Not that they’re moved much. The place is oddly, weirdly still. The shafts of light from the glass panes in the roof show the dust in the air and make the polythene sheets covering each car look like ghostly shrouds. F1 cars aren’t meant to be quiet and motionless; the contrast between this place’s graveyard calm and the noise and kinetic energy that 38 F1 cars ought to emit is so great that you find yourself playing their soundtrack in your head to compensate. Visually they’re as good as ever when you lift a corner of the plastic: short and fat-tyred and mostly in that genuinely iconic orangey-red and white Marlboro livery. And that’s before you notice the names on the sides of the air intakes: Senna, Senna, Senna, Senna, Prost, Senna, Senna.