The highways were of course, superb. He raced forward, and the car's communicator began to mutter as somebody in the undamaged part of the building chattered that he'd gotten in a car and away. It described his course. It commanded that he be headed off. It hysterically demanded that he be killed, killed, killed—
Another voice took its place. This voice was curt and coldly furious. It snapped precise instructions.
Calhoun found himself on a gracefully curving, rising road. He was midway between towers when another car flashed toward him. He took his blaster in his left hand. In the split second during which the cars passed each other, he blasted it. There was a monster surge of smoke and flame as the stricken car's Duhanne cell shorted and vaporized half the metal of the car itself.
There came other voices. Somebody had sighted the explosion. The voice in the communicator roared for silence.
"You," he rasped. "If you got him, report yourself!"
"Chee-chee-chee!" chattered Murgatroyd excitedly.
But Calhoun did not report.
"He got one of us," raged the icy voice. "Get ahead of him! And blast him!"