The jetmobile terminal was like a den of chained, growling black tigers. White-cloaked attendants scurried from stall to stall, deft hands flying over atomic-engine controls and flooding each vehicle with surging life. Ashen-faced, shivering in the early-morning coolness, Tom Rogers handed an identification slip to an attendant. "Okay, kid," the rat-faced man wheezed, "there she is--Stall 17. Brand new, first time out. Good luck." Tom stared in horror at the grumbling metal beast. "But remember," the attendant said, "don't try to make a killing your first day. Most Drivers aren't out to get a Ribbon every day either. They just want to get to work or school, mostly, and have fun doing it." _Have fun doing it_, thought Tom. _Good God._ About him passed other black-uniformed Drivers. They paused at the heads of their stalls, donned crash-helmets and safety belts, adjusted goggles. They were like primitive warriors, like cocky Roman gladiators, like armored knights, like star fullbacks. They were formidable and professional. Tom's imagination wandered. _By Jupiter's beard, we'll vanquish Attila and his savages. We'll prove ourselves worthy of being men and Romans.... The Red Knight? I vow, Mother, that his blood alone shall know the sting of the lance.... Don't worry, Dad. Those damned Japs and Germans won't lay a hand on me.... Watch me on TV, folks. Three touchdowns today--I promise!_ The attendant's voice snapped him back to reality. "What you waiting for, kid? Get in!" Tom's heart pounded. He felt the hot pulse of blood in his temples. The Hornet lay beneath him like an open, waiting coffin. He swayed. "Hi, Tom!" a boyish voice called. "Bet I beat ya!" Tom blinked and beheld a small-boned, tousled-haired lad of seventeen striding past the stall. What was his name? Miles. That was it. Larry Miles. A frosh at Western U. A skinny, pimply-faced boy suddenly transformed into a black-garbed warrior. How could this be? "Okay," Tom called, biting his lip. He looked again at the Hornet. A giddiness returned to him. You can say you're sick, he told himself. It's happened before: a hangover from the party. Sure. Tomorrow you'll feel better. If you could just have one more day, just one-- Other Hornets were easing out into the slip, sleek black cats embarking on an insane flight. One after another, grumbling, growling, spatting scarlet flame from their tail jets. Perhaps if he waited a few minutes, the traffic would be thinner. He could have coffee, let the other nine-o'clock people go on ahead of him. _No, dammit, get it over with. If you crash, you crash. If you die, you die. You and Grandpa and a million others._ He gritted his teeth, fighting the omnipresent giddiness. He eased his body down into the Hornet's cockpit. He felt the surge of incredible energies beneath the steelite controls. Compared to this vehicle, the ancient training jets were as children's toys.