s hard enough to stand the Clinton up on its nose,
because if I shoved my front bumper through that cloud of red smoke it
was a signal for them to let me have it. I came to a stop about a foot
this side of the bomb, and the jetcopter came down hovering. Its vanes
blew the smoke away and the 'copter landed in front of my swiped Clinton
Special.

The policeman was both curt and angry. "Driver's ticket, registration,
and maybe your pilot's license," he snapped.

Well, that was _it_. I had a driver's ticket all right, _but_ it did not
permit me to drive a car that I'd selected out of a group willy nilly.
The car registration was in the glove compartment where it was supposed
to be, but what it said did not match what the driver's license claimed.
No matter what I said, there would be the Devil to pay.

"I'll go quietly, officer," I told him.

"Darn' white of you, pilot," he said cynically. He was scribbling on a
book of tickets and it was piling up deep. Speeding, reckless driving,
violation of ordinance something-or-other by number. Driving a car
without proper registration in the absence of the rightful owner (Check
for stolen car records) and so on and on and on until it looked like a
life term in the local jug.

"Move over, Cornell," he said curtly. "I'm taking you in."

I moved politely. The only time it pays to be arrogant with the police
is long after you've proved them wrong, and then only when you're facing
your mirror at home telling yourself what you should have said.

I was driven to court; escorted in by the pair of them and seated with
one on each side. The sign on the judge's table said: Magistrate
Hollister.

Magistrate Hollister was an elderly gentleman with a cast iron jaw and a
glance as cold as a bucket of snow. He dealt justice with a sharp-edged
shovel and his attitude seemed to be that everybody was either guilty as
charged or was contemplating some form of evil to be committed as soon
as he was out of the sight of Justice. I sat there squirming while he
piled the top on a couple whose only crime was parking overtime; I
itched from top to bottom while he slapped one miscreant in gaol for
turning left in violation of City Ordinance. His next attempt gave a ten
dollar fine for failing to come to a full and grinding halt at the sign
of the big red light, despite the fact that the criminal was esper to a
fine degree and dug the fact that there was no cross-traffic for a half
mile.

Then His Hon