Falmouth was glued to the superscope, his fingers punching the ‘Start’ and ‘Stop’ buttons as the Milena passed the markers, his eyes flicking from the eyepiece to the calculator, checking the speed. It had gone as high as 40 once, then dropped back down.
Jesus, isn’t he ever going to let it out he thought.
Then he thought, maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just do some preliminaries and save the fast tests for someone else.
Sure.
This is Marza, remember, the fastest driver in the world. He’s going to open it up. Before he’s finished today he’s going to have that son of a bitch wide open.
The car pulled to a stop at the far end of the track, pointed toward Falmouth. It suddenly took off, pulling out smoothly. It passed Falmouth’s markers and he checked the speed.
25
35.
Okay, he’s into acceleration tests. That would have been zero to 30.
He’s getting restless.
Falmouth watched the car move around the track to the start. It slowed to a stop again. Maybe this time, Falmouth thought. Maybe now he’ll go for it, push it on up there, over
Falmouth was chain-smoking now and there was a thin line of sweat high on his forehead, along his hairline.
The car moved out again. This time Marza did zero to 40. Then he seemed to pick up speed going around the near curve. Falmouth checked it out on the back-stretch markers. He was doing 65 and seemed to be picking up speed as he approached the far curve.
Marza drove the Milena through the far curve of the track at 70 miles an hour, and it felt as if he were driving on the flats.
Di Fiere beamed. ‘You bet! Let’s pinch the lady’s ass, shall we? Slowly, now — don’t force her!’
Marza raised an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘Are you telling me how to drive a car?’ and when the Professor pulled his head down into his shoulders in embarrassment and said
Di Fiere stared at the digital readout as Marza began to let the Milena loose, watching it climb fast by tenths of a mile.
75.5.
80.
80.6.
82.
85.7.
88.
89.
On the front stretch, Falmouth had checked it out at 62.8, watched it zap through the near turn without even dropping a tenth of a mile an hour, and then zoom into the back stretch.
Now he watched as the digital readout climbed over 80.
Good God, he’s going for it.
The back stretch swept under Marza and Di Fiere as the car moved out, climbing steadily without faltering, the digital reader flicking faster and faster.
82 ... Falmouth’s mouth turned to cotton as his fingers nimbly punched away at the calculator. Sweat dribbled down the side of his face and, annoyed, he swept it away with the back of his hand.
89.9.
‘E stupendo! Marza yelled.
They hit 90 and the C-4 went off on order.
When it exploded, the main force of the blast was directed down toward the ground, lifting the front of the car and instantly separating the tie rods that held the wheels in line. They popped apart like brittle sticks. The wheels went haywire. At the same time, the phosphorus wire fuse sizzled straight back along the frame toward the gas tank.
Marza was heading into the turn, leaning with the car, his arms extended almost straight out in a classic driving position, when he felt the blast in front of his feet. The fire wall shattered and a hot burst of gas rushed into the cockpit. A moment later the wheel was wrenched from his hands. The car went wildly out of control as he grabbed frantically for the steering wheel and tried to get it back. It swerved, ripping into the inside wall of the turn at about forty-five degrees, and the left front side of the car shattered. The fenders peeled back with the agonized scream of tearing metal, the engine was torn from its mounts and the air bags under the dash whooshed full and jammed Marza and the Professor into their seats.
