In the morning cat-girls had hung garlands of flowers around the captains’ necks. Tonio had kept his on for appearances’ sake, but the scent of the flowers was like a mockery.
At last Maquinista’s sail showed above the low coastal scrub. Tonio seized the engineer the moment he stepped down.
«The car isn’t ready. You assured me your men would finish in time, but they haven’t. Now they tell me they’ll be lucky if they finish by noon. And then we have to load.»
There was no animation in his voice. He’d had all night to get used to the idea. His face was gray with exhaustion.
Maquinista was exhausted too. As he turned away without replying his arm was caught in a strong grip.
It was El Tigre. «Engineer,” he said harshly, «Tell me about Karina.»
«She’s all right. It was a case of a loco tump and old Haleka happened to be the unlucky one, that’s all. So Karina was there. She did nothing wrong. After we’d fixed the track, she went with her sisters and the Pegman to Torres.»
El Tigre relaxed. There was even a glint of humor in his tawny eyes. «My girls can’t enjoy themselves when their father is around. Ah, well. The Festival is a time when we shed our inhibitions. I wouldn’t have spoiled their fun here, but they couldn’t have known that.»
«I never had any children,” said Maquinista.
For a moment the two men, the Specialist and the True Human, stood in the silence of mutual understanding, then Tonio intruded.
«Yes, but what about Rayo ?» The color was in his cheeks and he looked fevered. He still had a chance. He might not be among the leaders leaving the yards, but he could still catch them. Every second counted. «Come and speak to your men, Maquinista! Get them started!»
El Tigre said, «I’ll see you at North Stage, Captain Tonio.» He turned away and strode south, along the rutted path beside the track.
Tonio flushed and glanced at Maquinista.
The engineer said, «The race only lasts a few days. What about the rest of your life, Tonio? El Tigre is a powerful man.»
«Not so powerful as the Canton Lord,” said Tonio. He tried to laugh, but it came out as an asinine bray of despair.
«Between Bantus and the Behemoth, eh, Tonio?»
«What’s that? Bantus …?» The unfamiliar name struck a strange and fearful chord in Tonio’s mind.
«Just a saying,” Maquinista said, glancing at him. The engineer was becoming seriously concerned. Tonio showed every sign of cracking up. He hoped he was in good enough shape to handle Rayo.…
Now the sails were hoisted and the flags snapped, multicolored, in the breeze. The guiderails groaned and the sailcars shuddered with potential energy, held in check by big wedges jammed under the running wheels. Crews waited tensely on the decks. Captains and their families leaned nonchalantly on the afterrails, chatting to their agents, fooling nobody.
On the most westerly track, one car had not yet raised its sails. A frenzied crowd loaded tortugas into the hold, True Human working side by side with Specialist. A chain was formed, passing tortugas down the line; and Tonio was there, and Astrud and Raoul, a dozen Specialists, and Maquinista. A couple of cai‑men watched, grinning widely but making no attempt to help.
Herrero shouted across, «See you later, Tonio. If ever!»
And a burst of laughter came from the other cars, relieving tension.
Then the Yardsman mounted his rostrum, and seven cai‑men took hold of seven ropes.
«Ready?»
Each captain raised his hand.
The cai‑men tensed. They were employed on this important task because they, of all men, were least likely to do any favors.
The Yardsman gave the traditional cry:
“ Volad!»
The cai‑men jerked the chocks away. The sailcars slid forward.
The annual Tortuga Race was on.
And now the most important people in the yards were two small Specialists known as Mountain Switcher and Ocean Switcher. Mountain Switcher is less important, and you rarely hear his name mentioned in the Song of Earth. He is there, certainly, but merely as a counterpart to Ocean Switcher.
Ocean Switcher was a small, brown-faced man of about forty years, who lived with his tiny wife and seven children of varying ages in a tree-house on the fringes of the delta. He was an independent mechanic, which is to say that after fifteen years of working under a True Human engineer he had branched out on his own.
Ocean Switcher, who was once called Da Para, prospered. It had become customary, whenever a crippled car arrived at Rangua, for the captain to cry, «Send for Da Para!» And Da Para would come, posthaste, a tiny figure bouncing on top of a galloping mule. He would fix the problem with nimble fingers and surprising strength, he was less expensive than the True Human engineers such as Maquinista, and he was never rumored to use the Wrath of Agni. In short, he was a good man.
Seven years before the time of our story he received the ultimate honor for a monkey-Specialist: he was put in charge of one of the complex switches at the tortuga yards. Although he exercised this duty only once a year, the position was considered so important that his name was officially changed, and Da Para became Ocean Switcher all year round.
So the sailcars rolled towards the place where eight tracks became two. Here stood Ocean Switcher and Mountain Switcher, each with a team of assistants, each team holding its heavy switching rail. The switchers watched the Mark — a gaunt windswept tree standing alone some fifty meters away.
The first sailcars past the Mark would receive precedence at the switches, and all other sailcars would have to reduce speed.
Ocean Switcher heard the cry, “ Volad!»
«Ready,” he said to his men, glancing down the row of intent faces. They nodded and he turned his gaze back to the distant sails. Beside him, the rails began to rumble.
The two switches were the most crucial points in the whole race, and rarely a year went by without some kind of incident. Perhaps the most spectacular event had occurred eight years previously, when two captains on adjacent tracks had reached the Mark simultaneously — or so they later insisted. Whatever the truth of the matter, the Ocean Switcher of that time made a decision and pegged the switching rail to favor the easterly car.
Neither car slackened speed and, neck and neck, they rumbled irresistibly towards the switch. The switching team scattered. The captains yelled at each other.
The sailcars reached the switch at the same instant and jammed there while rails splintered and flew. Ocean Switcher, who had stuck to his post until the last, was flung several meters away. The two captains, their craft locked in a reluctant embrace, continued to exchange their views while the crews, being of more forthright material, met on the fused deck to settle the issue with the bare fist.
Meanwhile Mountain Switcher’s men were so intent on watching these happenings that they omitted to peg their own guiderail. It collapsed as the first sailcar arrived. The car lurched off the running rail and fell between the tracks, bottling up the only other route south.
The carerra songs tell of the eventual winner of that race, one Mario, who had the presence of mind to send a runner to Rangua North Stage. A team of shrugleggers arrived at the trot by which time Mario had removed a guiderail from the track beside his car. The shrugleggers then dragged Mario’s craft down a jungle trail and re-railed it a kilometer past the yards at a short siding normally used for loading taro root. Mario went on to win by several hours and assure himself of a place in sailcar lore. Ocean Switcher, bruised and disgraced, resigned his post, and Da Para took his place and his name.
Three years later the race began in strong winds and it was the turn of Salvatore to become legend. Off to a flying start, he rolled towards the switches ahead of the field with all sails set and straining. Unfortunately the strain was too much for the lee guiderail which collapsed. Salvatore’s car leaped to the ground, miraculously still upright.