He pulled his hat lower to keep the sun from his eyes, then dozed, and woke up after a while to find that most of the so-called refugees were turning from the road and going towards the sparsely pastured land to the south of it. The far-off mountains that rose up darkly certainly offered to Edgar a more salubrious aspect than the highway. Mella leaned against the cart to rest. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked.
At the sound of his voice she gave him a large piece of bread and a bottle of beer. ‘To the racecourse. Eat, my love, or you’ll grow too weak for the journey.’
‘What racecourse?’ He sipped the beer, but pushed the crude-looking bread aside. ‘What sort of races?’
‘Zaps,’ she said. ‘One-door sports cars. It’s very exciting, if you get high enough above it.’
‘Let’s look then,’ he said, being fond of motor-racing. ‘You can make up for the time we lose by pulling me through the night.’ Mella smiled because he had given her a way of pleasing him, then got back into harness and hauled her unwieldy cargo towards the racing grounds.
It was a sign of the troubled times that prices of admission, as well as all bets, had to be made in goods and not money. As people went through the turnstiles they threw down watches, rings, cufflinks, small radios and gold spectacles for the best seats. They took off jackets, shoes, dresses, and even shirts for places at the back, from which they nevertheless hoped for some sort of view. As the mounds of valuable goods grew outside the perimeter, huge lorries drew up to take them away. Edgar relinquished a precious prismatic compass as his admission fee, and found that it entitled him to a ticket in the best stands, from which, with binoculars, he could overlook the whole course. Mella stayed behind to guard the boat.
The layout was a highway-circuit of ten kilometres, with topographical characteristics prominently visible from the high seats. At the start line were twenty-four cars, twelve to go one way, and twelve to set off at their backs in the opposite direction. Each twelve therefore had a clear road for approximately half way round, so that in the normal thinning out caused by the varying accelerations, it seemed as if they were only setting off for a peaceful drive.
Edgar was open-eyed at the impending gladiatorial combat of ferocious motorcars, foreseeing a mighty conflict when the two lines met. The rules were that those cars escaping the first shock of combat must go on to another round, and so on, until only one car remained to get back under its own horsepower to the winning-post. Much of the crowd was of a belligerent disposition, and cheered them to greater speed, while the remainder held breath and stayed silent.
The first casualty came among the twelve cars that had started in a westerly direction. After the initial rush along the straight and narrow, the foremost vehicle spun over the side when it went too fast around Hairpin Bend. For the other group, which set off more or less easterly, and whose narrowing road soon gave way to a gruelling ascent of Death Hill, catastrophe struck even before they encountered the others. At the very crest of Death Hill was Switchback Corner, and here the first three vehicles failed to switchback with sufficient skill, and turned several somersaults before coming to a halt off-course.
The reason why these vehicles were one-door Zap sports cars now became apparent, because the one and only door was on the underside of the car, so that when the said vehicle landed upside down, as it invariably did after crashing, the driver within had only to open the door by pressing a button with his foot. He could then lever himself out before the vehicle burst into flames, and leap on to the grass, running away from it with glazed eyes and a wide smile at the realization that the more he ran the nearer he was to safety.
Consequently, when the teams met, the eastbound group had two cars less on its strength than the westbound division. However, at this stage, neither side attached much importance to this disparity of numbers because the policy of each was not so much to ram their opponents out of the battle as to let them stay on the course in the hope that the course itself would do this for them. So when they met, to the cheers of several thousand spectators, which the drivers heard on the radios inside their cars, relayed to them by courtesy of Radio Shelp, they merely formed a column of line, kept strictly to their own side of the road, and passed each other in good order. In Shelp itself all fighting had temporarily stopped so that both government and insurrectionary/Cronacian forces could listen to the progress of the competition.
The westbound cars, for a while numerically superior to the eastbound, lost four cars in a series of collisions while descending Death Hill, almost catapulting down it on coming out of Switchback Corner — as if they hadn’t expected it, though they had all raced on the course before, so the commentator said. The eastbound team was the visiting Cronacian side, and when the next time round it came close to the westbound Nihilon Zap United, three of its members formed up after the main Nihilon body had passed, and charged a straggler. But the straggler evaded them so cleverly that all three Cronacian cars hit the wall, shot back from it, and met in mutual collision just off the track. This was clearly a disaster for the visiting team, for they now had only six cars left against seven.
Edgar’s arms ached from holding the binoculars. The game was so thrilling that he could not bear to put them down. His hat had been knocked to the ground by people pressing from behind, and the heat of the afternoon sun drew torrents of sweat from him. But his eyes were meshed to the two groups of vehicles, one red and the other blue, now approaching each other for the fourth time.
The Cronacians suddenly developed more powerful acceleration than the Nihilon cars, and taking the line in flank, managed to crash through and create a pile-up that deprived the Nihilon ranks of three of their number. To get their revenge, three Nihilon cars stayed behind and turned round in the middle of the track so as to follow in the rear of the Cronacians who, suddenly on Death Hill, realized too late that they had enemy cars in front as well as at their rear. This foul trick caused them to fight, surrounded as they were, with great fury, but the disadvantage was so great, the surprise so complete, that only a single car escaped the battle, while the four Nihilonians came out unscathed.
The chase began, to get the last Cronacian driver. But he was brave and skilful, the ace-Zapsmasher of Cronacia. Along the bonnet of his car were painted twenty-seven miniature red Zaps to indicate the number of such cars he had so far destroyed. Clearly, his demise would be a great victory, and the crowd screamed and hooted for his blood, but the four Nihilonian drivers were unable to corner him. The Cronacian had a fair amount of space on his side, and he used it to manoeuvre out of any tight spot the Nihilonians might try to force him into. His death appeared to be certain however, though during half an hour of frantic evasions he must have been plotting a fine ruse to escape his fate.
When the Nihilonians at last managed to drive his battered and steaming car into a corner at the eastern foot of Death Hill, a Pug 107 jet-fighter of the Cronacian airforce, after a radio-plea by the driver in his car, suddenly roared low over the spectator stands, tipping its wings into a sharp descent over the actual course.
Nothing could have been more dramatic, more unexpected. Edgar saw crimson ropes of rocket-flame spurting from each wing, and a bubble of fire exploding at the line of Nihilon Zaps. The solitary Cronacian car crawled out of smoke and ruin, and went singed but unharmed up Death Hill, putting itself in the clear while the Pug did another quick circuit and finished off its Nihilon enemies. Only one car got clear of the track, and drove at speed under the spectator stands. The pilot, with great magnanimity, did not bomb him there, but circled until he made a dash towards the Shelp road, where he blew him into a culvert.