It was March. The weather vacillated hour by hour, showing signs of spring, the ground softening under a sun as pale as vanilla ice cream, then cloaking over again with tumbling clouds of winter, dark and robust.

Commercialism was at its peak. Men struggled to retire before automation caught up with them, so they could join the ranks of the professional consumers. Of all the transportation complexes in the country, only Detroit's remained unautomated; it was a farm system for supervisors and operators. At every other terminal, there was only a crew of from five to seven men, all graduates of the Detroit system.

The yards there were divided in two segments: Road and Air. The best warehousemen migrated to both segments, not out of love for their profession, but because they hoped to advance.

There were several buildings in the big, sprawling Road Section, but the most imposing by far was the Receiving and Classification Warehouse, Building 200. It was several blocks in length, studded on the outside with doors and ramps at regular intervals. In the inside, running through the center of the building like a spine, there was The Line, a system of rollers upon which the merchandise received was placed.

And there was the railhead, an outdoor holding bay where property too big to go on The Line was stored. Railroad tracks ran through the area too, and there was a little engine, owned and operated by the city of Detroit, and it pulled in boxcars, two or three at a time.

In other yards, all this would have been automated, but here men still worked, hopefully looking over their shoulders at the windows of The Tower, Building 1A. Behind the bay telewindows sat Fat Sid, the foreman, and he missed nothing, selecting switches on his console with the slow relish of an obese woman at her box of chocolates.

Sid watched as the yellow forklifts and warehouse tugs whirred back and forth, busy at their multiple missions. Like bees, they seemed to function with a single consciousness.

The men under Sid worked hard, often stripping to the waist, sweating even though the weather was gusty, always glancing up toward 1A, or if they were inside, over at the cameras, which were everywhere. They seemed to be saying, "Can you see me, Sid, can you appreciate what I'm doing?"

But in the climate-controlled tower Sid was unimpressed with brawn. He was on the lookout for knowledge of the system, something you just couldn't fake. Restlessly, he spent his day touching button after button, sometimes following one man through an assignment, sometimes switching from area to area at random, never satisfied, always switching, picking, choosing, with his fat, manicured little fingers.

Upon selection, a man could go to supervisor school, or he could train to become an operator. Most of the younger ones wanted to be operators, as that was the more risky selection, and the greater the risk, the greater the glamor. In a world that was bored with everything, a glamorous profession was a rarity. And to be at the top of an exciting field was the dream of every school boy. Who hadn't heard of John Gutley? Who didn't secretly envy him?

The cruiser operators had an intricate system of ethics and complicated codes of behavior. The men at the top were the ones who broke the rules (in a society bound by regulations) and got away with it.

The company selected two men of about equal record, and put them on the same run. The man who pulled in first was the winner. It was that simple. They called it the Catalyst System, and it produced new records, innovations, and not infrequently, death. You were at the top, or you weren't. Anyone whose record was less than John Gutley's was a catalyst.

Unofficially, there were good catalysts and weaker catalysts. Off the record, Richard Arvius was second-best, a loathsome stigma. Arvius preferred to be thought of as just another catalyst, until he took care of Gutley once and for all, and then he would be first.

On this Monday, Arvius was scheduled to go out. He was almost certain he would draw the one operator he had never beaten. Just to be sure, he had parked near the gates and settled down to wait, in his cab-over-engine, turbine Kenworth. Arvius kept his cruiser gleaming and deep with wax. She was blue, and her metalwork sparkled wickedly. From his position, Arvius could see the Hysters and tugs in the yard, scurrying back and forth, and of course he could see The Tower.

Many of the workers recognized Janice, Arvius' cruiser, and although they could not see through her one-way windows, they waved. He didn't bother to return their greetings, they wouldn't know if he was waving or not anyway. Still, they greeted him – out of respect for his reputation, perhaps out of envy – as if by waving they were promising themselves they would get him one day.

Few men doubted that Arvius would beat Gutley eventually. The only question was when. One of the forklifts broke away from the rest and wheeled over, rear wheels steering crazily as the operator drew abreast of the great cruiser and plugged into the jack on the panel behind Janice's door. Arvius stretched and yawned, craning his neck to peer down and see who this was. The man's voice came over the cab speaker.

"Hey, Arvio! Whatcha doin'?"

"Phillips?"

"Yeah, didn't you know me?"

"Been a while, but I got your voice right off."

"Whatcha been doin'?"

"Same old same old," Arvius said. "How about you?"

"I stopped to tell you I might be goin' up for operator in a few days." The gulf between them did nothing to conceal the pride in the younger man's voice.

"That'll be OK," Arvius replied. "Before you know it, we'll run catalyst together."

"I know it," Phillips said. He sounded delighted, but then his face took on a thoughtful aspect. "Whatcha doin' parked out here, Arvio? Waitin' for your catalyst?"

"Yeah," Arvius admitted. "You seen Gutley?"

Phillips looked impatiently around at The Tower before he answered. "I saw him early this morning, when I was coming in."

Arvius sat up. "Did he go out?"

"Naw. He was in the diner, talking about how he's gonna beat that Arvio again." Phillips smiled shyly. "My money is on you this time."

"Appreciate that," Arvius said. "Why don't you come on up?"

"I just wanted to tell you I'll be seeing you on the road sometime," Phillips said. "But I gotta get back to work." Again, the almost furtive glance over his shoulder.

"OK, take it easy then,"

"Drive right." Phillips unplugged and wheeled away. He rejoined other Material Handling Equipment, quickly blending with the rest of the workers, so to Arvius, he was soon just another busy figure at the bottom, struggling to come up.

Arvius closed his eyes and sank back in the cushions of his lounge like operator's chair. So Gutley was already in the yards! Tricky Gutley. Arvius considered the old man's ways: Gutley drove an old diesel Peterbilt which he called Luta.

Every other operator in competition that Arvius knew of, strove to keep his rig immaculate and gleaming, but not John Gutley. Gutley's Luta was black, but instead of waxing and shining her as any operator in his right mind would, Gutley seemed to take pride in accumulating road dirt. Luta's flanks were streaked with splash marks, as though Gutley had taken her through a short-cut in a field somewhere.

He never cleaned her. They said his cab was a wonder inside: red leather chair, the best equipment, all the comforts of home. But outside it was a different story. The famous Peterbilt grill was dull and lusterless, the opaque windshield was covered with grime, except for the half-circle cleared by the sonic wipers. Gutley claimed he was out to work, and he didn't mind if Luta looked that way.

Any other catalyst, coming up behind a man in a clean turbine, sparkling and efficient in appearance, was a challenge. But to look back and see the dirty black rig of Gutley, looking wickedly seasoned, was enough to make lesser catalysts wonder if they were in the wrong field.

Gutley derided the perfect and shining style of the younger operators, and their rainbow-colored lustrous modern rigs by calling them "toys for boys." That was his way. When asked why he still smoked tobacco and why he refused to take any of the Road Drug, he would say, "Because I got a death wish, just like you."

The man was a puzzle, a throwback and a winner. Arvius sighed and slid from his cab. He put his head down, and dodging the whizzing MHE, began to trot toward Building 1A.

Sid sat, a corpulent, seasoned brown man, wheezing in his swivel chair. He appeared to have been molded from peanut butter. Arvius stood with his back to the color telewindow, which shifted dizzyingly from extreme close-ups to wide panorama, and back again.

"Morning, Sid."

The foreman grunted without looking up, and he made a brushing movement with a chubby hand. "Outta the way," he said.

Arvius obediently sidestepped."Sid, I gotta get out right away, Gutley's been in for hours."

"What makes you think you got Gutley?" Sid was watching him now; his eyes were narrow slits.

"Come on, Sid, quit playing."

"I would just like to know who told you." Sid was toying with a stylus, and he used it to punch a button on the console. The telewindow shifted, and there, in the yard, was Phillips, talking to a gaggle of warehousemen, idle beside their MHE, and there was money slipping in pockets. Sid chortled obscenely.

Arvius couldn't contain an exasperated sigh. "Could I have my manifest?" He held out his hand.

"Take it easy, kid," Sid said. He opened a drawer, produced a brown manilla envelope and Arvius took it eagerly. "Now go on," Sid said gruffly. "I got work to do." The telewindow began to shift again, panning and zooming. Arvius stayed where he was.

"That's it?" he asked.

Sid sighed. "Yeah, that's it. If you want ceremony, you know where to go, but you get none of that here."

"Is that where Gutley is? In the diner?"

"What do you think?"

"OK, Sid, be seeing you."

Phillips was waiting by the diner. As Arvius approached, he swung down from his Hyster, and he held out his hand. Without speaking, Arvius opened the manifest envelope, withdrew a page and handed it to Phillips, who stuffed it quickly in his jacket and winked.

Arvius nodded and went on into the diner.

It was a smoky place, on the property of the Detroit Transportation Complex, and patronized by operators and warehousemen only. No civilians, except for the occasional politician. The men met before a run, and they bet, and threatened each other, and often there were fights. Arvius had been through it all before. He was tired of the ceremonial breakfasts, the lowered glowering eyes, everything but the Road Drug.

Over the mirror behind the counter, there was a picture of a mug of the frothy, ruby drink, and next to that there was a sign which read "For Better Drive."

An operator Arvius knew was hunched over the counter, his fingers curled lovingly around a mug of the RD. He saw Arvius come through the door in the mirror, and he waved without turning. "Morning Arvio," he said.

"Hey, Wrigley, how's it goin?" Arvius slapped the man's back. Wrigley inclined his head toward the windowed side of the diner, and there, at a table with a view of the yard, sat John Gutley, the Top Operator.

Arvius thanked Wrigley and, trying to keep calm, walked directly to Gutley's table. Throughout the diner, Arvius felt attention focusing on him. The old man was by himself in the booth, and Arvius called his name. Gutley turned from the window suddenly, and he looked at Arvius for a second as though he didn't recognize him.

Then he said, "Ah, good morning, my young friend," as though an aide had just whispered in his ear, and he made a general show of being surprised and delighted. His voice dripped with old-style courtliness, and Arvius felt his lips pull back from his teeth in a grin which was positively feral.

"Why don't you cut it out?" he said. As he slid into the booth opposite Gutley, he realized he was trembling. He reached for the menu and stylus, to conceal the shaking of his hands.

Gutley's eyebrows went up, quizzically-innocent perfect little arches, and he made an old-fashioned half rise and a stiff little bow.

"Knock it off, huh?" Arvius said. But Gutley flattened his palm in a gesture of welcome. Struggling to control himself, Arvius turned away from him and looked out into the yard.

He could see Phillips talking to a group of warehousemen, and they were all nodding and smiling. Phillips was giving them money, and the page from Arvius' manifest was in his hand. Arvius nodded to himself. Phillips was a good man. Calmed a little, Arvius turned back to Gutley. "Road Drink?" he said.

Gutley stiffened slightly, but he said, "No, thank you," and Arvius marveled at the man's control. Everyone knew Gutley never touched the powerful red drug – it was a source of pride to the old man that he won without it.

Arvius smiled and nodded, and touched the stylus to the contact square next to a picture of the RD, identical to the one over the mirror. Almost immediately, a mechiwaiter rolled up, and Arvius reached for his wallet.

But Gutley had his card out already, and he inserted it in the waiter's slot, releasing the pitcher of drug. Arvius lifted it from the tray and placed it on the table. The two men regarded each other as Arvius poured himself a triple dose.

"You know," Gutley purred, "I understand the company puts saltpeter in the RD."

"That's why you thought you'd treat huh?"

Gutley shrugged.

"Well, as old as you are," Arvius said maliciously, "you might as well have some, because a little saltpeter wouldn't make a bit of difference to you."

Gutley's face flushed. "Drink up," he said. "We have a long trip ahead." He pushed an empty mug across the table to Arvius, who accepted it and poured another triple shot.

"Fencing already, huh?" he said.

"My dear young Arvio," Gutley replied, "in my position, one must always fence."

"I'll remember that, as soon as this run is over and I have your position."

Gutley's eyes widened, briefly, and he switched to another tactic. "Do you know how close I am to the company? Do you honestly think they'd let a sprout like you beat me?"

"So you are the company doll." Arvius wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, I'm the top catalyst." The RD was beginning to take hold. Arvius itched to get out on the road.
"So you are, so you are," Gutley said.

"So I am, so I am," Arvius mocked. "You think that heap of bolts and plastibands is going to top Janice again? You think I'm not wise to every dirty trick you know by now? Hell, Gutley, I'm running rings around you this time."

Gutley looked surprised. "You really haven't heard?" he said.

"Heard what?" Arvius knew he was snarling, but he couldn't help it.

"I've accepted an innovation," Gutley announced.

"You?" Arvius was incredulous. "What innovation?"

Gutley help up a finger and triumphantly shook his head "no."

"New engine?"

The shaking head.

"Different guidance system?"

The wagging finger. "Let's just call it a little something new for the top catalyst," Gutley said smoothly.

Arvius forced back the impulse to strangle the old man. He wanted, he thirsted to lace his fingers around Gutley's scrawny loathsome neck and squeeze, slowly, until those glittering old eyes lost all their tricky luster.

The two men sat there in the corner booth, one nodding "yes" slowly, the other shaking his head "no," and it was as if they were linked together by a set of gears. Neither one ever dreamed how close they truly were.

Arvius was the first to break the spell. He plucked a stylus form the holder and touched for more RD. The mechiwaiter appeared almost instantly, and Arvius took the drug and poured it off into a thermos-like container. "So you won't tell me, eh?" Arvius did not look up from his pouring as he spoke.

"Now it's my turn to tell you to cut it out," Gutley said. "You sound like a very bad movie."

The younger man had finished pouring, and he capped his portable jug before he spoke. "What do you say we hit the road?" He slipped the stylus in his shirt pocket.

"Sounds like a bet to me," Gutley replied. They rose together and strode quickly toward the door. Back out in the yard, Gutley turned to walk away, but Arvius grabbed his elbow.

"I'm going to beat you this time," he said, and he wasn't surprised at the tremor in his voice.

"I don't think so, kid."

Arvius gripped Gutley's elbow harder. "Why don't you think so?" he demanded. "You think this is the RD talking?" Gutley remained silent, his lined face as inscrutable and mysterious as the one-way windows of the cruisers.

"Maybe it is the drug," Arvius said. "But only partly. I want you to know that no matter what trick you or the bosses may have come out with, I'm wise to you, and you'll never beat me again." Out of the corner of his eye, Arvius spotted Phillips up on the receiving platform; he released Gutley.

"I'll tell you one thing, kid. The only way you'll beat me will be over my dead body." Gutley squared his shoulders and walked rapidly away, in the direction of the railhead.

Arvius watched him go, and he said softly, "So be it." He went over to the platform where Phillips was waiting. The trip meant a lot to him. He felt that he had to beat Gutley now, while the old man was in his prime, at his zenith of experience and wit.

Gutley only intended to hold onto his title. He was old, while Arvius had his life ahead of him, plenty of time to recover from another loss. In addition, it galled Gutley to have to accept an innovation.

The Top Operator loved to brag that he needed no special devices. There were few men indeed who hadn't heard him triumphantly announce that he could put Luta together and take her apart blindfolded. He loved to inform people that he knew her every plastinut and bolt, and he would add, "I know the roads just as well."

The old man had style. He was the most popular Top Operator to come along in many a run.

This was to be his last run, and he intended to make it good. To both operators, everything was on the line this time.

Phillips' hands were on his hips, and he was looking impatiently in Arvius' direction. "All set," the warehouseman said, and he bent and handed down the sheet from Arvius' manifest. "Denver, huh?"

"Yeah," Arvius said, reaching up and taking the manifest page. "Denver."

Click HERE for Part II