Dad went on:
"That devil really was a killer. Fellow name of Wilson. Been Driving for six years. Had thirty-three accident ribbons with twenty-one fatalities—not one of them honorable. That Wilson drove for just one purpose: to kill. He met his match in our Tom Rogers."
Applause from Uncle Mack and Aunt Edith and Bill Ackerman and Lou Dorrance—and more important, from young Larry Miles and big Norm Powers and blonde Geraldine Oliver and cute little Sally Peters.
Tom smiled. Not only your friends tonight, Dad. Tonight it's my friends, too. My friends from Western U.
Fame was as unpredictable as the trembling of a leaf, Tom thought, as delicate as a pillar of glass. Yet the yoke of fame rested pleasantly on his shoulders. He had no inclination to dislodge it. And while a fear was still in him, it was now a fragile thing, an egg shell to be easily crushed.
Later Mom came to him. There was a proudness in her features, and yet a sadness and a fear, too. Her eyes held the thoughtful hesitancy of one for whom time and event have moved too swiftly for comprehension.
"Tomorrow's Saturday," she murmured. "There's no school, and no one'll expect you to Drive after what happened today. You'll be staying home for your birthday, won't you, Tom?"
Tom Rogers shook his head. "No," he said wistfully. "Sally Peters is giving a little party over in New Boston. It's the first time anyone like Sally ever asked me anywhere."
"I see," said Mom, as if she really didn't see at all. "You'll take the monorail?"
"No, Mom," Tom answered very softly. "I'm Driving."