The Pleasure Tube Page 10

  Then she relaxes; and I can see Massimo relax, too.

  In a few minutes Eva Steiner is checked out in the blood-red Bianco, takes some stimulants, and moves loudly onto the track. My hearing is numbed by the noise and for a minute we can't quite talk.

  "I'm sorry I get angry," Massimo begins sheepishly. "I do not like that woman."

  "I don't, either. But look, I appreciate your getting her here."

  "I find out last night she has a passion for such things," Massimo says. "I tell you she has hydroplane also, can you imagine? She is worse than they say—in this place, yes, she can do these things."

  At the rising whistle I look out toward the track and follow a wedged Formula E skittering through the S's.

  "But as you say, what a woman this is," Massimo begins in a tone that sounds strange. "Skin the color of life."

  "Of death, you mean," I say, turning to see what he is talking about, seeing that he is looking over to the seating tier. Three women dressed in charcoal suits are being seated by an older man dressed in the same style.

  "No, not Steiner." Massimo is laughing, beginning really to laugh, "Rawley..." he says.

  In profile she is unmistakable—perfect forehead, aquiline nose, full lips that pout a little, skin the color of cafe latta.

  The woman is Collette.

  She is staring ahead, oddly inert; when she looks our way from twenty meters distance, her face is slack. She meets my gaze with a blank stare and a faint movement of her lips; doesn't really seem to know who I am.

  "Yes, yet it is true, they all look, for this time of day, Rawley, troppo imbalsamara—what you say, em-balmed."

  She doesn't seem to know quite who I am even as I point my index finger at her and gently pull the trigger of an imaginary pistol. I hear the low whine and rumble of the Ferrari, look to see the bright red car pounding too high toward us in the S's. Eva Steiner is visible for an instant, fighting the wheel. She skids along the fence dangerously high, makes it down for the first turn, but the Ferrari is pointed sideways, and she has to let the car slide itself up and out into the far curve, almost to a stop, a dead stop, before she is downshifted and fishtailing into the straight, hard after a Formula E that had blown by her in the second turn.

  "Porca madonna,'" Massimo says in disgust. "She thinks she is driving Formula E. My car!"

  When I saunter over to the gate, the older man with Collette and the other two women comes over and puts his fingers through the steel links, keeping the gate between us.

  "We're just fine," he says. He is older, but he isn't as old as Eva Steiner. His combed black hair is thinning and his complexion is pasty, his eyes watery. "We're all taken care of."

  "I didn't ask," I say. Collette and the other two women are staring ahead at the track. "What are their names?'

  "Private party." He smiles. "That's just the way it is."

  "Oh, I'm just looking." I smile back amiably. "I see they're all dressed the same way. Attractive, really attractive."

  "They're all named Max, actually," he tells me with a smile, moving aside a little to show the women off.

  "Max?"

  "That's what Eva calls them," he says, putting himself in my way again, the nervousness returning to his smile.

  An irony compounds itself; Max is what we used to call Maxine. Up in the stands the film crew has a telephoto trained on the chute to the S's, I hear the Ferrari, turn to see. Eva Steiner is too high again. She loses a tenth coming in, two tenths in the way she sets up for the next curve, she still doesn't quite have the feel of the car.

  Collette never takes her eyes off the track—but it doesn't look as if she's following any of the cars, either. Or maybe it's me; when she seems to start to turn my way, I avoid her. She knew all along, I think, she knew all along. Collette looks like heaven in a waiting room of hell.

  When the rumbling Bianco del Guidici eases into the pits, Eva Steiner is peeved, her face wet with perspiration, her makeup smeared. She grants the Ferrari its balance but claims the car is too light, says so even as she is climbing from the cockpit.

  "I prefer Formula E," she states once her helmet is off and she drinks some ice water—she scoffs at her lap times, the last few of which weren't that bad. "It is a matter of power over style. I prefer the power of Formula E to this relic."

  I think Massimo, who has been looking with worry at the Ferrari, has had about enough from Eva Steiner. I can smell the car now—the sharp, overripe odor of nitrogasoline, the heat of it. There is a long, embarrassed silence, Massimo is simply refusing to speak, looking past Eva Steiner's smile and mocking eyes.

  "I could beat you in the Ferrari," I say evenly. "I don't think it's the car."

  The space between us for a moment turns electric. Eva Steiner raises her eyebrows, Massimo falls a step back and looks at me with surprise. Eva Steiner says she considers my remark a challenge; her nostrils flare slightly as she says that.

  "I don't know." I shrug, thinking, Push this woman, not knowing quite where this is going to go. "I don't have much time for games."

  "Men only say that when they're not very good at... games," she snaps. "I think, with the Governor here as a witness, you're obliged to prove what you say or retract it. Apologize."

  "I don't see I have to do either," I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

  Now Massimo's jaw has gone slack, he is looking at me in wonder—and I'm wondering again what I'm going to say next. If anything is going to happen, it had better be soon.

  "Not interested," she sneers. "Not much of a man, either."

  "Well, what's at stake here?" I say. "Let's get this straight. If you'd like to race, fine—that's about a twenty-five-second handicap I've offered you, each lap. But there had damned well better be something on the line. I don't race for kicks."

  "Ah, straordinario, fantastico!" Massimo exclaims. "I forget I am in LasVenus, yes—there is something in the air of this place!"

  "Perhaps you'll wind up as one of my slaves," Eva Steiner scowls at me.

  "Or you one of mine," I answer even as I am trying to be certain I've heard what she's said.

  The silence of our circle is filled with the noises from pit crew and track, but it is a silence that is charged and palpable. Eva Steiner is appraising me, looking me over from my forehead to my flight shoes, looking straight into my eyes with a slight squint to her own. "I didn't know you were so inclined," she says slowly, her pale lips curling into a thin smile.

  I say nothing, only raise my eyebrows slightly to suggest that she hasn't begun to guess the range of my inclinations.

  "Very well," she says, reddening slightly. "I can have a decent car here in two hours. Governor Giroti, I would be pleased if you'd act as our witness. The young man has named the stakes. The loser will become the winner's slave for a day—until theTube lifts off. Those are my terms. We'll race one lap from a flying start. Acceptable?' she asks. "You've named the stakes," she says without really waiting for my answer, verging on anger. "We'll see who can drive."

  * * *

  "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 stra
ight, 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.