The sign has been given, and the rubber screams; thesmoke balloons like a giant cluster of white grapes, andwe are moving. Another car gives way, so that I can dropinto the proper position. There are many cars, but onlyone Car.
We scream about the turn, in this great Italian classicof two centuries ago. We run them all here, at the place,regardless of where they were held originally.
"Oh gone masters of creation," I pray, "let me do itproperly. Let my timing be accurate. Let no random variable arise to destroy a perfect replication."
The dull gray metal of my arms, my delicate gyro-scopes, my special gripping-hands, all hold the wheel inprecisely the proper position as we roar into the straightaway.
How wise the ancient masters were! When they knewthey must destroy themselves in a combat too mysticaland holy for us to understand, they left us these ceremonies, in commemoration of the Great Machine. Allthe data was there: the books, the films, all; for us tofind, study, learn, to know the scared Action.
As we round another turn, I think of our growing cities,our vast assembly lines, our iube-bars, and our belovedexecutive computer. How great all things are! What awell-ordered day! How fine to have been chosen!
The tires, little brothers, cry out, and the pinging ofsmall stones comes from beneath. Three-tenths of a second, and I shall depress the accelerator an eighth of aninch further.
R-7091 waves to me as I enter the second lap, but Icannot wave back. My finest functioning is called for atthis time. All the special instrumentation which has beenadded to me will be required in a matter of seconds.
The other cars give way at precisely the right instant.I turn, I slide. I crash through the guard rail.
'Turn over now, please!" I pray, twisting the wheel,"and bum."