Free Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) by William F Nolan

line. They'll be watching you all through the race. They use geepers. Got the best eyes in the System."
    "Like I said, let me worry about that end of it."
    Joe stepped back, proudly. He dusted his big hands. "She's all yours, pard. Go break your bones!"

Thirteen
     
    The Moon was always a bore.
    Sterile, lacking color, full of unsightly craters. On Luna you eat sand and spit rocks. A dead wasteland of chill peaks and raw valleys. No wonder they'd abandoned the Moon colony.
    Still, Rim City was hanging in there, with its sleazo dendives and cut rate sexhuts, catering to Loonies and gungoons, driftbums and retired spacers. The dregs.
    Richos lived on Dark Side, away from the floaters in the Rim — and all the sandlake races were run under laser lights. The Loonies stayed out. Dark Side was reserved for wealthy eccentrics and biz-moguls. And for daring sportsmen such as Tyrus Steadman, the devil take the hindmost racing fanatic.
    * * *
     
    Who was Steadman? Well, before he got to Dark Side he used to be a private dick out of Bubble City. Name: Sam Space.
    Call me Ty.
    I'd raced before. Swamp cabs mostly, in tanktown events on Venus. Jungle runs. Strictly for laughs. No rules. No limits. Just bash your way to a win. I'd won a couple; I'd also gone on my nog more than once in those souped up clunks, and I knew how it felt to kiss the wall at full revs. The V-shaped scar on my back, running from shoulder to butt-bone, came from racing swampers.
    I could bash with the best of them.
    But I'd never sandraced. I'd faked out enough ID to convince the richos that I was worthy of their sport, but there was no use pretending I knew anything about running a Moonlake.
    "Nothing to it, boyo," the tech inspector told me as he point-checked my boat. " Just stay clear of the fantails."
    We were in the pits, a large rocked-off area just beyond the marked lake course. The laser lights made it bright as day.
    "What about fantails?" I asked the tech.
    "These lakes are more fine grain dust than sand," he said. "And Moondust is rough if you ride the tweeters. Fantail thrown up by the boat ahead can blind you for sure. Next thing you know, you're off the course with a rock up your cod. Kaput!"
    "If I don't hang in close, how do I pass?"
    "Most of that is done on the long back straight. You cut left to miss the fantail. Power can get you by on the straight. Passing on a turn can wipe you out."
    "I'll remember that," I told him.
    He made a final note in his foilpad, snapped it closed. He punch-stamped my hull. "You're A-Okay for the race, Mr. Steadman. And, I might say, she's a nice little sander."
    "Thanks," I said.
    "Give you a bit of advice?"
    "Sure."
    "Since this is your first lake run, don't try for a top slot. Stay back and watch how the fast boys operate. Learn the ropes. Then, next time out, you can maybe open up and go for the gravy."
    I told him I was sure that was good advice. And it was. Only I wasn't out to learn; I was out to win. And with Joe's atompac on board, I knew I could take any other rig on the lake.
    "Good luck, Mr. Steadman."
    "Call me Ty," I said, and threw him a smile.
    * * *
     
    The course was laid out on the floor of a dead crater (that's the only kind they've got on Luna) with plenty of sharp turns and a mile-long straight just before you come into start-finish. Each turn was banked with high walls of packed Moonrock, which meant you made damn sure not to lose it on one. You could afford to spin on the straights without any major problems, but the lane past start-finish was narrow, with high metaloid watchstands flanking it on both sides.
    For my practice runs I naturally left off the pac, meaning my lap times were nothing to write home over. I was mainly trying to wring out the boat, to see what she'd do and what she wouldn't in terms of handling.
    She was sweet in the tight stuff, and I could take her through the dogleg nearly flat out. No wobble or whiffling.
    Joe was some kind of a genius. Irmaline hugged the sand