In Loving Memory of Robert A. George and Donald R. George

Sherman looked at the ground. A dog behind a tall fence of transparent
material barked up at them as they sped by. When the animal hit the fence,
the fence rippled like water, but stayed firm. The lot within the fence
showed a dozen thick posts with glass tops sticking out of a large flower
garden. Sherman guessed this home was underground. “Everything is so
radical.”
“Eh, this is just the suburbs.” Serendipity kept her eyes on the road
below. “Wait until we hit the freeway. Multiple layers of traffic.”
“Multiple layers? Of traffic?” Sherman did not like the sound of that.
“Hey, woman, lookey—” Wilson’s voice spoke over his own singing,
“freeway entrance, two miles. You’re gonna have to yield, baby—slow
this Mustang down.”
“All right, Wilson. I know. Cancel verbal instruction.” Serendipity
looked over at Sherman. “Cars! They’re like nagging mothers; I’m
surprised they don’t tell you to sit up straight and eat your vegetables.”
When they rounded a big hill, Sherman shouted, “Oh, crap!” as he
caught sight of the freeway. Four lanes of heavy air-car traffic flew fifty
feet off the ground; above that another tier zoomed at seventy feet, and
twenty feet further up whizzed yet another. Serendipity slowed as they
approached the snarl then quickly gave a whoop, gunning the vehicle into
a diminishing space between cars, and maneuvered a vault up to the
second layer, meeting more hovercars which sped alongside, beneath,
above and seemingly right at them. Sherman closed his eyes and tried to
keep his waffles down.
“You okay, Sherman?”
He opened his eyes, swallowing his fear along with a little bile. “Sure,
I’m fine.” He gulped.
“Ah!” Serendipity’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Here’s
our exit.” The hovercar dove out of the line and wedged itself into a row
of traffic veering off the freeway. Sherman thought a stunt pilot could not
have done better. That’s when he noticed all the drivers drove with the
same skill and apparent recklessness.
“How do you all keep from crashing?” he asked.
Serendipity glanced at Sherman and grinned. “Hovercars have sensors;
they know where every other car is, keep on track and control speed.”
Sherman relaxed a little, figuring Wilson had to be a better driver than
Dr. Brown.
As they headed into a valley, Sherman caught a glimpse of tall
metallic buildings with sun glinting off them. “Is that Portland?”
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