The interior was dark and in his elated state he noticed no details, though he had a vague impression of carved wood, beamed ceilings, suits of armor, and pieces of furniture as bulky as freight cars. With uneven step he followed his guide through one chamber after another until they came to a room where tall mullioned windows opened onto the garden. A girl stood in front of a window holding his note disdainfully by the edge, as though it were a soiled Kleenex she was about to discard.
“What do you want here?” she asked, the cold tones so unsuited to the velvet warmth of her voice.
At any other time Haroway would have taken a greater interest in this delightful example of female construction, but now, incredible as it seemed, he looked upon her only as an undesired interference. The jet-dark tresses dropping to the creamy tan of her shoulders were just hair. The ripeness of her bosom swelling above the square neck of her dress was another barrier placed in his way, while the pouting loveliness of her lips spoke only words that barred him from Bellini.
“It is no business of yours what I want here,” he snapped. “I will tell that to the Maestro.”
“The Maestro is a sick man and sees no one,” she answered, her voice just as imperious as his. “We can have no one disturbing him.” She dangled the card like a dead mouse. “What does this message mean—‘Unfinished business from Le Mans 1910?’ ”
“That business is none of your business, Miss . . .?”
“I am Signorina Bellini.”
“Miss Signorina . . .”
“Signorina is the Italian word for ‘Miss’ .”
“Sorry. Miss Bellini. What I have to say is only for the ears of the Maestro himself.” He took a firmer grip on the handle of his briefcase. “Now—will you take my message to him?”
“No!”
“Chi e?” a deep voice rumbled from the direction of the ceiling and the girl went white and clutched the note to her breast.
“He’s heard . . .!” she gasped.
The apparently deific voice grumbled again and the girl answered it in staccato Italian, and appeared to be talking either to heaven or to a comer of the ceiling. After some blinking Haroway could make out a loudspeaker suspended from the crenelated molding with what appeared to be a microphone hanging next to it. Then the conversation terminated in what could only have been a command and the girl lowered her head.
“That was . . . he . . . him?” Haroway asked in a hushed voice. She only nodded her head and turned to the window until she could speak again.
“He wants to see you—and the doctor has expressly forbidden visitors.” She swung about to face him, and the impact of emotion in those large and tear-dampened eyes was so great that it cut through his indifference instantly. “Won’t you leave—please? He’s not to be excited.”
“I would like to help you, but . . . I just can’t, I’ve waited too long for this chance. But I promise you that I won’t get him excited; I’ll do my best, really I will.”
She sighed tremulously and lowered her head again, turning. “Come with me,” she said and started toward the door.
Haroway did not feel the pain of his injured foot, for in truth he felt scarcely anything as he stumbled after her as through a sea of cotton wool. His senses were suspended as though, unbelieving, they could not accept the fact that a lifetime ambition was being realized at last. One final door swung open and he could see the bulky figure swaddled in blankets and seated on a wheelchair—a chance ray of sunlight fell from the window and struck a reflection from his mane of white hair, a halo of light that would not have surprised Haroway if it had been real. He could only stand, petrified and speechless, while the girl went over and silently handed the Maestro his note.
“What does this mean?” the old man asked, waving the card at him. “There was only one piece of unfinished business at Le Mans that year, and it is too late now to start a lawsuit or anything like that. What do you want?” He frowned at Haroway and the effort wrinkled a network of fine furrows into the mahogany skin.
“N-nothing like that,” Haroway stammered, then took a deep breath and grabbed hold of himself. “I of course wasn’t there; I hadn’t even been born yet—” He fought down an impulse to giggle hysterically. “But my father has told me about it, many times, so I almost feel as if I had seen the race myself. When that eleven-litre Fiat brushed against your thirteen-hundred twenty-seventy c.c. Type Thirteen and turned it over, what a horrible moment that must have been! But your driver, Fettuccine, was thrown clear, and it was only when the radiator cap flew off and into the crowd . . .”
“The cap—I knew it!” the Maestro said, and pounded on the arm of the wheelchair. “It had to be that, there was no other unfinished business at Le Mans!”
“Grandfather, please!” the girl begged as she stroked his hand. “You promised not to!” she said, glaring at Haroway.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Anyway, there’s nothing to get excited about; my father was the one who was hit on the head by the radiator cap.”
“Aha—the mysterious wounded man, found at last.”
“He wasn’t really hurt; it was a very small fracture and he was out of bed inside of a month. And he still held onto the radiator cap—his greatest treasure. He had no money; he had worked his way to Europe just to see Le Mans, and he was treated in a charity hospital. That is why you never discovered him, though I know you tried very hard to find the man who had been injured.”
“It was a mystery; many saw him fall—yet later there was no trace.”
“Well Dad always was shy; he couldn’t possibly consider talking to a great man like you. When he recovered he managed to make his way back to the United States, and life was different for him after that. He always said that he had sown his wild oats and he was satisfied. When he met Mom and they married, he worked in a filling station; then, finally, he saved enough to buy in and that was all he ever did—but he was always a happy man. He had the radiator cap sealed inside a glass case and framed and hung over the fireplace, and it’s the earliest thing I remember, and him telling me about it. I grew up with that cap, Mr. Bellini, and it would be no lie to say that it shaped my whole life. I loved cars and I studied them and went to school nights, and right now I’m an automotive engineer and there has never been anything else I have ever wanted in the whole world. Outside of meeting you, that is. Then Dad died last year and his last words were “Take it back, son. It don’t rightly belong to us. I knew it would have to go back someday, but couldn’t bear to do it, not in my lifetime. That’s your job, son, what you have to do. Take it back to the man that rightly owns it.”
Haroway had his briefcase open and fumbled through it and extracted an object wrapped in many layers of polythene. One by one, with light, reverent touch, he unwrapped them until the old radiator cap was revealed, dented and scratched but polished like a jewel. He held it out to the Maestro, who took and turned it over, squinting at it.
“A nice piece of brass,” he said, then handed it back. “Keep it.”
“Thank you,” Haroway said in a humble voice as he carefully rewrapped it and slid it gently back into the briefcase. “Thank you, too, for your courtesy in receiving me.” He locked the case and picked it up. “I’ll not disturb you anymore—but, if you would permit, there is just one question I would like to ask before I go.”
“What is that?” the Maestro asked distractedly, looking out the window and seeing only Le Mans in the year 1910. If it hadn’t been for that hulking Fiat, his Type Thirteen should have won. With the overhead camshaft they were getting 3,000 r.p.m . . .
“It’s something that has bothered me for years. Do you think that if it hadn’t been for the accident that the Type Thirteen would have placed first? After all, with your new overhead camshaft you should have been getting 3,000 r.p.m . . .”
“¡Dio mio!” the Maestro gasped. “You read my mind—those were my very thoughts!”
“Not really mind-reading, sir, just a lifetime of study. I have had one hobby, o
ne possessing enthusiasm and interest, the Bellini automobiles and the Bellini genius.”
“A healthy hobby for a young man; most of the new generation are spineless wonders who think that a vehicle with an automatic gearshift is really a carl Stay a moment; you will have a glass of wine with me. Have you met my granddaughter? Vergine, the apple of an old man’s eye even though she is very strict with me.” She glared at him and he laughed heartily. “Don’t scowl so, my blossom, it puts ugly lines upon your face. Instead bring a bottle of the ’47 Valpolicella and some glasses. We shall have a little holiday today.”
They drank and talked and the talk was only of cars—Bellini cars, which they both agreed were the only fit cars to discuss. The afternoon faded and at dinner time an invitation was forced upon the not-reluctant Haroway and the talk continued; worm and wheel steering with the spaghetti, semicentrifugal wet multiplate clutches with the meat, and banana-shaped tappets with the dessert. It was a highly satisfactory meal.
“There you see the proof,” Haroway said, scratching a last number at the end of a row of equations that stretched across the white surface of the linen tablecloth. “When you developed your sixteen-valve engine for the Type Twenty-two with four valves per cylinder you developed higher scavenging pressure with the smaller valves—this proves it! Did you work out these equations first?”
“No. I leave it for others to prove. I knew what would happen; a matter of intuition, you might call it.”
“Not intuition—genius.”
Bellini nodded his great, gray head, accepting his due. “What do you think I have been doing the past ten years?” he asked.
“Nothing. You retired to this castle after having given more to the automotive world than any other man.”
“That is true. But, though I did retire, I have kept a small workshop here, for tinkering, working out ideas, an old man’s hobby. I have constructed a car—”
Haroway went white, half rising to his feet, a convulsive movement of his hand sending one of the crystal wine glasses crashing to the floor: he was not aware of it.
“Car . . . new car . . .” was all he could gasp.
“I thought you might be a little interested,” the Maestro said with an impish grin. “Perhaps you would like to see it?”
“Grandfather, no!” Vergine broke in. She had sat silently through the meal, since the conversation seemed to be doing the Maestro no harm, mellowing his usually spiky mood, but this was too much. “The exertion, and the excitement, the doctor forbade you to go near the car for at least two weeks more . . .”
“Silence!” he roared. “This is my house and I am Bellini. No fat oaf of an overpaid quack tells me what to do in my own house.” His temper changed and he patted her hand. “My darling, you must forgive an old man his moods. I have only a few laps left of the race of life and my magneto is failing and my oil pressure is low. Allow me a few moments of pleasure before I pull into the pit for the last time. You must have seen how different Haroway is from the other young men, for, even though he labors in the satanic mills of manufacture of Detroit iron, his heart is pure. I think he must be the last of a vanishing breed. He came here offering—not asking—expecting nothing. He shall see the car.”
“What is it called?” Haroway asked in a hushed voice.
“The Type Ninety-nine.”
“A beautiful name.”
Haroway pushed the wheelchair and Vergine led the way to the elevator, which hummed down its shaft to the garage and workshop concealed beneath the castle. When the door opened Haroway had to hold onto the wheelchair for support or he would have fallen.
There was the car.
It was a moment of pure joy, the high point of his life. He did not realize that tears of unalloyed happiness were running down his face as he stumbled across the spotless concrete floor.
This was frozen motion. The silver form of the Type 99 was poised like a captive thunderbolt, yearning to leap forward and span the world. The body was simplicity itself, its curve as pure and lovely as that of a woman’s breast. And under that glistening hood and concealed beneath the perfection of the body Haroway knew there were hidden even greater wonders.
“You installed . . . mechanical improvements?” he asked hesitantly.
“A few,” the Maestro admitted. “The brakes, I have never given much attention before to the brakes.”
“With good reason—did you not say yourself that a Bellini car is designed to go, not to stop?”
“I did. But the world changes and the roads are more crowded now. I have turned my attention to the brakes and devised a wholly new system of braking. Foolproof, nonfade, nongrab, impossible to lock, just what you imagine a Bellini brake should be.”
“And the system is . . .?”
“Magnetostriction.”
“Of course! But no one ever thought of it before.”
“Naturally. A laboratory phenomenon where the application of magnetism changes the dimensions of a ferromagnetic substance. It makes a good brake. And then I was so tired of the devil’s dance of the piston engine. I decided a new principle was needed. The Type Ninety-nine is powered by a free-piston turbine.”
“But—that’s impossible! The two can’t be combined.”
“Impossible for others, not for Bellini. Another problem that has been eliminated is unsprung weight. This car has no unsprung weight.”
“That’s imposs—”
The Maestro smiled and nodded, accepting his accolade. “There are a few other small items, of course. A nickel-cadmium battery that cannot wear out or be discharged completely. An all-aluminum body, rustproof and easy to repair, that sort of thing.”
Haroway let his fingers caress the steering wheel. “You owe this car to the world.”
“I had not thought of producing it. It is just an old man’s toy.”
“No, it is more than that. It is a return to the purity of the vintage motorcar, a machine that will take the world by storm. Just the way it is, the perfect car, the finest car in the world. You have patented all the modifications and inventions?”
“Bellini has been accused of a number of things, but never of having been born yesterday.”
“Then let me take the car back with me to the United States! There are enough true car lovers in my firm; I only have to show them the Type Ninety-nine to convince them. We’ll manufacture a limited number, loving care, hand labor, perfection . . .”
“I don’t know,” the Maestro said, then gasped and clutched at the arm of the chair, his face growing white with pain. “My medicine, quickly, Vergine.” She ran for the bottle while he held tightly to his chest, speaking only with difficulty.
“It is a sign, Haroway, a greater power than I has decided. My work is done. The car is finished—and so am I. Take it, bring it to the world . . .”
He finished with a tired mumble and barely roused enough to sip the medicine his granddaughter brought to him. The noble head was hanging tiredly when she wheeled him away. After the doors of the elevator had shut behind them, Haroway turned back to the car.
Joy!
A button on the wall swung open the garage door and a spray of windblown rain speckled the floor. The rented car could stay here; the firm could pick it up tomorrow, because tonight he was driving a Bellini! The car door opened to a touch and he slid into the comforting embrace of the leather driver’s seat. He switched on the ignition, then smiled when he found out there was no starting button. Of course, Bellini had always disdained electric starters. A single pull on the crank was enough to start any Bellini car. Now the system had been refined to the utmost and a tiny two-inch miniature crank handle protruded from the dashboard. He flipped it with his fingertips and the perfectly balanced engine roared into throbbing life. Through the wheel he could feel the vibrating power of the engine, not the mechanical hammer of an ugly machine but a muted rumble like the purr of a giant cat. With the ease of a hot knife cutting butter it slipped into first gear and when he touched the throttle the silver mac
hine threw itself out into the night like an unleashed rocket.
Zero to a hundred miles an hour took four seconds, because he was not yet used to the divine machine and was hesitant with the gas. Immense tunnels of light were cut through the rain-swept night by the searchlight-bright headlights. And, though there was no cover over the open car, he was perfectly dry as an ingeniously designed curtain of air rushed above him and shielded him from the rain. The road was a nightmare of hairpin turns but he laughed aloud as he snaked through them, since the steering was only one turn from lock to lock and as positive in response as though the car were running on rails.
There had never been a car like this in the history of the world. He sang as he drove, hurling his happiness into the sky. A new day was coming for the motoring world, the day of the Type 99. And they would all be manufactured with the same loving care that the master had lavished on this prototype, he would see to that.
Of course there would have to be one or two very minor modifications—like the battery. Nickel-cadmium was out, they had a contract with their lead-acid battery suppliers and you can’t break a contract like that. And the aluminum body—good enough in theory, but you needed special dies to press it and they had stockpiled steel sheet that had to be used, and anyway the dealers would howl because the aluminum bodies would never rust or wear out and no one would trade in for a newer model. Then the engine would have to be considered: they would modify one of their stock engines. It was all right to say that here was a new principle, but they were tooled up to make a different kind of engine and you don’t throw away a couple of million dollars’ worth of machine tools.
Anyway, a few changes under the hood didn’t matter, the body would be the same. He glanced back happily at the car as he swung into the illuminated highway. Well, almost the same. You couldn’t change a market overnight, and there was something pretty European about the lines. Probably need fins to sell the U. S. market; fins were coming back big.
Car Sinister Page 11