Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact--Science Fiction, February 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Code Three
The cars on high-speed highways
must follow each other likesheep.
And they need shepherds.
The highway police cruiserof tomorrow
however must be massively different—
as different as the highways themselves!
by Rick Raphael
Illustrated by Schoenherr
The late afternoon sun hid behind gray banks of snow clouds and a coldwind whipped loose leaves across the drill field in front of thePhiladelphia Barracks of the North American Continental ThruwayPatrol. There was the feel of snow in the air but the thermometerhovered just at the freezing mark and the clouds could turn eitherinto icy rain or snow.
Patrol Sergeant Ben Martin stepped out of the door of the barracks andshivered as a blast of wind hit him. He pulled up the zipper on hisloose blue uniform coveralls and paused to gauge the storm cloudsbuilding up to the west.
The broad planes of his sunburned face turned into the driving coldwind for a moment and then he looked back down at the weather reportsecured to the top of a stack of papers on his clipboard.
Behind him, the door of the barracks was shouldered open by his juniorpartner, Patrol Trooper Clay Ferguson. The young, tall Canadianofficer's arms were loaded with paper sacks and his patrol work helmetdangled by its strap from the crook of his arm.
Clay turned and moved from the doorway into the wind. A sudden gustswept around the corner of the building and a small sack perched atopone of the larger bags in his arms blew to the ground and begantumbling towards the drill field.
"Ben," he yelled, "grab the bag."
The sergeant lunged as the sack bounced by and made the retrieve. Hewalked back to Ferguson and eyed the load of bags in the blond-hairedofficer's arms.
"Just what is all this?" he inquired.
"Groceries," the youngster grinned. "Or to be more exact, littlegourmet items for our moments of gracious living."
Ferguson turned into the walk leading to the motor pool and Martinswung into step beside him. "Want me to carry some of that junk?"
"Junk," Clay cried indignantly. "You keep your grimy paws off thesedelicacies, peasant. You'll get yours in due time and perhaps it willhelp Kelly and me to make a more polished product of you instead ofthe clodlike cop you are today."
Martin chuckled. This patrol would mark the start of the second yearthat he, Clay Ferguson and Medical-Surgical Officer Kelly Lightfoothad been teamed together. After twenty-two patrols, cooped up in asemiarmored vehicle with a man for ten days at a time, you got to knowhim pretty well. And you either liked him or you hated his guts.
As seni