Dragon's Teeth Page 6
He expected her to launch into another diatribe, but instead, she smiled. And for some reason, that smile sent cold chills down his back.
“You didn’t even guess that all this was my idea, did you?” she asked, silkily. “You had no idea that I had been touching your mind, prodding you toward this moment. You forgot what your grandmother told you, because I made you forget—that the dumb feast puts the living in the power of the dead.”
She moved around the end of the table, and stood beside him. He would have shrunk away from her if he could have—but he still could not move a single muscle. “There is a gas leak in this room, Aaron,” she said, in the sweet, conversational tone he remembered so well. “You never could smell it, because you have no sense of smell. What those awful cigars of yours didn’t ruin, the port you drank after dinner killed. I must have told you about the leak a hundred times, but you never listened. I was only a woman, how could I know about such things?”
But why hadn’t someone else noticed it?
“It was right at the lamp, so it never mattered as long as you kept the gaslights lit; since you wouldn’t believe me and I didn’t want the house to explode, I kept them lit day and night, all winter long. Remember? I told you I was afraid of the dark, and you laughed, and permitted me my little indulgence. And of course, in the summer, the windows were open. But you turned the lights off for this dumb feast, didn’t you, Aaron. You sealed the room, just as the old woman told you. And the room has been filling with gas, slowly, all night.”
Was she joking? No, one look into her eyes convinced him that she was not. Frantic now, he tried to break the hold she had over his body, and found that he still could not move.
“In a few minutes, there will be enough gas in this room for the candles to set it off—or perhaps the chafing dish—or even the fire. There will be a terrible explosion. And Rebecca will be free—free to follow her dream and become a concert pianist. Oh, Aaron, I managed to thwart you in that much. The French teacher and the piano teacher are very dear friends. The lessons continued, even though you tried to stop them. And you never guessed.” She looked up, as if at an unseen signal, and smiled. And now he smelled the gas.
“It will be a terrible tragedy—but I expect Rebecca will get over her grief in a remarkably short time. The young are so resilient.” The smell of gas was stronger now.
She wiggled her fingers at him, like a child. “Goodbye, Aaron,” she said, cheerfully. “Merry Christmas. See you soon—”
This story was for one of Mike Resnick’s “Alternate” anthologies, Alternate Celebrities, I believe. The wonderful thing about the alternate-history books is that you can take someone in history that you really like but who may not have . . . made some of the wisest choices in the world . . . and make him (or her) into something a little better.
Since Larry and I decided to do this one together, we combined our two passions—his for cars and mine for dance. Although . . . I am coming to share that passion for cars, and even took a High-Performance Racing school at Stevens Racing at Hallet Raceway (enjoying it very much, thank you). That, by the way, is the same track Mark Shepherd and I set Wheels of Fire at. We’re currently thinking about getting a Catterham Seven, which is a new old Lotus Seven, and doing vintage racing and autocross—but I digress.
In this case, we took the Mother of Modern Dance, Isadora Duncan, and gave her a little more common sense. We also had her born about 25 years later than she actually was, so that she participated in World War Two rather than World War One. But yes, in WWI, she did drive an ambulance for the Allies. As for her protégé Jimmy, well, we made his fate a lot kinder, too.
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 degrees 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 faceplate—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.
The cars pulled out of sight, and she jumped down off the wall. The stranger was still there—and the pits were for the first time today, quiet. They would not be that way for long, as damaged or empty cars staggered into the hands of their keepers, but they were for the moment, and the silence impacted the ears as the silence between incoming artillery barrages had—
She headed for the stranger—but he was heading for her. “Miss Duncan?” he said quickly. “Jim got me this pit-pass—he came over to see us do Death of a Salesman last night and when he came back-stage and found out I race too, he got me the pass and told me to check in with you.”
“What kind of racing?” she asked cautiously. It would be just like Jimmy to pal around with some kid just because he was an up-and-coming actor and saddle her with someone who didn’t know when to get the hell out of the way.
“Dirt-track, mostly,” he said modestly, then quoted her credentials that made her raise her eyebrow. “I’ll stay out of the way.”
The kid had an open, handsome face, and another set of killer blue eyes—and the hand that shook hers was firm and confident. She decided in his favor.
“Do that,” she told him. “Unless there’s a fire—tell you what, you think you can put up with hauling one of those around for the rest of the race?” She pointed at the rack of heavy fire-bottles behind the fire-wall, and he nodded. “All right; get yourself one of those and watch our pit, Porsche, and Ferrari. That’s the cost of you being in here. If there’s a fire in any of ’em, deal with it.” Since the crews had other things on their minds—and couldn’t afford to hang extinguishers around their necks—this kid might be the first one on the spot.
“Think you can handle that—what is your name, anyway?”
“Paul,” he said, diffidently. “Yeah, I can handle that. Thanks, Miss Duncan.”
“Dora,” she replied automatically, as she caught the whine of approaching engines. She lost all interest in the kid for a moment as she strained to see who was in front.
It was Lola, but the car was already in trouble. She heard a tell-tale rattle deep in, and winced as the leaders roared by—
Jimmy was in the first ten; that was all that mattered, that, and his first-lap time. She glanced at Fillipe, who had the stop-watch; he gave her a thumbs-up and bent to his clipboard to make notes, a
s he would for almost every lap. She let out her breath in a sigh.
“Miss Duncan, how did you get into racing?”
She had forgotten the kid but he was still there—as he had promised, out of the way, but still within talking distance.
She shook her head, a rueful smile on her lips. “Glory. How fleeting fame. Retire, and no one’s ever heard of you—”
“Oh, I know all about the Grand Prix wins,” the kid said hastily. “I just wanted to know why you stopped dancing. Jimmy told me you were kind of a—big thing in Europe. It doesn’t seem like a natural approach to racing. I mean, Josephine Baker didn’t go into racing.”
She chuckled at being compared to the infamous cabaret dancer, but no one had ever asked her the question in quite that way. “A couple of reasons,” she replied, thoughtfully. “The biggest one is that my dingbat brother was a better dancer than I ever was. I figured that the world only needed one crazy dancing Duncan preaching Greek revival and naturalism. And really, Ruth St. Denis and Agnes de Mille were doing what I would have been doing. Agnes was doing more; she was putting decent dancing into motion pictures, where millions of little children would see it. When I think about it, I don’t think Isadora Duncan would have made any earthshaking contributions to dancing.” Then she gave him her famous impish smile, the one that peeled twenty years off of her. “On the other hand, every Grand Prix driver out there does the ‘Duncan Dive’ to hit the cockpit. And they are starting to wear the driving suits I’ve been working on. So I’ve done that much for racing.”
The kid nodded; he started to ask something else, but the scream of approaching engines made him shake his head before she held up her hand.
Jimmy was still there, still within striking distance of the leaders. But there was trouble developing—because the Ford drivers were doing just what Dora had feared they would do. They were driving as a team—in two formations of three cars each. Quite enough to block. Illegal as hell, but only if the race officials caught on and they could get someone on the Ford team to spill the beans. Obvious as it might be, the worst the drivers would get would be fines, unless someone fessed up that it was premeditated—then the whole team could be disqualified.