Harry Hayden whistled. "Hey, I never heard that before. Is that in the tapes now? Can't say I understand it too well, but it's a fine idea. Anyway, Driving's good. Cuts down on excess population, too--and with Peru putting in Jetways, it's world-wide. Yep, by golly. Yes, sir!" He thrust a pen at Tom. "All right, boy. Just sign here." Tom Rogers took the pen automatically. "You mean, I--" "Yep, you came through your robot-training tests A-1. Oh, some of the psycho reports aren't too flattering. Lack of confidence, sense of inferiority, inability to adjust. But nothing serious. A few weeks of Driving'll fix you up. Yep, boy, you've passed. You're getting your license. Tomorrow morning you'll be on the Jetway. You'll be Driving, boy, Driving!" _Oh Mother of God, Mother of God...._ * * * * * "And now," said Harry Hayden, "you'll want to see your Hornet." "Of course," murmured Tom Rogers, swaying. The paunchy man rose and led Tom down an aluminite ramp and onto a small observation platform some ninety feet above the ground. A dry summer wind licked at Tom's hair and stung his eyes. Nausea twisted at his innards. He felt as if he were perched on the edge of a slippery precipice. "There," intoned Harry Hayden, "is the Jetway. Beautiful, eh?" "Uh-huh." Trembling, Tom forced his vision to the bright, smooth canyon beneath him. Its bottom was a shining white asphalt ribbon, a thousand feet wide, that cut arrow-straight through the city. Its walls were naked concrete banks a hundred feet high whose reinforced lips curved inward over the antiseptic whiteness. Harry Hayden pointed a chubby finger downward. "And there _they_ are--the Hornets. See 'em, boy? Right there in front of the assembly shop. Twelve of 'em. Brand new DeLuxe Super-Jet '41 Hornets. Yes, sir. Going to be twelve of you initiated tomorrow." Tom scowled at the twelve jetmobiles shaped like flattened tear-drops. No sunlight glittered on their dead-black bodies. They squatted silent and foreboding, oblivious to sunlight, black bullets poised to hurl their prospective occupants into fury and horror. _Grandpa looked so very white in his coffin, so very dead--_ "What's the matter, boy? You sick?" "N--no, of course not." Harry Hayden laughed. "I get it. You thought you'd get to _really_ see one. Get in it, I mean, try it out. It's too late in the day, boy. Shop's closing. You couldn't drive one anyway. Regulation is that new drivers start in the morning when they're fresh. But tomorrow morning one of those Hornets'll be assigned to you. Delivered to the terminal nearest your home. Live far from your terminal?" "About four blocks." "Half a minute on the mobile-walk. What college you go to?" "Western U." "Lord, that's 400 miles away. You been living there?" "No. Commuting every day on the monorail."