"What's the matter?" asked Frazer.
"Headache," Harry muttered. He menaced a Chevsoto with his bumper. "Damn it, I thought they didn't allow those big four-passenger jobs on this arterial during rush hours!" Gradually he managed to turn until he was in the righthand lane. "There," he said. "We're off."
And so they were, for all of three minutes, with the speed set at fifteen on autopilot. Then a signal went into action somewhere up ahead, and the procession halted. Harry flicked his switch. As was customary, horns sounded indignantly on all sides—a mechanical protest against a mechanical obstruction. Harry winced again.
"Hangover?" Frazer asked, solicitously. "Try aspirystamine."
Harry shook his head. "No hangover. And I've already taken three, thanks. Nothing does any good. So I guess it's just up to you."
"Up to me?" Frazer was genuinely puzzled. "What can I do about your headaches?"
"You're on the Board of City Planners, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"Well, I've got a suggestion for you to give to them. Tell them to start planning to drop a couple of heavy thermo-nucs on this area. Clean out twenty or thirty million people. We'd never miss 'em."
Frazer chuckled wryly. "I wish I had a buck for every time I've heard that suggestion."