"Look at this. Just look at this," I said disgustedly.
Below us, the lanes were choked with ponderous, slow-moving commuter copters. Around us, flivver-jets clogged the expressway like millions of migrating birds. We couldn't make more than three hundred miles an hour.
"The stupid shlubs," I muttered resentfully. "They ought to ride the pneumatic tubes to work."
"The airlanes should be reserved for Top Competitors only," said Celia teasingly. "Like you, dear."
I ignored her sarcasm and scanned the empty lane overhead. All that blue sky set aside for outgoing traffic, and nothing in sight. A shameful waste.
I gunned our Cad Super, joyfully, defiantly, and scooted up over the assigned traffic stream at a thousand per. Celia gave me an alarmed look.
"Bart! You'll get a ticket."
I grinned and kicked our speed up an additional two hundred.
Illegal, of course, but I made terrific time crossing the Iowa-Illinois border where Chicagoland begins. I didn't squeeze back into the expressway until mighty Municipal Tower came into view through the dense industrial haze above Lake Michigan. There atop the building stood a gigantic sign revolving on a pivot with the wind. It bore the seal of Chicago and the stunning legend: I WILL COMPETE. Most inspiring motto in the world, I think.
Celia touched my hand. "We'll have to stop at the bank first."