Smokescreen [antikvár]

Sweating, thirsty, hot, uncomfortable, and tired to the point of explosion. Cynically, I counted my woes. Considerable, they were. Considerable, one way and another. I sat in the driving seat of a custom-built aerodynamic sports car, the cast-off toy of an oil sheik's son. I had been sitting there for the best part of three days. Ahead, the sun dried plain spread gendy away to some distant brown and purple hills, and hour by hour their hunched shapes remained exacdy where they were on the horizon, because the 150 mph Special was not moving. Nor was I. I looked morosely at the solid untarnishable handcuffs locked round my wrists. One of my arms led through the steering wheel, and the other was outside it, so that in total effect I was locked on to the wheel, and in consequence firmly attached to the car. There was also the small matter of seat belts. The Special would not start until the safety harness was fastened. Despite the fact that the key was missing from the ignition, the harness was securely fastened: one strap over my stomach, one diagonally across my chest. I could not bring my legs up from their stretched forward sports car position in order to break the steering wheel with my feet. I had tried it. I was too tall, and couldn't bend my knees far enough. And apart from that, the steering wheel was not of possibly breakable plastic. People who built spectacularly expensive cars hke the Special didn't mess around with plastic steering wheels. This was one of the small diameter leather-covered metal type, as durable as Mont Blanc.