miles astern and still the gap closed. Thefugitive car flashed past the site of the abandoned roadblock andfifteen seconds later all four patrol cars racing ahead of theTravelaire broke into almost simultaneous reports of "Here he comes."
A second later, Clay Ferguson yelled out, "There he goes. He'sboondocking, he's boondocking."
"He has you spotted," Martin broke in. "He's heading for the median.Cut, cut, cut. Get out in there ahead of him."
The driver of the fugitive car had seen the bulk of the four bigpatrol cruisers outlined against the slight rise in the thruway almostat the instant he flashed onto their screens ten miles behind them. Hebroke speed, rocked wildly from side to side, fighting for control andthen cut diagonally to the left, heading for the outer edge of thethruway and the unpaved, half-mile-wide strip of landscaped earth thatseparated the east and westbound segments of NAT-26.
The white and green car was still riding on its airpad when it hit thelow, rounded curbing at the edge of the thruway. It hurtled into theair and sailed for a hundred feet across the gently-slopingsnow-covered grass, came smashing down in a thick hedgerow ofbushes--and kept going.
Car 56 slowed and headed for the curbing. "Watch it, kids," Bensnapped over the intercom, "we may be buying a plot in a second."
Still traveling more than five hundred miles an hour, the huge patrolcar hit the curbing and bounced into the air like a rocket boostedelephant. It tilted and smashed its nose in a slanting blow into thesnow-covered ground. The sound of smashing and breaking equipmentmingled with the roar of the thundering jets, tracks and air drives asthe car fought its way back to level travel. It surged forward andsmashed through the hedgerow and plunged down the sloping snowbankafter the fleeing car.
"Clay," Ben called in a strained voice, "take 'er."
Ferguson's fingers were already in position. "You all right, Ben?" heasked anxiously.
"Think I dislocated a neck vertebra," Ben replied. "I can't move myhead. Go get 'em, kid."
"Try not to move your head at all, Ben," Kelly called from her cocoonin the dispensary. "I'll be there the minute we slow down."
A half mile ahead, the fugitive car plowed along the bottom of thegentle draw in a cloud of snow, trying to fight its way up theopposite slope and onto the eastbound thruway.
But the Travelaire was never designed for driving on anything but amodern superhighway. Car 56 slammed through the snow and down to thebottom of the draw. A quarter of a mile ahead of the fugitives, thefirst of the four roadblock units came plowing over the rise.
The car speed dropped quickly to under a hundred and the cocoons wereagain retracted. Ben slumped forward in his seat and caught himself.He eased back with a gasp of pain, his head held rigidly straight.Almost the instant he started to straighten up, Kelly flung herselfthrough the cab door. She clasped his forehead and held his headagainst the back of the control seat.
Suddenly, the fugitive car spun sideways, bogged in the wet snow andmuddy ground beneath and stopped. Clay bore down on it and was abouttwo hundred yards away when the canopy of the other vehicle poppedopen and a sheet of automatic weapons fire raked the patrol car. Onlythe low angle of the sedan and the nearness of the bulky patrol carsaved the troopers. Explosive bullets smashed into the patrol carcanopy and sent shards of plastiglass showering down on the trio.
An instant later, the bow cannon on the first of the cut-off patrolunits opened fire. An ugly, yellow-red blossom of smoke and fireerupted from the front of the Travelaire and it burst into flames. Asecond later, the figure of a man staggered out of the burning car,clothes and hair aflame. He took four plunging steps and then fellface down in the snow. The car burning and crackled and a thickfunereal pyre of oily, black smoke billowed into the gray sky. It wassnowing heavily now, and before the troopers could dismount and plowto the fallen man, a thin layer of snow covered his burned body.
* * * * *
An hour later, Car 56 was again on NAT 26-West, this time heading forWichita barracks and needed repairs. In the dispensary, Ben Martin wasstretched out on a hospital bunk with a traction brace around his neckand a copper-haired medical-surgical patrolwoman fussing over him.
In the cab, Clay peered through the now almost-blinding blizzard thatwhirled and skirled thick snow across the thruway. Traffic densitieswere virtually zero despite the efforts of the dragonlike snow-burnerstrying to keep the roadways clear. The young trooper shivered despitethe heavy jacket over his coveralls. Wind whistled through the shellholes in Beulah's canopy and snow sifted and drifted against the backbulkhead.
The cab communications system had been smashed by the gunfire and Claywore his work helmet both for communications and warmth.
The door to the galley cracked open and Kelly stuck her head in. "Howmuch farther, Clay?" she asked.
"We should be in the barracks in about twenty minutes," the shiveringtrooper replied.
"I'll fix you a cup of hot coffee," Kelly said. "You look like youneed it."
Over the helmet intercom Clay heard her shoving things around in thegalley. "My heavens, but this place is a mess," she exclaimed. "Ican't even find the coffee bin. That steeplechase driving has got tostop." She paused.
"Clay," she called out, "Have you been drinking in here? It smellslike a brewery."
Clay raised mournful eyes to the shattered canopy above him. "Mycooking wine" he sighed.
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