Daijiro Mori expects that people are waiting for him. He is never late, but if he should be, it would seem strange if people were not waiting for him. His self discipline prevents the former, but his assuredness leaves no doubt as to the latter. At half past two sharp, an hour after the training session has finished, he steps into the conference room where the other team managers are already gathered. He turns towards the back end of the room, he always sits at the back, and facing the windows.

  His accustomed chair is taken. This has never happened before. Mori does not hesitate and moves towards a free chair further down the room. He looks at the woman occupying his seat. Everyone knows that this is his seat. Nobody seems to have told her. He hates petty things like these. They ought to have told her. She is the granddaughter of Wallace Burns, manager and owner of Claymore Racing now. He has seen her before, for sure, but he had not paid attention to her. Her two drivers had just messed up each others fast laps. She does not look concerned. She looks very young.

  The track manager begins his speech. Mori turns his attention towards him. Nothing of interest is being discussed. A Frenchman, manager of an ambitious team that Mori does not regard as a threat, wishes for the speed limit at the entrance of the pit lane to be moved further out. Mori finds it hard to understand the heavy accent. There is a short discussion, and everything stays as it is. The meeting is about to close when the woman raises her hand and the track manager motions for her to speak.

  “Can we be sure that the safety protocol and equipment for the marshals are up to scratch?”, she asks.

  This gets his attention, and that of the other people in the room as well although no head has turned towards her. She speaks on, calmly and softly. “Has everything been done to make sure that none of them gets harmed?” And when still nobody speaks, she adds, “Or do we have to expect more accidents like the ones from the end of last season?”

  The two final races last year had seen bad accidents indeed, in Mexico and the USA, and both times a marshal had been hit by flying debris and died. The FIA had expressed their sympathy and promised to improve the safety procedures. Everybody knows that not much had come from that. The companies who run the tracks had been contacted; the responsibility rests with them. The woman is touching a sore point. She is not going to find many friends around here.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Maybe someone from the management would care to elaborate”, she insists.

  The manager rises from his chair to get a clear eyeline towards her. “We have run extensive checks of our safety gear and procedures. We believe that everything has been done to prevent fatalities. Race accidents are, however, nothing we can simulate. We think that we have minimized the risk for our safety personnel.”

  Mori knows that this is a lie. Nothing has happened. Nothing has been changed. The young manager of Claymore is not letting the man off either. “I hope you understand that I’m not addressing this for fun. I think the way the death of people not involved in the racing itself is being treated by us the teams needs to be modified. Maybe you are not aware of how these accidents are being viewed from the outside. Well, let me tell you. Something goes wrong, cars crash, parts fly around, there is fire, oh, thank God, the driver got out, safety car, the fire is put out, the wrecks are removed, the race can continue. Half an hour after the winner has been proclaimed, there is a little note which informs us that, regrettably, a marshal has died from injuries he acquired when he was trying to help.” She stops for a second. Her voice is still soft. “Gentlemen, we’re not kidding anybody. The way these things have been dealt with is undignified and about to turn into another major PR issue if phrases like the ones we’ve just heard are all we have to offer.”

  The silence that follows her speech is deafening. Everybody wishes the woman to hell. She is right, of course. Mori raises his hand and starts to speak at once. “We can easily provide upgraded equipment for the marshals. Heavier jackets, top notch helmets. And the barriers can be fortified and made taller. You can accomplish that until Saturday, can you not?”

  The woman is the only person openly staring at him. The others murmur consent, they make a note, the meeting ends five minutes later. Mori leaves the room and stops to exchange a few words with some of his colleagues. The young manager of Claymore walks past him with her smartphone held against her ear.