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from the car.
    ‘Watch me next time out. So far, Nicolo Tracchia hasn’t really been trying, just trying to improve the performance of those machines our chief mechanic ruins for us between races.’ He smiled at Jacobson, who grinned back : despite the marked differences in the natures and interests, there was a close affinity between the two men. ‘Now, when it comes to the Austrian Grand Prix in a couple of weeks — well, I’m sure you can afford a couple of bottles of champagne.’
    MacAlpine smiled again and it was clear that though the smile did not come easily its reluctance was net directed against Tracchia. In the space of one brief month MacAlpine, even though he still couldn’t conceivably be called a thin person, had noticeably lost weight in both body and face, the already trenched lines in the latter seemed to have deepened and it was possible even to imagine an increase in the silver on that magnificent head of hair. It was difficult to imagine that even the precipitous fall from grace of his superstar could have been responsible for so dramatic a change but it was equally difficult to imagine that there could have been any other reason. MacAlpine said:
    ‘Overlooking the fact, aren’t we, that there’ll be a real live Austrian at the Austrian Grand Prix. Chap called Willi Neubauer. You have heard of him?’
    Tracchia was unperturbed. ‘Austrian our Willi may be, but the Austrian Grand Prix is not his circuit. He’s never come in better than fourth. I’ve been second in the last two years.’ He glanced away as another Coronado entered the pits then looked back at MacAlpine. ‘And you know who came in first both times. ‘
    Yes, I know.’ MacAlpine turned away heavily and approached the other car as Harlow got out, removed his helmet, looked at his car and shook his head. When MacAlpine spoke there was no bitterness or anger or accusation in either voice or face, just a faint resignation and despair.
    ‘Well, Johnny, you can’t win them all.’ Harlow said: ‘Not with this car I can’t.’ ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Loss of power in the higher revs.’ Jacobson had approached and his face was still without expression as he heard Harlow’s explanation. He said: ‘From the start?’
    ‘No. Nothing to do with you, Jake, I know that. It was bloody funny. Kept coming and going. At least a dozen times I got full power back. But never for long.’ He turned away and moodily examined his car again. Jacobson glanced at MacAlpine, who gave him an all but imperceptible nod.
    By dusk that evening the race-track was deserted, the last of the crowds and officials gone. MacAlpine, a lonely and brooding figure, his hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his tan gaberdine suit, stood at the entrance of the Coronado pits. He wasn’t, however, quite as alone as he might justifiably have imagined. In the neighbouring Cagliari pits a figure clad in a dark roll-neck pullover and dark leather jacket stood hidden in a shadowed corner. Johnny Harlow had a remarkable capacity for maintaining an absolute stillness and that capacity he was employing to the full at that moment. But apart from those two figures the entire track seemed quite empty of life.
    But not of sound. There came the deepening clamour of the sound of a Grand Prix engine and a Coronado, lights on, appeared from the distance, changed down through the gears, slowed right down as it passed the Cagliari pits and came to a halt outside the entrance to the Coronado pits. Jacobson climbed out and removed his helmet.
    MacAlpine said: ‘Well?’
    ‘Damn all the matter with the car.’ His tone was neutral but his eyes were hard. ‘Went like a bird. Our Johnny certainly knows how to use his imagination. We’ve got something more than just driver error here, Mr. MacAlpine.’
    MacAlpine hesitated. The fact that Jacobson had made a perfect lap circuit was no proof of anything one way or another. In the nature of things he would have been unable to drive the Coronado