On The Beach

He weaved around the tram at fifty, skidded round into Lonsdale Street, and settled in his seat as he shot through the city at about seventy miles an hour. Cars on the road at that time were a rarity and he had little trouble in the city streets but for the trams; the crowds parted to let him through. In the suburbs it was different; children had grown accustomed to playing in the empty roads and had no notion of getting out of the way; he had to brake hard on a number of occasions and go by with engine roaring as he slipped the clutch, agonizing over the possibility of damage, consoling himself with the thought that the clutch was built to take it in a race.

He got to Harkaway in twenty-three minutes having averaged seventy-two miles an hour over the course without once getting into top. He drew up at the homestead in a roaring skid around the flowerbeds and killed the motor; the grazier with his wife and daughter came out suddenly and watched him as he unbuttoned his crash hat and got out stiffly, "I came to see Dwight Towers," he said. "They told me he was here."

"He's trying to get some sleep," Moira said severely. "That's a loathsome car, John. What does she do?"

"About two hundred, I think. I want to see him-on business. I've got a few things here that he's got to look over before it gets typed. It's got to be typed tomorrow, at the latest."

"Oh well, I don't suppose he's sleeping now."

She led the way into the spare bedroom. Dwight was awake and sitting up in bed. "I guessed it must be you," he said. "Killed anybody yet?"

"Not yet," said the scientist. "I'm hoping to be the first. I'd hate to spend the last days of my life in prison. I've had enough of that in the last two months." He undid his attache case and explained his errand.

Dwight took the report and read it through, asking a question now and then. "I kind of wish we'd left that radio station operational, the way it was," he said once. "Maybe we'd have heard a little more from Yeoman Swain."

"It was a good long way from him."

"He had his outboard motorboat. He might have stopped off one day when he was tired of fishing, and sent a message."

"I don't think he'd have lasted long enough for that, sir. I'd have given him three days, at the very outside."

The captain nodded. "I don't suppose he'd have wanted to be bothered with it, anyway. I wouldn't, if the fish were taking well, and it was my last day." He read on, asking a question now and then. At the end he said, "That's okay. You'd better take out that last paragraph, about me and the ship."

"I'd prefer to leave it in, sir."

"And I'd prefer you take it out. I don't like things like that said about what was just a normal operation in the line of duty."

The scientist put his pencil through it. "As you like."

"You got that Ferrari here?"

"I came out in it."

"Sure. I heard you. Can I see it from the window?"

"Yes. It's just outside."

The captain got out of bed and stood in his pyjamas at the window. "That's the hell of a car," he said. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Race it. There's not much time left so they're starting the racing season earlier than usual. They don't usually begin before about October, because of the wet roads. They're having little races all the winter, though. As a matter of fact I raced it twice before I went away."

The captain got back into bed. "So you said. I never raced a car like that. I never even drove one. What's it like in a race?"

"You get scared stiff. Then directly it's over you want to go on and do it again."

"Have you ever done this before?"

The scientist shook his head. "I've never had the money, or the time. It's what I've wanted to do all my life."

"Is that the way you're going to make it, in the end?"

There was a pause. "It's what I'd like to do," John Osborne said. "Rather than die in a sick muck, or take those pills. The only thing is, I'd hate to smash up the Ferrari. She's such a lovely bit of work. I don't think I could bring myself to do that willingly."

Dwight grinned. "Maybe you won't have to do it willingly, not if you go racing at two hunderd per on wet roads."

"Well, that's what I've been thinking, too. I don't know that I'd mind that happening, any time from now on."

The captain nodded. Then he said, "There's no chance now of it slowing up and giving us a break, is there?"

John Osborne shook his head. "Absolutely none. There's not the slightest indication-if anything it seems to be coming a little faster. That's probably associated with the reduced area of the earth's surface as it moves down from the equator; it seems to be accelerating a little now in terms of latitude. The end of August seems to be the time."

The captain nodded. "Well, it's nice to know. It can't be too soon for me."

"Will you be taking Scorpion to sea again?"