Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE DRIVERS BY EDWARD W. LUDWIG _Jetways were excellent substitutes for war, perfect outlets for all forms of neuroses. And the unfit were weeded out by death...._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Up the concrete steps. Slowly, one, two, three, four. Down the naked, ice-white corridor. The echo of his footfalls like drumbeats, ominous, threatening. Around him, bodies, faces, moving dimly behind the veil of his fear. At last, above an oaken door, the black-lettered sign: DEPARTMENT OF LAND-JET VEHICLES DIVISION OF LICENSES He took a deep breath. He withdrew his handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his forehead, his upper lip, the palms of his hands. His mind caressed the hope: _Maybe I've failed the tests. Maybe they won't give me a license._ He opened the door and stepped inside. The metallic voice of a robot-receptionist hummed at him: "Name?" "T--Tom Rogers." Click. "Have you an appointment?" His gaze ran over the multitude of silver-boxed analyzers, computers, tabulators, over the white-clad technicians and attendants, over the endless streams of taped data fed from mouths in the dome-shaped ceiling. "Have you an appointment?" repeated the robot. "Oh. At 4:45 p. m." Click. "Follow the red arrow in Aisle Three, please." Tom Rogers moved down the aisle, eyes wide on the flashing, arrow-shaped lights just beneath the surface of the quartzite floor. Abruptly, he found himself before a desk. Someone pushed him into a foam-rubber contour chair. "Surprised, eh, boy?" boomed a deep voice. "No robots at this stage of the game. No sir. This requires the human touch. Get me?" "Uh-huh." "Well, let's see now." The man settled back in his chair behind the desk and began thumbing through a file of papers. He was paunchy and bald save for a forepeak of red-brown fuzz. His gray eyes, with the dreamy look imposed by thick contact lenses, were kindly. Sweeping across his flat chest were two rows of rainbow-bright Driver's Ribbons. Two of the bronze accident stars were flanked by smaller stars which indicated limb replacements. Belatedly, Tom noticed the desk's aluminum placard which read _Harry Hayden, Final Examiner--Human_. Tom thought, _Please, Harry Hayden, tell me I failed. Don't lead up to it. Please come out and say I failed the tests._ "Haven't had much time to look over your file," mused Harry Hayden. "Thomas Darwell Rogers. Occupation: journalism student. Unmarried. No siblings. Height, five-eleven. Weight, one-sixty-three. Age, twenty." Harry Hayden frowned. "Twenty?" he repeated, looking up. _Oh, God, here it comes again._ "Yes, sir," said Tom Rogers.