The Drivers

Jetways were excellent substitutes for war, perfect outlets for all forms of neuroses. And the unfit were weeded out by death....
Up the concrete steps. Slowly, one, two, three, four. Down the naked, ice-white corridor. The echo of his footfalls like drumbeats, ominous, threatening.
Around him, bodies, faces, moving dimly behind the veil of his fear.
At last, above an oaken door, the black-lettered sign:
DEPARTMENT OF LAND-JET VEHICLES DIVISION OF LICENSES
He took a deep breath. He withdrew his handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his forehead, his upper lip, the palms of his hands.
His mind caressed the hope: Maybe I've failed the tests. Maybe they won't give me a license.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
The metallic voice of a robot-receptionist hummed at him:
Name?
T—Tom Rogers.
Click. Have you an appointment?