"Guy N. Smith - Blood Circuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

And now it was Steve Kilby's turn to experience fear, a mounting inexplicable terror that was eating into
him like a fast-growing cancer. It had suddenly gone very cold and he shivered.




CHAPTER TWO



SLADE HAD not exceeded thirty-five m.p.h. for the last ten miles. Even on the wide straight stretches of
country roads, the heather a deep purple in the sunshine, his foot pressure did not increase on the throttle.
A steady trundling. An articulated Foden overtook him, a gesture of impatience on the part of its driver
as he cut in abruptly, forcing Slade to drop down to thirty. The lorry picked up speed, forging ahead.
Slade kept the Cortina at thirty, no incentive to move back up to thirty-five again.

His lean suntanned face, beneath the two-week-old growth of beard, was expressionless, vacant. Short
cropped hair, a hand habitually left the steering wheel and brushed away non-existent strands that had
once hung below his collar, an aggravation at times, but fashionable. Everything had had to be fashionable
up until recently, casual clothing that all went to create the image, a personality that required a certain
amount of uniformity which was at once recognisable and acceptable in a harsh world of glamour. One
pandered to the media, to the public, presented oneself in accordance with their ideas. Hero-worship,
somebody they could identify with. Film stars, television personalities, footballers . . . racing drivers.

A faint smile momentarily crossed Mark Slade's features, but it was mirthless. Irony perhaps, maybe a
touch of regret. Right now he did not even understand his own feelings. An instinct beyond his
comprehension urged

him to blend himself into the jungle of convention that existed around him. The majority of his fellow
beings accepted a routine, mundane existence. They did things because they had to, because they were
forced to do so in order to survive, a mode of life totally in contrast to the inner personality of every
individual, but they overcame it by a submergence, an acceptance, or perhaps by fantasy that would
never materialise into reality. Occasionally, the odd one made the effort to climb out of the rut, a brief
show of some previously hidden talent, perched precariously on a pedestal above their fellows. Some
made it, remained there, if only for a brief spell, then toppled back, clinging to a few precious memories.
Fantasies again, dreaming of what might have been.
Slade understood better than most. He'd made it, right to the top. Almost. Second placing in the
International Race of Champions at Daytona, beaten by half a length. He was tipped to win it next time, a
World Champion on the verge of greatness, a man alone standing out above millions. An idol.

But there would be no next time. A kind of suicide. Driving back into the world of convention from which
he had risen. A total reversal.

His thoughts turned to the Chevy Camaros, gutted and rebuilt according to individual specifications,
tuned for speeds of 160 m.p.h., perhaps more, Stock-car and Indianapolis drivers claiming supremacy
over their Grand Prix rivals, equally matched in Formula One racing, fighting it out for the number one
placing. Not just for money, either, but for something that meant a great deal more to the one who
finished first. Slade knew he could have done it next time, except. . . With an effort he pushed all thoughts
of Formula One from his mind. Somehow he had to get it all out of his system, in the same way that an