50 in 50

"Thank you," Haroway said in a humble voice as he carefully re-wrapped it and slid it gently back into the briefcase. "Thank you, too for your courtesy in receiving me." He locked the case and picked it up. "I'll not disturb you anymore — but, if you would permit, there is just one question I would like to ask before I go."

"What is that?" the Maestro asked distractedly, looking out the window and seeing only Le Mans in the year 1910. If it hadn't been for that hulking Fiat his Type 13 should have won. With the overhead camshaft they were getting 3,000 rpm. .

"It's something that has bothered me for years. Do you think that if it hadn't been for the accident that the Type 13 would have placed first? After all, with your new overhead camshaft you should have been getting 3,000 rpm—"

"Dio mio!" the Maestro gasped. "You read my mind — those were my very thoughts!"

"Not really mind reading, sir, just a lifetime of study. I have had one hobby, one possessing enthusiasm and interest, the Bellini automobiles and the Bellini genius."

"A healthy hobby for a young man, most of the new generation are spineless wonders who think that a vehicle with an automatic gearshift is really a car! Stay a moment; you will have a glass of wine with me. Have you met my granddaughter, Vergine, the apple of an old man's eye even though she is very strict with me?" She glared at him and he laughed heartily. "Don't scowl so, my blossom, it puts ugly lines upon your face. Instead bring a bottle of the '47 Valpolicella and some glasses, we shall have a little holiday today."

They drank and talked and the talk was only of cars — Bellini cars, which they both agreed were the only fit cars to discuss. The afternoon faded and at dinnertime an invitation was forced upon the not-reluctant Haroway and the talk continued: worm and wheel steering with the spaghetti, semicentrifugal, wet multiplate clutches with the meat, and banana-shaped tappets with the dessert. It was a highly satisfactory meal.

"There you see the proof," Haroway said, scratching a last number at the end of a row of equations that stretched across the white surface of the linen tablecloth. "When you developed your sixteen-valve engine for the Type 22 with four valves per cylinder you developed higher scavenging pressure with the smaller valves — this proves it! Did you work out these equations first?"

"No. I leave it for others to prove. I knew what would happen, a matter of intuition you might call it."

"Not intuition — genius!"

Bellini nodded his great gray head, accepting his due. "What do you think I have been doing the past ten years?" he asked.

"Nothing. You retired to this castle after having given more to the automotive world than any other man."

"That is true. But, though I did retire, I have kept a small workshop here, for tinkering, working out ideas, an old man's hobby. I have constructed a car—"

Haroway went white, half rising to his feet, a convulsive movement of his hand sending one of the crystal wineglasses crashing to the floor: he was not aware of it.

"Car. . new car…" was all he could gasp.

"I thought you might be a little interested," the Maestro said with an impish grin. "Perhaps you would like to see it?"

"Grandfather, no!" Vergine broke in. She had sat silently through the meal since the conversation seemed to be doing the Maestro no harm, mellowing his usually spiky mood, but this was too much. "The exertion, and the excitement, the doctor forbade you to go near the car for at least two weeks more…"

"Silence!" he roared. "This is my house and I am Bellini. No fat oaf of an overpaid quack tells me what to do in my own house." His temper changed and he patted her hand. "My darling, you must forgive an old man his moods. I have only a few laps left of the race of life and my magneto is failing and my oil pressure is low. Allow me a few moments of pleasure before I pull into the pit for the last time. You must have seen how different Haroway is from the other young men, for, even though he labors in the satanic mills of manufacture of Detroit iron, his heart is pure. I think he must be the last of a vanishing breed. He came here offering — not asking — expecting nothing. He shall see the car."

"What is it called?" Haroway asked in a hushed voice.

"The Type 99."

"A beautiful name." Haroway pushed the wheelchair and Vergine led the way to the elevator, which hummed down its shaft to the garage and workshop concealed beneath the castle. When the door opened Haroway had to hold on to the wheelchair for support or he would have fallen.

There was the car. It was a moment of pure joy, the high point of his life. He did not realize that tears of unalloyed happiness were running down his face, as he stumbled across the spotless concrete floor.