Free Voyagers II - The Alien Within by Ben Bova Page B

decides. The men are constant, always striving to get the woman. The women are never constant; they’re always trying to make up their minds about accepting this particular male or some other one.”
    “Hamlet?” snapped Richards.
    “His mother chose Claudius, and that’s what started all the trouble.”
    “Hemingway!”
    Laughing, Stoner said, “I just finished The Sun Also Rises and For Whom the Bell Tolls last night. The women make all the decisions.”
    Richards stood there, frowning and tugging at his mustache.
    “Try Jane Austen,” Stoner suggested, “or Gone With the Wind .”
    The psychiatrist shook his head. Returning the book to the windowsill, he said, “I don’t really have the time to discuss literature with you. Come on, you’re going to lunch with Mrs. Nillson.”
    “I’m ready,” said Stoner.
    Richards led him through corridors he had not seen before, out to a parking lot and a sleek, silver, two-seated automobile.
    “Alfa Mercedes,” Richards muttered. “My sublimation machine.” Stoner folded himself into the front seat as Richards slid behind the wheel and flicked his fingers over the keypad on the dash. The roof glowed briefly and disappeared. Stoner grinned. The same trick that turned a solid wall into an open doorway also turned the hard-topped car into a convertible.
    “One of the fringe benefits of being relatively high up on the ladder of Vanguard Industries.” Richards grinned back at him. “You get a lot of special features for your car, way ahead of the production models.”
    The engine purred softly, and the car eased out of the parking lot.
    “Electric motor?” Stoner asked.
    Richards nodded, swinging the car past the uniformed guards on either side of the parking lot’s entrance and out onto the access road to the highway.
    “Most vehicles are electrical now. One of the little gifts your dead friend gave us: fusion energy.”
    The car accelerated smoothly and quietly up onto the broad four-lane highway. Other cars whizzed past, as fast and quiet as a charging cheetah. Trucks rumbled along in their own lanes, passing all but the speediest of the autos.
    “The trucks still use internal combustion engines,” Richards explained. “Hydrogen fuel, though. No more kerosene.”
    “Nobody does fifty-five, do they,” Stoner shouted over the rush of the wind that was tousling his hair.
    Richards pecked out another combination on the dashboard keys, then took his hands off the wheel and leaned back in his chair.
    “She’s on automatic now. I won’t have to pick up the steering again until we turn off the highway.”
    Stoner lifted his face to the glorious Hawaiian sun. He felt free and fine, the wind whistling by, the sunshine warm, the lovely beach racing past.
    “There’s no speed limit on the highways anymore,” Richards told him. “No need to conserve fuel, so we adapted the European system. Besides, with magnetic bumpers and miniradar warning systems tied automatically to the computer that runs the engine, it’s almost impossible to have a collision.”
    “There’s no seat belt.”
    “Another gift from your friend,” Richards shouted into the wind. “An energy shell absorbs any impact forces and keeps you safely in your seat. The car can be totaled, and you’ll just get up and walk away from it. This’ll go into the production cars next year, they tell me.”
    “Ought to please the insurance companies!”
    Richards nodded happily.
    Stoner eyed him for a moment. He could see through the psychiatrist’s veneer of self-control. “How fast can this buggy really go?” he asked.
    Richards smiled slightly, and his left hand unconsciously snaked toward the steering wheel. “Pretty damned fast.”
    “A hundred?”
    “Miles or kilometers?”
    “Miles.”
    “Easy.” He reached into the compartment under the dashboard and pulled out a pair of skin-soft gloves. Stoner saw that they were worn nearly through at the palms and knuckles. Richards wormed them onto