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    Right now, Neapolitan was in sixtieth place, hanging back with the core of the Muties’ team. Shock’s own crew, the Spacers, were scattered from fifth position—Jaunty Monty, Shock’s number-two rider—all the way back to last place. That was Rennie The Wrench, the team’s on-road mechanic. Rennie’s oversized bike didn’t have a hope in hell of winning, but he was a mechanical genius and his bike carried emergency repair equipment that might just help a stranded Spacer get over the line.
    A kilometre ahead of Shock, a cluster of five riders slowed as they approached Carlo Imperato Block. They veered to the left edge of the cordoned-off road, almost close enough to brush against the straining fingertips of the thousands of cheering on-lookers crammed up against the temporary barriers.
    Shock eased off a little on the throttle, dropping his speed down to two-fifty. He’d studied the route—he knew what was coming next.
    Arthur Dekko either hadn’t studied, or he’d forgotten, or he just plain didn’t comprehend what he was riding into.
    Shock’s screen showed the Mutie zooming to the right, overtaking the slowing five-man cluster, and Shock could picture him grinning at them, maybe even giving them the finger as he passed.
    Shock dropped his speed a little more. If Dekko had been paying attention at all, he’d have noticed that the crowd lining the street ahead was denser. He’d have spotted the dozen TV cameras hovering over the track. He’d have realised that the wise rider slows way the drokk down if the audience looks a little too eager for a wipe-out.
    Brown Clancy, three positions behind Shock, contacted him over the radio: “You seein’ this, Shock?”
    “Yeah, I see it.”
    “Should we warn him?”
    Shock suppressed a laugh. “Hell, no.”
    It was too late anyway: Arthur Dekko’s powerful Yomama 500 roared past the slowing riders, arcing around them at almost three hundred kilometres an hour.
    It was a little after ten in the morning, and Weather Control promised a clear, bright day. The morning sun reflected off the curved roof of the Drunkatorium, and Dekko emerged from the shadow of Carlo Imperato block and rode straight into the glare.
    Shock had ridden this sector many times, and more than once he’d been dazzled by the sudden blinding reflection. At the right time of the day, the building’s curved, mirror-like roof channelled the sunlight into a narrow beam.
    Arthur Dekko screamed. His bike wavered. The hovering TV cameras crowded closer, jostled one another for the best angle. A hush of anticipation fell over the crowd.
    Throughout the city, two hundred million people edged closer to their TV and Tri-D screens to get a better look at Dekko’s bike as it careened back toward the right side of the street.
    Many of those who watched later argued strongly that it was the Crash of the Race, and even the usually distracted and rambling pundits in Channel Epsilon’s commentary box had nothing but praise for the spectacular manner in which Arthur Dekko’s life came to an end.
    Shock switched his bike’s screen to a TV channel. He couldn’t do anything to circumvent Dekko’s fate, so he figured he might as well enjoy the show.
    The bike scraped along the barrier for a few seconds, with the wildly blinking and still screaming rider desperately clinging on. His protective suit almost instantly lost the battle of friction with the rough, pitted surface of the barrier. From his right calf, Dekko lost a good deal of skin and muscle tissue—which, naturally, later became the focus of a lawsuit between two overeager souvenir hunters—then he was momentarily able to regain control and steer the Yomama away from the barrier.
    And that was when he passed through the blinding beam of reflected light for a second time.
    The powerful bike slammed against the barrier on the road’s left side and ricocheted back into the centre of the road, leaving