The Pleasure Tube (15 page)

*    *    *

"It is because of this place—do you know we are between two large fault lines in the earth? There is something in the seismicity of this place," Massimo says after the woman and her service leave abruptly. "The risks men take here are exceptional. I have seen it, that's why I come. The air here smells of ozone from burning dreams."

Technicians are pulling the hood on the Ferrari in the cool shade of the metal and concrete building; there is an odor here, the odor of the heated engine, the burning smell is familiar. It takes me back somewhere, pulls me inexorably; yes, I think—the odor of seared cables, of metal too hot to touch, of the last time I saw Maxine. Now to think of Maxine is to think of Collette.

"How far can Steiner go?" I ask. "Let's say if I can't catch her. I figure she does have fifteen seconds, maybe seventeen. What can she do to me if I can't make those up?"

Massimo shrugs. "Who can tell? This is why I wonder if I should have stopped you. The flying start is bad for you, good for her. As for your wager? She is Tube passenger, she cannot be controlled; you see how it is. So I think you know what it means to make this wager with such a woman. Her slave for a day—enough. But to take that risk—this is beautiful, it is passion—for a woman, Rawley..."

"Well, I'm in it for a while now," I say. I tell Massimo I'd like to take the Ferrari out for a few laps. It's amazing how my head has cleared.

Later, I determine the optimum fuel load for the Ferrari on the full-sized terminal in the air-conditioned office/console room, separated from the pits by a glass wall. Since we'll be racing only one lap, I will be able to save eighty kilos in gasoline weight, I realize. I plug that figure into a formula and find I will pick up ten or eleven seconds over a full tank. I'm going to need those ten seconds. I know I will lose almost that much time to the more powerful Formula E in the first long straight following the initial S's, and I'll be too far behind by the back straight to use the pull from her slipstream—so I'll have to count on being close enough at the final turns to win.

Mulling over the formula, I punch up channel 393 and do a double take at the screen when I realize there is traffic for me—something from Guam through a debugging rider.

Something from Werhner. I set the printer to relieve debug, the message is holding as a blur, waiting for the proper decoding signal—I key in and watch it appear quickly, letter by letter, on the screen:

channel 393//IN IN IN IN IN IN

sign key 02087/Schole

telex medium//

route:   Guam Utama Sta.

           
Midway

           
Honolulu

            
SoCal Center

           
LasVenus Local (des.)

debugging rider:   erase if intercept//only 393

ATTN:    RAWLEY VOORST

ACKNOWLEDGE QUERY 7-8. SO NOW YOU THINK I WAS RIGHT, YOU SKEPTIC.

YOUR SUGGESTION TO CHECK WHAT SCICOM IS ACTUALLY HOLDING LEADS TO INTERESTING RESULTS, FRIEND.

TWO GROSS ANOMALIES—MESSY BOOKKEEPING OR A BLIND.

FIRST// THERE IS
NO
OUTGOING DATA ENCODED UNDER DAEDALUS TITLE IN GUAM DATABASE—OTHER THAN THE DATA IN COOPER'S REPORT. SECOND//DATA CONFORMING TO FLIGHT PLAN, EXCEPT FOR DATES, ENCODED IN PAIR WITH INCOMING DATA, SHIP TITLE ICARUS, TOUCHED DOWN FOUR YEARS AGO.

LOOKS LIKE A BLIND? I WILL TRY AND SORT OUT THIS SPAGHETTI.

YOU GOT ME OUT OF THE WATER. I'M FOR SEEING THIS THROUGH, ADVISE YOUR END. ESTIMATE HERE TWO DAYS FOR SEARCH PROGRAM.

WERHNER
.

My blood pressure is up, adrenalin into my system for the fifth or sixth time today, my right hand is throbbing. Down from my palm the two scars describe a lazy figure eight lying on its side across a descending lifeline; the dull pain is a kind of stiffness to the heel of my hand, I feel it at each heartbeat. Beyond the thick glass wall of the office, mechanics seem to swim over the Ferrari, the two Formula E cars up on hydraulics beyond it as if floating in a vivid dream. There is a light change in the glass and the scene looks unreal to me.

channel 393//BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK

routing:   Pre 1

              
debugging rider Pre 1

ATTN:   WERHNER SCHOLE

TAYLOR HERE FORCING MY TRANSFER GUAM MONDAY. APPEAL TO MILITARY DOESN'T LOOK GOOD. I WILL TRY TO CHART ONE LINE FROM HERE, PERHAPS WE CAN GET A FIX IF YOUR DATA CHARTS.

CROSS-CHECK ICARUS PERSONNEL AGAINST SERVICE RECORDS, OMEGA SYSTEM AGAINST DATE OF MANUFACTURE, ETC. THIS ONE REALLY LOOKS LIKE A BLIND.

COULD USE YOUR BRINE-SOAKED SKIN, I MAY BE IN FOR A FEW WELTS. WAIT UNTIL YOU HEAR ABOUT THIS ONE. MAKES VIVIAN FROM PROGRAM LOOK LIKE FABLED JEANNIE D—REMEMBER HER?

RAWLEY

I clear the terminal and sit with the fuel formula I have written on a pad, the cold white dancing in my vision. Vivian, the lady with the whip, and fabled Jeannie D., the milk-white English girl—I wonder again if Werhner remembers Jeannie D. from the other leave in Hong Kong.

CLEAR TRACK/ /CLEAR TRACK/ /CLEAR TRACK/ /

RISK VENTURE VECTOR/ /RISK VENTURE VECTOR/ /RISK VENTURE VECTOR/ /RISK VENTURE VECTOR/ /RISK VENTURE VECTOR/ / / / TWO PARTICIPANT ONE LAP RACE AFTER FLYING START/ / TWO PARTICIPANT ONE LAP RACE AFTER FLYING START/ / / / SPECTATOR WAGERS CONCOURSE NINE/ /SPECTATOR WAGERS CONCOURSE NINE/ /SPECTATOR WAGERS CONCOURSE NINE/ / CLEAR TRACK/ /CLEAR TRACK/ /CLEAR TRACK/ /CLEAR TRACK

"All system go? Ready?"

“
Si.
”

"Buona fortuna."

"Grazie,"
I say to Massimo.

My knees are rubbery, but that will pass once we're moving—sucked into the Ferrari, that's how it feels, my legs extended, the seat cradled around me, belts snug. Massimo signals the starting cart, a thunder cracks the air just behind my head, the cockpit is lowering, and I secure the releases with both hands, lean back into the headrest. Alongside me on both sides the bulbous fuel tanks. This is driving a bomb, I think; what it would be like to crawl out of here. Not a car to crawl from, but to race in; what an idea, just what Massimo would say,
cosi simpatico.

I ease the tight gearbox into its high first, let out the clutch and the Ferrari staggers into the sunlight. Massimo has for us ten minutes of empty track, his contribution at an enormous price. Eva Steiner's Formula E is angled on the first bank of the S's, ass end up for the roll to start. I roll to a stop just at the end of the pits and work the choppy engine. As it warms it smooths from velvet to silk; higher on the track I watch the black, squat flywheel car shimmer in the heat, Eva Steiner absolutely motionless within, glaring at me.

Massimo walks past with the white starting flags, gives me a high sign. I signal ready, thumbs up. Eva Steiner begins to creep down the track when he raises the flags— we will roll through a lap together and then take the flying start from this point, race to this point again for a finish.

I think of Collette for an instant—then I get angry as hell.

A flag points at each of us and we go.

In a moment I am traveling through the blurred tunnel of rapid motion, hard on the right rear tire of Eva Steiner's broad, squat machine, the eerie high whistle of her engine audible through the bone-shaking roar of the Ferrari's V-16 and the whine of its gears. Once out of the S's, we boom into the straight alongside one another and she picks it up. Halfway through the greenbelt she pushes the pace of the prerace lap almost to the Ferrari's top end. She is pushing it in the pickup lap, why, I wonder—for a startled moment I think we might have actually begun the race.

But no. I ignore the line for the decreasing radius hairpin and position myself at her right rear tire again— she's passed me—she's in the high chute faster than she's prepared for, judging by the way her rear end is chattering, almost a skid. Ah, the speed she made in the straight was meant to spook me, but she wasn't ready for my being so close, it's spooked her instead.

Coming out, I squeeze into second and roll to the inside, blow by the wallowing Formula E.

For the rest of the lap—through the short straight, the elevated S's, the back straight, and reentry turns—we run at a smooth and even hundred, she wants me alongside and I accede. Without turning I can see in the periphery of my vision her helmet turned toward me. Coming into the flying start the tunnel of motion surrounds us both, I concentrate on my breathing, take it down from fifth to slow us both, I know this is annoying her. She does seem shaken by her mistake—but she can afford a mistake and still take the lap we are about to run.

A hundred meters from Massimo, who's energetically waving the flags, I brake hard, pop behind, and switch sides, jam the throttle. As we cross Massimo's lap line and the race begins I am above Steiner on the track. She's lost me until she looks for her own line in the S's—but that's where I am, up on her right, the Ferrari doesn't belong up here and the wheel fights the track. But the Formula E has to slow, and I drop in front of it.

My mirror shows her inches behind—and I tap the brakes. The Ferrari weaves and her pass is disabled; I downshift, downshift, tap the brakes again, take us out of the S's in what seems like slow motion, is slow motion, down to forty. We begin the run at the straight, but this time she is far below her torque range. I have the Ferrari's sweet spot in third, then fourth, and before she can catch me I've picked up a few seconds, then move up behind to get sucked into her slipstream, the hairpin ahead.

We are both sliding too much in this turn, its radius decreasing, becoming sharper and sharper, I bang my hand and jam a shift, the wheel is pulling fiercely. Still, I get below and out again, the Ferrari so flawlessly smooth as I get on it that the blur of acceleration makes me feel as if I am flying over the track, flying toward the elevated S's.

I almost lose control—wind, a gust of wind?—my mind registered nothing, had to have been blank—the Ferrari breaks loose, I feel a stab of panic drifting up to the Formula E, passing but then behind in its slipstream inches behind the black car, the Ferrari straightens out and Eva pulls the two of us tail to nose into the approaching curves.

Ice grips my heart—for an instant out of control, had I not been caught by the Formula E's slipstream, who knows, I don't remember just why I broke loose—but now, surfing through the elevated S's, the car is in full communication with the paving, responds perfectly, tracks its line as a sailboat in perfect trim sails itself. My breathing settles back to something like normal. Inches behind the Formula E, these turns so wide my advantage is to use her greater speed by riding her vacuum, I gain seconds this way and I ride close, the inch between us a static moment amid the smear we scream through, so close that she cannot shake me until two hundred meters into the back straight. She begins to pull away meter by meter, the distance between us increasing more and more rapidly when I lose the vacuum from her tail. But I think she is too late, the straight won't be long enough for her to get what she needs for the last rights and lefts that will finish the race.

By turn eight, three to go, I am back at her right rear wheel, up on the high side of the track, teasing her line and watching her rear end chatter and slip. I can take it down to the Ferrari's proper line and get by, but I wait, want her higher still, push her through the next two turns.

I know I've won; I tell myself, Easy, now, as we perch up for the last left, shift down a gear and right into the center of the sweet spot of maximum torque as I aim the nose for the lowest line I can imagine and slip by her, through the chute and thrown out by its massive G's propelled dead center on the track, booming toward the checkered flag, Eva Steiner a length or more behind—like tick-tack-toe, lady, and I had the first move—cross the line, I am exhilarated, high out of my mind, float through a victory lap on the sunbathed track, barely make
that
on the gas I've got remaining.