of super-speed got him. In any case, he went into that tough corner as though he had half of space on either side of him, trying to ride his racing jets around.

He couldn't make it and I knew he couldn't. But, so help me, when he started that inevitable skid toward me I braked and gave way. Instead of holding steady and making him swallow his speed, the way I had learned to do in years of racing and months of knitting my bones in the hospitals of five planets and a couple of asteroids, I gave him room. And right there I knew I'd finally learned something. For the first time in years of riding I was doing the safe thing, and I knew, then, that I was all set to ride a race.

My giving way must have crossed the kid up. Maybe he didn't figure that a guy with a string of crashes so long it would scare a light-year would make room for a young squirt fresh out of the country fair circuits, and he was planning on crowding me just enough to swing him around the bend. Now, in a desperate effort to stop his skid, he cut his port jets and blasted all out with the starboard side.

This sudden application of power swung him back toward the fence, and he had to reverse propulsions to keep from crashing. In a moment he was bouncing back and forth, vibrating like a tuning fork and losing speed so fast it looked as though he were standing still.

I swung over into the pole position. Ziggy's gold cylinder followed right along, drawing a stream of sparks as he caromed off my ectovent. It was the kind of trick stuff Ziggy likes—slashing, skidding, grandstand riding that congealed the customer's blood. Ordinarily I would have welcomed this chance for a little fancy riding, but now I blasted Ziggy to hades and back.

In the low tier I could see Skid's blue rocket jamming along half a length out in front. How he managed to pull a lead from that bunch of wolves he was riding with must have been part miracle. Next to him I had a brief glimpse of the nose of Maruu's ship. On the outside, Steve's big stick was hugging the force fence.

I settled down to shake off Ziggy, pouring out all the speed I could get from my multiple jets. Slowly the laps were building up. Bend after bend came slamming around, each one eating up a little more energy and nerve, making it just a little harder to take the break that would finally come.

Phil March, driving a slim, pale green rocket, made that break. He found a hole between Ziggy and Chuck Larson and came blasting 

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