Fusion and Fisk were moving up on sales faster than on the pack, perhaps because the spectators knew what would happen on the next level heat, but not fast enough. The demon would settle for nothing less than total victory.
"Oh-oh," Yola said. "Loop's coming next. Cool it, leadfoot."
Bill groaned again. He was showing signs of recovery.
Fisk's eyes were on the desertlike sandflat beyond. Gently rolling dunes were artfully placed to alleviate the monotony and impede progress—a straight-line route would necessarily take in several of them. The alternative was to waste time going around them. He had no idea of what it was like to drive on sand. But if the other cars could handle it, so could Fusion—and this might be its last chance to pass the pack before the finish.
"Steamco still leads going into the Loop," the radio said. "Pack's pretty close and tight, though. There's likely to be some action..."
Indeed there was. Fisk observed the Loop, nestled in the angle between the Mountain terminus and the Dunes plain. It seemed to be about three lanes wide—but the pack contained about fifteen cars and few of them were giving way to let the procession become orderly. The Fusion was gaining, but would strike the Loop just after the pack did.
It didn't look as though there were any inherent limit on speed here—the faster he went, the less likely he would be to fall off at the upsidedown apex, provided he had the car under control. And as long as nothing got in his way. But could his defective body take the strain? The Fusion was willing—the flesh was weak.
The first car hit the Loop. Up and over it went at some five hundred miles per hour, like a toy. Only car lengths behind it came the second, closing. Then, squeezing in two and three abreast, the pack, vying for position even as they encountered the vertical ascent. And the Fusion was bearing down at 550 mph, still accelerating, still gaining.
Steamco shot from the corkscrew exit and landed on the fringe of the sandflat. Dust billowed up momentarily. Electro smacked into this and swerved, stirring up a greater cloud. Then the pack was tearing through like so many piranhas.
Fisk was entering the Loop at 600 mph.
"Hang on!" he yelled, though Yola needed no warning. They smashed into the vertical curve and Fisk's breath left him. This was in effect a ten- or fifteen-G takeoff, he was sure. He clutched at a painful gray awareness.
"...spectacular crash!" the radio blared avidly and Fisk realized he had failed and could expect nothing but agony before he died. "Pileup just beyond the Loop..."
Not me—someone else...
He was headed up at 650 mph. The reality that kept him fighting was the climbing needle, signifying conquest.
Yola screamed thinly. They were upside down, plummeting headfirst, leveling, taking off, upside down, proceeding along the awful corkscrew of the Loop. Fisk shoved the pedal all the way to the floor, connecting engine to wheels without any bleeding of power. He rode the descent lane into ever increasing velocity.
670... 685... magic pictures on his retina... 700... 715... 730... and they were sailing off the skirt of the Loop. 740... the wheels seemed hardly to touch the sand and only the little vanes kept the car level. 742... 744... acceleration was slower now. The great machine shuddered as though its stress limit had finally been met and all that was left for Yola was a shaken moan.
745... and the needle quivered, seemed to strain. This was ultimate glory!
"...fire prevents recovery of the bodies... total loss... worst disaster of the year... look at Fusion!"
Dead ahead, half concealed by a low dune and a sinking dust cloud, was the roadblock. Licks of flame shot up and smoke was piling into the sky. No chance to turn. A thousand feet away—and in less than one second they were upon it, traveling at 750 mph, Fisk's foot still savagely mashing the pedal. The Fusion was tearing itself apart and eradication was a microsecond away, but he would not even attempt to ease up. Already he was touching the vane-angle switch.
The low dune shoved the rubberoid and metal aloft in a single mighty convulsion. The great wheels barely touched the flaming corpse of the nearest car.
And they were airborne as the shaking became almost intolerable. Fumes siphoned in through the stuffed hole as the car was bathed in fire. The speedometer stood at 760. "Great God," Yola screamed in a whisper. "We've cracked the speed of sound!"
"Fusion is past!" the radio gasped. "Fusion hurdled pileup..."
The car landed, and sand swirled up behind it in little tornadoes spawned by the vacuum of their passage, but the mighty machine crunched on. The flames were far behind. Fisk's hands and arms were senseless and stiff in a kind of living rigor mortis, but straight ahead was all the car needed in the way of a directive. Now at last his foot began to creep up from the pedal.
"What—what?" a voice mumbled.
"Hey, he's coming to," Yola cried as Bill stirred.
"Keep him quiet." Fisk's voice rasped. "We're still doing six-ninety on sand—"
"Sales," the radio said "Steamco one-fifty-two... Fusion—one moment, it's still changing—that feat of piloting really stirred up the—never saw anything like it. Fusion takes the lead in sales! Fusion one-seventy-three... And Steamco—one moment—"
Bill lifted his head. "God, man, that's near my best. What—"
"I had to take over," Fisk said tersely. He was still fighting the rising tide of gray behind his eyes.
"Yeah—but—"
"Revised sales," the radio said. "Fusion two hundred and eight—folks, it's still changing. We can't get a fixed reading. The race isn't even finished... Fusion two-forty-nine... two-sixty-one—" There was an unexplained pause, then: "Folks, to recap: there has been a fifteen-car collision on the Dunes just beyond the Loop, but the remaining cars are still running. Here's the replay—" Another pause as the screen viewers saw the film. "Steamco retains the lead on the track, but that's all—and Fusion is coming up fast. The others—seven cars, I believe—are picking their way around the wreckage, avoiding the flames. None of them will finish in the money. It's a two-car race! Fusion, not known for its maneuverability, pulled such an extraordinary feat of—Fusion three hundred and nineteen! Those orders are pouring in! Here's the replay on that hurdle of death. That's Fusion firing out of the Loop—look at that! It cracked mach one! We thought the car was out of the running, then this! The buyers are really impressed. Hell, I'm impressed, and I've been in this business for—Most racers would have been smashed to pieces, busting sound like that, let alone doing it through flame! Fusion three-seventy... four hundred... Folks we can't keep up. Unprecedented sales for an unfinished race. Looks like a record in the making, even if Fusion doesn't win the Hurdle. Four-fifty-two... I gotta buy one myself..." The announcer panted into silence.
"That tells it," Bill exclaimed. "Sweetest music I ever heard. And I thought you couldn't drive—"
"I can't," Fisk said. "I'm sicker than you are."
Bill looked at him. "You're white as bones—you have a heart condition? I've lost some blood, but I've taken lumps before—better let me take over. Kid, get down on the floor or somewhere."
Yola scrambled down, finding a place to squat between the bucket seats. Bill threw the switch and Fisk's controls went dead. Now he could relax. These regular racing drivers were almost as tough as their cars.
"What's next?" Bill demanded, angling the car gently around another dune.
"Tunnel," Yola said, wrestling with the map.
"Fusion six hundred and seven..."
Fisk lay back and let himself slide into whatever oblivion awaited. The demon had left him, but Fisk-normal still needed his medicine. The race's end could not be far off and it did look as though he were planning to survive.
"Fusion seven-twenty-six..."