"It satisfies me but in this race I'm a trier."

"Fair enough, sport. I'll tell them."

"Who's theme"

The jockey had gone away, the crowded changing room noisy and sweat-filled. Travkin was well aware who the ring was, some of them, who fixed races now and then, but he had never been a participant. He knew it was not because he was more honest than the others. Or less dishonest. It was only that his needs were few, a sure thing did not excite him and the touch of money did not please him.

The starter was becoming impatient. "Come along, Alexi! Hurry it up!"

Obediently he jabbed the spurs and walked Noble Star forward into her stall. The gate clanged behind her. A moment's hush. Now the racers were under starter's orders.

66 - 4:00 P.M.:.

In their stalls, jockeys dug their fingers into the horses' manes, all of them nervous, those in the know ready to crowd Noble Star. Then the doors flew open and in a mad instant the eight runners were galloping, packed together along a short part of the straight, now past the winning post, now racing into the first bend. The riders were all crouched high up, side by side, almost touching, some touching, the horses getting their pace, hurtling through the first part of the bend that would take them a quarter of the course into the far straight. Already Pilot Fish was half a length ahead on the rails, Butterscotch Lass in fine position not Bat out yet, Winning Billy alongside, back a little from Noble Star on the outside, crowding the others for a better place in the pack, all jockeys knowing that all binoculars were trained on them so any pulling or interference better be clever and cautious. They had all been warned that rnillions would be won or lost and it would cost each one of them their future to foul up.

They pounded through the turn, mud splattering those behind, the going bad. As they came out of the turn into the straight still together, shoving for position, they lengthened their strides, the sweat-smell and the speed exciting horses and riders alike. Winning Billy took the bit and closed up alongside Butterscotch Lass, now half a length behind Pilot Fish, going well, the rest bunched, all waiting to make their run. Now Butterscotch Lass felt the spurs and she leapt forward and passed Pilot Fish, fell back a little and passed him again, Pilot Fish still hugging the rails carefully.

Travkin was holding the filly well, lying back in the pack, still outside, then he gave her the spurs and she increased speed and he cut closer to the leaders, herding the others, almost bumping Lot chinvar. The rain increased. The sting of it was in his eyes, his knees and legs tight and already hurting. There was not a length between them as they galloped out of the stretch into the corner. Going into the far turn they were all packed close to take advantage of the corner when a whip came from nowhere and lashed across Travkin's wrists. The suddenness and pain unlocked his grip an instant and almost unbalanced him. A split second later he was in control again. Where the blow came from he did not know, or care, for they were well into the corner, the going dreadful. Abruptly, the gray outsider Kingplay on the rails just behind Pilot Fish slipped and stumbled, his jockey felt the earth twist and they went down smash- ing into the rails, pulling two horses with them. Everyone in the stadium was on their feet.

"Christ who's downa"

"Is ita it's Noble Stara"

"No, no it isn'ta Winning Bill"

"No he's lying thirda"

"Come on for Christ's sweet sakea"

In the uproar in the stewards' room Dunross, whose binoculars were rock steady, called out, "It was Kingplay who fella Kingplay, Street Vendor and Golden Ladya Golden Lady's on her feet but Christ the jockey's hurta Kingplay won't get upa he's hurta"

"What's the order, what's the order?"

"Butterscotch Lass by a nose, then Pilot Fish on the rails, Winning Billy, Noble Star, nothing to choose amongst them. Now they're going into the last turn, the Lass's ahead by a neck, the others hacking at hera" Dunross watched the horses, his heart almost stopped, excitement possessing him. "Come on, Alexia" His shout added to those of others, Casey as excited, but Bartlett watching, uninvolved, his mind below.

Gornt in the Blacs box had his glasses focused as steadily as the tai-pan, his excitement as controlled. "Come on," he muttered, watching Bluey White give Pilot Fish the whip in the turn, Noble Star well placed on the outside, Winning Billy alongside the Lass who was a neck in front, the angle of the turn making it difficult to see.

Again Travkin felt the lash on his hands but he dismissed it and eased a little closer in the bend, the remaining five horses inches apart, Butterscotch Lass crowding the rails.

Bluey White on Pilot Fish knew it would soon be time to make his dash. Ten yards, five, four three two nowl They were coming out of the turn and he gave Pilot Fish the whip. The stallion shot forward, inches from the rails, flat out now as Butterscotch Lass got the spurs and whip an instant later, for all the jockeys knew it was now or never.

Travkin, stretched out parallel to Noble Star's neck, leaned forward and let out a Cossack scream near Noble Star's ear and the filly took the primeval call and lengthened her stride, nostrils flared, foam on her mouth. Now the five runners were pounding the stretch, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching ahead of the Lass, all their withers sweat-foamed, now the Lass, now Pilot Fish ahead, and now the dappled gelding Lochinvar made his bid to conquer and he took the lead from Pilot Fish, taking the post position, all whips out and spurs in and only the winning post ahead One hundred yards to go.

In the stands and on the balconies and in the boxes, there was but one voice. Even the governor was pounding the balcony rail "Come on come on Butterscotch Lasssss!" and down by the winning post Nine Carat Chu was almost crushed against the rails by the press of the crowd craning forward.

Ninety yards, eightya mud scattering, all runners flat out, all caught by the excitement and the crescendoing roar.

"The Lass's pulling awaya"

"No, look at Pilot F"

"Christ it's Lochinvarrma"

"Winning Billya"

"Come on come on come ona"

Travkin saw the winning post bearing down on them. There was another flash of lightning. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Lochinvar ahead by a neck, then the Lass, now Winning Billy, now Pilot Fish easing forward taking the lead, now Winning Billy, LO chinvar crowding him.

Then Bluey White saw the opening he'd been promised and he gave the stallion the final whip. Like an arrow he darted for the opening and swung up alongside Butterscotch Lass, then passed her. He was ahead by a neck. He saw the Lass's jockey, not in the know, give the mare the whip, shouting her onward. Travkin screamed exultantly and Noble Star put out her final effort. The five horses came down the final yards neck and neck, now Pilot Fish ahead, now Winning Billy, Noble Star closing, just a neck behind, just a nose, just a nostril, the crowd a single, mindless raving lunatic all the runners bunched, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching away, the Lass closing, Pilot Fish closing, now ahead by a nose.

Fortya thirtya twentya fifteena Noble Star was ahead by a nostril, then Pilot Fish, then the Lass then Noble Stara Winning Billya and now they were past the winning post not one of them sure who had won only Travkin sure he had lost. Abruptly he sawed the bit a vicious two inches and held it left in an iron hand, the movement imperceptible but enough to throw her off her stride and she shied. With a shriek she barreled down into the mud and threw her rider at the rails, the Lass almost falling but holding, the other three safe. Travkin felt himself sailing, then there was an impossible chest tearing, head-splitting blackness.

The crowd gasped, the race momentarily forgotten. Another blinding flash of lightning, pandemonium swooped over them, the downpour increased, mixing nicely with the thunder above.

"Pilot Fish by a nosea"

"Balls, it was Noble Star by a haira"

"You're wrong, old boy, it was Pilot Fisha"

"Dew neh lob moba"

"Christ what a racea"

"Oh Christ! Look! There's the stewards' objection flaga"

"Where? Oh my God! Who fouleda"

"I didn't see anything, did youa"

"No. Difficult in this rain, even with glassesa"

"Christ, now what? Those bloody stewards, if they take victory from my winner by Christa"

Dunross had rushed for the elevator the moment he saw Noble Star fall and throw Travkin. He had not seen the cause. Travkin was too clever.

Others were excitedly crowding the corridors waiting for the elevator, everyone talking, no one listening. "We won by a nostril "What's the objection for chrissake? Noble St"

"What's the objection, tai-pan?"

"That's up to the stewards to announce." In the uproar Dunross stabbed the button again.

Gornt hurried up as the doors opened, everyone packing in, Dunross wanting to bellow with rage at the slowness. "It was Pilot Fish by a nose, Ian," Gornt shouted above the uproar, his face flushed.

"What a race!" someone shouted. "Anyone know what the objection is7"

"Do you, Ian?" Gornt asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"It's against my Pilot Fish?"

"You know the procedure. First the stewards investigate, then they make an announcement." He saw Gornt's flat brown eyes and he knew his enemy was suddenly blind with rage that he wasn't a steward. And you won't become one, you bastard, Dunross thought, enraged. I'll blackball you till I'm dead.

"Is it against Pilot Fish, tai-pan?" someone shouted.

"Good God," he called back. "You know the procedure."

The elevator stopped at every level. More owners and friends crammed in. More shouts about what a great race but what the hell's the objection? At last they reached ground level. Dunross rushed out onto the track where a group of ma-fog and officials surrounded Travkin who lay there crumpled and inert. Noble Star had fought to her feet, unhurt, and was now on the far side galloping riderless around the course, stable hands scattered and waiting to intercept her. Up the track olt the last bend, the vet was kneeling beside the agonized roan gelding, Kingplay, his back leg broken, the bone jutting through. The sound of the shot did not penetrate the roars and counter roars of the impatient onlookers, their eyes fixed on the tote, waiting for the stewards' judgment.

Dunross knelt beside Travkin, one of the ma-fog holding an umbrella over the unconscious man. "How is he, Doctor?"

"He didn't slam into the rails, missed them by a miracle. He's not dead, at least not yet, tai-pan," Dr. Meng, the police pathologist, said nervously, used to dead bodies, not live patients. "I can't tell, not until he comes around. There's no apparent hemorrhaging externally. His necka and his back seem all righta I can't tell yet . .'

Two St. John's ambulance men hurried up with a stretcher. "Where should we take him, sir?"

Dunross looked around. "Sammy," he said to one of his sta bleboys, "go and fetch Doc Tooley. He should be in our box." To the ambulance men he said, "Keep Mr. Travkin in the ambulance till Doc Tooley gets here. What about the other three jockeys?"

"Two are just shook up, sir. One, Captain Pettikin, has a broken leg but he's already in a splint."

Very carefully the men put Travkin on the stretcher. McBride joined them, then Gornt and others. "How is he, Ian?"

"We don't know. Yet. He seems all right." Gently Dunross lifted one of Travkin's hands, examining it. He had thought he had seen a blow in the far turn and Travkin falter. A heavy red weal disfigured the back of his right hand. And the other one. "What could have caused this, Dr. Meng?"

"Ohl" More confidently the little man said, "The reins perhaps. Perhaps a whip, could be a blowa perhaps in falling."

Gornt said nothing, just watched, inwardly seething that Bluey White could have been so inept when everything had been so neatly set up beforehand with a word here, a promise. there. Half the bloody stadium must have seen him, he thought.

Dunross examined Travkin's ashen face. No marks other than inevitable bruising. A little blood seeped out of the nose.

"It's already coagulating. That's a good sign," Dr. Meng volunteered, ~ i The governor hurried up. "How is he?"

Dunross repeated what the doctor had said.

"Damned bad luck, Noble Star shying like that."

''Yes."

"What's the stewards' objection, Ian?"

"We're just going to discuss that, sir. Would you care to join us?"

"Oh, no, no thank you. I'll just wait and be patient. I wanted to make sure Travkin was all right." The governor felt the rain running down his back. He looked up at the sky. "Blasted weather looks like it's here to stay. Are you going to continue the meet?"

"I'm going to recommend we cancel, or postpone."

"Good idea."

"Yes," McBride said. "I agree. We can't afford another accident."

"When you have a moment, tan," Sir Geoffrey said, "I'll be in my box."

Dunross's attention focused. "Did you talk to the minister, sir?" he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

"Yes." Sir Geoffrey was equally casual. "Yes, he called on the private line."

Abruptly the tai-pan was conscious of Gornt and the others. "I'll walk you back, sir." To McBride he said, "I'll follow you at once," then turned away and the two of them walked for the elevator.

Once alone Sir Geoffrey muttered, "Hardly the place for a private conversation, what?"

"We could examine the course, sir." Dunross led the way to the rail, praying. "The turf's terrible, isn't it?" he said, pointing.

"Very." Sir Geoffrey also kept his back to the eyes. "The minister was very perturbed. He left the decision about Brian to me, providing Mr. Sinders and Mr. Crosse first agree to the release, pro"

"Surely they'll agree with you, sir?" Uneasily Dunross recalled his conversation with them last night.

"I can only advise. I will advise them it is necessary providing you assure me it is. You personally."

"Of course," Dunross said slowly. "But surely Havergill, South- erby or the other bankers would carry more weight."

"In banking matters, fan, yes. But I think I require your personal assurance and cooperation also."

"Sir?"

"This matter will have to be handled very delicately, by you, not by them. Then there's the problem of those files. The AMG files."

"What about them, sir?"

"That's for you to answer. Mr. Sinders told me of his conversa- tion with you last night." Sir Geoffrey lit his pipe, his hands cupping the flame, protecting it from the rain. After the tai-pan's call to him this morning he had at once sent for Crosse and Sinders to discuss the matter of the exchange prior to asking the minister. Sinders had reiterated his concern that the files might have been doctored. He said he might agree to release Kwok if he was sure of those files. Crosse had suggested trading Kwok for Fong-fong and the others.

Now Sir Geoffrey looked at Dunross searchingly. "Well, Ian?"

"Tiptop's due, or was due this afternoon. May I assume that I can say yes to his proposal?"

"Yes, providing you first get Mr. Sinders's agreement. And Mr. Crosse's."

"Can't you give that to me, sir?"

"No. The minister was quite clear. If you want to ask them now, they are in the members' stands."

"They know the result of your call?"

"Yes. Sorry but the minister made it very clear." Sir Geoffrey was gentle. "It seems the reputation for fairness and honesty of the present tai-pan of the Noble House is known even in those hallowed places. Both the minister and I bank on it." A burst of cheering distracted them. Noble Star had broken through the cordon of ma-fog trying to recapture her, and galloped past them, of ficials and stableboys scattering. "Perhaps you'd better deal with the race objection first. I'll be in my box. Join me for tea or a cocktail if you wish'"