Mind Webs - The Race

With its two juicy beef patties and three slices of melted cheese topped with tangy big arch sauce

The big arch is what happens when you start making a McDonald's burger and never stop

The big arch the most McDonald's McDonald's burger yet for limited time

With verbals last-minute deals you can save over

$50 on your spring getaway. So whether it's a mountain escape city break or a week at the beach

There's still time to get great discounts. Look your next day now average savings $72 select homes only

Mine with

Welcome to a half hour of mind waves, short stories from the worlds of speculative fiction.

This is Michael Hansen with a mind web story titled The Racer by Ed Melkier, copyright 1956 by the D publishing company.

Willie felt the familiar intoxicating excitement. His mouth was dry, his heart beat faster, all the senses seemed more aware than ever.

It was a few minutes before 0800 hours, his time to start. This was the day. From all the long island starting fields, the racers were taking off at 15 minute intervals.

The sputter and roar of cars warming up were everywhere. The smell of oil and fuel fumes permeated the air. The hub up of the great crowd was a steady din.

This was the biggest race of the year. New York to Los Angeles, 100,000 bucks to the winner. Willie was determined to better his winning record of last year, 33 hours, 27 minutes, 12 seconds in time.

And although it was becoming increasingly difficult, he do as damnedest to better his score, too. He took a last walk of inspection around his car.

Sleek, low slung, dark brown, the practically indestructible plastic glass top looking deceptively fragile like a soap bubble.

Not bad for an old fashioned diesel job. He kicked the solid plastic rubber tires in the time honored fashion of all drivers.

Hank was giving the last minute shine to the needle sharp, dearest steel horns protruding from the front fenders.

Willie's car wasn't nicknamed the bull. A lot of reason. The front of the car was built like a streamlined bull's head, complete with bloodshot evil looking eyes, iron rang through the flaring nostrils and the horns.

Although most of the racing cars were built to look like tigers or sharks or eagles, there were a few bulls, but Willie's horns were unequaled.

Carried 79, ready for starting five minutes.

Blared the lot speaker. Carried 79, Willie Conner's driver, Hank Morosky mechanic, ready your car for starting five minutes.

Willie and Hank took their places in the bull. Had a touch by Willie on the starter, the powerful diesel engine began to low-per.

It rose slowly in the starting line.

The last check, said Willie. Right, came Hank's answer.

Oil and fuel, 40 hours, rolling fluid, sealed, no sleeves, check, energy in tabs, check, thermo-drink, check.

The starter held the checkered flag high over his head. The crowds packing the grandstands were on their feet, hushed, waiting.

Well, here we go, whispered Willie. The flag fell. A tremendous cry rose from the crowd, but Willie hardly heard it.

Accelerating furiously, he pushed his car to its top speed of 190 miles an hour within seconds, shooting like a bullet along the straightaway toward Manhattan.

He was elated, exhilarated. He was a racer, and full of tricks. Willie shot through the tunnel directly to Jersey.

Well, rumbled Hank. How can you tell me now?

Toledo, said Willie. Toledo, Ohio, on the runway, we should make it in under three hours.

He felt a slight annoyance with Hank. There was no reason for the man to be touchy. He knew a driver didn't tell anyone the racing route that he selected.

News like that had a habit of getting around. It could cost a racer his score.

There's not much chance of anything coming up until after we hit Toledo, but keep your eyes peeled, Hank. You never know.

Hank, merely granted that. It was exactly ten forty eight hours when the bull streaked into the deserted streets of Toledo.

Okay, well, what now? Grand Rapids, Michigan. Grand Rapids, but that's an easy three hundred miles detour. I know. It's crazy. It'll cost us a couple of hours.

So, Grand Rapids is all the way up between the lakes, so who will be expecting us up there? Oh, oh yeah, yeah, I see.

The time, isn't everything my friend, whoever said the shortest distance between two points is this straight line. The score counts too, you know? And here's where we pick up our score.

The first tragiac never even knew the racer had arrived. The bull struck him squarely through him up in the air and let him slide off its plastic glass back, leaving the red smear behind and somewhat to the left of Willie. All in a split second.

Mirror, Calvin College, an imprudent co-ed found herself too far from cover when the racer suddenly came streaking down the campus.

Frantically, she sprinted for safety, but she didn't have a chance with a driver like Willie behind the wheel. The racer sharp horn on the right fender sliced through her spine so cleanly that the jar wasn't even felt inside the car.

Leaving town, the racer wasn't lucky again, an elderly woman had left the sanctuary of her stone walled garden to rescue a straight cat.

She was so easy to hit that Willie felt a little cheated. At 12.32 hours, they were on the speedway headed for Kansas City. Hank, look an odd Willie.

Three, Jesus, score a three already, and all of them kills for sure. Man, Willie, you really know how to drive. Hank settled back contentedly as if he could already feel his $25,000 cut in his pocket, maybe gone to whistle. The racers are roaring off key.

Even after his good score, it annoyed Willie, and for some reason he kept remembering the belatedly fleeting look in the old woman's eyes as he struck her. Funny, that should stay with him.

He estimated they'd hit Kansas City in around 1815 hours, central standard time. Hank turned on the radio.

Peoria, Illinois, was warning its citizens of the approach of a racer. All spectators should watch from safety places. Willie grinned. That would be in. Well, he wasn't looking for any score in Peoria.

Dave Noel Highell told the racer having made a tragic accident score of 1. Fort Wayne, Indiana, was crowing over the fact that three racers had passed through without scoring once. From what he heard, it seemed to Willie he had a comfortable lead both in time and score.

They were receiving Kansas City now, an oily voiced announcer was filling in the time between racing scores with what appeared to be a brief history of racing.

And the most popular spectator sports of the latter half of the 20th century were such mildly exciting pursuits as boxing and wrestling.

Of course, the spectators enjoyed seeing the combatants trying to main each other and there was always the chance of the hoped for fatal accident.

Motor racing, however, gave a much greater opportunity for the tragic accident so exciting to the spectator. One of the most famed, old speedways, Indianapolis, where many drivers and spectators alike ended as bloody tragic acts, is today the nation's racing shrine.

Motor racing was already then held all over the world, sometimes with scores reaching the hundred mark and long distance races were popular.

The modern race makes it possible for the entire population to Willie switched off the radio. Why did they always have to stress the score?

Time was important too. The speed and the endurance, that was part of an ace racer as well as the scoring ability.

He took an energy tag, they were entering Kansas City.

That there were three racers with better time than he and one had tied his score. The bulls stayed just long enough in the checkpoint pit for Hank to make a quick engine inspection and they took off again.

It was eighteen, eighteen hours central standard when they left the city limits behind. They'd been driving more than nine hours.

About fifty miles along the through way to Denver, just after passing through a little town called Lawrence, Willie suddenly slowed down and Hank had been dosing set up in the alarm.

What's wrong? What's wrong, Willie? Nothing wrong. Relax. You seem to be good at that. But why are you slowing down? You heard the checkpoint record. Our score has already been tied. We've got to better it.

The plastic rubber tires screeched on the concrete speedways Willie turned down and exit leading to the class two road. Why down here? You can only go about eighty miles an hour.

A large loomy sign appeared on the side of the road ahead. Lone star, eleven miles, it announced. And Willie pointed. That's why.

In a few minutes, Lone star came into view. It was a small village and Willie was traveling as fast as he could on the secondary road.

He plowed through a flock of chickens, hurtled over a little mongrel dog, which crawled the upping towards the safety of a house and awaiting arms of a little girl and managed to graze the leg of a husky youthhood, both of the high wooden fence, and then they were through Lone star.

Hank activated the little dashboard screen, which gave them a rear view. That's not going to do much for our score. Ah, shut up. What was the matter with him?

He couldn't be getting tired already. He swallowed a no sleep. That would help. Hank was quite as they sped through the pecan, took the through way to Oklahoma City. But out of the corner of his eyes, he was looking speculatively at Willie, hunched over the wheel.

It was getting dusk and Willie is switched on as powerful head beams at a faint wettish tent because of the coloring of the bull's eyes. They had just whizzed through a little bird named Perry when there was a series of sharp cracks, Willie started.

Now that they go again, us dumb hinterland Hicks will never learn they can't hurt us with their fly poppers. He knocked the plastic glass dome affectionately. Takes atomic pallets to get through this baby. Of course, he must be unedged to be taken by surprise like that.

Willie had run into anti-racers before just a handful of malcontents. The racing commission had already declared them illegal. Still, at every race they took pot shots at the racers, a sort of pathetic defiance. Why should anyone want to do away with racing?

They were entering the outskirts of Oklahoma City now. Willie killed his head beams. No need to advertise. Suddenly, Hank grabbed his arm. Wirtlessly, he pointed. There, Garrison got he gleaned the neon sign of the theater. Willie slowed to a crawl. He pulled over to the curb and the dark car melted into the shadows. He glanced at the clock.

Twenty-two or three hours, perhaps. Down the street a man cautiously stuck his head out from the theater entrance. Warrily, he emerged completely looking up and down the street carefully. He did not see the bull.

Presently, he ventured out into the center of the roadway. He stood still, listening for a moment. Then he turned and back and towards the theater. Immediately a small group of people emerged at a run.

Now, the acceleration slammed the racers back in their seats. The bull shot forward and bore down on a little knot of patrified people with a pawling speed. This time, there was no mistaking the hits. A quick succession of powers had Willie calling upon all his driving skill to keep from losing control. Hank pressed the clean spray button to wash the blood off the front of the dome. He sat with eyes glued to the rear view screen.

Man, oh man, what a record. What a score. Willie, please, please stop. Let's get out. I know it's against regulations, but I just got to see how we did. It won't take long. We can afford a couple of minutes time now.

Suddenly, Willie felt he had to get out too. This was the biggest tragiacchi had ever had. He had a vague feeling there was something he wanted to do. He brought the car to a stop. They stepped out.

Within seconds, the deserted street was warming with people. Now the racers were out of their car. They felt safe and curious. A few of them pressed forward to take a look at Willie.

Naturally, he was recognized. His photo had been seen in one way or another by everyone. Well, he was gratified by this obvious adulation he looked about him.

There were many people in the street now, but they were not all falling and beaming upon him. Willie frowned. Most of them looked grim, even hostile. Why? What was wrong?

Wasn't he one of their greatest racers? And hadn't he just made a record score? Given them a tragic act, they wouldn't soon forget what was the matter with those eggs.

Suddenly, the crowd parted and slowly a young girl walked up to Willie. She was beautiful, even with a terrible anger burning on her face.

In her arms, she held a still body of a child. She looked straight at Willie with loathing in her eyes. Her voice was low, but steady. When she said,

Boy, care. Someone in the crowd called. Careful, Muriel. But she paid no heed. Turning from him, she walked on through the crowd, parting for her. Willie was stunned.

Ah, come on. Let's get out of here. Hank said anxiously. Willie did not answer. He was looking back through the crowd to the scene of his tragic accident. Never before had he stopped.

Never before had he been this close. He could hear the moaning and sobbing of the mains over the low murmur of the crowd. It made him uneasy. Back there, they worked hurriedly to get the tragic acts off the street. There were so many of them. Butcher?

All at once he was conscious of Hank pulling at him. Come on. Let's get roaring. Let's go.

Quickly, Willie turned and entered the car. Almost at once the street was empty. He turned on his headbeams and started up faster and faster. The street was dead. Empty.

No, there. Someone, holding it. It was Butcher. No, Muriel. She stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the street holding the child in her arms. In the glaring headlights her face was white, her eyes terrible burning dark.

Willie did not let up. The car hurtled down upon the lone figure and passed. They had lost 13 minutes.

Now they were on their way to El Paso, Texas. The nagging headache Willie suffered the whole week of planning before the race had returned. He reached for no sleep, hesitated a second, and then took another Hank, glanced at him, worriedly.

Willie, a easy boy. Willie did not answer. That anti-racer get under your skin. Come on. Don't let it bother you. Butcher, she had said. Butcher. Willie was staring through the plastic glass dome at the racing pool of light from the headbeams. The bowl was tearing along the through way. It had almost 180 miles per hour. What was that?

There, in the light. It was a face terrible. Dark eyes getting larger. Larger. Muriel. It was Butcher. No, Muriel. No, it was a racer. A racing car with Muriel's face shrieking down upon him closer, closer. He threw his arms in front of his face.

It was dimly he heard Hank shout. Willie. He felt the car lurch. Automatically he tightened his grip on the wheel. They had greened close to the shoulder of the speedway. Willie sat up ahead of him. The road was clear and empty.

It was still dark when they hit El Paso. The radio told them their Oklahoma score. Five and eight, five kills. Eight mains. Hank was delighted. They were close to setting a record. Hank had already begun to spend his 25,000. Willie was uneasy. His headache was worse. His hands were clammy. He kept hearing Muriel's voice saying.

Butcher. Butcher. Butcher.

What? He was not a Butcher. He was a racer. He'd showed him. He'd win this race. El Paso was a disappointment, not a soul inside. Phoenix. Next.

The clock said, oh, six, five, eight hours. MST when they roared into Phoenix. The streets were clear. Willie had a slow down to take a corner. As he spread into the new street, he saw her. She was running across the roadway. Hank, whoop. Come on, go, Willie, go.

The girl looked up an instant and terror. Her face. It was the old woman with a cap. No, it was Muriel. Muriel with the big dark eyes. In the last split second, Willie touched the power steering. The bull responded immediately and shot past the girl as she scampored to safety.

Hey, Willie, what the hell is the matter with you? You could have scored. Are you out of your head? We don't need her. We'll win without her. Yes, why hadn't he scored? It wasn't Muriel. Muriel was back in Butcher in Oklahoma City. Damn this headache.

Well, maybe so. Maybe we will win anyway, but I want to be sure, Willie. I want about the bonus we're setting the record, huh? 10,000 a piece and we're close. Or maybe you've lost your nerve. Wonder what the commission will say to that. I've got plenty of nerve. Yeah, prove it. Hank pointed to the dashboard map slowly tracing that progress. There. See that village with a screwy name. We'll key up off the through way. Let's see a score there.

Willie said nothing. He hadn't lost his nerve. He knew that. He was the best of the racers. No one could drive like he could. Constant top speed and stamina took the split second timing, the unaring judgment. Well, all right, Willie agreed. They hadn't even reached the wiki up when they spotted the farmer. He didn't have a chance.

The bull came charging down upon him, but in the last moment, the car veered slightly. One of the horns ripped the man's hip open. In the rear view screen, Willie saw him get up and hobble off the road.

And you, you could have made it a kill. Why, why didn't you? There's a bad road. The wheel slipped on a stone. That's what must have happened. He thought he didn't consciously veer away from the man. He was a good racer.

He couldn't help a bad road. Needles was left behind at 10.45 hours, specific standard time. No one had been out. Hank turned on the radio to a needle station.

Has just left the city going west. No other racers reported within 20 minutes of the city. We repeat, a racer has just left. Hank, click it off.

Hear that? 20 minutes. They don't expect anyone for 20 minutes. He took hold of Willie's arm. He turned around. Here's where we can get ourselves that record score. Turn around, Willie.

We don't need it. I do. I do. I want that bonus. Willie made no answer. I listened to me, you two-bit racer. You or nobody else is going to cheat me out of that bonus. You've been acting mighty peculiar. More like an anti-racer.

Ever since you stopped at that tragic accident back there, yeah, that girl, that anti-racer who called you a butcher. Listen, Willie, you get that record score or I'll report you to the commission for having snooped around a tragic accident. You'll never race again.

Never race again. Willie's brain was whirling, but he was a racer, not a butcher, a racer. Record score? Yes. Yes, that's what he had to do. Set a record. Be the best damned racer of them all.

Without a word, he turned the car. In minutes, they were back at the needle suburbs, that building, a schoolhouse, and there marching orderly into rows with their teacher, a class, a whole class of children.

The bull came charging down the street. Only a couple of hundred feet now to that record score. But what was that? It was, they were, murial. They were all murial.

Terrible dark eyes. No, they were children, the child in murial's arms. They were all the child in murial's arms.

Were they already moaning and screaming? Butcher? Butcher? No, he couldn't butcher them. He was a racer, not a butcher, not a butcher.

Deliberately, he swung the car to the empty side of the street. Suddenly, he felt Hank's hands on the wheel.

You dirty, lousy, anti-racer? And Hank struggled for the wheel. The car lurched the two men, what savagely, for control, they were only yards from the fleeing children.

With a violent wrench, Willie turned the wheel sharply. The car was going 165 miles an hour when it struck the schoolhouse and crashed through the wall into the empty building.

The voices came to Willie through thick wads of cotton, and they kept fading in and out.

Dead instantaneously, but the racer is still.

It sounded like the voice of Murial. Murial. Keeps calling for.

Willie tried to open his eyes. Everything was milky white. Why was there so much fog? A face was bending over him. Murial? No, it was not Murial. He lost consciousness again.

When he opened his eyes once more, he knew he was not alone. He turned his head. A girl was sitting at his bedside. Murial. It was Murial. He tried to sit up.

It's you, but how? The girl put her hand on his arm. The radio. They said you kept calling for Murial. I knew. Never mind that now.

She looked steadily at him. Her eyes were not terrible, not burning only dark and puzzled.

Why did you call for me? Willie struggled to sit up. I wanted to tell you. I am not a butcher. The girl looked at him for a long moment. Then she leaned down and whispered to him.

Nor a racer.

You have heard the racer by Ed Melkier. Copyright 1956.

This is Michael Hanson speaking technical operation for this program by Bob Chan. Mindwebs is produced at WHA Radio in Madison, a service of University of Wisconsin Extension.