And in a funny way, Jason felt that Syracuse was treating Team Argonaut with more respect than his other two teams simply because they came to cla.s.s, even when they were obviously weary. It was as if just by keeping up with their mentor's tough schedule they were earning respect in Syracuse's eyes.

Jason and the Bug were to meet their parents during lunch, but when they got to the riverside park where they had agreed to meet, only Henry Chaser was there.

'Where's mum?' Jason asked.

'Said she had some knitting or something to do,' Henry replied. 'Don't know what's got into her head, but when we got home last night, she pulled out her sewing kit and worked halfway into the night on something.'

'Oh, okay...'

For the rest of their lunch hour, Jason, the Bug and Henry watched the hover vessels gather on the river, munching on sandwiches.

Then it was back to cla.s.s, to the afternoon's pit practice. It was perhaps their most gruelling practice session yet, with Syracuse working them hard - and all of it watched by the two all-seeing closed-circuit cameras.

Syracuse even had them practice an almost archaic form of pit stop: the manual stop, a stop during which all electric power in the pit bay had gone, meaning that Sally had to attach all six magneto drives to the Argonaut manually.

It was the Bug who figured out how to make such a stop happen faster: when he saw Sally struggling, he jumped out of the c.o.c.kpit and helped her.

When he saw this, Scott Syracuse actually clapped. 'Navigator! Excellent thinking! You don't see manual stops much these days, but they can occur. Just because the power's out doesn't mean the race is off. And that's how you handle them: you just get out of your car and you help your Mech Chief. Good thinking, Mr Bug.'

The Bug beamed with pride.

Every few stops, they would crowd around the TV monitors and watch the feed from the cameras. Sally frowned as she watched herself. 'Look at that, I'm all over the shop. Spent mags here, new coolant there, compressed-air cylinders all over the place. My G.o.d, I never knew...'

Syracuse nodded. 'I can tell you and tell you what you have to do, but sometimes you just need to see for yourself.'

Then, at exactly 4 p.m. - two hours earlier than usual - Syracuse called an end to the session. 'Great work today, people. Grab a drink and take a seat.'

They did so and, utterly exhausted, fell into their chairs.

The thing was, Syracuse still wasn't finished.

He put up a spreadsheet on the vid-screen. 'This just came in. It's the draw for tomorrow. Fourteen starters, rankings based on each racer's current positions on the Championship Ladder.'

Jason gazed up at the tournament draw. It looked like the draw for a tennis tournament: ROUND 1 QRTR FINALS SEMI FINALS FINAL.

1. XONORA, X.

1. XONORA, X.

16. [BYE].

10. LUCAS, L.

8. WONG, H.

6. CORTEZ, J.

11. PHAROS, A.

14. MORIALTA, R.

4. KRISHNA, V.

3. WASHINGTON,I.

13. TAKESHI, T.

12. CHASER, J.

5. PIPER, A.

7. DIXON, W.

9. SCHUMACHER,K.

15. [BYE].

2. BECKER, B.

2. BECKER, B.

Jason saw himself in the bottom half of the draw. His first race would be against...

Oh, no.

Ariel Piper.

His opening race would be against his only friend at the Race School. What was the old saying: 'There are no friends on the track.'

In any case, with Ariel, Barnaby Becker and Isaiah Washington all in his half of the draw, it struck Jason that the lower half was easily the tougher side of the draw.

It was with great disgust that he noticed that both Prince Xavier and Barnaby Becker had scored byes through the first round. Since there were only fourteen racers in the draw, the top two ranked racers got the benefit of byes through the first round.

The format for the day was known as 'short-course match-racing': two cars raced inside a walled-track shaped in a tight figure-8. You won the match-race in one of two ways: first, by lapping your opponent; or second, if neither racer could lap his opponent, by being the first to cross the Start-Finish Line after 100 laps. Since it was a short course - taking about 30 seconds to get around - 100 laps would take about 50 minutes.

'So,' Syracuse said. 'Any questions about tomorrow?'

That took Jason by surprise. It was the first time he could remember Syracuse offering specific advice about an impending race.

'Sure. What's the secret to short-course match-racing?'

'You do get right to the point, don't you, Mr Chaser,' Syracuse mused. 'What's the secret to match-racing? How about this: Never give up. Never say die. No matter how hopeless your situation appears to be, don't throw in the towel. Some racers go to pieces when something goes wrong and they find their opponent hammering on their tailfin. They just fold and let the other guy by, thus losing the race. Never ever do that. Because you don't know what problems he's got under his bonnet. You might throw in the race two seconds before he was going to pit.'

'What about pit stops then?' Sally asked.

'Gotta be fast in match-racing,' Syracuse said. 'When each lap is only 30 seconds long, you can't afford anything longer than a 15-second stop. Any longer and your opponent will be all over you when you come out. Then you're only one mistake away from defeat.'

The Bug whispered something to Jason.

Jason said: 'The Bug wants to know your ideas on when to pit. Early? Late? First or always second, like they say in the text books?'

'The pits are the X-factor in match-racing,' Syracuse said, 'because whenever you stop your car, you run the risk of it not starting up again. Many a racer has pulled into the pits in a match-race and never come out again, only to watch helplessly as his rival cruises around the track to an easy victory. That's why the books advocate pitting second. I agree. It's also why I wanted you guys to drill pit sessions today.'

He looked over at Sally. 'Pit action becomes even more crucial the longer a match-race goes on - you might have to make decisions about whether to do a full-service stop or just a mag change. The key is to be out on the track. So long as you're out there, even if you're racing on one mag, you can still win. Never give up. Never say die. But then,' he turned to Jason, 'from what I've seen from you so far this season, Mr Chaser, I can't see that being a problem.'

CHAPTER THREE.

THE GRAND BALLROOM.

THE WALDORF HOTEL, HOBART.

It looked like something out of a fairy tale.

The theme for the evening was 'Among the Clouds', so the entire Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf was filled with 80-foot-high blue sails and fluffy machine-generated clouds. The effect was startling - you felt as if you were dining high in the sky, literally among the clouds.

Jason Chaser entered the great ballroom wearing a hand-me-down tuxedo. Beside him, the Bug and Henry Chaser wore regular suits-and-ties - they didn't have tuxedos, so they just wore the best outfits they had. Sally McDuff wore a shiny sky-blue dress that brought out the very best in her busty frame. Martha Chaser continued her peculiar behaviour and did not attend, insisting that she had 'things to do' back in the caravan.

The ballroom before them was filled with wealthy and famous people wearing the best outfits money could buy. Men in designer dinner suits, women in custom-made Valentinos, dripping with jewels.

Famous racers were spread around the room: over in the corner was the reigning world champion, Alessandro Romba; by the bar, the American Air Force pilot, Carver. And at a table near the stage, talking with King Francis and Xavier Xonora, was the much-reviled French racer, Fabian - the villain of the Pro Circuit; cunning, brilliant and utterly ruthless, and also totally at ease being universally despised by every race fan outside France.

'Hey! Jason!'

Jason turned and saw Ariel Piper - looking absolutely sensational in a figure-hugging silver gown - coming toward him.

'My, don't you clean up well...' Ariel said, eyeing Jason's tux. 'Although not as well as your dashing little navigator here,' she winked s.e.xily at the Bug, who flushed bright pink.

'I thought you ran a great race yesterday, Jason,' she said. 'Gutsy stuff skipping your last stop.'

'I had to win,' Jason said simply.

'And so do I in the first round tomorrow, buddy,' Ariel said. 'What is it they say: There are no friends on the track. I'm not going to cut you any slack tomorrow, Jason. I just wanted you to know that.'

Jason nodded. 'Don't worry, I'll be racing as hard as I can, too.'

'So we'll still be friends afterward?' Ariel said, genuinely concerned. And as he saw the look on her face, Jason realised that Ariel Piper had probably lost friends in the past after beating them in hover car races.

He smiled at her. 'Sure.' Then he added mischievously: 'Of course, that's a.s.suming you're not too devastated when I beat you.'

Ariel broke out in a wide grin. 'Oh, you cheeky little man! I'll see you out on the track!'

And with that she danced off to her table.

Jason and his team went to theirs.

Scott Syracuse was already seated there when they arrived.

'h.e.l.lo Jason, Henry, Bug,' Syracuse said, standing. 'A tad different from our dinner last night?'

'Just a bit,' Henry Chaser said. A simple hard-working man, he was a little intimidated by the wealth and power on show that night. It made him awkward, unsure of how to act in such company. 'Somehow, I don't think they'll be serving takeaway burgers here.'

'If that is what you want, then that is what we shall have!' an Italian voice boomed from behind him.

Henry, Jason and the Bug all whirled around.

Standing behind them was an absolute bear of a man dressed in an expensive dinner suit that struggled to contain his enormous belly. His wobbly jowls were covered by a black beard that was impeccably trimmed.

Jason recognised the man instantly, and his jaw involuntarily dropped.

'Umberto Lombardi,' Syracuse said, 'allow me to introduce to you Jason Chaser, his father Henry, and his brother and navigator, the Bug.'

Syracuse turned to Jason. 'Umberto is an old friend of mine and when we met earlier, I asked him if he would stop by our table later in the evening, but he insisted on joining us for the whole dinner.'

Jason was still gobsmacked.

Umberto Lombardi was the billionaire owner of the Lombardi Racing Team, one of the few privately owned pro racing teams.

Lombardi was an Italian property developer who'd made his fortune with the outrageously successful 'Venice II' project. When he'd proposed the idea of rebuilding Venice fifty miles to the east of the original city - an exact replica, complete with crystal-clear chlorinated ca.n.a.ls - and equipping it with ultra-modern apartments, he had been laughed off as a lunatic. But as the development proceeded and people saw Lombardi's vision take its wonderful form, the apartments quickly sold out - mainly to playboy race car drivers and the rich and famous of Europe.

Venice II became the hottest address in the world. Venice III quickly followed - where else, but at Venice Beach, California - and then came Venice IV, V and VI.

But Lombardi's pa.s.sion was hover car racing, and this larger-than-life fellow had become the pleasant oddity of the racing world. Even when his team came dead last in the championship, he still happily threw money at it. He was known as a finder of new talent - talent which was quickly poached by the big-paying manufacturer teams.

'You know,' Lombardi boomed, taking his seat between Jason and Henry Chaser, 'these gala dinners can be so stuffy sometimes. Caviar, truffles, fois gras. Bah! Honestly, sometimes all I want is a good hearty cheeseburger!' He nudged Jason with his elbow. 'Don't worry, my young friend. If the food stinks, we'll get some pizza delivered. That'll give these social parasites something to gossip about at their next dinner party.'