Mercedes Lackey - Dance Track

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2024-11-24 0 0 30.62KB 11 页 5.9玖币
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Dance Track
Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
Dora blew her hair out of her eyes with an impatient snort and wiped sweat off her
forehead. And simultaneously adjusted the timing on the engine, yelled a correction
on tire selection to her tire man, and took a quick look out of the corner of her eye for
her driver.
He wasn't late—yet. He liked to give her these little heart attacks by showing up
literally at the last possible moment. She would, of course, give him hell, trying to
sound like the crew chief that she was, and not like his mother, which she was old
enough to be—
—And most certainly not like an aging lover, which half the Bugatti team and every
other team assumed she was.
The fact that they weren't had no bearing on the situation. Dora had been well aware
from the moment she joined Bugatti at the end of the war that her position in this part
of Man's World would always be difficult. That was all right; when had she ever had
an easy life?
"All right!" She pulled clear of the engine compartment, hands up and in plain sight,
as she had taught all her mechanics to do. Too many men in Grand Prix racing had
missing fingers from being caught in the wrong place when an engine started—but
not on her team. The powerful Bugatti engine roared to life; she nodded to the
mechanic in Jimmy's seat, and he floored the pedal.
She cocked her head to one side, frowning a little; then grinned and gave the mech a
thumbs-up. He killed the engine, answering her grin, and popped out of the cockpit—
just as Jimmy himself came swaggering up through the chaotic tangle of men and
machines in the pits.
She knew he was there by the way the men's eyes suddenly moved to a point just
behind and to one side of her. They never learned—or else, they never guessed how
they gave themselves away. Probably the latter; they were mostly Italian, steeped in
generations of presumed male superiority, and they would never even think that a
woman could be more observant than they, no matter how often she proved it to them.
She pivoted before Jimmy could slap her butt, and gave him The Look. She didn't
even have to say anything, it was all there in The Look.
He stopped, standing hip-shot as if he were posing for one of his famous publicity
shots, his born-charmer grin countering her Look. The blue eyes that made millions of
teenage girls suffer heart-palpitations peered cheerfully at Dora through his unruly
blond hair. He'd grown a thatch over his eyes for his last movie, and hadn't cut it yet.
He probably wouldn't, Dora reflected. His image as a rebel wasn't just an image, it
was the real Jimmy.
She pulled her eyes away from his, and The Look turned to a real frown as she took in
the dark ankle-length trenchcoat and the flamboyant, long silk scarf he wore.
"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
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：11 页 大小：30.62KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-11-24

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