the bill; I sighed, relieved that it suited, and
gratified as well that our mission's minor task had been
successed so soon. Taking my buys, I readied to depart.
"Hey, lady," the child said.
"Yes?"
"How much for this?" He drew his forefinger in and out
of his mouth, slurping as if lunching up noodles. By his
laughter I gathered that the proprietor appreciated the
boy's mimesis; I didn't. Walking out sans reply, I briskfooted
as I'd entered, returning to our car.
"Police roundabouting," John said, shifting into drive as
I seated myself. "Our look peculiars in unguessed manner,
I'd reason."
"Let's take that big road," I said, peering downstreet; at
42nd's terminus was a tangle of ramps, resembling a razorwire barrier tumbled groundways. "Onload there. It'll send
us soonest, fastest."
Neither police nor any others approached as we merged
into traffic; at Ninth Avenue John steered us onto the Jerseybound ramp. Cars ahead stopped, started and stopped again; walls on either side of the ramp blinded our view of
what awaited, and it was only as we readied to blend that our
chosen course showed plain. The Midtown Arterial carried
twenty lanes; cars, trucks and buses hurtled by at unnerving
velocity.
"This wasn't forewarned," I said.
"Little has been," John said. "It's an Indy racecourse.
Brace, Iz. We'll thunder road."
We were over the river, on the highway's towerless bridge
before we commingled with the traffic flow; the water was
unseeable from where we'd laned ourselves. "Aim me, Iz,"
John said, twohanding the wheel, stilling the wobbles raised
by car-wind. "Which way?"
"Moment." Opening our new atlas I studied the metro
map, marveling at the network charted. "John, it's so different-" Two express routes-I-1 and 1-2-cut across Long
Island, splitting into four crosstowns before entering Manhattan; another pair, 1-3 and 1-4, came down from New
England, slicing the Bronx and Harlem before they, too,
divided.
"Shit, "John said, his stare fixing roadways. "Iz, it's hellbound. Viz this, would you?"
The six Manhattan crosstowns shot into Jersey, coalescing
atop the remnants of Weehawken and Union City, thrusting
an eighty-lane boulevard into the blurred horizon. Not even
LA had such roads in our world, in our day.
"What's the speed limit?" I asked as he floored. "Hypersonic?"
"None, as evidenced," said John. "We're topping out."
He held our car within our entry-lane; around us vehicles
bearing like look to ours, though of subtler hue, paced and
overtook us sans seeming exertion. The preponderance of
cars were a smaller model that was no more than a bulge
with running boards; appearing, grouped, as insects swarming over the highway's gray hide. Some lanes were used solely by double-length trucks and buses, moving so fast as
the cars though they held ten times the mass.
"Where now, Iz?" John shouted. "Inform! Hasten-!"
"Hold," I shouted, glancing forthback, attempting to
overlay the print grid with the one through which we mazed.
High steel towers, each shingled with a dozen directionals,
stood at roadside every hundred meters, forecasting which
lane would carry which vehicles where; in our rush their
words were indecipherable. Oversized billboards began lining the expressway's low outbanks, spaced every twenty meters, positioned at an angle visible, if unreadable, to all who
drove by. "I'll have it, momentslong-"
"Which way?" Seven lanes on our right plunged earthward as their course redirected north.
"1-3, bearing south," I said, fixing our position on the
Jersey map. Staring through the overcast I eyed an upcoming tower's signs; sighted the guidemark needed. "Go left,
ten lanes across."
"Ten?"
"As told," I said. 'john-!" One of those buggish cars
almost slipsided us as we underwayed our sidle. My husband
jerked the wheel; I cycled my feet against the floor as if,
against reason, I might assist in braking us. Horns blared,
sounding as a flock's migratory blast; no one
gratified as well that our mission's minor task had been
successed so soon. Taking my buys, I readied to depart.
"Hey, lady," the child said.
"Yes?"
"How much for this?" He drew his forefinger in and out
of his mouth, slurping as if lunching up noodles. By his
laughter I gathered that the proprietor appreciated the
boy's mimesis; I didn't. Walking out sans reply, I briskfooted
as I'd entered, returning to our car.
"Police roundabouting," John said, shifting into drive as
I seated myself. "Our look peculiars in unguessed manner,
I'd reason."
"Let's take that big road," I said, peering downstreet; at
42nd's terminus was a tangle of ramps, resembling a razorwire barrier tumbled groundways. "Onload there. It'll send
us soonest, fastest."
Neither police nor any others approached as we merged
into traffic; at Ninth Avenue John steered us onto the Jerseybound ramp. Cars ahead stopped, started and stopped again; walls on either side of the ramp blinded our view of
what awaited, and it was only as we readied to blend that our
chosen course showed plain. The Midtown Arterial carried
twenty lanes; cars, trucks and buses hurtled by at unnerving
velocity.
"This wasn't forewarned," I said.
"Little has been," John said. "It's an Indy racecourse.
Brace, Iz. We'll thunder road."
We were over the river, on the highway's towerless bridge
before we commingled with the traffic flow; the water was
unseeable from where we'd laned ourselves. "Aim me, Iz,"
John said, twohanding the wheel, stilling the wobbles raised
by car-wind. "Which way?"
"Moment." Opening our new atlas I studied the metro
map, marveling at the network charted. "John, it's so different-" Two express routes-I-1 and 1-2-cut across Long
Island, splitting into four crosstowns before entering Manhattan; another pair, 1-3 and 1-4, came down from New
England, slicing the Bronx and Harlem before they, too,
divided.
"Shit, "John said, his stare fixing roadways. "Iz, it's hellbound. Viz this, would you?"
The six Manhattan crosstowns shot into Jersey, coalescing
atop the remnants of Weehawken and Union City, thrusting
an eighty-lane boulevard into the blurred horizon. Not even
LA had such roads in our world, in our day.
"What's the speed limit?" I asked as he floored. "Hypersonic?"
"None, as evidenced," said John. "We're topping out."
He held our car within our entry-lane; around us vehicles
bearing like look to ours, though of subtler hue, paced and
overtook us sans seeming exertion. The preponderance of
cars were a smaller model that was no more than a bulge
with running boards; appearing, grouped, as insects swarming over the highway's gray hide. Some lanes were used solely by double-length trucks and buses, moving so fast as
the cars though they held ten times the mass.
"Where now, Iz?" John shouted. "Inform! Hasten-!"
"Hold," I shouted, glancing forthback, attempting to
overlay the print grid with the one through which we mazed.
High steel towers, each shingled with a dozen directionals,
stood at roadside every hundred meters, forecasting which
lane would carry which vehicles where; in our rush their
words were indecipherable. Oversized billboards began lining the expressway's low outbanks, spaced every twenty meters, positioned at an angle visible, if unreadable, to all who
drove by. "I'll have it, momentslong-"
"Which way?" Seven lanes on our right plunged earthward as their course redirected north.
"1-3, bearing south," I said, fixing our position on the
Jersey map. Staring through the overcast I eyed an upcoming tower's signs; sighted the guidemark needed. "Go left,
ten lanes across."
"Ten?"
"As told," I said. 'john-!" One of those buggish cars
almost slipsided us as we underwayed our sidle. My husband
jerked the wheel; I cycled my feet against the floor as if,
against reason, I might assist in braking us. Horns blared,
sounding as a flock's migratory blast; no one
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