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

like a second skin. I was sloppy with her, getting the hang of the course, but she forgave me everything.
    A prime sweetheart.
    In fact, the ole racing fever hit me when I was out there at speed, and in the gut-clutch of socking a saucy sander around a singing circuit I almost forgot why I'd come to Dark Side.
    Then I saw Wrenhurst.
    He'd just driven into the pits, arriving like the king he was. Hugeracevan, carrying his prize winning Kingfisher , plus three spare boats just like her in case he got a scratch on the hull. Half a dozen spare jato units. Suspension kits. Tools enough to build another Rim City. And a dozen fat Moonies to run his errands. Plus a covey of mechanics to make sure he won in style.
    "Acts like he owns the course," I said to the racer who shared my pitspace. Called himself Skeeter Watson. Skinny as a fence rail in New Montana. Hangdog face. Never smiled.
    "He does, " said Skeeter. "He built this whole shebang to fit his style of racing. We got the only mile long straight on Luna. Mr. Wrenhurst likes to feed the boys his dust on that straight. Nobody's passed him there in the last three hundred twenty-seven races." Skeeter sighed."But we all keep trying."
    I grinned to myself. History was about to be made on Dark Side! Wrenhurst slid from the vancab to the ground and I got my first plain squint at him. Regal. That's the word. Dressed in flared ridetops, gold-piped, with a silver mesh bodyblouse slashed to the navel to show his dyed chest hair. Zircon rings on each thumb. Ivory shark teeth in his pierced earlobes. A spun-pearl hairnet protecting his long locks from Moongrit. He had the vulpine features of a Martian lopewolf, and his eyes were as cold as a winter's night in the Horsehead Nebula.
    I didn't like him.
    "So he always wins, eh?"
    Skeeter nodded sadly. "Always. Mr. Wrenhurst doesn't like losing at anything. When his house computer beat him at three-hand stud, he had it short circuited."
    I waited until Skeeter left the pits before digging out Joe's atompac and snapping it into place on the Irmaline . I made the proper connections without anyone being the wiser.
    Neat. I'd doubled my thrustpower.
    Nobody was going to beat me.
    Not even Pendorf Wrenhurst.
    * * *
     
    Two dozen sandboats were competing, lined up in rows of three at start-finish according to their lap times.
    Wrenhurst, in his golden Kingfisher, claimed lead position, of course. One quick session around the circuit had earned him the pole. To nobody's surprise.
    I was back in row seven, just one up from the last three boats. Even Skeeter's old mudtub had posted a faster lap time — and with a warped gorkle in his booster. He was in front of me, in row six.
    I adjusted my wraparound headhat, checked my skingoggles, and tightened the holdbelt across my chest.
    Nobody was worried about me in this race. Here I was, a spoiled hotshot from Mars in my first Moon event, a dumbo playboy with no lake experience. Why, they'd cream me out, they would. They'd stomp and bury me.
    Only they didn't.
    When the green flag dropped I was with the first dozen boats into Turn 1, blasting away from the slower tubs with a jolt of speed that laid my head back against the cushbar and tied knots in my tummy.
    Irmaline was fast!
    In fact, due to this unexpected surge of atom power, I slid wide on 2, and almost put her into the rocks. As it was, I scraped an inch of red paint off her left tweeter.
    Throttle down, fella, I told myself. You've got another nineteen laps ahead of you. Learn how this rig handles with double thrust. Lay back and pick off the boys one at a time. And stay clear of the rocks!
    I smoothed out and began picking up slots.
    By the end of the third lap I was running with the top ten — and the geeps were watching me closely. They had one perched on every turn, long-billed and armor-feathered, with those big wide greenish eyes of theirs scanning each boat as it powered by.
    A geep didn't miss anything.
    So, okay. So they figure I'm running