agents checked it against a photo copy they carried. Halfway down the bank of machines one of the agents called out. "Here it is."

The other men crowded around him and compared the copy in his hand against the copy on the machine. It read: "We the undersigned persons do agree not to testify in any fashion whatsoever against any member of this company or any subsidiary corporation in consideration of contractual employment with this corporation or any subsidiary thereof." On both the photo copy and the text from the vocawriter, the tail of the letter "y" where-ever it appeared, was partially snapped off.

The trial of Kevin Shellwood on the original charges of driving while drunk, attempted bribery, et cetera, opened the following Monday. It lasted less than a day.

In their individually sealed rooms, the twelve jurors watched the courtroom proceedings through special wide-angle video monitors and viewed and listened to voice and video evidence tapes on their individual screens. Neither the prosecution nor defense could see the jury or gauge the effect their legal maneuverings were having on any one juror. Each of the jurors had been selected from the venire list, sight unseen and had been challenged and questioned in the same manner.

Now, the prosecution was in its concluding statements. Dumpy John Harvey faced the judge and unblinking video eyes of the jury box. ". .

. And man has progressed from the primitive law of the jungle. I have no quarrel with Darwin's theory of the survival of the fittest. But there is also no question but that an entire ethnic and cultural group can survive as the fittest rather than any single individual whose claws and morals might be more deadly than those of his neighbor.

"Our laws are designed for the protection of the masses of humanity and for the preservation of our progress. There can be no doubt in your minds about the evidence presented in this case. We have shown beyond a shadow of doubt that Kevin Shellwood was intoxicated at the time of his arrest. We have given you graphic testimony of the danger to untold lives that he posed in his unwarranted and liquor-laden driving of a three-ton projectile down a Thruway with the velocity of a medium-powered bullet. You have seen pictures and heard his actual voice as he attempted to bribe his way out of his crime. Yet the case of Kevin Shellwood can not stand of itself. In a few days, his father and his attorneys, together with other employees of the rich and powerful industrial empire of Shellwood Electronics, will come before another court and another jury to face additional charges of coercion and attempted bribery. Their alleged crimes are part of Kevin Shellwood's story for both father and son have attempted to set themselves apart from human society; have used money, influence and power to corrupt society for their own ends. They have said in effect 'we recognize no law but that of the clan.'

"Members of the jury, Kevin Shellwood is on trial here today but at the same time, so are you, as representatives of the people. If Kevin Shellwood is freed of the charges against him, society has signed its own death warrant. The magnificent transportation system that a free people of an entire continent have created for their own benefit and safety will become an open invitation to murder by those with enough money to buy their way out of their crimes. You can have no choice but to find Kevin Shellwood guilty as charged. Thank you."

Harvey bowed to the judge and went back to his seat.

At the bench, Thruway Authority Justice James Bell addressed himself to the dozen faces watching him intently on a dozen small monitor screens concealed in the rim of his desk. The faces of the jurors were hidden from all but the judge. He gave his charge to the jury. When he had finished, covers slid down over the video eyes of each juror's room. The jurors could discuss the case over a closed circuit that was unmonitored by any other source.

Across the big courtroom, Kevin Shellwood slumped in his chair at the defense table and eyed the trio of Patrol

officers from Car 56 at the prosecution tables. The

younger Shellwood was flanked by three attorneys but not Quinn and Hackmore. They sat in the spectators

section together with the senior Shellwood, freed under fifty thousand dollars bonds pending their respective trials.

Kelly Lightfoot leaned towards Harvey. "What do you think Kevin will get if they find him guilty?"

Harvey shrugged. "I dunno. That's up to the judge. My guess is that he'll throw the book at him on both

sentence and fine and then possibly withhold some of the sentence. But you never know how these things will turn out."

Kelly looked across the room at the obviously nervous younger Shellwood.

"I feel so sorry for him," she murmured.

"So do I," Ben said, "but not for the same reasons. He might have been a good kid at one time and he still

may turn out all right after this is over. But I can feel a lot sorrier for the people that he might have killed. And when this is over, at least he'll be alive and won't kill himself or anyone else on a highway."

The crew and Harvey got up and went out into the corridor for a smoke. They had just taken a couple of puffs when a muted buzzer sounded at the door to the courtroom. "The jury's ready," Harvey said, snubbing out the cigarette and hurrying back into the courtroom.

Justice Bell was re-entering the room and ascending the bench as the Patrol crew walked back into the courtroom. The judge seated himself and then pressed a button on his bench. The twelve panels slid up from the jury videos. On the bench, the judge's monitors showed the faces of the jurors.

"Have you reached a verdict?" Justice Bell asked. From a speaker over the bench, the voice of one of the jurors sounded. "We have."

Bell glanced up at the defense table. "The defendant will rise and face the bench." Kevin pushed his chair back and stood up.

"Members of the jury," the judge said, "how do you find?"

"We find the defendant, Kevin Shellwood, guilty as charged on all counts."

Across the room the youth slumped and pressed his palms against the edge of the table. His head was bowed. In the spectator section, his father half arose from his seat but was pulled back down by the two lawyers.

Justice Bell addressed the jury. "Is this the verdict of each and all of you individually and collectively?" he asked. "I now poll you individually. Juror Number One, is this your verdict?"

From the speaker above the first video lens came the words, "It is." The justice continued through the twelve. When all had agreed, the judge paused.

"I thank the jury for its verdict and now dismiss it." The covers slid down over the video lens and the monitors on the bench went blank.

"The defendant will approach the bench."

Kevin moved out from behind the defense table, two of his attorneys following him. He halted before the bench.

"Kevin Shellwood," Justice Bell said, "you have been found guilty of all charges against you. Do you have anything to say before the court passes judgment?"

Shellwood shook his head.

"Very well," Bell said. "I hearby sentence you to serve a term in the Thruway Correctional Institution at St. Louis, Missouri not to exceed five years on each count, the sentences to run concurrently. I further fine you the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. However, upon the recommendation of the prosecuting attorney and the recommendation of the arresting officer for your part in a disastrous situation on the Thruway after your arrest, I am suspending two years of your correctional term. And I further direct that the final year of your term, after time for good behavior has been deducted, be spent either on trustee status or under guard depending upon your honor, as an attendant crew member of a Thruway ambulance team. Perhaps then you can witness the kind of tragedy that you came so close to creating.

"I further warn you that under the laws of the Thruway Authority, you are automatically barred for life from the operation of any kind of surface ground vehicle and that failure to comply with this law will bring not only reinstatement of your full sentence but an additional sentence of ten years in correction.

"I should like to add this comment. I personally feel that you are the product of your environment and your family. It is unfortunate that you failed to learn at a much earlier age that laws are made for all people and that there is no such thing as a privileged class. I sincerely hope that in your future dealings with your fellow men following your release, that you will recognize this fact."

Justice Bell raised his eyes and looked over the younger Sheliwood's head to the spectator section where Kevin's father sat.

"It may come as a shock to some people to realize that in this complex society in which we live and this ever-growing technology that both serves and threatens mankind, there are still people to whom the service of humanity is more important than rising above that humanity.

"This trial is ended."

Justice Bell rose from his bench and walked from the courtroom. Two Thruway officers moved up and led Kevin Shellwood away.

The spectators filed out of the courtroom and the crew of Car 56 followed. As they moved past the row of seats where the elder Shellwood still sat, Ben glanced over at the older man. Quentin Shellwood caught the look and turned his face defiantly to the officer. Pure hatred glowed in the older man's eyes. Ben paused and looked steadily at Kevin's father for a moment and then sighed and hurried after his crew.

He caught up with them in the corridor. "Come on," he said, taking Clay and Kelly by the arm. "We've still got time for a leisurely lunch before we head back for the barracks. We'll probably be rolling by nightfall. And I gather from what the old man says, we draw the Miami run this trip."

Clay looked up and stopped. "No kidding, Ben. You really think we'll draw Miami?"

Ben nodded.

Gay fished in his tunic pocket and pulled out the little address book.

"What a break," he murmured, thumbing through the pages, "I didn't think I'd get to see her again this year.

Now what was her last name. . . ."               ■

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