"John F. Rosmann - The Mind Masters 01 - The Mind Masters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosmann John F)

copyright ┬й 1974 by All rights reserved


SIGNET TRADEMARK BEG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
RBGISTKRKD TRADEMARK -------------- MAItCA BEGI8TRADA
HECHO EN CHICAGO, U.S.A.

SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSICS,
MENTOR, PLUME and MERIDIAN BOOKS
are published by The New American Library, Inc.,
1301 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10019
. first printing, july,
1974
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



1

It feels good , . .
Britt's consciousness at last verbalizes the sensation which for the past half-hour has been throbbing through his
veins, pumped by the rhythmic thrumming of the V-12 en-gine that is alive next to his outstretched legs. The machine
and its master are alone, satisfied as they roar through the dark night.
Britt lives to drive.
And he's good-very good. The day's practice at River-side Raceway has again shown that. Driving an obsolete
Porsche 917/10, Britt captured fourth fastest qualifying time and will sit among the new snarling factory Porsche 9177
30KL racers on the starting grid for tomorrow's Sunday fea-ture race. According to the orchestration of the
world-dominating Porsche factory team, that qualifying spot was to have been won by Gerhardt Mueller, the team's
new rising star. Britt's furious but well-controlled qualifying laps have upset the factory's plans.
No member of the racing brotherhood knows what com-pels Britt to drive with such mechanical determination, to so
completely merge his mind and body into his machine that the steering column becomes a steel nerve stalk through
which his brain can feel the tires like fingers clawing the pavement, grasping desperately through howling hairpin
curves. And when Britt races, his engine's revs, the pounding of his heart, the hiss of his air-gulping carburetors and
of his flaring nostrils are each sensed and monitored without prejudice by Ms brain, producing a torrent of mental
input that leaves little conscious room for memories...,
Britt must drive.
Now, Britt's hands tighten on the steering wheel. The black leather creaks under the strain of his grip as he fights
back a sudden surge of memory from his subconscious. He forces himself to monitor the gauges glowing on the dash.
1
2
Nearly midnight, he thinks, glancing at the clock whose numbers gleam strangely green in the darkened cockpit of his
Ferrari 275 GTB. The deserted freeway Britt is driving on is too monotonous to command his full conscious attention .
 . . memories are stirring. Britt forces himself to concen-trate, squeezing his thoughts back to the pit garage that he has
left just thirty minutes earlier out at Riverside Raceway: The clutch . . . the clutch . , . did I correct for that over-center
response? . . . only took up two turns on the cable . . . hope that's enough to see me through tomorrow's race....
Britt's eyes are burning from his need for sleep. The full Saturday's practice just ended has been followed by
tedious hours of final tuning for Sunday's feature race. Britt rubs the back of his hand across his right eye and the