Chapter IV: Part 4

Randy made different pit-crew arrangements for the race than those at Torrey Pines. "Rocky and Worm stay here at the racing pit in case I develop some trouble," he said. "Woody, I'd like you to go out to bend number five and pick a spot by the fence where I can see you as I come out of the bend. Take along that blackboard and a piece of chalk. When I come out of the bend, hold the blackboard well up so I can see it, and chalk on it the number of the lap and my position. If I'm more than sixth or seventh don't bother giving me the position. But if I'm among the first five or so, let me know. Understand?"

"Yes," said Woody. "I'll put the lap number at the top of the board, and your position down below it."

"Swell," said Randy. "The race is for thirty minutes. Toward the end, you can forget about the lap number and just let me know the number of minutes left. O.K.?" Woody nodded and went off to pick a good spot near bend number five.

The Santa Barbara track is laid out roughly in the shape of a horseshoe. The cars travel around the inside of the shoe and then around the outside to complete one lap. But it is a horseshoe that has been badly bent, so that instead of just two hairpins at the feet and a long slow curve at the top, there are a number of near right-angle bends as well.

Woody found a good place behind the snow fence and waited, nerves tingling, for the race to start. Over the loud-speaker he could hear the commentator briefing the crowd on what was going to take place.

"This race," he said, "will commence with a Le Mans start. The cars are parked on one side of the track and their drivers opposite them on the other. When the starter brings down his flag, the drivers will sprint to their cars, jump in, fasten their safety belts, switch on their engines, and get going. The start, then, is a critical moment. A driver who can get under way quickly can get ahead of three or four cars he might not have a chance of passing on the track.

"Well, there they are, all sitting down waiting for the starting flag. There are three veteran Le Mans drivers in this event--Kurt Kreuger in Jag number eight, Tom Wisdom in a red Ferrari, number ten, and Jimmy Randolph in his new Italian job, the Black Tiger, number two. Randy has raced this car only once before and was doing well when he broke a steering knuckle and turned over. He's a great guy to be racing today. But he has every confidence in his car. Here it is. They're off--"

The rest of what the announcer said was drowned in a roar of engines. Woody strained over the snow fence, his eyes on bend number five about a hundred yards down the track. It was a particularly savage bend with buildings on either side and a house dead in front when the driver was halfway around. The house was protected with hay bales. Any car that didn't get around would run straight into them. A further hazard consisted of a thick telephone pole at the end of the bend, where most cars would be swinging wide after making the turn. There were hay bales around that also.

Suddenly there was a roar, and the first car appeared around number five. It was a red Ferrari, number twelve. Then came two more and then a Jag. Then three in a huddle, the one on the outside just missing the telephone pole. Woody began to wonder where Randy was. Suddenly the Black Tiger flashed by in eighth place. Randy, with his newly mended leg, had not been able to sprint over to his car as fast as the other drivers. It was typical of the man that he had made no mention of this additional handicap before the start.

The announcer picked up the rest of the first lap for Woody. Wisdom and Kreuger, old rivals, were battling for third place. Ahead of them was Ben Wedger in a Maserati. There was no mention yet of the Black Tiger. Woody suspected that Randy was still in eighth place. He waited, his eyes riveted on turn number five. Suddenly two cars flashed around it wheel to wheel. The outside car swerved off the shoulder of the track and looked as if it were going to hit the telephone pole. Woody could see the driver fighting to bring it back again. He succeeded but dropped to second place. Then came two more, one on the tail of the other. The first was Kreuger's Jag, number eight. Then Tom Wisdom in his red Ferrari. Then a Maserati, number eleven, and then the Black Tiger. She came around the corner like her namesake, clinging to the inside of the track and passed the Maserati, going full bore as they came abreast of Woody.

"He's fifth now," Woody yelled excitedly. He chalked a big three for the lap number on the top of the board and a big five for Randy's place in the last lap below it.

"They're going into the north hairpin now," said the announcer. "Dave Kingston is still ahead in number twelve, Kreuger and Wisdom are fighting it out wheel to wheel. They've come up to second and third respectively. Wait a minute. What's this. The Black Tiger, driven by Jimmy Randolph, just shot between Wisdom and Kreuger to take over third place. That makes it Kingston, Kreuger, and Randolph in the Black Tiger third. But it's still anybody's race with twenty minutes to go."

Woody forgot about the sign board in his excitement. He leaned as far as he could over the snow fence to see the Black Tiger come around turn number five. There was a tense silence in the crowd, above which he could hear the roar of the engines. He heard the squeal of wheels and the coughing spit of Kingston's Ferrari as he changed down for the bend. Then Kingston was around and after him. Turning the corner in the same instant was Kreuger's Jag and the Black Tiger, wheel to wheel. As they flashed by Woody caught a glimpse of Randy, sitting quite relaxed behind the wheel. There was a slight smile on his face, and then he was gone, headed for the right-angle bend half a mile down the track.

"It's Dave Kingston against Jimmy Randolph in the Black Tiger now," the loud-speaker blared. "Randolph cut in from the far side of the track on bend six to take over the second place from Kreuger. He's battling Kingston now for the lead position. As they pass the start-finish line on the sixth lap it's Kingston, Randolph, Kreuger, and Wisdom.

"Randolph had an overlap on Kingston's Ferrari twice. This is a great race--perhaps the greatest we shall see this year. Here they are going into the hairpin. Kingston is skillfully blocking all Randolph's attempts to pass. He's holding that inside position and has just a little more speed than the Black Tiger on the straightaway. Now they're entering bend number five. It looks as though Randolph is going to take it wide, relying on the cornering ability of the Tiger to take him around--"

Woody didn't have to listen to the rest. He saw it. Kingston's Ferrari hurtled around the bend on the inside with the Black Tiger on its tail. The big Ferrari skidded for a fraction of a second, picked up traction, and hurtled down the straightaway.

But something went wrong with the Black Tiger. The car took the corner wide, and Woody could see Randy fighting to get control. It looked as though he was going to hit the telephone pole, but he managed to miss it by inches. The car came roaring and fishtailing toward the crowd. People scattered like dust before a heavy gust of wind. Woody caught a glimpse of the Tiger hitting the shoulder of the road not a hundred yards from him. Then it leaped into the air, turned slowly on its side, and hit the ground upside down. It slithered bumping and screaming, sparks flying from it, and the wheels spinning, for fifty yards before it came to a standstill.

Woody was over the snow fence before anybody could stop him. Flagmen appeared is if by magic, waving the red accident flags. Woody was conscious that several cars flashed by, slowing down near him, but he had no eyes for them. He ran to the Black Tiger, which lay beside the track, its wheels still spinning in the air.

"Randy," he shouted, "Randy."

"Get back," somebody yelled at him and pulled him by the shoulder. Woody yanked himself savagely free and grabbed the side of the Black Tiger, attempting to right it. Several other men came to help. Together they got the Tiger back on its wheels. Randy was in the driver's seat, but his shape was all wrong. One hand was nothing but a red hunk of meat. It lay on his safety belt, and it was obvious that he had been fumbling with it. Blood dripped quietly from it onto his pants. He was slumped sideways beside the steering wheel but in such a way as to suggest that his back was broken. His head lay on the seat, and his face turned up toward them.

He looked at Woody and attempted a smile, but coughed instead. A little pink foam came to his lips.

"Brakes," he said and closed his eyes.

The ambulance was there in a second, and everybody hustled away to make room for the ambulance attendant. Woody stayed as near as he was allowed and saw a doctor bend over Randy. When the doctor stood up, he didn't say anything. He just shook his head and got back into the ambulance.

Then Woody knew that Randy was dead. The Black Tiger had killed him.

14

In the weeks that followed Randy's death, nobody made any mention of road racing or the Black Tiger around Worm's garage. There was a tacit understanding that both topics should be ignored. Woody worked harder than ever at his job and tried to put both subjects out of his mind. He saw Rocky only at the funeral, and then she went back to San Diego to live with an aunt. Woody did not know what happened to the Black Tiger. And he hoped he would never hear of it or see it again.

Worm made only one comment on the fatal accident that killed Randy. "Yon Black Tiger is a killer car," he said to Woody. "I told Randy so and tried to warn him against racing it. But he was no a man that ye could warn."

It was not, however, as easy to get away from road racing as Woody hoped. When he went into a drugstore for a hamburger, he found himself eying the road-racing magazines. When he bought a newspaper, the sports pages with their columns on road racing had an irresistible fascination for him. He did not want to look at them. Yet he found that he could not refrain from doing so. Names seemed to leap out of the pages at him--Tom Wisdom, Kurt Kreuger, Dave Kingston. It was strange how out of several thousand printed words on a page, one word would stand out as if it were printed in a different color.

A week after Randy's death, Woody called up Mary Jane and asked her for a date. She sounded neither cold nor very friendly on the phone, and said she was doing nothing that night. Woody asked her out to dinner. When he called for her, he began to realize how much he had missed her. It seemed as if he had been only a portion of himself and now he was made whole again. They spent a pleasant evening, not saying anything about what was past or about any plans for the future. It seemed as if the two of them just wanted to enjoy the present for the moment.

Mary Jane seemed much more grown up to Woody that evening. She talked neither of Somerset Maugham nor of boys she'd been out with while they were quarreling. Woody felt peaceful while he was with her for the first time in many weeks. When he went home, he slept well, and the following day was whistling at his work and much more his old self.

Worm noticed the change and was pleased by it. He was not a man to pry into others' affairs, but he had been worried about Woody, toward whom he adopted an attitude part father and part elder brother.

For the next month things went smoothly in this fashion, and Woody almost managed to forget about road racing and the unconquered fears with which the whole subject filled him.

Then one day the telephone rang, and when he answered it Rocky was on the line.

"Hi, Woody," she said. "How have you been?"

"Pretty good," Woody replied. "How are things with you?"

"Just fine now that--now that everything's settled. I called you up because I just had some wonderful news. Guess what?"

"What?" said Woody and he felt curiously ill at ease.

"The Italian factory that made the Black Tiger had a representative over here to look at Daddy's car. You know there are only three of them in the world. They were worried about the two accidents"--she hurried over the words--"because they gave the car a bad name. You know people have been saying that the car's a killer, and nobody can be found to drive it. Anyway, they've offered to pay the expenses of repairing the Black Tiger, and they'll provide all the new parts needed and everything if someone will race it again over here."

"Oh," said Woody, trying to keep the dismay out of his voice.

"Daddy really believed in that car," Rocky continued. "He said it was the finest he'd ever seen in all the time he'd been driving. I thought that since you'd worked with him on it that you'd like to know the news right away."

"Gee," said Woody. "I'm sure glad to hear it. Let me know if they find a driver, huh? Maybe Tom Wisdom. He was a friend of your father's."

"No," said Rocky. "I asked Tom. But he has the same opinion of the Black Tiger as the others. He says it's a killer--too unorthodox a design to be raced safely. Kurt Kreuger says the same. He won't touch it. But I'll find somebody. Of course, there are lots of people who would do it, but they haven't got the kind of driving flair that the car needs. Anyway, I'll let you know if anything happens."

She sounded a little disappointed.

"Thanks," said Woody and hung up.

"Who was that?" Worm asked when he put down the phone.

"Rocky," replied Woody. "They're fixing up the Black Tiger, and they're going to race her again."

Worm gave him a queer look. "Come into the office," he said. "I've something I want to tell ye. And I might as well tell ye noo."

When they were inside Worm's tiny office and Worm had lit a cigarette, he took a long hard drag at it, examined the glowing end, and addressed himself to the smoldering cigarette rather than to Woody.

"Ye may have been wondering," he said, "for ye are a noticing body, how it was I came to know Randy so well mony years ago. And ye may have heard some remarks pass between us that made nae sense tae ye at the time. Ye'll recall, nae doot, that the first time he came tae the garage here to ask me tae work on his pit crew, he said that that was something I had tae face and I'd do better tae face it wi' me friends."

Woody nodded but said nothing.

"Weel," said Worm, "the fact o' the matter is that many years ago, before ye were born likely, Randy and I were both racing drivers over there in Europe. We raced against each other in the Tourists' Trophy in Ireland and in the Le Mans in France and sometimes in road races that took us frae the Channel ports tae the toe of Italy and back. Clean across the Alps, mind ye, on narrow roads, twisting and curving, through the passes, wi' snow all aroond, and sometimes ye couldna' see tae the end o' yere headlight beam.

"Ah weel, that was when I was young and foolish. Well, there came a time when I was approached by a Swiss company tae race a new car for them in the Le Mans. 'Twas a car ye probably never heard of, for they don't make it any more. 'Twas called an Albinet."

Woody shook his head. The name was completely strange to him.

"Well, 'tis as I thought. Few these days have ever heard of the Albinet, though at the time 'twas the wonder car of the year. Like that Black Tiger noo.

"No tae make too long a tale of it, I agreed tae drive the car, and Randy was in the race too, driving a Bugatti if I remember right.

"Now I don't know if you know anything about the Le Mans. 'Tis held in the city of Le Mans in France, and the roads are blocked off tae form the track. The race is laid down through the streets of the city, and there's every kind of a turn and twist and hill and blind corner and every kind of surface ye can think of to be negotiated. 'Tis a twenty-four-hour race. There's cobbles in some parts and asphalt in others and concrete and all the rest. And sometimes it's raining and sometimes it's dry, so ye've never seen a race like the Le Mans over here, and I hope ye never will.

"I mind I was third on the eightieth lap. There was a Frenchman ahead of me in a Hispano-Suiza and a German in the lead with a Mercedes-Benz. Randy was on my tail, and we were going hell for leather down a cobbled hill with a wall on one side all covered wi' sandbags and houses on the other. At the bottom of the hill there was a sharp right turn and then a sharp turn to the left and up another hill.

"The trick was to change doon and brake hard, drift aroond the first corner, regain traction on the second, and on your way.

"The crowd was as thick as flies along the sandbags lining the wall as I came roaring down the hill. I hit my brakes to change doon, and my foot went tae the floor. The brakes had failed. I was doing a hundred and ten down the cobbled hill when I passed the Italian and tried to make the turn tae the right. The car swung around like an ice skater and hit one of the sandbags. I got doon on the floor and Randy piled intae me. There were five cars in that wreck, and three of the drivers were killed. Four people who were watching from the sandbags died too. Randy lost his foot.

"After that, I swore I'd never race again. And I never have. Randy tried tae get me back driving. He said if I didn't go back I'd be a beaten man all me life. Well, maybe I am a beaten man. But to this day I canna' look at a racing car without being filled wi' mortal fear. When I agreed tae go wi' you and Steve tae the technical inspection, I was trying tae get over some of that fear. I thought it might have left me. But it hadn't. And when I agreed tae work in the pit wi' Randy, it was for the same reason.

"I'm sorry now I did. Randy would hae been killed, nae doot. But I'd have had no part in it." He paused and flicked the butt of his cigarette deftly into a bucket of water.

"Ye'll be wondering why I'm telling ye all this, nae doot," he said. "Weel, it's on account of yon Black Tiger. Mark my words, they'll no find any racing driver wi' any experience that'll undertake tae handle her. Yon car's a killer as I said before. I'm thinking that they'll be asking you. Ye drive well. I've watched ye. Ye drive like I used tae drive when I was racing. I've looked at ye going roond the track and seen meself twenty years ago.

"But dinna make the mistake I made--Randy too. Dinna' go on wi' yere driving until ye've killed seven people just because ye wanted tae drive a new car first past the finish line.

"I'll never forget those people, laddie. Never. And I've a horror of racing now that won't leave me until I've drawn my last breath."

Woody now understood fully Worm's strange reaction to the Black Tiger and his reluctance to be associated with road racing in any way. But there was something else he wanted to know. He remembered how Randy, over dinner, had told him that road racing condensed all the challenges of life into a few minutes. He recalled Randy's saying that all drivers were scared but if a man gave way to fear he would be beaten for the rest of his life.

"Tell me, Worm," he said. "Did you quit racing because of the accident--because of the people you killed though it was not your fault? Or did you quit because you were scared of getting killed yourself? Because you didn't want to take any more chances."

"'Twas the people," said Worm, slowly.

"But they knew the risk they were taking when they came to watch the race," Woody persisted. "They knew a car might get out of control. Yet they came and sat on top of the sandbags."

Worm made no comment on this for a while. He got up moodily from his seat and looked out of the window. "Randy told me that mony a time," he said. "If I face the matter squarely, I quit because I was afraid." The sentence was uttered in almost a whisper.

"I've been afraid ever since," said Worm. Woody felt a deep compassion for him.

15

Worm's forecast that Woody would be asked to drive the Black Tiger was not long in coming true. A week after her telephone call, Rocky dropped in to see him. She drove into the garage in her MG, and although Worm was delighted to see the daughter of his old friend, it was plain that he was worried too.

"Mind what I told ye," he said privately to Woody. "Dinna' let her talk ye into driving yon Black Tiger. It's nae worth the risk."

Woody and Rocky went to dinner and then for a drive and a talk. For a while nothing was said about the Black Tiger, though Woody knew very well that that was the object of the visit. Rocky was apparently waiting for Woody to bring up the subject, and he was determined that he wouldn't.

Eventually she brought it up herself.

"The Black Tiger is being completely overhauled and repaired," she said. "It will be ready to race again soon. The factory sent a man over to supervise the work. They installed a completely new brake system. The factory man said the car had been dropped on the way over, and that was why the steering knuckle broke and also why the brakes went out. There was just the tiniest rupture in the master cylinder, but with the constant braking during two races the rupture widened and the fluid drained out."

"Gee, I'm glad to hear they found the trouble and the car is being fixed," Woody said.

"We haven't been able to get a driver," Rocky continued. "I'd drive it myself, but it wouldn't be the same thing. They have special races for women, as you know, and to prove its worth the Black Tiger has to be driven in a man's race."

Woody made no reply to this other than to grunt.

"It's the old trouble," Rocky went on. "The car has got the reputation of being a killer. Nobody wants to risk driving it because it's so new. But it isn't a killer at all. I believe what Randy used to say. No cars are killers. New ones may have bugs in them that have to be found out. But that's been true of every car ever designed. Racing finds out the troubles and provides better and safer cars for people to drive.

"Lots of safety features on automobiles today were developed out of experience gained in road racing," she continued. "Four-wheel brakes are one of them. So are rear-vision mirrors and better tires. More people are driving with safety belts on long trips, and that's saving a lot of lives. In the early days of racing, Daddy told me, fly-wheels used to explode and kill drivers. But who ever heard of a flywheel exploding these days? Racing drivers showed how to make better ones. Every time there's an accident on a track, people say that road racing should be banned or that a particular car is a killer. But the automobile industry would not be where it is today if it wasn't for road racing."

Still Woody said nothing. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach because he knew what was coming. The palms of his hands felt moist, and he could feel his heart beating faster. He tried to temporize.

"Why was Randy so interested in the Black Tiger?" he asked.

"Because he said it was way ahead of any other racing car yet designed," Rocky replied. "The factory is planning to put out a small family car based on the Black Tiger engine. It would give about fifty miles to a gallon of gas, could be driven in any climate because the engine is air-cooled. That means no radiator to overheat in summer or freeze in winter. And it would sell for less than a thousand dollars. But all that depends on the Black Tiger being shown to be an efficient engine and chassis design.

"Daddy never said anything to me about it. But I found out through his will that he had put all his savings into the project. He believed in the Black Tiger that much. He used to say he'd spent all his life looking for a perfect automobile and had found it in the Black Tiger. Now his life's work will be wrecked unless we can find someone to drive the Tiger." She looked across at Woody, hesitated, and then said.

"Daddy was very fond of you. He told me that you'd make a great racing driver someday. He said you had a natural flair for it, and the sort of courage that it takes. Woody, I hate to ask you, knowing the reputation the Black Tiger has. I'm only asking because so much of Randy's hopes were tied up in the car. Will you race it--not for me but for him? For all he did for automobile racing and design?"

Woody had his answer ready, but he couldn't get it out. It seemed to him that Randy was nearby and hanging on his answer. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say that he, too, believed the Black Tiger was a man-killer. He wanted to break down and confess that he was scared to death every time he raced a car and that fear, heavy as a shroud, clung to him through every moment of a race. But he could not get the words out of his mouth.

"I'll have to think about it, Rocky," he said feebly.

Rocky brightened immediately. "Woody," she exclaimed, "you're wonderful." And she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"I haven't said yes," Woody said hurriedly.

"I didn't expect you to answer right away," replied Rocky. "I know you have to talk to your mother and father. But if you explain everything to them, I know they will agree."

"Worm warned me not to race the Tiger," Woody said. Rocky frowned.

"Did he tell you about himself yet?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Daddy always felt bad about Worm," Rocky went on, slowly. "He believed up to the last that all Worm had to do was turn around and face his fear and he would be happy again. He's not happy now, you know. That's why Daddy got him in his pit crew and brought the Black Tiger to his garage for tuning. It wasn't really that he couldn't get the tuning done anywhere else. He thought if he could get Worm back into racing, he would get over his fears. Daddy was always doing things like that for people without their knowing it. He used to say that fear was just a continuing sense of shock. It could be cured, he thought, if faced."

Rocky didn't know how deeply these words affected Woody. He felt that Randy was talking to him; that Randy knew the struggle in his mind and was trying to sort it out for him. He could almost hear the bright, gallant voice, not blaming him but understanding and trying to help him get over his own fears.

"When do you think you'll know whether you can drive the Tiger?" Rocky asked.

"Oh, in about a week," Woody replied.

"Whatever your answer," Rocky said, "I'll always be grateful to you. The others just said no. You at least are willing."

That evening Woody bitterly regretted that he also had not given a flat no to Rocky's request. If he had done so, it would be settled and he would have been saved a lot of mental and emotional turmoil. When he got home he found his father was out of town on business and would not be back for two or three days. Woody would have liked to talk to his father about driving the Black Tiger in the hope that he would be forbidden to race. That would solve the matter by putting the blame for the decision on someone else. Woody didn't feel exactly comfortable at that thought but was looking for a way to escape making the decision himself.

It was no good talking to Worm. Worm would only insist that he refuse to drive the Black Tiger. And Worm was really in the same position in regard to racing as himself. If Tom Wisdom or any of the other drivers he'd met had been around, he would have consulted them for their views. But Woody didn't know where they lived and had no way of finding out.

In the end, desperate for someone to talk his problem over with, Woody took it to Mary Jane. He didn't really think she could help him with it. He already knew her views on road racing. But at least she was someone to talk to. He was too ashamed to unburden himself to Steve.

To his surprise, Mary Jane's reaction was quite different from what he had expected. He told her everything, not sparing his own feelings in any way. Though he blushed while doing so, he confessed that he was scared of racing and had many times missed chances on the track through sheer fear. He said he had been afraid even to talk of his fear and now was in the predicament of being asked to drive the Black Tiger. He confessed that he was mortally afraid of doing it and also afraid of refusing, both because of his reputation and what it might do to his morale.

Mary Jane didn't interrupt once while he was talking. When he had finished, she said:

"Woody Hartford, you're the most mixed-up person I ever met. There's nothing for you to do but drive the Black Tiger. I'm surprised you can't see that yourself."

"What?" cried Woody, amazed.

"Look," Mary Jane continued. "You know how I hated the way you were always spending time and money on Cindy Lou. I still don't see that it's important for one driver to prove he can go faster than another. And I don't see that it's important for people to keep building faster cars. If you were going to drive the Black Tiger just to show that it would go faster than those Ferraris or what-nots, I'd tell you not to be so silly.

"But that's no longer the reason. The reason now is to show that you've got the courage to drive the car even though you're afraid of it. That's a very important reason. It's much more important than all that stuff about developing safer cars and so on.

"You've just got to drive the Black Tiger. That's all there is to it. Otherwise you won't be Woody Hartford any more. And the person I'm interested in is Woody Hartford."

Woody was stunned.

"You really mean you think I should drive it?" he asked.

"Certainly. I wouldn't want to have anything more to do with you if you didn't. If I was afraid of it, I'd drive it. You don't have to win. All you've got to do is try to win and show that you're prepared to take the same chances that other drivers in the race accept.

"I used to say that all your interest in racing and racing cars was juvenile. So it was. All you were interested in then was the speed and the roar of the engines and the glamour. But now it isn't juvenile at all. You're growing up. If you race the Black Tiger, it will show that you've grown up enough to be called a man.

"And," Mary Jane concluded, "when I get married, I want it to be to a _man_, even if he does have to spend the rest of his life in greasy overalls."

16

The biggest opposition to Woody's driving the Black Tiger came from Worm. Woody had thought that both his mother and father would be dead set against it. They did not, indeed, welcome the prospect. Woody decided to tell his father about it when they were alone and again to explain all his reasons fully. When he had finished Mr. Hartford said, "Woody, is this what has been on your mind all the time?"

"More or less," Woody replied.

"I see why you didn't feel you could discuss it with me. In any case, discussion is rather futile. There are some things people just have to decide by themselves and this is one of them. I don't pretend that I like the idea of your driving that car. I wish there was some honorable way out of it. But there isn't. You'd better let me tell your mother, though. I think I can explain the situation better than you.

"This is where being a parent is really tough," he added with a faint smile. "My whole instinct is to forbid you to race--to protect you from danger. But I know that would be the wrong thing to do. Son, promise me that.... Well, I was going to say promise me that you won't take any unnecessary chances. But that would be silly. Promise me that if the car shows any serious defects before the race, you will have sense enough to realize that you don't have to go through with this."

"I promise," said Woody. "The car will be in perfect mechanical condition. Otherwise the deal will be off. I'll go over it myself, and I'll get Worm to help me."

Worm was furious when Woody told him. His face went white, and for a while he was unable to say anything. When he did he called Woody a fool and a lunatic and said he wouldn't have anything to do with the Black Tiger and would not help Woody in any way.

"I'll not be a party tae ye killing yere foolish self," he stormed.

This was a heavy blow. Woody didn't really know enough about the mechanics of racing cars to check the Tiger over thoroughly. He waited for Worm to calm down and then decided to tackle him again.

"Worm," he said, "you don't understand about me and the Black Tiger. I'd like to explain to you."

"There's nae explanation for a mon deciding tae drive a car that's only been in two races and has had an accident each time, other than lunacy," Worm snapped.

"Well, maybe it is lunacy," replied Woody. "But Dad doesn't seem to think so. And neither does Mary Jane."

"Ye mean tae tell me yer father is going tae let ye drive yon man-killer?"

"Yes," said Woody. "Because I explained the reasons to him."

"And what might be yere reasons?" Worm demanded.

"There's only one! I'm afraid. I'm afraid to drive any racing car. I became afraid the first race I was in when I nearly hit a telephone pole, and I've been scared ever since. I was even more scared after the Black Tiger--after Randy was killed in the Black Tiger. And the only way for me to get my courage back is to drive the car in a race. That's all."

When he had finished, Worm's long pale face was a study. He opened his mouth to say something and then snapped it shut without uttering a word. He stared at Woody in silence for several seconds and then walked out of the office where the conversation had taken place. He stayed away for several minutes, just standing outside the garage with his thin hands on his hips and staring at his feet. Then he fished for a cigarette, lit it, took a puff on it, threw it away, and came back into the office.

"Gie me yere hand, laddie," he said. "I'm ashamed of meself. Ye've got more guts than I have, for ye're doing the thing I should have done meself fifteen years ago. If I'd driven in just one more race after that accident, I'd have been a happier mon today. Instead, I've been fifteen years wi' a nightmare. Ah, well. 'Tis never too late tae mend, they say. I'm wi' ye in this. I'll go over yon Black Tiger wi' a fine-tooth comb and a magnet. I'll do more than that. I'll take it out on the desert roads wi' ye and test it meself. I'll corner it and brake it and pour the coal tae it until I've driven oot any bugs there are in it meself, or me name is not William Orville Randolph McNess of Aberdeen.

"Have ye told yon Rocky that ye'll race the car?"

"Not yet," said Woody. "She's in San Diego."

"Weel, get on the phone and tell her noo. Dinna' worry aboot the charges. I'll stand them meself. The Hieland Scots, ye understand, are a generous race of people, and 'tis one of the main faults in them."

When Woody in the next few minutes called Rocky to say he'd drive the Black Tiger for her, she was jubilant. She said she'd bring the car up the very next day so that there would be ample time to check it and test it before the Pebble Beach race, which was the event in which it would be entered.

It was not long before the news that the Tiger was to be raced again reached the sports columns. And Woody found himself a combination of hero and lunatic over night. One Los Angeles evening paper devoted half a page to an article and pictures of the Black Tiger. A reporter interviewed Woody for the story, and the gist of the article was that Woody was prepared to stake his life to show the car was the fastest and safest racing machine ever to come into the country.

Other columnists dredged up stories of other "wonder cars" that had been wrecked and scrapped as unpractical. Woody was asked to lecture at the local high school on racing and road safety and was voted by the Junior Chamber of Commerce as the young citizen most likely to succeed. Some papers tried to draw a likeness between him and some of the old-time racing greats like Barney Oldfield, and all in all, he got more publicity than he ever would have thought likely in his entire life.

Worm was as good as his word both in checking and testing the car. He closed down his garage for a week to devote his time to the Black Tiger. He crawled all over it, with Davie's _Problems and Principles of Internal Combustion Engines_ open on the workbench for ready reference. And then, one Saturday, he and Woody drove the Black Tiger out to a deserted piece of highway in the Mojave desert to give it a thorough road test.

The piece of road selected was an old highway now replaced by a modern four-lane thoroughfare. Because it was old, and therefore full of turns and twists, it was ideal for the purpose, and the Highway Patrol gave permission for the tests to be held.

The Highway Patrol also co-operated in not saying anything about the tests, so Woody and Worm had the strip of road, three miles long, to themselves. They worked out a route, partially on the disused road, partially across a desert track, so they had a rough circle to represent a race track.

"I'll put her through ten laps, laddie, just tae see how she handles," Worm said. "You stay here and time me wi' the stop watch. It's aboot three miles aroond, which is average for race tracks here in California."

Woody nodded, and Worm got into the driver's seat. His white face seemed even whiter, but his thin hands were quite steady as he buckled on his safety belt. Then he put on his crash helmet and adjusted the goggles over his eyes. He squirmed around in the seat, feeling the controls with his feet. He switched on the ignition and fired the Black Tiger up. Woody caught a glimpse of his eyes behind the goggles. They seemed big, and there was a dullness that suggested fear. Worm turned his head slowly and looked full at him. Then he gave Woody a wink, made monstrous by the glass shield of the goggles, took a deep breath, and let out the clutch.

The Black Tiger roared into life and shot down the old asphalt road. Woody grinned. It had been a bigger struggle for Worm, he knew, to drive the Black Tiger, than it would be for him. And Worm had made it.

Worm's first two laps were anything but impressive. He seemed to be driving with such extreme caution that it would not have been difficult to keep up with him in a much less powerful car. But when Worm passed Woody for the third time, he took one hand off the steering wheel, waved, and hit the accelerator. It seemed to Woody as if the Black Tiger was melting in the sun, it disappeared from view so fast. There was a corner about two hundred yards from the starting place, and Worm took this without even skidding his wheels. He reappeared over the top of a hill and plunged down again, the Tiger roaring its enjoyment of the game. As he flashed by again, Woody saw that Worm was driving like Randy used to. He was sitting well back in his seat, almost lolling there. His hands held the steering wheel in a light grip. And there was a smile on his thin face.

Worm did more than ten laps. It was fifteen before he stopped the Black Tiger, unfastened his safety belt, and climbed out of the seat.

"How did I do?" he asked.

"Gee," said Woody, "I was so nervous about you that I forgot to use the stop watch."

"Nervous about me!" exclaimed Worm. "Why, laddie, I was driving cars wi' twice the horsepower of yon Black Tiger before ye were born." But he gave Woody another of his rare winks, and his face was beaming. He looked, in fact, quite young again.

It was now Woody's turn, and he got behind the wheel and fastened his safety belt. "There's nothing wrong wi' her that I can find," said Worm. "She corners better than any car I've ever handled. The main thing is tae get the feel of her. Take her aroond slowly at first till ye know how fast she turns when ye pull the wheel over. Change doon and try tae make her slide on corners. Find oot when she breaks out of a slide. Take it easy at first. We've got all day. Make her do what you want her tae do--not what she wants tae do. That's the whole secret of driving."

Woody looked along the low slim hood in front of him and at the dashboard with its telltale dials. Tachometer. Speedometer. Oil-pressure gauge. Water-temperature gauge. Gas gauge. Each was a separate dial. He slipped the gearshift into low and started off.

His confidence had been restored to some extent by watching Worm, but he took the first two laps slowly, studying the reactions of the car. She seemed all power and eagerness. Corners taken at sixty-five miles an hour on the asphalt didn't bother her. She slipped smoothly in and out of gear but seemed to be constantly straining to go faster.

On the fourth lap of the makeshift course, Woody decided to let the Tiger go all out. He flashed passed Worm, his engine roaring, changed down at the first corner at the bottom of a dip, was around and over the top of a small hill before he realized it, and headed down a quarter mile of straight at the end of which was a right-angle bend onto the desert strip. Woody hit his brakes, changed down again for the bend, then stamped hard on the accelerator. The Black Tiger screamed off the asphalt onto the dirt strip of the desert, broadsided for a second, righted herself, and was off again.

Five laps, and Woody felt that he knew the car. He also felt more sure of himself. There were one or two moments when his old panic threatened to return. But he managed to fight it down. He did well for eight laps going full bore around the course. The Black Tiger was certainly all that Randy had ever said of it. Acceleration in all four gears was instant and powerful. She cornered without any fuss. He never had to fight to get her under control after a full power drift around a bend. One touch of his foot on the accelerator and she came out straight as an arrow.

And yet Woody was conscious of being tense all the time. He couldn't lean back in the seat relaxed like Randy and Worm and become, as they did, part of the engine. There was a tiny spark of uneasiness and distrust in the bottom of his mind all the time.

He was waiting, he knew, for something to go wrong; for the steering to go out or a tire to blow. He couldn't quite trust the Black Tiger--couldn't quite shake out of his mind the thought that it was waiting to spring some unsuspected trap upon him.

When he was through with the trial runs, Worm said, "Weel, laddie, how did she handle?"

"Fine," said Woody. "Fine. I just hope she'll hold together."

They both looked at the sleek black lines of the car. Even in the hot desert sun they seemed menacing.

17

Woody had a bad headache and a strong suspicion that the meager breakfast he had eaten that morning was not going to stay with him very long. He wished he could go away somewhere out of the bright, merciless sunlight and be quietly sick all by himself. It occurred to him that if there was just half a chance of getting away with it, he'd sneak off into the crowd on the other side of the snow fence and disappear among them. But that was impossible. Someone would spot him and he would be brought back again for the sacrifice.

For that's exactly what he felt like--a sacrifice that was about to be offered to a god called the Black Tiger for the edification of a lot of worshipers who called themselves sports-car fans.

Woody was sitting on the grass on one side of the starting area of the Pebble Beach racecourse. Across the track from him was a row of cars facing outward as if they were in a parking lot. Among them was the Black Tiger. They all seemed to be grinning malevolently. The Black Tiger was sixth in line, and there were twenty-two cars in all drawn up for the Le Mans start of the fifth event. That was the race to which he was committed--the race in which he was to be given his chance to recover and demonstrate his courage; the race in which he was to prove that the Black Tiger was, despite its record of accidents, a first-class racing machine.

Woody was glad of one thing. Mary Jane wasn't nearby, nor were his father and mother, nor Rocky, Steve, nor Worm. His mother and dad were somewhere in the mass of spectators with Mary Jane. Rocky, Steve, and Worm were in the pit area forming his pit crew. He was glad they weren't with him, because in their presence he had to keep up a pretense of confidence. And right at that moment he hadn't a hairsbreadth of confidence in his whole body.

It had been tough trying to hide his fears all morning while four other races were run. He had become so nervous with everybody wishing him well and fussing over the car that he could hardly do a simple little thing like adjust his racing mirrors to get a clear view of his rear and two rear fenders.

Worm, he was sure, had noticed that he was nervous. But Worm hadn't said anything, and Woody was glad. Worm had just busied himself checking the ignition and the spark-plug gaps and taping the headlights.

When Rocky had asked him how he felt, he'd replied, in a voice that didn't sound like his own at all, that he felt fine.

Then Rocky had suggested that he look over the map of the track. But try as he would to memorize it, none of the details would stay with him. He told himself that it didn't matter anyway. He'd had enough racing experience to know that what the track looked like on paper wasn't at all what it was like when you drove over it. Turns that seemed like slow curves turned out to be pretty sharp. And there was no indication of whether they were banked or not.

Furthermore, the map of the track didn't have anything to say about road surfaces. It didn't say anything about trees, and the Pebble Beach track was studded with trees. There were a lot of hills on it too, and most of the corners leaped up suddenly at you from behind a clump of trees or beyond the brow of a hill. That much he learned from talking to the other drivers. It was, they all agreed, the most difficult track in Southern California. Or as they put it--the sportiest.

Tom Wisdom was sitting beside Woody in the sun, looking at his driving boots. He had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, but it had gone out.

"Got a match?" he said, turning to Woody.

Woody said he hadn't without even looking through his pockets. He wished he hadn't been asked. He just wanted to be left alone right at the present moment.

"Feeling a little shaky?" Tom asked. His voice was friendly, and he smiled in a kindly way as he put the question.

Woody decided to abandon all his pretenses. "I sure am," he said. "If I could get the heck out of here and disappear for five years into China, I would."

Tom laughed. "You wouldn't be alone," he said. "Look at Kurt over there." Kurt Kreuger was squatted on his heels carefully taking a cigarette to pieces. Even at a distance of several yards, Woody could see that his hands were far from steady.

"Kurt always tears paper when he's keyed up," Tom said. "I smoke cigarettes that have gone out." He took the dead cigarette from between his lips, examined it with a smile, and flicked it onto the track.

"We've three or four minutes yet," he said. "Did you look over the track?" Woody nodded.

"It's pretty rough," Tom continued. "But remember, it's just as rough for the other boys as it is for you. There isn't much I can tell you at this point that would do any good. But remember, when you jump into your car, fasten your safety belt. Don't take off without doing that." He lapsed into silence, got out another cigarette, found an old match folder with one last match, took a puff or two, and looked down toward the starter.