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Halfway through the race, and already the kid had more than earned his pit-pass. Porsche was out, bullied into the
wall by the Ford flying-wedge, in a crash that sent the driver to the hospital. Ferrari was out too, victim of the same
crash; both their LMCs had taken shrapnel that had nicked fuel-lines. Thank God Paul d been close to the pits when
the leaking fuel caught fire. The Ferrari had come in trailing a tail of fire and smoke and the kid was right in there, the
first one on the scene with his fire-bottle, foaming the driver down first then going under the car with the nozzle. He d
probably prevented a worse fire And now the alliances in the pits had undergone an a b r u p t
s h i f t . I t w a s n o w t h e E u r o p e a n s
a n d t h e i n d e p e n d e n t s against the Ford monolith. Porsche and
Ferrari had just come to her her, who Porsche had never been willing to give the time of day! -offering whatever
they had left. Somehow the race officials were being incredibly blind to the illegal moves Ford was pulling.
Then again . . . how close was Detroit to -Wisconsin?
It had happened before, and would happen again, for as long as businessmen made money on sport. All the
post-race sanctions in the world weren t going to help that driver in the hospital, and no fines would change the
outcome of the inevitable crashes.
The sad, charred hulk of the Ferrari had been towed, its once-proud red paint blistered and cracked; the pit crew
was dejectedly cleaning up the oil and foam.
On the track, Jimmy still held his position, despite two attempts by one of the Ford wedges to shove him out of the
way. That was the advantage of a vehicle like the Bugatti, as she and the engineers had -designed it for him.
The handling left something to be desired, at least so far as she was concerned, but it was Jimmy s kind of car. Like the
550 Porsche he drove for pleasure now, that he used to drive in races, she d built it for speed. Point and squirt, was
how she often put it, dryly. Point it in the direction you wanted to go, and let the horses do the work.
The same thing seemed to be passing through Paul s mind, as he watched Jimmy scream by, accelerating out of
another attempt by Ford to pin him behind their wedge. He shook his head, and Dora elbowed him.
You don t approve? she asked.
It s not that, he said, as if carefully choosing his words. It s just not my kind of driving. I like handling; I like to
slip through the pack like like I was a fish and they were the water. Or I was dancing on the track
She had to smile. Are you quoting that, or did you not know that was how they described my French and Monte
Carlo Grand Prix wins?
His eyes widened. I didn t know he stammered, blushing. Honest! I
She patted his shoulder, maternally. That s fine, Paul. It s a natural analogy. Although I bet you don t know where
I got my training.
He grinned. Bet I do! Dodging bombs! I read you were an ambulance driver in Italy during the war. Is that when
you met Ettore Bugatti?
She nodded, absently, her attention on the cars roaring by. Was there a faint sound of strain in her engine? For a
moment her nerves chilled.
But no, it was just another acceleration; a little one, just enough to blow Jimmy around the curve ahead of the
Mercedes.
Her immediate reaction was annoyance; he shouldn t have had to power his way out of that, he should have been able to
drive his way out. He was putting more stress on the engine than she was happy with.
Then she mentally slapped her own hand. She wasn t the driver, he was.
But now she knew how Ettore Bugatti felt when she took the wheel in that first Monte Carlo Grand Prix.
You know, Bugatti was one of my passengers, she said, thinking aloud, without looking to see if Paul was
listening. He was with the Resistance in the Italian Alps. You had to be as much a mechanic as a driver, those
ambulances were falling apart half the time, and he saw me doing both before I got him to the field hospital.
Sometimes, she woke up in the middle of the night, hearing the bombs falling, the screams of the attack-fighters
strafing the road Seeing the road disintegrate in a flash of fire and smoke behind her, in front of her; hearing the
moans of the wounded in her battered converted bread-truck.
All too well, she remembered those frantic -moments when getting the ambulance moving meant getting herself and
her wounded passengers out of there -before the fighter-planes came back. And for a -moment, she heard those
planes No, it was the cars -returning. She shook her head to free it of unwanted memories. She had never lost a
passenger, or a truck, although it had been a near thing more times than she cared to count. Whenever the memories
came between her and a quiet sleep, she told herself that and reminded herself why she had volunteered in the first
place.
Because her brother, the darling of the Metaphysical set, was hiding from the draft at home by remaining in England
among the blue-haired old ladies and balletomanes who he charmed. Because, since they would not accept her as a
combatant, she enlisted as a noncombatant.
Some noncombatant. She had seen more fire than most who were on the front lines.
Bugatti had been sufficiently impressed by her pluck and skill to make her an offer.
When this is over, if you want a job, come to me.
Perhaps he had meant a secretarial job. She had shown up at the decimated Bugatti works, with its EB sign in
front cracked down the middle, and offered herself as a mechanic. And Bugatti, faced with a dearth of men who were
able-bodied, never mind experienced, had taken her on out of desperation.
It was kind of a fluke, getting to be Bugatti s driver, she continued, noting absently that Paul was listening
intently. The driver for that first Grand Prix had broken an ankle, right at starting-lineup, and I was the only one on the
team that could make the sprint for the car!
Paul chuckled, and it had been funny. Everyone else was either too old, or had war-injuries that would slow them
down. So she had grabbed the racing-helmet before anyone could think to object and had taken the man s place. In her
anonymous coverall, it was entirely possible none of the officials had even noticed her sex.
She had made the first of her famous Duncan dives into the cockpit; a modified grand jete that landed her on the
seat, with a twist and bounce down into the cockpit itself.
I can still hear that fellow on the bullhorn there was no announcer s booth, no loudspeaker system She
chuckled again. And coming in third Isadora Duncan?
The next race, there had been no doubt at all of her sex. She had nearly died of heat-stroke behind that powerful
engine, and she had been shocked at what that had done to her judgment and reflexes. So this time, she had worn one
of her old dancing costumes, a thick cotton leotard and tights worn inside-out, so that the seams would not rub or
abrade her.
The other drivers had been so astounded that she had gotten nearly a two-second lead on the rest of them in the
sprint and two seconds in a race meant a quarter mile.
For her third race, she had been forbidden to wear the leotard, but by then she had come up with
an alternative; almost as form-fitting, and enough to cause a stir. And that had been in France, of
course, and the French had been amused by her audacity. La Belle Isadora had her own impromptu
fanclub, who showed up at the race with noisemakers and banners.
Perhaps that had been the incentive she needed, for that had been her first win. She had routinely placed in the first
three, and had taken home to Bugatti a fair share of first-place trophies. The other drivers might have been displeased,
but they could not argue with success.
Bugatti had been overjoyed, and he had continuously modified his racing vehicles to Isadora s specifications:
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