Page 18 of Dirty Air
These are Fritz’s curbs, he knows the limits. He pushes the boundary on turn sixteen, but he slides over the finish line and feels good about the lap.
“That’s P6.”
“How many others are still in the running?”
“Only two. You’re through to Q3 for the first time this year. Well done.”
Henry sayswell donelike it wasn’t his own lawyer-esque means of negotiation that allowed Team 34 to retain their fresh tires after William scrubbed his own in practice.
“Where is William?”
“Out this round. He’ll start P13 tomorrow.”
Fritz doesn’t usually care about William, but it’s satisfying to know the other driver will have to watch his Q3 from the garage after trying to steal his tires.
Fritz pulls into the pits and his team walks the car back into the garage. Henry joins them, sprinting across the pit lane and pulling down the monitors so Fritz can watch his lap.
“I lost time out of turn six.” Fritz can tell his voice is muffled by the helmet, but Henry taps on the screen.
“It just looks that way as a result of your late braking. The amount of time you spend in the whole turn is on par or faster than the rest of the field. Concentrate on sector three and track limits. It does us no good if your lap time is deleted.”
It strikes him—not for the first time—that Fritz hasn’t had a race engineer like Henry before. Not just someone who is clear and concise, but someone who isn’t afraid to disagree. Someone who knows the data points so thoroughly he can recite them forwards and backwards to make his case.
In the end, Fritz qualifies P9. It’s not a final result, but he’sanother step closer to earning the first points of his Formation 1 career.
Fritz’s father is nothing short of an intimidating man, even on his best-behaved days. The threat that lingers beneath the surface is what makes him such a good manager.
Pulling up to the paddock for a secret meeting hours before he’s usually awake has made him worse than usual.
“Keep your guard up,” he bites in gruff German. He puffs out his chest until his shoulders are extra wide and his arms swing with every step. “This does not feel like a good thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hasn’t raced for twenty years, but the man marches through the paddock like it still belongs to him.
Fritz treads cautiously behind. It’s generally better to let his father take the lead when he gets this way.
The weather is pleasant, so the other meeting participants have opted to host the secret discussion at the tables outside of hospitality, in full view of the earliest paddock arrivals.
Hopefully that means there’s coffee. At least some cans of Red Boar.
Craig isn’t the only one waiting for them. The team principal is flanked on either side by a mousey man and a stern woman who also sport VFIBR team kits.
Fritz vaguely recognizes the man—he’s some sort of assistant—but he doesn’t recall ever seeing the woman before.
Their heads turn and all three smile with teeth at the duo as they approach.
So far, so good.
As soon as they’re within talking range, Craig stands quickly, nearly knocking over his chair. “Freddy, Mr. Müller, thank you for joining us. Sit, sit, can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry?”
“No,” Fritz’s father replies. He shakes Craig's hand, then the woman’s.
“A coffee would be great,” Fritz says as he shakes hands. “One milk, two sugars?”
“Gerald, if you would—” but the assistant is already up and heading inside. “He’ll be just a moment. Sorry for calling you in so early, especially on a race day, but this news has a bit of a deadline.”
“What is all this?” his father asks, straight to the point. He already sounds angry, but that doesn’t surprise Fritz. He’s the type who likes to intimidate people out of giving bad news instead of anticipating good news.
