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 wipedperspiration from his forehead, his upper lip, the palms of his hands.
His mind caressed the hope: Maybe I've failed the tests. Maybe theywon'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 theendless streams of taped data fed from mouths in the dome-shapedceiling.
"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 afoam-rubber contour chair.
"Surprised, eh, boy?" boomed a deep voice. "No robots at this stage ofthe 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 thedesk and began thumbing through a file of papers. He was paunchy andbald save for a forepeak of red-brown fuzz. His gray eyes, with thedreamy look imposed by thick contact lenses, were kindly. Sweepingacross his flat chest were two rows of rainbow-bright Driver's Ribbons.Two of the bronze accident stars were flanked by smaller stars whichindicated limb replacements.
Belatedly, Tom noticed the desk's aluminum placard which read HarryHayden, Final Examiner—Human.
Tom thought, Please, Harry Hayden, tell me I failed. Don't lead up toit. 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. Nosiblings. 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.
Harry Hayden's face hardened. "You've tried to enlist before? You wereturned down?"
"This is my first application."
Sudden hostility swept aside Harry Hayden's expression of kindliness.He scowled at Tom's file. "Born July 18, 2020. This is July 16, 2041.In two days you'll be twenty-one. We don't issue new licenses to peopleover twenty-one."
"I—I know, sir. The psychiatrists believe you adjust better to Drivingwhen you're young."
"In fact," glowered Harry Hayden, "in two days you'd have beenclassified as an enlistment evader. Our robo-statistics departmentwould have iss