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.Today, as she often did, she had brought along her needlepoint which she worked on, even during their few minutes in the air.Erica smiled an acknowledgment because the helicopter’s noise as they were airborne precluded conversation.Beneath the machine, the ochre-red earth of Alabama, framing lush meadowland, slid by.The sun was high, the sky unclouded, the air warm with a dry, fresh breeze.Though it would be September in a few days more, no sign of fall was yet apparent.Erica had chosen a light summer dress; so had most other women whom she saw.They landed in the Speedway infield, already massed with parked vehicles and race fans, some of whom had camped here overnight.Even more cars were streaming in through two double-lane traffic tunnels beneath the track.At the helicopter landing pad, a car and driver were waiting for Kathryn Hewitson and Erica; briefly, traffic in one of the incoming tunnel lanes was halted, the lane control reversed, while they sped through to the grandstand side of the track.The grandstands too—North, South, and Over Hill—were packed with humanity, waiting expectantly in the now hot sun along their mile-long length.As the two women reached one of the several private boxes, a band near the starting line struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner.” A singer’s soprano voice floated over the p.a.Wherever they were, most spectators, contestants, and officials stood.The cacophony of speedway noises hushed.A clergyman with a Deep South drawl intoned, “Oh God, watch over those in peril who will compete … We praise Thee for today’s fine weather, and give our thanks for business Thou hast brought this area …”“Damn right,” Hub Hewitson asserted in the front row of his company’s private box.“Lots of cash registers jingling, including ours, I hope.Must be a hundred thousand people.” The phalanx of company men and wives surrounding the executive vice-president smiled dutifully.Hewitson, a small man with close-cropped, jet black hair, whose energy seemed to radiate through his skin, leaned forward so he could better view the throngs which jammed the Speedway.He declared again, “Motor racing’s come up to be the second most popular sport; soon it’ll be the first.All of ’em out there are interested in power under the hood, thank God!—and never mind the sanctimonious sons-of-bitches who tell us people aren’t.”Erica was two rows from the front, with Adam beside her.Kathryn Hewitson had gone to the rear of the box, which had tiered seats rising from front to rear, and was sheltered from the sun.Kathryn told Erica as they came in, “Hub likes me along, but I don’t really care for racing.It makes me frightened at times, and sad at others, wondering what’s the point of it all.” Erica could see the older woman in the back row now, busy with her needlepoint.The private box, like several others, was in the South grandstand and commanded a view of the entire Speedway.The start-finish line was immediately in front, banked turns to left and right, the back-stretch visible beyond the infield.On the nearer side of the infield were the pits, now thronged with overalled mechanics.Pit row, as it was known, had ready access to and from the track.In the company box, among other guests, was Smokey Stephensen, and Adam and Erica had spoken with him briefly.Ordinarily, a dealer would not make it in here with the high command, but Smokey enjoyed privileges at race meets, having once been a big star driver, with many older fans still revering his name.Next to the company box was the press enclosure, with long tables and scores of typewriters, also ranged in tiers.The press reporters, alone among most others present today, self-importantly hadn’t stood for the national anthem.Now, most were clattering on typewriters, and Erica, who could view them through a glass window at the side, wondered what they could be writing so much about when the race hadn’t even started.But starting time was close.The praying was done; clergy, parade marshals, drum majorettes, bands, and other nonessentials had removed themselves.Now the track was clear, and fifty competing cars were in starting positions—a long double line.Throughout the speedway, as always in final moments before a race, tension grew.Erica saw from her program that Pierre was in row four of the starting lineup.His car was number 29.The control tower, high above the track, was the Speedway’s nerve center.From it, by radio, closed circuit TV, and telephone, were controlled the starters, track signal lights, pace cars, service and emergency vehicles.A race director presided at a console; he was a relaxed and quietly spoken young man in a business suit.In a booth beside him sat a shirt-sleeved commentator whose voice would fill the p.a.system through the race.At a desk behind, two uniformed Alabama State Troopers directed traffic in the nontrack areas [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]