by Paul Kenyon
She whizzed past one car, then another. The waterfront was a sparkling blur in the corner of her eye. How many cars were still ahead of her? There was a bright glitter of metal a quarter-mile ahead. A Lotus Ford — it must be Brazil's Fittipaldi. The Lotus whipped round the sharp curve of Tobacconist's Corner and disappeared from sight. Penelope made an instant decision not to shift down for the corner. She'd have to rely on brakes and the downward push of the bat-wings. Her foot was all the way down to the floor. She was doing 175 mph at 15,000 rpm. Her spine was slammed into the backrest.
She hit the brakes hard just before the corner, then released them almost immediately before the ramp. The big keg-like rear tires left the ground. She would have flipped end-over-end then if it hadn't been for the authority of the big wings, pushing them firmly back onto the pavement. She was safely past the pits now, heading toward the new danger of the Gasworks Hairpin. There was an irregular salmon-colored streak at her left: the faces of the people lining the rail. Behind them was a solid cliff of high-rise buildings, seeming to wheel majestically against the mountains beyond as she flew past.
She whipped around the corner, and there was a flutter of yellow ahead: a flag marshal frantically giving the danger signal. There it was: the crumpled wreckage of a McLaren against the barrier, a column of greasy smoke rising from it. Flames licked round the cockpit. She could see a dangling arm and a helmeted head hanging over the side.
Basil! It was Basil Quarles!
In the same frozen instant, she could see the little figures of fire marshals in helmets and masks, pounding toward the accident. There was the scream of an ambulance siren. But Basil's uniform was already on fire.
Ahead of the wreck she could see Fittipaldi's Lotus streaking past the finish line, on its way around the second lap. Behind her was a staggered line of more cars, coming up fast, fighting to pass one another.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes. It was so unfair! She was almost ahead of the pack now. The new motor and the computer-controlled vanes were working. She'd have been far out front by the end of the second lap, with no one able to catch her. The Grand Prix trophy was within her grasp.
But Basil was burning!
With a sob, she wrenched the wheel left and hit the brakes hard. The little Ferrari stood on its nose, the batwings fighting to slam the rear end down fiat again. The car bucked crazily. The restraining straps bit into her chest and shoulders. In a bare twenty meters she slowed a hundred miles an hour. She was still going fast when her left tires hit the barrier.
The left front wheel came off then, and the bat-wing tore loose with a scream of tortured metal. The underbelly of the Ferrari scraped the roadway, inches from her tender bottom. Weaving like a maniac, her teeth feeling as if they'd been jarred loose, she came to a stop directly behind the burning Lotus.
Her car was a mess. A quarter-million dollars worth of crumpled tattered metal. But there was no time to think about that. She was jammed against the steering wheel, the crumpled cockpit telescoped backward. She tore loose the wrench that was taped to the wheel for just such an emergency, and, with a tug and a deft spin, unscrewed the nut. The wheel came off.
She unstrapped the restraining harness and squeezed herself out of the cockpit. Throwing an arm across her face to ward off the flames, she plunged through a wall of heat toward Basil. He was unconscious, but still breathing. Little flames crawled across his coveralls: he'd been sprayed with burning fuel. She managed to undo his safety harness, but when she tried to pull him loose, she found that his lower body was jammed fast between the bent floor plates and the steering wheel. She got the wheel loose with the help of the hex wrench that Basil had taped there and tried again. He was still stuck.
She beat at the flames. It was no use. He was still trapped in that damned tin bathtub of a car. She needed a pry bar.
The roll bar! If she could somehow get it loose! She poked her head into the cloud of foul smoke enveloping the rear of the car and found the nuts — there were three of them on either side, a total of six holding on the arch of metal. Dear God, if Basil's wrench were the right size… but it was too much to hope for. Or was it? She slipped the wrench over the first nut and it fit! Working fast, her gloves scorched by the hot metal, she got the roll bar off. She had a stout, U-shaped length of metal in her hands.
Her own suit was beginning to smoulder. But there was no time to worry about that now. She inserted one end of the U into the cockpit, at the place where the panels bulged inward. Grasping the other end firmly in her strong hands, she pulled. Nothing happened. She put all her weight into it. The metal gave a little. But it wasn't enough.
Holding onto the end of the U, she put the soles of her boots against the side of the car and leaned outward. The magnificent model's body was deceptive. Penelope was tall, with lots of leverage in those long limbs. Under the lush feminine curves was a superb musculature. She heaved with bone-cracking force. For a moment she hung there, braced against the car, her body bent at right angles, while little feathers of fire licked over her shoulder blades like a pair of wings. The fire crept down the tight Nomex jumpsuit. She ignored it. The metal plates began to bend. Her body was almost horizontal now, standing out from the side of the burning car like a jib. And then the roll bar came free, tumbling her onto the oil-slick pavement.
She sprang to her feet and lurched toward the cockpit again. She'd managed to widen the gap by several inches. She slipped her arms under Basil's and locked her hands across his chest. She pulled. His body slid upward, fabric tearing on the jagged metal.
His eyes flew open then. "Careful, love," he said. "See you don't rip my cock off."
"Shut up, you bastard!" she said, her eyes stung by smoke.
"We're going to need it, you know," he said, and lapsed into unconsciousness again.
He was heavy, but she heaved him over her shoulders and staggered a safe distance from the burning car with him. Her own Ferrari was on fire now, too, from the flames that had leaped across the gap. She smiled wryly. A quarter of a million dollars, she thought; you'd better be damned good in bed, my friend, to make up for that!
She dropped him unceremoniously on the ground and flung herself full length on top of him to smother the flames that were engulfing his chest like a fiery bib. She could feel their hot breath on her breasts. She locked her arms and legs around Basil and rolled the two of them over and over.
His eyes opened again. "I say, Penny!" he wheezed. "This is rather fun, what?"
She grunted, heaving at his limp body, tumbling like a single two-backed creature until the rest of the flames were out. Then she collapsed, panting, her cheek nestled in the hollow of his shoulder.
The photographers got there before the fire marshals did.
"Merveilleux!" said a gold-spectacled young man in jeans and battle jacket, pointing a Nikon at them. "C'est très épicé."
"Say something for ABC, Baroness," said a puffy, pale American, poking a microphone at her. He had a Sony recorder slung over his shoulder.
"Bravest thing I've ever seen," said a gangling man who was balancing a 16mm Beaulieu movie camera on his shoulder. He began shooting footage immediately.
Helplessly, Penelope watched the other cars whiz by, on their way around the second lap, streaking past the wreckage like a swarm of giant bees.
The fire marshals came puffing up then, bulky in their asbestos suits and masks, spraying them with foam.
"Hey, bugger off, will you?" Basil choked, sitting up. "The bloody fire's already out!"
Penelope helped him to a standing position. The ambulance had arrived and two orderlies were hurrying toward them with a stretcher.
"Get that fucking thing away from me," he said, pushing weakly at the white sleeves.
A fussy little man with a doctor's bag was poking at Basil. "Etes-vous hien?" he said.
"He's got burns on his hands and forehead," Penelope said. "And he's probably concussed."
"Take a look at her, you bloody sod," Basil growle
d. "Can't you see she's bleeding?"
The doctor turned to Penelope. "You have cut your cheek," he said accusingly. "And your hand is burned."
Penelope touched her face. Her fingers came away bloody, but she hadn't felt anything worse than a flap of skin and the sting of an abrasion. She flexed her hands. They were a little scorched from the hot metal, but it was nothing serious. They were beginning to swell. But none of the burning fuel had fallen on exposed flesh, thank God!
"Get him to the hospital," she said brusquely. "I'm all right."
Basil was feeling himself all over, very carefully. "No broken bones," he said. He looked at his hands. "I've done worse than that falling asleep at the beach."
The little doctor was close to tears. "But Monsieur Quarles, those are gasoline burns. And you may have internal injuries. You must go to the hospital."
Basil swayed. Penelope caught him and he managed to remain upright, leaning against her. "The hell I will! I've got something more important to do." In the end he let the doctor clean up the worst cuts and scrapes, spray an antiseptic ointment on the burns and plaster him with gauze patches. The doctor worked quickly, shaking his head and clucking. He refused to go until Penelope allowed him to tape a square of gauze on her cheek and treat her hands with burn ointment.
The reporters were jostling around them, interfering with the orderlies and the marshals. They'd managed to douse the flames on the two wrecked cars. A column of sickly smoke was still straggling upward. There was a yellow flag man around the bend now, cautioning the remaining cars that they couldn't pass one another on the hairpin.
Skytop, Paul and Sumo were pushing their way through the crowd. The big Cherokee knocked journalists aside like tenpins. Trailing him, she noticed, was the same big-assed lady reporter with the Rollei.
"Are you all right, Baroness?" Skytop said. He looked at the bandage on her face. "Christ! We're supposed to shoot a beachwear feature for Bazaar the day after tomorrow!"
Skytop was one of the hottest fashion photographers around, despite his rough-and-ready appearance and his rougher manners. International Models, Inc. couldn't exist without him. It made a good cover for his other activities in behalf of the Baroness.
"Don't worry about it, Chief," she said. "It's nothing that a little masking lotion won't cover."
He surveyed her torn and blackened jumpsuit.
"Any bruises under there?"
"Probably. It feels like it. We'll worry about it later."
Sumo was close to tears, looking at the smoldering wreck of the bat-winged Ferrari. "You would have won!" he said.
"We've got four weeks till the Francorchamps race, Tommy," she said gently. "Time enough to modify the other Ferrari."
Paul shot a venomous look at Basil. "You should have let the joker burn."
"That's enough," she said sharply.
Basil tottered. "He's right, y'know, Baroness," he said. His knees began to buckle.
Skytop was at Basil's side in a flash, hooking an arm the size of an oak branch around his ribs. Basil was a big, heavy man, but Skytop held him as if he were nothing but a rag doll.
"What do you want to do with him?" Skytop said.
"Take him to my suite at the Hotel de Paris," she said. "We'll look him over there."
The surrounding journalists buzzed, and stepped up the rate of their picture taking. Skytop scowled at them.
They shoved their way through the crush, Paul and Sumo clearing the way, and Skytop bringing up the rear, supporting Basil Quarles. "Asset!" Paul said sharply. "Il est blessé!"
The journalists parted. With some amusement, Penelope saw that the big-assed lady reporter was still trailing them, making sheep's eyes at Skytop.
Sumo had the van pulled just outside the barrier, waiting for them. He held the door open for her. Before getting in, Penelope turned toward the track for a last look. The bright little racing cars were zooming past the line, on another lap. Jackie Stewart's Tyrell Ford was in the lead, but Jack Brabham was coming up behind him fast.
She could see Grace and the Prince, standing stiffly in the reviewing box, wearing dark glasses and looking starched and uncomfortable. The silver trophy cup was waiting on a stand by Rainier's elbow. Penelope sighed. It had almost been hers.
Chapter 3
Back at the Hôtel de Paris, she sent Sumo out for a kit of medical supplies, then dismissed the three of them. Skytop had stripped Basil and put him in a hot tub.
"He's tough," the big Cherokee said, pausing at the door. "The bastard doesn't deserve any tender loving care. He made you lose the race. Take care of yourself, Baroness. Your skin's more important. He's not going to be posing in a bikini on the Cote d'Azur day after tomorrow."
"I'll take a good soak and inspect the damage," she laughed. "Now get out of here."
When she returned to the bathroom, Basil was soaping his back gingerly with a sponge.
"Ow!" he complained. "Feels like a barbecued beef back there!"
"Let me take a look," she said. There was a livid burned area the size of an outstretched hand.
"I'd better do that," she said, taking the sponge.
She swabbed away at it carefully, washing out the little embedded black flecks. It was oozing a little. Basil drew in his breath sharply, but otherwise made no sound. The burning petrol must have eaten through the fabric of his coveralls at that spot.
His hands were awkward paws in mittens of pink adhesive, with the fingers sticking out. The little doctor had done a good job on them.
There were more pieces of sticking plaster dotted over his arms and torso, along with a crazyquilt pattern of abrasions and purple bruises that the doctor hadn't thought bad enough to dress. She scrubbed his abused body gently, taking away the crusted blood and the soot and grime of the race.
"You're a mess, Basil darling," she said, rumpling his hair. She leaned over the tub and kissed him on the mouth.
"Don't forget to sponge between my legs, old thing," he said.
She looked into the soapy water. His pole was standing rigidly above the surface, casting a periscope eye at the ceiling.
"Impossible man!" she laughed. "How can you think about sex in your condition?" She reached between his legs and gave him a quick scrub.
"It's my solace. Takes my mind off my wounds. Besides, you promised, didn't you? Ovaries against balls."
"You didn't give me much of a race."
"The race isn't over." He grasped her wrist with his taped hands and put her hand on his stem. It was a nice fit, like the rubber sheathed gearshift of her Ferrari.
"We'll see. I'm going to change your dressings."
She helped him out of the tub, dripping, and dried him off. He tried to slip a hand inside the terrycloth robe that had replaced her ruined driving outfit, but she took his arm firmly and placed it around her shoulder. With an arm around his bruised ribs, her hip braced against his, she let him lean on her all the way to the bedroom. She eased him down onto the mattress. He lay on his back, his big, lean, competent frame livid with bruises against the white sheets.
"Take off that silly robe," he said.
"I'm all grime and oil. I'll have a bath first. You can lie there and contemplate your navel."
"It's not my ruddy navel I'll be contemplating." His stem pointed toward the ceiling at a forty-five degree angle, as livid as his bruises.
She laughed. "If you're not strong enough to stand on your own feet, you're certainly not strong enough for sex."
Wincing, he heaved himself up on one elbow. "Fortunately it's something I can do lying down."
"Try to nap, darling. Gather strength while I'm bathing."
In the tub, she surveyed the damage. Bruises. God, they were sore! Scraped knees and elbows. A gash down the forearm she hadn't noticed; the soap and water set it bleeding again. Those seared hands. They'd be a week or more healing, and in the meantime they were stiff. A lovely purple badge on the underside of her left breast, where she must have struck it against the edge of the coc
kpit. The penetrating warmth of the water felt good.
She shampooed the rubber dust and oil out of her hair and combed it out straight. It was thick and black, sweeping past those spectacular cheekbones and falling past her shoulders to her breasts. She fanned it out and blew hot air at it with the little hand dryer. She looked at her face critically in the steamy mirror. The enormous jade-green eyes stared back at her. The abraded cheek didn't look too awful now, with the dirt and dead skin out of it. She decided not to replace the gauze pad. She opened the medical kit that Sumo had fetched for her, and smeared ointment on it. She sprayed antiseptic on the gash on her arm,, and rubbed more ointment on her hands.
Then, carrying the kit, she strode naked to the bedroom. Basil was lying on his back, his penis still pointing upward.
"Hullo," he said. "Is that the duty nurse? I love your outfit, Sister."
"Shut up and lie back. You're not doing a thing until I see to those burns and scrapes."
"Lie back, is it? Very well. What's that I see? There's a small part of me that refuses to take orders!"
She laughed. "Basil, you silly ape, stay still while I get this ointment on you!"
"Greasy stuff, isn't it?
"Hold still!"
"How come you're wearing your watch? It spoils your outfit."
"I'm going to take your pulse."
She took his wrist in her long slender fingers. He craned his neck and took a peek.
"Where are the hands?"
"It's an electronic watch, darling. With a liquid crystal display."
She pressed the stem. Numbers flashed across the miniature screen. 11:01:55. Five o'clock in the morning in New York. John Farnsworth wouldn't be hearing about her accident for another two hours, when he got up and switched on the morning news. She'd get a worried transatlantic call from him then. She smiled. John was a nice old fusspot. She corrected herself. A nice deadly old fusspot. She remembered what he could do with a knife, a gun or those strong bony fingers.
"Am I alive, love?" Basil said.
