"It's something that has bothered me for years. Do you think that if it hadn't been for the accident that the Type 13 would have placed first? After all, with your new overhead camshaft you should have been getting 3,000 rpm—"
"Dio mio!" the Maestro gasped. "You read my mind — those were my very thoughts!"
"Not really mind reading, sir, just a lifetime of study. I have had one hobby, one possessing enthusiasm and interest, the Bellini automobiles and the Bellini genius."
"A healthy hobby for a young man, most of the new generation are spineless wonders who think that a vehicle with an automatic gearshift is really a car! Stay a moment; you will have a glass of wine with me. Have you met my granddaughter, Vergine, the apple of an old man's eye even though she is very strict with me?" She glared at him and he laughed heartily. "Don't scowl so, my blossom, it puts ugly lines upon your face. Instead bring a bottle of the '47 Valpolicella and some glasses, we shall have a little holiday today."
They drank and talked and the talk was only of cars — Bellini cars, which they both agreed were the only fit cars to discuss. The afternoon faded and at dinnertime an invitation was forced upon the not-reluctant Haroway and the talk continued: worm and wheel steering with the spaghetti, semicentrifugal, wet multiplate clutches with the meat, and banana-shaped tappets with the dessert. It was a highly satisfactory meal.
"There you see the proof," Haroway said, scratching a last number at the end of a row of equations that stretched across the white surface of the linen tablecloth. "When you developed your sixteen-valve engine for the Type 22 with four valves per cylinder you developed higher scavenging pressure with the smaller valves — this proves it! Did you work out these equations first?"
"No. I leave it for others to prove. I knew what would happen, a matter of intuition you might call it."
"Not intuition — genius!"
Bellini nodded his great gray head, accepting his due. "What do you think I have been doing the past ten years?" he asked.
"Nothing. You retired to this castle after having given more to the automotive world than any other man."
"That is true. But, though I did retire, I have kept a small workshop here, for tinkering, working out ideas, an old man's hobby. I have constructed a car—"
Haroway went white, half rising to his feet, a convulsive movement of his hand sending one of the crystal wineglasses crashing to the floor: he was not aware of it.
"Car. . new car…" was all he could gasp.
"I thought you might be a little interested," the Maestro said with an impish grin. "Perhaps you would like to see it?"
"Grandfather, no!" Vergine broke in. She had sat silently through the meal since the conversation seemed to be doing the Maestro no harm, mellowing his usually spiky mood, but this was too much. "The exertion, and the excitement, the doctor forbade you to go near the car for at least two weeks more…"
"Silence!" he roared. "This is my house and I am Bellini. No fat oaf of an overpaid quack tells me what to do in my own house." His temper changed and he patted her hand. "My darling, you must forgive an old man his moods. I have only a few laps left of the race of life and my magneto is failing and my oil pressure is low. Allow me a few moments of pleasure before I pull into the pit for the last time. You must have seen how different Haroway is from the other young men, for, even though he labors in the satanic mills of manufacture of Detroit iron, his heart is pure. I think he must be the last of a vanishing breed. He came here offering — not asking — expecting nothing. He shall see the car."
"What is it called?" Haroway asked in a hushed voice.
"The Type 99."
"A beautiful name." Haroway pushed the wheelchair and Vergine led the way to the elevator, which hummed down its shaft to the garage and workshop concealed beneath the castle. When the door opened Haroway had to hold on to the wheelchair for support or he would have fallen.
There was the car. It was a moment of pure joy, the high point of his life. He did not realize that tears of unalloyed happiness were running down his face, as he stumbled across the spotless concrete floor.
This was frozen motion. The silver form of the Type 99 was poised like a captive thunderbolt, yearning to leap forward and span the world. The body was simplicity itself, its curve as pure and lovely as that of a woman's breast. And under that glistening hood and concealed beneath the perfection of the body Haroway knew there were hidden even greater wonders.
"You installed. . mechanical improvements?" he asked hesitantly.
"A few," the Maestro admitted. "The brakes, I have never given much attention before to the brakes."
"With good reason — did you not say yourself that a Bellini car is designed to go, not to stop?"
"I did. But the world changes and the roads are more crowded now. I have turned my attention to the brakes and devised a wholly new system of braking. Foolproof, nonfade, nongrab, impossible to lock, just what you imagine a Bellini brake should be."
"And the system is. .?"
"Magnetostriction."
"Of course! But no one ever thought of it before."
"Naturally. A laboratory phenomenon where the application of magnetism changes the dimensions of a ferromagnetic substance. It makes a good brake. And then I was so tired of the devil's dance of the piston engine. I decided a new principle was needed. The Type 99 is powered by a free-piston turbine."
"But — that's impossible. The two can't be combined."
"Impossible for others, not for Bellini. Another problem that has been eliminated is unsprung weight. This car has no unsprung weight."
"That's imposs—"
The Maestro smiled and nodded, accepting his accolade.
"There are a few other small items, of course. A nickel-cadmium battery that cannot wear out or be discharged completely. An all-aluminum body, rustproof and easy to repair, that sort of thing."
Haroway let his fingers caress the steering wheel. "You owe this car to the world."
"I had not thought of producing it. It is just an old man's toy."
"No, it is more than that. It is a return to the purity of the vintage motorcar, a machine that will take the world by storm. Just the way it is, the perfect car, the finest car in the world. You have patented all the modifications and inventions?"
"Bellini has been accused of a number of things, but never of having been born yesterday."
"Then let me take the car back with me to the United States! There are enough true car lovers in my firm, I only have to show them the Type 99 to convince them. We'll manufacture a limited number, loving care, hand labor, perfection…"
"I don't know.” the Maestro said, then gasped and clutched at the arm of the chair, his face growing white with pain. "My medicine, quickly, Vergine." She ran for the bottle while he held tightly to his chest, speaking only with difficulty.
"It is a sign, Haroway, a greater power than I has decided. My work is done. The car is finished — and so am I. Take it, bring it to the world…"
He finished with a tired mumble and barely roused enough to sip the medicine his granddaughter brought to him. The noble head was hanging tiredly when she wheeled him away. After the doors of the elevator had shut behind them Haroway turned back to the car.
Joy!
A button on the wall swung open the garage door and a spray of windblown rain speckled the floor. The rented car could stay here; the firm could pick it up tomorrow, because tonight he was driving a Bellini! The car door opened to a touch and he slid into the comforting embrace of the leather driver's seat. He switched on the ignition, then smiled when he found out there was no starting button. Of course, Bellini had always disdained electric starters. A single pull on the crank was enough to start any Bellini car. Now the system had been refined to the utmost and a tiny, two-inch miniature crank handle protruded from the dashboard. He flipped it with his fingertips and the perfectly balanced engine roared into throbbing life. Through the wheel he could feel the vibrating power of the engine, not the mechanical hammer of an ugly machine but a muted rumble like the purr of a giant cat. With the ease of a hot knife cutting butter it slipped into first gear and when he touched the throttle the silver machine threw itself out into the night like an unleashed rocket.