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 casta 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 arun.
My fingers failed to coordinate. I heard a shot and nervouslydropped the key. I bent over frantically to scoop it up.
There was another shot. Pieces of glass trickled down my neck. Istraightened 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 soclose now he could hardly miss.
"Don't shoot!" I shouted. "I surrender!"
I inserted the key in the ignition with desperate precision, gunningthe engines so hard that the ship spun halfway around. The policemanleaped out of the way as my Cad Super roared past him and lurched intothe 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 foreheadwas pounding.
"Bart Sponsor, fugitive," I thought bitterly. "And only a half-hourago I was a pillar of society. Worst thing I had to worry about was aspeeding ticket...."
... I had been griping to my wife as usual about the rush-hour morningtraffic above Chicago.
"Look at this. Just look at this," I said disgustedly.
Below us, the lanes were choked with ponderous, slow-moving commutercopters. Around us, flivver-jets clogged the expressway like millionsof migrating birds. We couldn't make more than three hundred miles anhour.
"The stupid shlubs," I muttered resentfully. "They ought to ride thepneumatic tubes to work."
"The airlanes should be reserved for Top Competitors only," said Celiateasingly. "Like you, dear."
I ignored her sarcasm and scanned the empty lane overhead. All thatblue sky set aside for outgoing traffic, and nothing in sight. Ashameful waste.
I gunned our Cad Super, joyfully, defiantly, and scooted up over theassigned traffic stream at a thousand per. Celia gave me an alarmedlook.
"Bart! You'll get a ticket."
I grinned and kicked our speed up an additional two hundred.
Illegal, of course, but I made terrific time crossing the Iowa-Illinoisborder where Chicagoland begins. I didn't squeeze back into theexpressway until mighty Municipal Tower came into view through thedense industrial haze above Lake Michigan. There atop the buildingstood a gigantic sign revolving on a pivot with the wind. It bore theseal of Chicago and the stunning legend: I WILL COMPETE. Most inspiringmotto in the world, I think.
Celia touched my hand. "We'll have to stop at the bank first."
"No time," I said. "We're due at the school at nine-thirty."
"It won't hurt to be a few minutes late. This is important, Bart."
We have a good marriage, and I don't quarrel with Celia's wishes. Butthis meant another delay, and I could already see half the morningshot, what with the meeting in the principal's office, and afterwardsperha