Bart Sponsor was a Top Competitor and he pitied those who were not. But one small error made him seek retirement. Yet, he could only-- COMPETE OR DIE! By Mark Rainsberg [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy February 1957 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I slammed the aircar door and fumbled in my pocket for the key. I cast a quick backward glance at the policeman a hundred feet away. He wheeled about at the sound. My trembling fingers tried to fit the key into the ignition. "Halt!" the policeman yelled unlimbering his gun and breaking into a run. My fingers failed to coordinate. I heard a shot and nervously dropped the key. I bent over frantically to scoop it up. There was another shot. Pieces of glass trickled down my neck. I straightened up and saw a hole in the windshield, level with my eyes. "Hands up!" The cop had slowed down to take careful aim. He was so close now he could hardly miss. "Don't shoot!" I shouted. "I surrender!" I inserted the key in the ignition with desperate precision, gunning the engines so hard that the ship spun halfway around. The policeman leaped out of the way as my Cad Super roared past him and lurched into the air. I heard a tattoo of shots from the ground and then we were out of range. I swore as the acceleration crushed me deep into the seat. My forehead was pounding. "Bart Sponsor, fugitive," I thought bitterly. "And only a half-hour ago I was a pillar of society. Worst thing I had to worry about was a speeding ticket...." * * * * * ... I had been griping to my wife as usual about the rush-hour morning traffic above Chicago. "Look at this. Just look at this," I said disgustedly. Below us, the lanes were choked with ponderous, slow-moving commuter copters. Around us, flivver-jets clogged the expressway like millions of migrating birds. We couldn't make more than three hundred miles an hour. "The stupid shlubs," I muttered resentfully. "They ought to ride the pneumatic tubes to work." "The airlanes should be reserved for Top Competitors only," said Celia teasingly. "Like you, dear." I ignored her sarcasm and scanned the empty lane overhead. All that blue sky set aside for outgoing traffic, and nothing in sight. A shameful waste. I gunned our Cad Super, joyfully, defiantly, and scooted up over the assigned traffic stream at a thousand per. Celia gave me an alarmed look. "Bart! You'll get a ticket." I grinned and kicked our speed up an additional two hundred.