Chapter II: Part 2

"Oh, Mother, I can't," said Mary Jane. "We're not speaking. Besides, he's probably busy with his silly old hot rod."

Mrs. Jackson said nothing but went on with her ironing.

"Do you really think I ought to call him?" Mary Jane asked. "Sometimes we used to have a lot of fun together. Though he's so boyish."

Mrs. Jackson still remained silent, and Mary Jane said, "I wonder if he's still at the garage?" She went to the phone and dialed the number.

Woody was so surprised by the call that he could only answer Mary Jane's seemingly very casual questions in nonsyllables. He said yes he was feeling well, and no he hadn't been sick. He almost let Mary Jane hang up before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask her for a date. And when he came away from the phone, he was grinning as he hadn't grinned since he sold the wreckage of Cindy Lou.

"Ye'll be taking yere lassie out tonight, nae doot?" said Worm.

"Yes, _sir_," said Woody all smiles.

"Nae doot ye'd like a leetle advance on yer pay," Worm went on. "Or are ye fixed for money? I could let ye have maybe a dollar."

"Thanks," said Woody, "but I think I've got enough."

"Weel," said Worm, "dinna spend a lot on her. Them that takes yere money aren't the housekeeping kind."

When Woody called for Mary Jane he had the whole evening planned. He'd borrowed his father's car--a '54 Merc--and was dressed in the dark blue suit that Mary Jane liked. He had spent half an hour cleaning the grease from under his fingernails, and passing a drugstore, had had the happy inspiration to buy a box of candy.

Mary Jane kept him waiting for only twenty minutes. When she appeared she looked slimmer and more vivacious and more attractive than Woody ever remembered. She was not an exceptionally pretty girl but had a certain grace to her ways and walk that completely captivated Woody. Her nose was perhaps a little too snub for perfection, but her dark brown eyes, set wide apart, gave her a frankness of expression that was especially appealing.

"Hi, Woody," she said as she entered. "Sorry to keep you waiting. My hair just wouldn't stay in place this evening." Woody glanced at her hair, thick, dark, and curly, and didn't mind the twenty minutes of thumb twiddling in the Jackson living room.

When they were in the car, he suggested that they go to Merton's for dinner. Unfortunately Merton's was the place to which Mary Jane had been with Bob Peters, and she now associated it with a certain amount of boredom.

"We could eat there and then go to the civic auditorium," he suggested. "There's somebody giving a lecture there on something to do with psychology. I thought you'd like to hear it." Woody had been briefed on tactics by Steve, who knew that Mary Jane had developed a passion recently for lectures.

"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "If you mention the word 'lecture' to me again, I won't speak to you all evening."

They went instead to the College Try, a place halfway between a soda fountain and a restaurant. It had a juke box, and Mary Jane played all the new swing records she could find, and they danced. Woody decided that Steve had given him a bum steer, but he didn't mind. He was having a wonderful time, and Mary Jane was even more vivacious and attractive than usual. She even asked him about Cindy Lou, and Woody told her that it had blown up and he'd sold what was left of the hot rod.

If he'd been a little more observant, he'd have noticed that there was the tiniest expression of satisfaction and even victory on Mary Jane's face when she got this news. But Woody went on to describe how he'd gone to the tech inspection and seen the Black Tiger. And when he talked about the Black Tiger, it was with such enthusiasm and devotion that Mary Jane realized Cindy Lou had merely been replaced by another rival.

"I don't see what you get out of all this car business," she said a little pettishly. "It's all so boyish. You just work in grease and dirt all day long and then you take a car to a race track and perhaps drive it two or three miles an hour faster than anyone else. And that's all you get for your pains."

"Oh, it's a lot more than that," said Woody. "There are things in it that are hard to explain. There's making an engine work better. It gives you a sense of having done something. And there's challenge to it. And some danger. And there's a feeling of belonging to a bunch of really good guys. It's exciting all the time. Look. Steve and I are going to the road races at Torrey Pines near San Diego next weekend. It's a two-day event--Saturday and Sunday. And the Black Tiger will be racing for the first time in America. Why don't you come along? You'd really get a kick out of it. I know you would."

"Oh, I don't think Mother and Daddy would let me," said Mary Jane.

"Worm's going," said Woody, "and he'd take care of you. Your Mother and Dad both know him. And Randy will be there." He launched into an enthusiastic description of Captain Randolph that made it quite clear that the owner of the Black Tiger was now Woody's hero.

"Well, I don't know," said Mary Jane. "We'll just have to see."

Mr. Jackson was at first reluctant to let Mary Jane go to the Torrey Pines race. But Mrs. Jackson came to her daughter's aid.

"She's almost eighteen," she said, "and you've just got to get used to the idea that she's very nearly grown up. She isn't a child any longer."

"Young people these days haven't any sense," grunted Mr. Jackson. "I'm just concerned about whether she'll get hurt at the races. That's all."

"Well, she could just as easily get hurt crossing the main street here," said Mrs. Jackson.

"Oh, all right," said Mr. Jackson, who had suddenly recalled that his grandmother came West in 1865 in a wagon train at the age of fifteen. Secretly he realized he was rather pleased at his daughter's enterprise. It would be something to mention casually at the club next time Wilson mentioned his son's speedboat.

5

The Torrey Pines Road Race shaped up even better than Woody had expected. He and Steve had proposed to pay their own admission, which would not have allowed them to mix with the cars and their drivers in the pits where the cars were serviced and given emergency repairs. But on the Wednesday before the event, there was an unexpected development.

Woody was busy installing a new set of points on a V-8 on one side of the garage when he heard the deep throbbing note of a car pulling into the garage. It was not an engine he had heard before, and he looked up quickly from his work. There was the Black Tiger and Randy stepping out of the seat without going through the formality of opening the door.

Woody dropped his work on the V-8 and went right over.

"Hello," said Randy genuinely pleased to see him. "Busy?"

"Just putting some new points on that job," said Woody.

"I didn't realize you were a mechanic," said Randy. "Been working at it long?"

"I've worked with Worm nearly two years. But I studied automotive engineering for three years at night school."

"Hmmm," said Randy. "Say, is Worm around? I've got a problem for him."

Worm had by now come out of his office, where he was totaling up the day's business with a stub of a pencil in a notebook whose pages were gray with greasy thumb marks. It was an invariable practice of his.

"What's the trouble?" he asked.

"Got a job for you," said Randy. "I didn't want to bring it anywhere else because I think you're the only mechanic in this area who can tackle it. I've tried a couple of other places, but the Tiger is so new I'm not quite satisfied that they can do the work. It takes the kind of special training that you have."

"I'll do what I can," said Worm. "What's the problem?"

"Basically it's a matter of tuning," said Randy. "She's not tuned right. We've been working on her all week, and she's sluggish at around fifty-eight hundred rpm. That's just where I need to get real power. What do you think?"

"I can do it," said Worm for false modesty was not one of his vices. "But it'll take all day. I'll have tae shut doon on all me other work tomorrow if the job's tae be done right."

"You couldn't work on it tonight, could you?" asked Randy. "I'd like to get her tuned really fine and then try her out sometime tomorrow to make sure everything's super. The race is the day after."

"Aye," said Worm. "We can work taenight for old time's sake. I'll close the shop tomorrow, anyway. Woody, can ye stay and help a bit, laddie?"

Woody said he could with such enthusiasm that Randy smiled. They closed the garage doors after driving the Black Tiger into the building, and in the overhead electric light the car gleamed sleek, powerful, exciting, and yet oddly menacing. The thought occurred to Woody that here was a car it would take a real driver to master. It seemed to have almost the spirit of a pedigreed stallion. With the right, sure touch at the controls, it would perform obediently. But any unsureness, any hesitation, and the car would master the driver.

Randy lifted the engine cowling in the back, and they set to work. Woody could follow most of what the two were doing easily enough. They checked the distributor, coil, points, spark-plug gaps, and timing. All were in tiptop shape. Tappets, tiny as toys, were checked also and proved to be correctly adjusted.

Then Worm did something that Woody had never seen before. He went to his own tool kit, which he always kept locked, and brought it over. He opened it up, and inside lay his tools, each contained in a velvet covering and glittering like the operating instruments of a surgeon. He took out the two top trays and laid them carefully on a cloth on the workbench. From the bottom of the toolbox he extracted a stethoscope such as doctors use for chest examinations. Woody nearly laughed. Worm with the stethoscope around his neck, dressed in his soiled coveralls, looked like a caricature of a mad doctor.

"Fire her oop," said Worm. "She's no breathing right."

Randy turned on the ignition and pressed the starter button, and the Black Tiger purred contentedly to herself.

"Rev her oop tae five thousand," said Worm. The Black Tiger snarled in anger and impatience as Randy pressed the accelerator down. Worm put the stethoscope to his ears and the listening apparatus to the carburetor intake pipe. How he could hear anything above the deep roar of the engine Woody could not understand. But Worm was listening as intently as any doctor to the chest of a tuberculous patient. He raised a long finger in the air, and Randy depressed the accelerator further. The Black Tiger's roar was now such that it seemed it must bring down the building. Worm nodded and took off the stethoscope as the roar of the engine died to a quiet purr again.

"It's as I thought," he said. "She's no breathing right around five thousand eight hundred. The air's no ramming through as it should. It's a delicate matter, and I hae me doots whether we can fix it."

"Have to change the contour of the intake and exhaust ports, huh?" asked Randy.

"Aye," said Worm. He saw the mystified look on Woody's face and explained. "It's a matter of using air pulsations tae shoot air through the intake port and suck it oot of the exhaust. I've not got the time tae explain it further. Ye'd find it in Davie if ye ever looked. But it's controlled by the size and contour o' the intake and exhaust ports. It's like using the air as a supercharger for itself."

Woody now began to understand what Worm had meant when he talked about the difference between butchery and surgery in servicing automobiles.

"I'm thinking," Worm said to Randy, "that if the intake ports were polished a bit it might do the trick."

Worm bent over to look. "Somebody installed the wrong gaskets," he said, straightening up. "Yon gaskets are too thick. A sixteenth of an inch will make a difference."

He took the intake manifold off and found two gaskets had been used on them in place of one. Then he took off the exhaust headers and found the same. When they fired up the Black Tiger once more, and Worm listened to her breathing with his stethoscope, he smiled his approval.

"She'll do all right noo," he said.

That, however, was not the end of the evening's, or rather the night's, work. Worm went over every detail of the engine, working slowly but expertly, and Woody's job was mostly to listen and supply cups of hot coffee. He had called up his mother to explain he would be home late, but it was nearly one in the morning before Worm pronounced himself satisfied.

"Ye can try her out tomorrow," Worm said to Randy, "and if there's any further trouble, bring her in and we'll tickle her again tomorrow night."

"Look," said Randy to Worm, "I don't know whether I can swing this, but I've got a vacancy on my pit crew. One of my men is sick. In any case I'd sooner you worked in the pit than he. Do you think you can do it for me--as a favor for old time's sake?"

To Woody's surprise, Worm hesitated. He himself would have jumped at the opportunity of being one of the crew of mechanics who would service the Black Tiger during the racing. But Worm seemed loath to take the job. Then Randy said something that surprised Woody.

"You've got to get over that, Worm," he said. "It was a long time ago. You've got to turn round and face it, and you might as well do it with your friends."

Worm didn't reply immediately. Woody sensed that there was a great deal of tension in the moment, and that Worm was being asked to make some critical decision in his life. Worm fished into the breast pocket of his coveralls for a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it, his hands trembling slightly.

Randy was looking at him steadily--a look between sympathy and challenge.

"I made oop me mind fifteen years ago to hae nae more tae doo with it," Worm said.

"That was the wrong decision," said Randy calmly, "and you know it. The only way you can get it straightened out is to get back into the game again. Otherwise you'll spend the rest of your life with this thing in the background." Both seemed to have forgotten Woody's presence.

"I won't think any less of you if you refuse," Randy said slowly. "I could never think any less of you, Worm. You've done too many splendid things. But let me put it this way. If you accept, then you're an even bigger man than I thought you were."

Worm took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at Woody for the first time during the conversation. There was a softness in his eyes, and quite suddenly Woody felt a great warmth for both Worm and Randy.

"All right," said Worm still looking at Woody. "I'll do it."

Randy didn't say anything. He just grinned and gave Worm a firm little punch in the chest, and Worm looked a little foolish.

Woody, Mary Jane, Steve, and Worm went down to San Diego in the Dodge, starting early on Friday morning. In San Diego they met Randy and all had dinner together. Mary Jane said afterward that Randy was the most fascinating man she had ever met. Certainly he was an excellent talker, full of wit and optimism. Perhaps in deference to Mary Jane, he didn't limit the conversation to racing and racing cars but spoke as readily of the different countries of Europe, with an anecdote to adorn each of them, as a man would speak of his own home town.

He talked of sailing on Lake Geneva, in Switzerland, and of the mistrals, or sudden winds, coming out of the mountains, which made the sport dangerous; of the Casino at Monaco and the Tivoli gardens in Copenhagen. All in all he enchanted everybody, so that Mary Jane wanted to know all about him and both Steve and Woody made him number one on their hero list.

Woody noticed when dinner was over that Randy was a little awkward in getting out of his chair. He thought nothing of it at the time, but the detail had not escaped Mary Jane.

When they returned to their motel and Randy had left them, Mary Jane turned to Worm and asked, "Has Randy got something the matter with his legs?"

"Ye're a noticing young body," said Worm. "His legs are all right, but he's only got five toes."

"Five toes?" said Mary Jane, horrified now that she'd said anything at all.

"Aye," said Worm. "He lost his right foot about fifteen years ago. But it doesn't trouble his driving, and he walks without a limp. I've no doot it took him a lot of practice. There was some talk of barring him from racing, but he proved he's as good a driver as men wi' two feet of their own. He has a cupboard full of trophies won all over Europe. But this is the first time he's racing in America."

"You mean he's racing an unknown car on a course he's never seen before and with only one foot?" cried Woody.

"Hoot, mon," said Worm, "I mind the time he climbed the Matterhorn in the avalanche season wi' the same one foot. It comes to me that yon Randy wouldna enjoyed himself half as much if he had both his feet. He's a mon that likes a challenge."

6

Woody, Mary Jane, and Steve were out at the track early the following morning after a hurried breakfast. Worm and Randy went out in the Black Tiger together, and Woody took Worm's Dodge. They would not see each other until the day's racing was over because Woody and Randy would be in the pit area while they would have to stay behind the low fence of wood slats, called a snow fence, which separated the track from the spectators.

Woody bought a program and found a map of the track on it.

"Boy," he said, "take a gander at that."

The track looked in shape like a wire loop that had been badly mangled. From the starting line, there was about four hundred yards of straightaway. Then a right-angle left turn, followed after two hundred yards by a hairpin bend to the right. There were a series of S-turns, another right angle, and another hairpin, though not as acute as the first. Then a straightaway of about three-quarters of a mile, followed by two more right-angle turns, and so back to the starting position to complete the first lap.

All the turns were numbered on the map and there were ten in all. The track was just under three miles.

"We ought to try to get over to that first hairpin," said Steve. "That's where we'll see the fun. Say," he said turning to a man standing nearby, "how do you get to turn number two?"

"Butcher Bend?" said the stranger laconically. "Right over by that clump of eucalyptus. You'd better hurry, though, if you want to get a good place."

They had hardly got there when a loud-speaker over their heads said in a peculiarly flat and distorted voice, "Attention all drivers and pit crews. There'll be a drivers' meeting by the judges' stand in ten minutes. All those competing in the first event for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s please have somebody there. You must get this briefing to learn the rules of the course." The message was repeated.

"What's that for?" Mary Jane asked.

"To tell them about the flags and the rules of racing," replied Steve. "For instance, if a flagman waves a black flag to a driver, it means that he has to go round to the pit area and get out of the race."

"Why?" asked Mary Jane.

"Any number of reasons," said Steve. "His car might be leaking gas on the track, which is real dangerous, or he might be driving so badly as to be a danger to the other drivers, or he might have deliberately fouled somebody. You can't just get into one of these cars and drive it as fast as you want without regard for anybody else. It's a real risky business, and even with every safety precaution that can be taken, fellows crack up."

"I thought everybody just went as hard as they could go," said Mary Jane.

"They do. But they've got to do it with judgment. Wild stuff is strictly out."

The loud-speaker started to blat again:

"Today," the announcer said, "we have an event of very great importance to West Coast racing and to road racing in the United States. A new Italian car of revolutionary design will make its first appearance on this track this morning. This is the first time that this car, the Black Tiger, has ever been raced anywhere in the world. And it's being driven by none other than the owner, Captain Jimmy Randolph, who has competed in three of the Le Mans events in France and is one of Europe's best drivers. Randy, how about saying a word to the folks?"

"Hush," said Mary Jane, though this was quite unnecessary, for both Woody and Steve were standing stock-still listening.

"I'm very happy to be here," said Randy over the loud-speaker. "This is a really sporting course, and I'm looking forward to an enjoyable day."

"What do you think of your chances in the Black Tiger?" the announcer asked.

"We'll know more about them at the end of the race than we do now before it's started," Randy replied. "I'm up against some hot competition, and whatever driver wins will deserve everybody's respect. There are eighteen other cars in the event--Jags, Ferraris, Maseratis, and a couple of Thunderbirds--and I'm going to have to keep my eye on every one of them."

"Any particular driver you're worried about?"

"At this point, I'm worried about them all," replied Randy. "Some of the boys have raced against me at Le Mans. Tom Wisdom in Ferrari number four is tops, and so is Kurt Kreuger in his Jag--I think it's number six. But as I say, I'll have to keep my eye on everybody. They're all tiptop men driving fine cars."

"Isn't he wonderful?" said Mary Jane, and Steve and Woody nodded their agreement.

A few minutes later there came another announcement over the loud-speaker. "Attention in the spectator area," the announcer said. "Will Woody Hartford--that's W-o-o-d-y H-a-r-t-f-o-r-d--report immediately to gate three? Woody Hartford to gate three immediately."

"That's me," said Woody in astonishment.

"That's right," said Steve. "Get moving."

"Where's gate three?" Woody asked.

"You, Woody Hartford?" a flagman who was standing on the track within earshot asked.

"That's right."

"O.K., get over the fence and cross the track. Gate three's right over there where all those cars are parked. By the big white building. Hustle, because they're going to close the track in a couple of minutes."

Woody scrambled over the fence and ran toward the white building as fast as he could. At gate three he found Worm waiting for him and very excited.

"Here," said Worm. "Sign this. It means that if you get hit or get hurt, you can't sue the race track or anybody." He put a mimeographed form before Woody. "Randy's other pit man didn't turn up," said Worm, "and I can no handle everything meself. We've got forty minutes tae get the Black Tiger ready, and because it's a new car, the officials are letting ye join the pit crew. Hurry, mon. Did they never teach ye tae sign yere name in thot silly school ye went tae?"

Woody scrawled his signature in indelible pencil on the bottom of the form, and the two sprinted over to the pit area where Randy stood, looking worried, beside the Black Tiger.

"Awfully glad you were able to come," he said. "Tape up my headlights for me, like a good lad." He threw Woody a roll of adhesive tape.

Woody glanced at the headlights of the Jag in the adjoining pit. They were covered completely with strips of adhesive tape. He guessed the reason was to prevent them being pitted by gravel flung up by the rear wheels of cars ahead in the race. He taped the Black Tiger's headlights in a similar way.

"Get the fenders now," said Worm, and Woody put overlapping strips of adhesive over the fore part of the Tiger's fenders.

"Can you help adjust these rear-vision mirrors?" said Randy when he was finished. "Just move them the way I tell you." The Black Tiger had three rear-vision mirrors, one on each front fender and one on the dashboard in front of the driver. They had to be adjusted so that by looking into them Randy could see the area around his two rear fenders and behind him.

By this time the first race for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s had started. But Woody was so busy with the Black Tiger that he saw very little of it. Eventually all was done and only just in time.

"Cars for event number two, report to the starting grid," the loud-speaker instructed.

"That's us," said Randy. "Coming?"

Worm pushed Woody into the seat beside Randy and climbed up on the deck behind the cockpit. From all around there rose a series of roars as Jags, Ferraris, Maseratis, Allards, and Thunderbirds eased out of their pits and slid slowly toward the starting area. The noise was deafening and exciting beyond expression. The cars seemed to be challenging each other, showing their strength like gladiators about to meet in a Roman arena.

In this mass of automobiles, some snorting, some purring, some roaring as drivers sought to keep spark plugs from fouling, the Black Tiger slid forward through the pits out to the paved court that formed the starting area. Positions for the start of the race had already been allocated. Only three cars could be placed abreast on the actual starting line. The others were lined up three abreast behind them. The Black Tiger's position was in the fourth row of cars, with a cloud of Jags and Ferraris ahead of her.

Randy, when he had the Tiger in position, buckled the strap of his crash helmet under his chin and pulled on a pair of pigskin gloves. The noise around was deafening. Woody was surprised to find himself trembling slightly with excitement. But Randy seemed completely calm. Worm walked around the Tiger making a last-minute inspection of the tires.

He nodded his head, finding them satisfactory. Woody was watching Randy, who had taken a casual look around at the cars behind and the cars ahead. Randy now cramped his front wheels hard over to the right, but did it without attracting attention. He caught Worm's eye, and Worm gave him a quick wink.

"Good luck," said Worm. Randy waved, and Worm signaled to Woody to leave the starting area and get themselves a position by the racing pits, which were right opposite the starting line.

"Why did he cramp his front wheels around?" Woody asked.

"Just as soon as they drop the starting flag," Worm replied, "he'll be around that Jag in front of him and have only six cars ahead instead of nine. That is, if he's lucky."

Everything now became swiftly quiet. There was no more roaring from the pack of cars, whose drivers were tensely watching the starter. He, a rubber ball of a man, dressed in white pants with a multicolored shirt of violent pattern, was standing to one side with his back to the drivers. He had a flag in his hand and was casually scratching beneath his chin with the end of the stick. Suddenly he leaped into the air, his two hands above his head, and brought the flag down like a comic ballet dancer.

With a roar, almost of rage, the pack of cars leaped forward. Woody saw five of them flash by so fast that he couldn't even get a glimpse of the numbers, and then the Black Tiger sprang by screaming down to the right-angle bend a quarter of a mile away.

"Och, he's a bonny driver," said Worm, his face glistening with excitement. "Did ye see that, mon? They had him positioned eleventh, and he lopped off three cars right at the start." Woody was hardly listening. He was watching the Tiger, which flung after the cars ahead like a hound after deer. The first eight were in a bunch when they reached the corner. There were a series of roars as they changed down to negotiate the turn, and then they were gone, screaming up to the hairpin that lay ahead.

"Yon Butcher Bend is a bad one," said Worm. "I'm hoping he'll use mair care than courage in getting roond it."

Neither could see anything of the race now, though they could hear the roaring of the engines and the squeal of tires as the pack slid around the first hairpin.

"They'll be here in a minute," said Worm. "Count the cars ahead of the Tiger."

It seemed less than a minute before the first of the cars appeared. It was Tom Wisdom, driving his big red Ferrari, with the figure 4 making a white splash on its side. After him, hardly a quarter length behind, came Kurt Kreuger in a blue Jag. Then a Thunderbird, number eleven, an Allard, another Jag, and then the Black Tiger.

"Sixth," announced Worm. "Nae! Wait a minute! Watch this!"

The Jag ahead of Randy zipped by them with the Tiger on her tail. Then the driver changed down to get ready for the right-angle bend ahead. In that second, Randy slapped his foot down hard on the accelerator. There was a cry of "Oooo" from the spectators, and the Tiger flashed past the Jag.

"He's going too fast for that corner," said Worm. "He'll roll her over."

Everybody strained forward to see what would happen. The Tiger snarled and swerved wide almost to the edge of the track. Then with a deep-throated roar, she clawed around the corner, her rear wheels skidding, and was off down the straightaway like a bolt.

"Did you see that?" someone next to Woody called excitedly. "He took the Jag and didn't change down until he was on the fifty-yard mark."

"Then he changed down twice in two seconds," said another.

"Brother, he'll strip a few gears if he keeps that up," said a third.

"Not that guy," put in another. "He's a real driver. When _he_ gets into a car, he's part of the engine."

The voice of the announcer on the loud-speaker cut in, "Captain Randolph in the new Italian car, the Black Tiger, is now fourth," he said. "Ahead are Tom Wisdom in number four, a Ferrari; Kurt Kreuger, second, in his XK140 Jag; Pete Nevins in a blue Ferrari, number thirteen; and then Randolph. Randolph passed two cars ahead of him on two bends. The first on the right-angle bend, turn number one, right after the start-finish line, and the second, Fred Manini's Thunderbird on the hairpin. He's driving beautifully and is out to win. This looks like the battle of the day. The Black Tiger corners like a cat. But the Ferraris seem to be a match for her. It's nip and tuck all the way. This is a real driver's race."

The loud-speaker cut off, and Woody heard a cheer from the far side of the track.

"The Black Tiger just took Nevin's Ferrari on the S-bends," the announcer said. "Randolph is now third, battling to get ahead of Kreuger in his XK140 Jag. This is the same car that did so well in the last Le Mans race."

"Here they come again," cried Worm.

From far down the track three black bullets hurtled toward them. Wisdom was in the lead, about a car length ahead, with Kreuger behind him and then the Black Tiger. They swept by with a roar. The Tiger's front wheels were abreast of the rear wheels of the Jag. Randy was sitting back easily in his seat, as cool as if he were out for a Sunday afternoon drive. There was a slight smile on his face and not a suggestion of tenseness anywhere about him. Suddenly Randy changed down and dropped for a second behind the Jag. Then the Black Tiger leaped forward, and the two of them went into the corner abreast. Woody saw the Jag sliding crabwise toward the Tiger and held his breath, for it looked as if it would broadside into her. But the Jag clawed off when there was nothing but the thickness of a coat of paint between them. The two disappeared around the bend in a fury of acceleration, still abreast.

Now he had to await a report on the race through the announcer over the loud-speaker. It was not long in coming.

"Randolph's still fighting to get by Kreuger's XK140," he said. "He nearly made it at the right angle after the start-finish line but got crowded over. At the hairpin he dropped half a length behind. They're shooting the S-bends now neck and neck. Ah. Here it is! Randolph took those S-bends at full bore, pulling ahead of the Jag with inches between them. He must have been doing a hundred and forty. Now he's second with only Wisdom's Ferrari ahead, and battling for the lead."

The next two laps the Ferrari and the Black Tiger passed by in the same position. Wisdom knew all Randy's racing tricks and could anticipate them. The spectators had forgotten the rest of the field, only a few lengths behind, to concentrate on the two lead cars. It became obvious that the Ferrari had a quicker getaway and so could make up distance lost on the corners. But at every bend in the course, the Black Tiger was on her tail, worrying her, seeking for an opening to get through and take the lead.

Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd in the direction of Butcher's Bend. Woody looking over there could see what looked like a small cloud of smoke arising. Somebody spoke hurriedly to the flagman in front of him, and he stepped out onto the course waving a yellow flag.

"What's the matter?" Woody asked, turning to Worm.

"Accident," Worm shouted. "Somebody's hurt."

7

An ambulance, its siren screaming, sped down the track in the direction of Butcher Bend. It was back in a few minutes, drove through the pit area and out onto the main road. Then the announcer said over the loud-speaker, "We regret to say there has been an accident at turn number two. The Black Tiger, driven by Captain Randolph, went out of control, and Captain Randolph has been taken to the hospital. It is not thought that he is badly hurt. We'll let you know his condition as soon as we get a report--"

Woody didn't wait to hear any more.

"Let's go," he said to Worm and jumped into the Dodge.

In all its life, Worm's venerable Dodge had never done more than thirty-five miles an hour, but on the trip to the San Diego General Hospital, it made forty-five, protesting at every revolution of its engine.

When they got there, Woody had some difficulty convincing the receptionist they should be allowed to see Randy. "I can't do anything without the surgeon's permission," she said quietly though not without sympathy.

"Surgeon," cried Woody, "is it that bad?"

The receptionist gave a ghost of a smile. "Surgeons treat cuts as well as fractures and broken heads," she said. "You'll have to wait."

They waited an agonizing hour without any news at all. Then a young doctor came through, and the receptionist left her desk and spoke to him. The doctor came over to them.

"Are you relatives of Captain Randolph?" he asked.

"Not relatives. Friends," said Woody.

"We're his pit crew," said Worm. "We service his car when he's racing."

"I see," said the surgeon. "Well, he says he has a daughter at this address. He'd like to see her. She's in San Diego apparently. Can one of you go and get her?"

"I'll go," said Woody. "How is he, doc? Is he badly hurt?"

"Well," said the doctor, "he's a lucky man. It's lucky for instance that he has an artificial foot. That was crushed. Had it been his real foot, the bone would have been splintered so badly we might have had to amputate at the knee. As it is, he has a leg fracture, a dislocated shoulder, and bad burns on the torso and thighs. He's a remarkable man. He should be suffering from shock and in need of sedatives. But his main concern is his car. Otherwise he's quite calm, and his mind is clear."

"Gee," said Woody. "I'm sure glad to hear it isn't too serious."

The doctor laughed. "If it happened to me, I'd call it very serious and give up racing for the rest of my life. Here's the address. He's anxious to see his daughter so she doesn't get any false reports on his condition."

Woody took the slip of paper, which had the address of an apartment house on Front Street in San Diego. Without asking Worm, he got into the Dodge and drove over there. On the way over, he kept thinking about the best way to break the news. When he arrived, he still had not reached a formula. He pressed the bell and when the door opened it is probable that even if Woody had memorized what to say, he would have forgotten it.

The girl who opened the door was about his age. She had red hair that looked like burnished copper. It was cut in a page boy and came down to her shoulders. She wore a black turtle-neck sweater and a skirt of a dark green material that spread out like a ballerina's from a tiny waist. Her skin was milk white, and her eyes had a trace of a teasing look in them.

"Yes," she said politely when she opened the door.

"Are you Miss Randolph?" Woody asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Woody Hartford. I was working in the pit with your father at the races today."

"Oh," she said. Now Woody was stuck. He could find no appropriate words that would not alarm her. He decided to plunge on.

"He's not badly hurt, but he's been in an accident," Woody said. "The Black Tiger turned over and he's at the hospital and--"

"Wait until I get my coat," the girl interrupted. She dashed into the apartment and was back in a second, struggling into a white lamb's-wool half coat. She pushed past him and down the stairs with Woody in pursuit.

"There's my car," he said pointing to the Dodge.

The girl gave it a brief glance. "We'll take mine," she said and ran to a red MG parked by the curb. Woody had just time to get in before she had started it and was speeding down the streets. Woody was surprised at the MG's acceleration and cornering ability. On the way to the hospital he told the girl all he knew of Randy's injuries. Sitting next to her, he realized that she was even prettier than he had thought at first glance. And she drove like a wizard, snaking surely through the traffic without a second's indecision.

At the hospital she was quickly admitted to the ward. Woody followed her to the door with Worm. He hadn't been invited but realized this was a good chance to find out how Randy really was and talk to him.

"Hello, Daddy," said the girl rushing through the door to her father's bed.

"Hi, Rocky," he replied. "Had a little bad luck. The Tiger went out of control and turned over on me, and I busted my leg. Got a few scratches as well but nothing much." The words were silently contradicted by the bandages that swathed the side of his head. He looked up and saw Woody and Worm standing at the door.

"There's my pit crew," he said. "Come on in. Have you met my daughter, Rocky?"

He introduced them, and Rocky explained that Woody had brought her over.

"What happened to the car?" Woody asked. "How did it get out of control?"

"Hard to say," replied Randy. "She behaved beautifully right up to the time of the accident. I'd just taken that right-angle turn right after the start-finish line and was going into the hairpin. I had an overlap on Tom in the Ferrari, and the steering went. Wheel just spun around loose in my hand. Luckily I was on the outside, otherwise I'd have hit the Ferrari. Instead I sideswiped a stack of hay bales and turned over. I hope the Tiger isn't too badly damaged. There was a small fire, but they put that out in a hurry."

Nobody said anything for a while. Then Randy said, "She handled like a dream. She's a beautiful car--the best I've ever driven. I don't see how she can fail to beat any competition that's offered her."

In all this time Worm had said nothing. Now, speaking very slowly, he said, "If ye've any sense in yere head, ye'll forget all aboot the Black Tiger and racing. This is the second time for ye. Yere luck is going tae run oot one of these days." But Randy only laughed.

A nurse came in then and shooed them all out of the room. Down in the lobby, Steve and Mary Jane were waiting. They'd come over after the accident, which had taken place within a hundred feet of where they were standing.

"Man," said Steve. "He's lucky to be alive. The Tiger rolled over on him twice and then caught fire. They had to put out the fire to get at him."

Mary Jane gave Woody a questioning look. "Oh," said Woody, "pardon me. I'd like you to meet Randy's daughter, Rocky." He made the introductions all around. It seemed to him that Mary Jane was a little cool with her "How do you do?" but Rocky didn't notice it.

She turned to Woody and said, "If you wish I'll drive you back so you can pick up your car. It was really sweet of you to come for me, and I'm very grateful."

"It was nothing," said Woody. He could feel himself blushing and was angry at his reaction.

"Well," said Rocky, "shall we go? I'm going to come back here and see whether I can talk them into letting me stay in Daddy's room. He'll need company, and maybe I can at least spend the night here."

The two went out to the MG together, and Woody felt the same sort of lowering of the temperature he had experienced when he called Mary Jane to say that he couldn't take her out because he'd spent his money on Cindy Lou.

When he got back, Mary Jane had gone to the motel with Steve, but Worm was waiting for him.

"We'll have tae go oot and get the Black Tiger," he said. "I've had a word wi' Randy aboot it, and he wants it towed to my garage. We'll take a look at it and see if it can be towed behind the Dodge."

They drove back to Torrey Pines then and found the Black Tiger had been taken to a service shed in the back of the pit area. Worm jacked her up and crawled underneath to inspect the steering linkage. He was there ten minutes, and when he came out he had a piece of shiny metal shaped like a large marble in his hand.

"Steering knuckle," he said. "Sheered clean through."

Woody stared at it. He'd never known of a steering knuckle breaking before. It might happen on an old car, but hardly on a new one.

"How could that have happened?" he asked.

Worm shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Car may have been dropped in shipping and yon knuckle slightly fractured. But there's some cars, laddie, that are just not built tae drive. They're man-killers. And it comes tae me noo that this is one of them."

Woody recalled the time he'd seen the Black Tiger in Worm's garage under the electric lights. There had been something menacing about it then.

"Horseradish," he said. "A car's a car. They haven't any feelings of their own."

"Maybe not," said Worm. "Yet I've known cars in my day that were never driven but they hurt or killed somebody." He looked almost with malevolence at the Black Tiger. "I'm wishing Randy had wrecked ye all together," he said with surprising feeling.

8

It was a month before Randy was able to get up to Hermosa Beach to see Worm and find out for himself what had been done on the Black Tiger. In that time, Woody had been down to San Diego twice to see him, and had seen quite a bit of Rocky too. In fact, he'd seen enough of her to become aware that Mary Jane, despite an elaborate unconcern, didn't approve of their meetings at all. He tried once to explain that since Rocky was Randy's daughter, he was likely to see her as well as her father when he went to San Diego, and that was all there was to it.

"You don't have to go driving around the city in that midget car of hers," Mary Jane said.

"It's a full-size MG TF," Woody said. "And if I get half a chance I'm going to race it."

"Why doesn't she race it herself?" countered Mary Jane.

"She's going to, in the women's races. But she said she'd let me drive it at Hansen Dam."

"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "If you drive that car in a race, you can say good-by to me. I don't ever want to see you again."

Woody was thinking over this ultimatum when Randy came hobbling into the garage on crutches, with Rocky at his side.

"Hello," cried Randy as cheerfully as a wedding guest. "I see you're busy as usual. Where's my old friend Worm?"

"There," said Woody pointing under a big Buick. One thin foot of Worm's showed, revealing cotton socks of a pale lemon color. This foot wiggled a greeting, and Worm's voice came from underneath the automobile. "I'll be oot in a minute," he said. "When I get this bell housing back again."

"Take your time," said Randy. "Just a social call."

Woody grinned across at Rocky. "How's the MG?" he asked.

"Just super," she said smiling back. "All ready for Hansen Dam. I sent in my forms last night. How about you?"

"Well, er," said Woody. "I didn't get around to it yet."

Rocky looked at him out of her teasing, half-mocking eyes. "You'd better hurry," she said. "You've only got two more days. Unless you'd prefer not to race."

"Oh, I want to race all right," said Woody. "I just didn't get around to it, that's all."

"I had her tuned yesterday," Rocky continued. "Purrs like a sewing machine. Daddy says she's in tiptop racing form right now. If you can get off for a minute, why don't you drive her around the block a couple of times? I could come with you." The last sentence was said very casually. But there was no escaping the invitation it contained.

"Gee," said Woody, "we're right in the middle of installing a clutch here. After work, if you're still around, I'd sure like to try her out."

Worm had by now slid from under the Buick. Watching him come out it seemed as if there would never be an end to him. First came two long shins. Then two longer thighs. Then a narrow waist and torso and then a long arm which fluttered upward to grasp the running board of the car. By the time he had completely emerged, Rocky was laughing.

"Do that again, please," she said. "I've never seen so much person come out from under one car before."

"Lassie," said Worm, "the Highland Scots are all big people. It's a short man in the Highlands who doesn't top six feet two inches." He said this solemnly, without anger or humor, as if he were acquainting her with a piece of interesting information of which he was proud.

"How's the Tiger?" asked Randy.

Worm looked at him sourly. "She's fixed oop as much as she's ever likely to be," he replied.

"As much as she's ever likely to be?" repeated Randy puzzled. "Is there something wrong that can't be repaired?"

"Nae," said Worm fishing for a cigarette, for whenever he got out from under a car, he saluted his liberation by lighting one. "There's naething that can't be repaired. But there's some cars, as ye well know, that hae hidden traps and faults in them. The best mechanic in the world canna find them. And I'm thinking that yon Black Tiger is one of them."

"You mean that there's something basically wrong with her design?" asked Randy.

"Nae," said Worm. "There's naething wrong there. She's as perfect a piece of automobile engineering as you or I are ever likely tae see. Davie would have approved of her entirely. But think of it this way, mon. There's several thousand moving parts in an automobile like that. They're all moving at high speed--faster than an ordinary car--and under peak pressures. Yon car has never been tried on a track before ye took it oot. It's full of bugs ye can no eliminate on a designer's table or in the factory. They have to be found out on the race track. Some cars they never get the bugs out of. They're man-killers from the first time they're driven to the time they give them up. It's my opinion that the Black Tiger is one of them."

Randy listened to all this very seriously. He was looking straight at Worm and never took his eyes off him while the latter was talking.

When he had finished he said, "This is an old difference between us, Worm. You think that there are certain cars that are man-killers. And I think that there are cars that kill or maim drivers until they've found out how to build them better. That, from my point of view, is one of the objects of racing--to design fast, efficient, safe automobiles. The Black Tiger probably has a few bugs in her. But I think she's the finest designed automobile I've ever seen. I intend to drive her and find out what the bugs are.

"By the way, I wrote the company about that broken steering knuckle. They've replied that they're checking with the shippers. Their only explanation is that the car must have been dropped. The knuckle is made of the finest chrome steel, and they cannot understand how, except through some very heavy blow, it could have sheered off.

"They're going to foot the bill for all the repairs. They are anxious to know whether I'll enter her in the Santa Barbara Road Races in September."

"Ye're daft if ye didn't write an tell them no," said Worm sourly.

Randy laughed--a laugh of almost boyish glee. "Nobody will ever change you, Worm," he said. "Of course I didn't. I wrote and said that the Black Tiger will be at Santa Barbara and I'll be behind her wheel. Furthermore, I hope you and Woody will agree to form my pit crew."

"Och, mon," said Worm desperately, "why do ye ask me?"

"Because you're my friend," said Randy soberly.

"It's because ye're my friend that I dinna want tae be there," replied Worm.

"You'll be there just the same. Won't you?"

"Aye," said Worm with resignation.

The two went over to the Black Tiger.

"Daddy," Rocky said, "if you're going to look over the Tiger, can Woody and I take the MG around the block?" Woody knew that she wasn't really asking her father's permission but was hinting to Worm to release him. Worm took the hint.

"Be back in half an hour," he said. "We've got tae get that clutch in before we close the shop."

When they got into the MG, Woody turned to Rocky and said, "What's with Worm and racing? Why does he seem to be half afraid of it, as if he was always expecting trouble?"

"Didn't he ever tell you?" countered Rocky.

"No. Was he a racing driver once?"

"Yes," Rocky replied. "He and Daddy were great friends. They were the two most promising racing drivers in Europe. Of course this was before I was born. Daddy was about twenty and Worm the same age."

"What happened?" Woody asked.