Madman's Thirst (23 page)

CHAPTER 26 – SOUTH PACIFIC

Graebe walked Scarne over to the
stock car.  A blond-haired man dressed in a red racing suit was leaning
languidly against the rear fender. A helmet lay on the trunk next to him. He
had a broad, pleasant face and smiled when he saw them.

“Howdy, Chuckster,” the man said. 

“Hey, Crash, how’s it hanging?
This here’s the condemned man. Jake Scarne, this is Crash Crane.”

“Crash?”

“Actually, it’s Lex Crane.” The
driver stuck out his hand. “The boys have been bustin’ my balls over a little
accident I had last time out.”

“Crash has been off the circuit
for a couple of weeks. They’re working on his car and his double vision is
clearing up, the docs say. Mishap wasn’t his fault. Some rookie cut him off and
he fishtailed into a wall.”

More chatter to give the paying
customer the impression of danger. Arachne had mentioned that demo cars ran at
about 60% of  their capability. Scarne knew what a “real” stock car could do in
the right hands. He  doubted whether he’d get up to 120 miles an hour today.
Fast, surely, but with the car’s suspension and safety features, not to mention
the banked turns on the track, probably less risky than a Manhattan cab ride.

“Hey, it happens,” Crane said
magnanimously. “Was a rook myself once. Only way to learn is to make some
bonehead mistakes. Kid was real sorry. Apologized up my tailpipe. Come on,
Jake. Let’s get you in the car.”

Scarne’s astronaut feeling continued
when, with help from some of the pit crew, he wedged himself through the open passenger-side
window and sat. One of the crew leaned in and adjusted his safety harnesses,
explaining the releases as he did so. He made Scarne test the releases twice
before securely strapping him in. Then he attached a restraining device from
the back of his seat to his helmet. Scarne practiced the helmet release and
nodded to the crewman.

“Ok, you’re all set,” the pit man
said cheerily. “If something happens, just unhook and get out through the
window and get as far away from the car as you can. Leave your personal
belongings and carry-on luggage behind.” He then attached the net that takes
the place of glass on both sides of a stock car.

Crane slid effortlessly into the
driver’s seat and was quickly buckled up. Scarne was startled to note that
there was no steering wheel!

“Haven’t you forgotten something,
Crash?”

“What?” He laughed. “Oh, that.
Don’t need it. We’ll only be going a little bit over a hundred. These things
can steer themselves at that speed.”

Scarne was at a complete loss for
words, but just then a technician reached in with the small steering wheel and
snapped it into place on the column.

Crane laughed.

“Just funnin’ with you, Jake.
Tight quarters. Couldn’t squeeze in from the window with the wheel in place.
And we don’t start the engine until the wheel is securely locked. All set?”

Relieved, Scarne said he was and Crane
depressed the heavy clutch and flipped a toggle switch. The 700-horsepower
engine roared to life. The astronaut feeling didn’t seem that silly to Scarne
now. Crane moved the gear shift into first.

“They rib the civilians with the
‘condemned man’ stuff,” Crane shouted as they pulled out.

“I liked the double vision part,”
Scarne shouted back.

“Yeah. That’s a new one. Best was
when I borrowed a friend’s seein’ eye dog and strolled up to the car. Passenger
about shit. You don’t look like the type that gets jittery, so just sit back
and enjoy. Might push it up to 140 if that’s OK with you. In a race that’s like
going through the drive-in at McDonald’s. But it’ll give you a little feel of
what it’s really like.”

“Fine by me.”

“That’s the spirit. Hell, 99% of
all accidents are caused by cars swerving into you or cutting you off, or by
some driver pushing his ride over the limit in a turn and losing traction.
We’re gonna be the only wheels on the track.”

Crane eased the car along pit lane
for about 100 yards and then entered the main track.

“If this was a race, of course,
I’d have left rubber back there and shot out onto the track like a bat out of
hell,” he said.

Once on the main track, they
picked up speed as Crane expertly shifted through gears. It was getting warm in
the car, but Scarne was enjoying himself. He could feel the pent-up power of
the throbbing engine. He also felt that sense of anticipation, the rush of
heightened senses that he recalled from combat assaults of his past.

“We’ll take it slow the first
couple of times around, so’s you can get used to it. It’ll be loud, but not so
loud as when there’s 40 other cars all around, so we should be able to hear
each other.”

In fact, except when Crane was
shifting gears, the whining engine allowed for almost normal conversation.

“Got any
questions, Jake, let ‘em fly. Be glad to try to answer them. During a real
race, of course, I’d have to concentrate like a bastard. Wouldn’t be able to
hear much over the roar of the other cars anyway, except what comes out of the
earpiece in my helmet. That’s how we get our instructions from our spotters and
the pit crew. Our heads and necks are so constricted by the safety devices we
can hardly turn them to see out the mirrors. When we pass a car or shoot for
position, it’s usually after we’re told it’s OK.” Crane tapped his helmet. “You
have a receiver in your helmet, too. You might be able to hear some chatter if
the try to reach me. But that’s not likely. We’re the only car out here. They’d
only call me if there’s an emergency. Like if they see we’re on fire, or a
wheel is about to come off. Only kidding! How are you doing?”

“Fine. I’m a little hot, but it’s
bearable.”

“It can get up to 135 degrees in
here during a race. After a couple of hours, it’s mighty unpleasant.”

“How do you stay hydrated?”

They were picking up speed
noticeably.

“We drink a lot before a race, and
take plenty of salt to retain water. And we can drink out of a tube attached to
a reservoir in our suits. But all that liquid presents a problem, of course.
Usually have to piss in our suits. That’s why you see a lot of the guys pouring
water in their lap when they finish a race. Kind of dilutes things, if you get
my meanin’. Won’t be a problem for me today, or you, I’d think.”

They entered a turn at what Scarne
estimated was about 100 miles an hour. He was pressed toward the side of the
car as the wall shot past and they entered a straightaway.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,”
he said.

Crash laughed.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“I noticed a tube coming out the
top of your helmet. That’s can’t be for water.”

“No. I didn’t even bring the water
pack today. This suit has a small self-contained air-conditioning unit. Blows
cool air over my face. Comes on automatically when temperature hits about 110.
The old water-cooled suits were better, but they needed a reservoir under the
dash up against the engine. They tended to crack open during a race and then
you had a suit full of hot water. Been damn near poached a couple of times, so
I switched to the helmet system. Matter of fact, the AC just kicked in. It
costs like $6,000, so they don’t put it in the suit we put on you civilians.
Sorry about that. But you won’t need it for the short time you’re in the car.
I’m out here all day. Have nothing else on my plate, so I’m running some of the
team’s backup cars. Testing engine timing, pressures, drag coefficients, that
sort of thing.”

Scarne noticed that when Crane was
discussing the technical aspects of his job, he dropped the good ‘ol boy
routine, and spoke with the cadence of a college professor.

“Hey, you break the cologne bottle
this morning, Jake?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something smells pretty good in
here, and it ain’t me, that’s for sure,” Crane said, laughing loudly. “Hell, I
farted a while back there and I been waitin’ for it to work its way up the
suit. Only entertainment we get in here sometimes.”

They were coming to another turn,
and it was obvious to Scarne that the car’s speed had increased dramatically.

“How fast are we going now?”

Crash didn’t answer. He was still
laughing. Then he started whistling a show tune. Scarne repeated the question,
louder.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, just passed 140.”
He started singing.
“I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair. I’m gonna
wash that man right outa my hair.”

The wall at a turn loomed up
faster than Scarne would have thought possible. At seemingly the last possible
moment, Crash pulled into a tight turn and shot around the corner. Now Scarne
really felt the G-forces, particularly in his neck and head. Crash was
shouting.

“You see
South Pacific
?’
Great fuckin’ show. Can’t get those songs out of my head. “
Gonna have to
wash them songs right out of my head, gonna have to wash them songs right out
of my head.”

Drivers really are nuts, Scarne
thought. Probably have to be. Now they were really moving. Even in the
straightaway Scarne was pressed back in his seat. He tried to look over at
Crash, but the helmet restraint limited his movements. He strained his neck to
look out his window. They seemed to be very close to the wall. But Crash seemed
calm, almost nonchalant. And he was still singing.

“I’m as corny as Kansas in
August, I’m as – shit, what’s the word. I never can get that right.  Hey, Jake,
what goes with blueberry pie?”

By this time, the last thing on
Scarne’s mind was blueberry pie. Another turn was rapidly approaching and he
had visions of being smeared on it like cherry pie. Suddenly a voice in his
earphone crackled.

“Hey, Crash, you just went by here
at warp speed. You might want to dial it down a bit.” There was laughter. “Your
passenger doesn’t have a barf bag.”

But the car didn’t seem to be
slowing. It was hard to tell, but Scarne thought they were picking up speed.

“Hey, Crash, we hit 140 yet?”
Scarne hated to ask, but that was the magic number they were not supposed to
exceed.

“Hit? Hit?” Crash was laughing
hysterically. “That’s a word we never use. Ooops. Looks like a turn coming up.”

As the car entered the sloping
turn, Scarne was sure they would thud into the wall. From the corner of his
eye, he could see only one of the driver’s hands on the wheel! Was it possible
Crash was driving one-handed? Above the whine of the engine and the whoosh of
the air between the car and the wall, Scarne strained to hear. Crash was
singing again.
Bali Hai
. The damned musical again. Then another sound
surged into Scarne’s consciousness. The car was scraping along the wall! He
noted in horrid fascination a stream of sparks shooting by his window.

Suddenly it was over. They had
made it. They were on a straightaway. Before he could say anything, the
earpiece in his helmet crackled.

“Crash. We clocked you at 190!
What the hell happened? You’d better bring her in.” There was no banter or
laughter now. “You hear us, Crash? Pit that sucker!”

“Sure thing, boys,” Crash said,
his tone suddenly mock serious. “Be right there.” Then he chuckled.

Scarne breathed a sigh of relief.
He was sweating profusely, and not all of it was from the heat. The car slowed
and pulled into the innermost lane. Scarne could see the pit area ahead.
Several men were standing at its entrance. One was waving his arms. He
estimated that the car was down to, perhaps, 120 miles an hour. He braced
himself for the intense braking that would undoubtedly come momentarily.

Except it never did. To Scarne’s
horror, Crane entered the pit area without further reducing his speed.

“Fill ‘er up, boys,” Crane
shouted, amid angry shouts and screams as the stock car roared through the
confined ramp area. Pit crewmen ran for their lives, with some jumping clear
over the railing. As fast as they were going, everything seemed to slow down
for Scarne, and his heightened senses recorded a parade of shocked faces.
Miraculously, they didn’t hit anything other than a large tool cart which flew
backwards over their car with a loud clang, spraying wrenches and sockets in
every direction. But Scarne’s elation at not slaughtering the pit crew was short
lived as the car roared back onto the track and again picked up speed.

“That’s what I call a fuckin’ pit
stop,” Crane said, laughing maniacally. “Must have set a record. Now, let’s see
if this baby can do 200!”

They were on a straightaway.
Scarne had had enough. There was no way he would let this lunatic hit 200.
They’d go
through
a wall. Straining, he reached over and grabbed the
wheel, yelling at Crane to stop the car.

“Oh, you want to drive, Jake?”
Crane’s tone was eerily reasonable. “Be my guest.” Then he reached onto the
steering column, flipped a lever and removed the wheel, which he blithely
handed to his horrified passenger.

That did it. They were entering a
small turn and the car fishtailed and then went totally out of control,
spinning around several times before hitting an outside wall. The impact sent
the car back across the track to the infield sideways. When the two wheels on
the left side hit the softer dirt, the stock car rolled over several times. At
one point it twirled on its nose, became airborne and then flipped end over
end. Large and small pieces, including both hood and trunk, flew off, as did
two tires.

 Scarne had been momentarily
knocked out by the initial wall impact. He came to about halfway through the
rolls and watched in fascination as the sky, ground and stands alternated in a
kaleidoscope through the shatterproof windshield. After what seemed an
eternity, the mangled wreck finally slid to a stop on its roof in a cloud of
dust that blocked Scarne’s vision completely.