Mercedes Lackey - Fiddler Fair (anthology)

“Out,” she ordered, and watched his grin fade in surprise. “You heard me,” she said when he hesitated. “You know the pit-rules. Nothing that can get caught in machinery! God help us, that scarf could get your neck broken! I told you once, and I meant it; I don’t care how many movies you’ve made, in here you’re the Bugatti rookie-driver, you’re here on probation, even if you are the best damn driver I’ve ever seen, and you toe the line and act like a professional. And if you think you’re going to make me break my promise not to compete again by getting yourself strangled, you can think again! Now get out of here and come back when you’re dressed like a driver and not some Hollywood gigolo.”

She turned her back on him, and went back to the crew changing the tires, but she did not miss his surprised—and suddenly respectful—“ Yes ma’am!” She also didn’t miss the surprised and respectful looks on the faces of her mechanics and pit-crew. So, they didn’t expect me to chew him out in public. She couldn’t help but see the little nods, and the satisfaction on the men’s faces. And she hid a grin of her own, as she realized what that meant. The last rumors of her protege being her lover had just gone up in smoke. No lovelorn, aging female would lay into her young lover that way in public. And no young stud would put up with that kind of treatment from a woman, young or old, unless the only position she held in his life was as respected mentor.

She raised her chin aggressively, and raked her crew with her stern gaze. “Come on, come on, pick it up,” she said, echoing every other crew chief here in the pits. “We’re running a race here, not an ice cream social! Move it!”

“Ready, Miz Duncan,” said a sober voice at her shoulder. She turned to see Jimmy was back already, having ditched the coat and scarf for the racing suit of her own design. His helmet tucked under one arm, he waited while she looked him over critically. “Nothing binding?” she asked, inspecting every visible seam and wrinkle. It was as fireproof as modern technology could make it, asbestos fabric over cotton, covering the driver from neck to ankle. Thick asbestos boots covered his feet, which would be under the engine compartment. It would be hotter than all the fires of hell in there, but Jimmy would be cooler than most of the other drivers, who shunned her innovations in favor of jerseys and heavy canvas pants.

And he would be safer than she had been, who’d won the French Grand Prix in ’48 in a leotard and tights.

And if she could have put an air-conditioner in there, she would have. Temperatures in the cockpit ran over 120 Fahrenheit while the car was moving—worse when it idled. In the summer, and at those temperatures, strange things started to happen to a driver’s brain. Heat exhaustion and the dangerous state leading up to it had probably caused more crashes than anyone wanted to admit.

She finished her inspection and gave him the nod; he clapped his helmet on—a full head helmet, not just an elaborate leather cap, but one with a face-plate—and strolled over to his car, beginning his own inspection.

Just as she had taught him.

While the mechanics briefed him on the Bugatti’s latest quirks—and Grand Prix racers always developed new quirks, at least a dozen for each race, not counting intended modifications—she took a moment to survey the nearest crews. To her right, Ferrari and Lola; to her left, Porsche and Mercedes.

Nothing to show that this was Wisconsin and not Italy or Monte Carlo. Nothing here at the track, that is. She had to admit that it was a relief being back in the U.S.; not even the passing of a decade had erased all the scars the War had put on the face of Europe. And there were those who thought that reviving the Grand Prix circuit in ’46 had been both frivolous and ill-considered in light of all that Europe had suffered.

Well, those people didn’t have to invest their money, their time, or their expertise in racing. The announcement that the Indianapolis 500 would be held in 1946 had given those behind the project the incentive they needed to get the plans off the drawing board and into action. The Prince in Monaco had helped immeasurably by offering to host the first race. Monte Carlo had not suffered as much damage as some of the other capitals, and it was a neutral enough spot to lure even the Germans there.

She shook herself mentally. Woolgathering again; it was a good thing she was out of the cockpit and on the sidelines, if she was going to let her thoughts drift like that.

Jimmy nodded understanding as the steering-­specialist made little wiggling motions with his hand. Dora cast another glance up and down pit row, then looked down at the hands of her watch. Time.

She signaled to the crew, who began to push the car into its appointed slot in line. This would be a true Le Mans start; drivers sprinting to their cars on foot and bullying through the pack, jockeying for position right from the beginning. In a way, she would miss it if they went to an Indy-type start; with so little momentum, crashes at the beginning of the race were seldom serious—but when they were, they were devastating. And there were plenty of promising contenders taken out right there in the first four or five hundred yards.

She trotted alongside Jimmy as they made their way to the starting line. “All right, now listen to me: save the engine, save the tires. You have a long race ahead of you. We’ve got a double whammy on us,” she warned. “Remember, a lot of drivers have it in for Bugatti because of me—and the Europeans aren’t really thrilled with the Bugatti preference for Yankee drivers. The other thing: this is Ford country; Ford is fielding six cars in the factory team alone. None of the other chiefs I’ve talked to know any of the drivers personally, which tells me they’re in Ford’s back pocket.”

“Which means they might drive as a team instead of solo?” Jimmy hazarded shrewdly. “Huh. That could be trouble. Three cars could run a rolling roadblock.”

“We’ve worked on the engine since the trials, and there’s another twenty horse there,” she added. “It’s just the way you like it: light, fast, and all the power you need. If I were you, I’d use that moxie early, get yourself placed up in the pack, then lay off and see what the rest do.”

She slowed as they neared driver-only territory; he waved acknowledgment that he had heard her, and trotted on alone. She went back to the pits; the beginning of the race really mattered only in that he made it through the crush at the beginning, and got in a little ahead of the pack. That was one reason why she had given over the cockpit to a younger driver; she was getting too old for those sprints and leaps. Places where she’d hurt herself as a dancer were starting to remind her that she was forty-five years old now. Let Jimmy race to the car and fling himself into it, he was only twenty-five.

The view from her end of pit-row wasn’t very good, but she could see the start if she stood on the concrete fire-wall. One of the men steadied her; Tonio, who had been with her since she was the driver. She handed her clipboard down to him, then noticed a stranger in their pit, wearing the appropriate pass around his neck. She was going to say something, but just then the drivers on the line crouched in preparation for the starting gun, and her attention went back to them.

The gun went off; Jimmy leapt for his car like an Olympic racer, vaulting into it in a way that made her simultaneously sigh with envy and wince. The Bugatti kicked over like a champ; Jimmy used every horse under that hood to bully his way through the exhaust-choked air to the front of the pack, taking an outside position. Just like she’d taught him.