Normal procedure would have been to drop sails and brake hard, but the Tortuga Race was not a day for convention. The hull slid along the guiderails of the adjacent track, holding the car upright, and Salvatore, standing on the poop deck, had an inspiration.
If he couldn’t win the race, at least he could ensure that nobody else did. He shouted to his crew to haul the sails in tighter still.
The sailcar bounded through grass and scrub, scattering spectators and animals alike, and ploughed into the switches, demolishing the trackwork. Nobody could pass. Runners were sent to Rangua North Stage, shrugleggers came trotting and Salvatore, his car already on the ground, was the first to the taro siding. His craft had suffered considerable damage but, with a superb example of sailsmanship, Salvatore nursed it along and was finally credited with finishing third.
Such was the background to the start of the Tortuga Race in the year 122,640 Cyclic. A history of disaster, opportunism and greed.
«This year,” said Maquinista as he turned from his work to watch the sailcars gliding towards the switches, «I hope to God nothing goes wrong.»
«My only hope is if nothing goes right,” said Tonio, stacking tortugas in the hold of Rayo.
Joao was leading in Esperanza. This was unexpected, and Captain Herrero was watching in some astonishment as the car in the adjacent track began to pull away from him.
«Antrez!» he shouted to his chief crewman. «Sheet in the main and set the topsail. That bastard’s getting away from us!»
It was unthinkable! He’d looked on Tonio as his only threat so he’d bribed the little Specialists to refuse to do night work, which put Tonio out of the way. He’d secured the services of Dozo who, although perhaps not so competent as El Tigre, was one of the better Rangua felinos. And he’d made a couple of other arrangements down the line. But in order to take advantage of them, he had to get there first. Who in hell was this Joao, anyway? Nobody knew him, and it had been a surprise when he’d qualified to be among the eight racers. He’d come from some obscure Canton down south; Rocha, perhaps. Damn the man!
Soon the Esperanza was half a length ahead. Herrero studied the set of her sails and gave further instructions to his crew. Sheets were hauled in and other sheets paid out, but without appreciable effect, Herrero left the poop deck and strode forward. Joao, ignoring the Urubu as though it was of no consequence, gazed steadily ahead from his casual stance at the stern rail. Herrero roared his rage, pushed a crewman aside and seized the mainsheet, sawing the boom to and fro in search of the optimum position.
Joao’s crewmen relaxed, belaying the lines and sitting down.
The Mark approached.
Further down the track, Ocean Switcher, anticipating the result, gave the order to his men.
«Track three. All together, now!»
They lifted the guiderail into position and began to dog it down, setting the track to let the Esperanza through first.
«God damn you!» Herrero shouted. «He’s not there yet!» It was that last load of tortugas. He should never have allowed it aboard. Urubu was too heavy, too ponderous for quick acceleration. Furious with himself and his agent, he watched Esperanza creeping ahead.
Esperanzapassed the Mark.
Urubureached the Mark a second later. Her bow, where Herrero stood, was level with Esperanza’s stern, where Joao lounged with a crewman — and where the mainsheet was fastened tautly to a deck cleat.
So close that Herrero could almost have touched it.…
And now, at last, Joao looked at Herrero. There was a faint smile on the southerner’s face.
Herrero, lips tightly compressed, snatched up a billhook — a long pole capped by a knife used for cutting vegetation free from Urubu’s wheels and spars. As Karina had noticed previously, all Urubu’s knives were fashioned from metal, wrought in the Wrath of Agni. The billhook was razor sharp.
Herrero raised it above his head and brought it down across the deck of Esperanza.
The mainsheet parted with a crack like a whip.
The boom swung out, carrying a crewman with it. The sail spilled wind, flogging uselessly.
As Esperanza slowed and Urubu began to pass her, Herrero uttered a roaring yell of triumph. So much for the goddamned foreigner. Then Urubu ran into the guiderail, smashing it aside and flinging Ocean Switcher to the ground. Lurching and wobbling, Urubu stayed on the running rail by virtue of Herrero’s expert juggling of the sails, gained the undamaged track, and fled south. The race leader was on his way.
At Rangua North Stage
The sun-ovens had been going since dawn. They were huge, used only at this time of year, great bowls comprising countless hemitrexes and big enough to roast oxen. They were contained in heavy wooden cradles to which llamas were harnessed. Mostly the animals grazed, but every so often the sun in its movement across the sky would light up a single hemitrex above each oven, directing a hot beam of light onto the rump of the llama, which would take a step forward, thus correcting the sun-oven’s solar alignment.
The kikihuahuas would have approved of this mechanism.
The sun-ovens were arranged along the beach and the wind bore the aroma of roasting tumpmeat inland, adding spice and anticipation to the festivities. Twenty meters inland the parallel tracks of the sailway ran above short grass and coastal scrub, turning inland at the Stage for the diagonal climb to Rangua Town. Rangua North Stage was similar to the South Stage where Karina lived, comprising a couple of sidings to accommodate crippled sailcars, a clutter of sheds for the shrugleggers and, on the hillside, a large community hut surrounded by the vampiro tents of both Stages.
The main activity of the Festival was concentrated in the strip from the community hut down to the shruglegger sheds, then east to the sun-ovens. Along this thoroughfare the pitchers of ale were set up, and the temporary huts erected for mating. The bards squatted here, singing of heroism and glory to the complex Carerra rhythms so different from the classic simplicity of the Song of Earth. There were True Humans from Rangua dressed in bright cottons, walking in male-female pairs. There were Specialists of all kinds, from the hawk‑mothers and their chattering broods enjoying a day out while their menfolk manned the signal towers, to the grim-faced cai‑men. Long-necked mountain people laughed nervously, sharp-faced little pygmies from the upper jungle twitched their noses at the cooking smells, felinos strode everywhere, big loose‑limbed men and beautiful women dressed in tunic of the finest skins.
This was the time of waiting, when people walked about the Stage chatting and joking, drinking little as yet. The felinos saw to the shrugleggers, decorating them with ribbons and jockeying for advantageous positions at the trackside. Frequently teams would become tangled and the shrugleggers would begin to kick and plunge. Then the felinos would dive in, cursing and jerking at harnesses, occasionally coming to blows.
The time of waiting was an electric time, and this year it had lasted since dawn because of the accident to Haleka’s tump.
Dozo had established his position early and defended it against all comers. His shrugleggers waited patiently between the tracks — so that they could take a car whether it arrived on the east or west track — a little further up the hill than the others. He reasoned that any captain, and particularly Herrero, would want to roll as far uphill as possible before taking on assistance. It was a question of calculating just where the sailcar would stop.