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Coronado into the pits. As he stepped out of his car he seemed normal enough with no trace of undue anxiety and nothing even closely resembling a cold sweat. But he had his hands thrust deeply into his overall pockets and his fists were tightly balled: this way you can’t tell whether a man’s hands are shaking or not. He removed one hand long enough to make a dismissive gesture towards all the pit crew —with the exception of the still chair-borne Mary —who came hurrying towards him.
    ‘No panic.’ He shook his head. ‘And no hurry. Fourth gear’s gone.’ He stood looking out moodily over the track. MacAlpine stared at him closely then looked at Dunnet who nodded without even appearing to have seen the glance that MacAlpine had directed at him. Dunnet was staring at the clenched hands inside Harlow’s pockets.
    MacAlpine said: ‘We’ll pull Nikki in. You can have his car.’
    Harlow didn’t answer immediately. There came the sound of an approaching racing engine and Harlow nodded towards the track. The others followed his line of sight. A lime-green Coronado flashed by but still Harlow stared out over the track. At least another fifteen seconds elapsed. before the next car, Neubauer’s royal blue Cagliari came by. Harlow turned and looked at MacAlpine. Harlow’s normally impassive face had come as near as it was possible for it to register a degree of incredulity.
    ‘Pull him in? Good God, Mac, are you mad? Nikki’s got fifteen clear seconds now that I’m out There’s no way he can lose. Our Signor Tracchia would never forgive me — or you — if you were to pull him in now. It’ll be his first Grand Prix — and the one he most wanted to win.’
    Harlow turned and walked away as if the matter was settled. Both Mary and Rory watched him go, the former with dull misery in her eyes, the latter with a mixture of triumph and contempt at which he was at no pains at all to conceal. MacAlpine hesitated, made as if to speak, then he too turned and walked away, although in a different direction. Dunnet accompanied him. The two men halted in a corner of the pits.
    MacAlpine said: ‘Well?’
    Dunnet said: Well what, James?’
    ‘Please. I don’t deserve that from you.’
    ‘You mean, did I see what you saw? His hands?’
    Tie’s got the shakes again.’ MacAlpine made a long pause then sighed and shook his head. ‘I keep on saying it. It happens to them all. No matter how cool or brave or brilliant — hell, I’ve said it all before. And when a man has icy calm and iron control like Johnny —well, when the break comes it’s liable to be a pretty drastic one.’
    ‘And when does the break come?’
    ‘Pretty soon, I think. I’ll give him one more Grand Prix. Do you know what he’s going to do now? Later tonight, rather-he’s become very crafty about it.’
    ‘I don’t think I want to know.’
    ‘He’s going to hit the bottle.’
    A voice with a very powerful Glasgow accent said: the word is that he already has.’
    Both MacAlpine and Dunnet turned slowly round. Coming out of the shadows of the hut behind was a small man with an incredibly wizened face, whose straggling white moustache contrasted oddly with his monk’s tonsure. Even odder was the long, thin and remarkably bent black cigar protruding from one corner of his virtually toothless mouth. His name was Henry, he was the transporter’s old driver — long long past retiring age — and the cigar was his trademark. It was said that he occasionally ate with the cigar in his mouth.
    MacAlpine said without inflection: ‘Eavesdropping, eh?’
    ‘Eavesdropping! ‘It was difficult to say whether Henry’s tone and expression reflected indignation or incredulity but in either event they were on an Olympian scale. ‘You know very well that I would never eavesdrop, Mr. MacAlpine. I was just listening. There’s a difference.’
    ‘What did you say just now?’
    ‘I know you heard what I said.’ Henry was still splendidly unperturbed. ‘You