Part 5

"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.

"I don't think I ought to tell you," Rocky said. "It's Worm's secret, and maybe you really ought to ask him. Though I'd advise waiting until he's ready to tell you. I think he will one day. Here, you take over." She pulled the MG to the curb. Woody climbed out, and she slid over into his seat.

As Woody got back into the MG behind the wheel, he saw the Jacksons' car going by. Mrs. Jackson was driving and Mary Jane was sitting beside her. She stared at him in disbelief and then suddenly turned away and looked straight ahead.

9

For the next two weeks Woody saw a great deal more of Rocky than he did of Mary Jane. He felt vaguely guilty about it. The business of getting the MG ready for the Hansen Dam races put him constantly in Rocky's company. They went to the tech inspection together, and Woody, with Worm's assistance, remedied the various defects in the MG that the inspectors demanded be repaired. They were minor--a new tire, a stop light that didn't work, some adjustment to the brakes so that all four wheels locked evenly, and one or two other odds and ends.

Woody had to admit to himself that he liked Rocky. As a matter of fact, the more he saw of her and the more he was with her, the more he liked her. But he also liked Mary Jane, and he wondered whether there might not be some character defect in himself, hitherto undetected, because of this. Could a guy be keen on two girls at the same time? He hadn't read much on the subject, but what little he had suggested that this was contrary to human nature. Most fellows seemed to have just one girl. Yet there he was with two and loath to give up either of them.

Rocky had all the things that Mary Jane didn't. She loved cars and would talk about them for hours. She drove like a wizard and was quite skillful when it came to making repairs. As a matter of fact, she knew more about sports cars than Woody did, though she was very tactful at concealing this.

Mary Jane, on the other hand, was more feminine. Maybe she didn't know much about cars and was somewhat averse to them. But she was more of a girl and, indeed, prettier than Rocky. Woody sometimes wished that the two could somehow be combined, for the result would have been ideal for him. Woody would hardly think of taking Rocky to a dance, nor would he think of asking Mary Jane to help take the head off an engine. Combined, he would have a girl who could go dancing and work on cars with him as well.

Steve was not a great help in this dilemma. "What you think you're doing?" he asked. "Getting together a harem?"

"If you want a punch in the nose you came to the right guy," said Woody.

"Who? Me?" said Steve innocently. "Your old pal? All I have is your welfare at heart. Just don't like to see a promising young mechanic getting dame trouble so early in his career." He skipped quickly out of the garage as Woody threw one of Worm's dirtier oil rags at him.

The matter came to a head one evening shortly before the Hansen Dam race when Woody had a date with Mary Jane.

She was tight-lipped through the dinner and Woody was careful not to talk very much about either the race or cars. When they were sitting over a dessert of sherbet, Mary Jane said suddenly, breaking an awkward silence, "Woody, are you going to race at Hansen Dam?"

"Sure," said Woody, pretending to be surprised by the question.

"I suppose Rocky has talked you into it," said Mary Jane.

"No, she didn't," Woody replied. "I'm racing her car. But she didn't do anything to persuade me. I wish I could get you to understand that I just like racing cars. It means a lot to me. It's the one thing that I really like doing."

"If you cared anything about me at all you wouldn't race," Mary Jane said, looking straight into Woody's eyes.

"Gee," said Woody, "this hasn't got anything to do with whether I care for you or not. You know I care for you. It's just that I like racing, that's all. And I've got a swell chance to race Rocky's car--"

"Don't mention that Rocky to me again," Mary Jane flared. "She's just a scalp-hunter. She's out to collect all the scalps she can. And I can see that she's already added yours to her collection." And with that Mary Jane got up and headed for the door.

Woody had a hard time paying the check in time to catch up with her. He tried to explain more to her about racing, but people kept looking at them, and even when he drove her home, he knew that she was not listening to him.

Her parting words were "You can make your choice between Rocky and me. And don't expect me to stand around weeping while you do."

This time Woody got mad.

"There isn't any choice between you and Rocky," he said. "That's just your excuse. The choice is between you and racing. And right now, for your information, Miss Jackson, I'm choosing racing."

With that he slammed the door of the car and drove off. He hadn't gone more than a quarter of a mile before he regretted such an angry parting. He wondered whether he ought not to go back and try to patch things up. But then he recalled how mad Mary Jane had been over the money he spent on his hot rod, Cindy Lou. And at the memory he gritted his teeth and drove on. It was time for a real showdown with Mary Jane, he told himself. She would either have to take him, cars and racing, or find some other guy. He wasn't going to give up his chief interest in life for Mary Jane, and he found it selfish of her to ask him to do so.

Early Saturday he was at Hansen Dam with Rocky and Steve. Rocky had raced her MG before and was well known to many of the other drivers and their crews. They drifted over to her pit and were introduced to Steve and Woody. She seemed to be very popular with the racing crowd and held in considerable respect by them. One driver in particular, a long, dark-haired youth named Pete Worth whom Woody had never seen before, seemed exceptionally friendly with Rocky. Woody decided that he didn't like the guy though he couldn't say why.

"Racing today?" Pete asked Rocky when they met.

"Of course," said Rocky. "Second race. Woody's driving the MG in number four."

"That so?" said Pete looking Woody over. "Haven't seen you on any of the tracks before. You from back east?"

"No," said Woody shortly.

"This is his first race," Rocky explained.

"Hope you know the track," said Pete. "Lot of hero drivers have wound up on the hay bales on this one."

"What are you trying to do, scare him?" asked Rocky.

"Me? No. But that number-four turn is a pistol. Well, see you." He turned to Woody. "Good luck," he said.

"Who is he?" Woody asked when the other had gone.

"He races a lot," said Rocky. "He's a first-class driver. If you can keep him in sight, you're doing good. But he likes to go around before the race and find out what kind of competition he's up against. And if he finds a new driver he tries to throw a scare into him. He's only joking, of course, but some of the boys don't like it."

"What kind of a bend is that number four?" asked Woody.

"Oh, it's not really bad," Rocky replied. "Where is that map of the course? Here it is. Look, there's a long run out, about a quarter of a mile, then a full hairpin bend back again. That's number four. The only trouble about it is that it's narrow and it's flat. No camber on it to help you get around. The thing to do is to change down at the hundred-yard mark to second and then gun her around. If you do it right, you can drift around the bend. But if you take it too wide, you'll hit the hay bales on the far side.

"Remember this. If you do leave the track, don't get back into the race until a flagman gives you a high ball. And if you spin out and your engine quits, hold both your hands up over your head as a signal to the other drivers to miss you--that is if they can.

"Tell you what. I know this track pretty well. I've raced on it twice before. The track will be open for practice in a few minutes. Why don't you take the MG and get in five or six laps to familiarize yourself with the turns? It'll help a lot."

"Gee, thanks," said Woody. He climbed into the MG and settled behind the wheel.

"Fasten your safety belt and take this," said Rocky. She handed him a heavy white crash helmet. "Here," she said, "I'll fasten it for you." Her fingers, when they touched the side of his face to fasten the chin strap, seemed cool and comforting.

Woody gave a little wave of his hand, put the racing goggles from his helmet down over his eyes, and drove the MG from the pit to the starting area of the track. A flagman signaled him to stop, and five cars, all in a huddle, zipped past. Then came two more. The flagman waved his arm and Woody swept out onto the track. He revved the MG up, and she took off so fast that he could feel himself pressed back against the seat. There was an angry roar from behind and a Singer stormed past him. Woody started to move over to the left instinctively. In the same instant a Porsche Speedster swept by him on the left.

"Cripes," said Woody to himself, "I'd almost forgotten. They pass any side they want to."

He felt his knees shaking a little from nervousness, and his hands were a little unsteady on the wheel. Then he thought of Rocky watching him, changed from second to third and third to high and blasted down the track after the two cars.

There was a corner in front of him before he realized it. It seemed to be hurled out of space toward him. He dropped down into third, revving up for a second in neutral. He heard a tire scream as he pulled the steering wheel over to the left. The MG picked up a rear wheel skid, careened over to her right a little, scrabbled around the corner, and was off again. But Woody had hardly time to congratulate himself before there was another bend ahead. Again he changed down, braking hard to do so. He turned the wheel to the right, hit the accelerator, and with a car on either side of him, skated, his rear wheel protesting, round the bend.

"So that's how it's done," he said. "You slam on the brakes, change down, rev her hard, pick up a rear wheel skid, and get around." He began to feel a little more confident.

His confidence was nearly wrecked, however, when he came to bend number four. A series of signs before it marked off the distances from the hairpin; two hundred yards, one hundred yards, and fifty yards. He remembered Rocky's advice and changed down at a hundred. But he was still going too fast when he entered the hairpin. He picked up a four-wheel drift, and the steering wheel spun around crazily between his hands. Woody hit the accelerator hard three or four times and turned the steering wheel in the direction in which he was skidding. A monument of hay bales, stacked around a concrete telephone pole, loomed before him. Then they flew past, the steering wheel steadied, and he was off down the straight again.

He made five laps before he decided that he was at all familiar with the course.

"You did swell," said Steve when he got back to the pits. "But, boy, for a moment I thought you were going to wind up among the hay bales."

"Didn't you tell me that you'd never raced before?" Rocky asked.

"That's right," said Woody.

"Well, it's hard to believe," she replied. "A lot of drivers I know wouldn't have got out of that four-wheel skid. If Daddy had seen that, he'd have said you didn't have to learn to drive. You were born knowing how."

"Thanks," said Woody and he could feel himself blush.

"The track is now closed," said the announcer over the loud-speaker. "Cars for the first event please come to the starting grid."

10

The first event was for the big cars--three thousand cc.'s and over. By common consent the three watched it from the start-finish line where they also had a fair view of what was happening at turn number one. Rocky, indeed, went out onto the starting grid to talk to some of the drivers who were friends of her father. Tom Wisdom was there in his Ferrari, and Woody could see him talking seriously to Rocky. He guessed he was asking her about Randy.

"Is this big stuff much tougher to handle than the MG's?" Woody asked when she returned.

"Some people say so. But Daddy says no. He says although they are faster and heavier, they are also more easily controlled than the light cars. Of course, a Ferrari is a lot more fun to drive than an MG. They average about a hundred and twenty around the track, including the hairpins and other bends, while an MG is doing super if it can average seventy. I think it's just a matter of instinct and experience. And I can't say which is the most important. You can't do it all on instinct. And you can't do it all on experience either. Some of the top drivers are those who have been racing the shortest while."

They only watched the first half-dozen laps of the first race because Rocky had to get ready for her turn, which followed immediately. Tom Wisdom won, and he was over in Rocky's pit just as she was ready to leave for the starting area.

"Congratulations," said Rocky holding out a slim hand to him.

"Thanks," said Tom. "Good luck, kid. I came to tell you there's a little oil right as you go into bend three. Not much. Nothing to worry about. But I just didn't want you sharing the same ward with Randy."

"Oh, he's out of the hospital now," said Rocky. "But thanks all the same. I'll take it easy."

Steve meanwhile had climbed into the driver's seat beside Rocky.

"Pile on in if you're coming," he said, leaving Woody to climb on the back. Tom swung a leg over the side and crouched down beside him.

"You driving today too?" he asked.

"Yes," yelled Woody over the roar of the engine.

"Saw you during the practice lap," said Tom. "Nice bit of work on that hairpin. Driven much before?" Woody didn't think he heard his reply.

There were eighteen cars in the race, and Rocky had drawn the ninth position in the starting line-up. Ahead of her were five MG's, two Singers, and a Porsche.

Rocky seemed completely calm as she did up her chin strap and pulled on her racing gloves. Woody wondered whether the calm was all pretense, whether she didn't feel waves of anxiety going up and down her spine, and whether her knees weren't trembling a little.

"Good luck, Rocky," he said as they left the starting area. The smile she gave him was not the least bit strained. It was eager, and her eyes danced with excitement. In Woody's opinion, she was looking forward eagerly to the race and had no qualms about it.

"Thanks," Rocky replied. "This is going to be lots of fun." She looked around at the cars ahead, behind, and on either side of her, waved to one or two of the other drivers, and seemed in every way completely relaxed.

Back in the racing pits, Woody said to Steve, "Rocky doesn't seem a bit nervous."

Tom, who overheard the remark, smiled.

"She and her father have nerves of steel," he said. "Just when other people begin to get jittery, they begin to feel cool. I've been driving fifteen years now. And I can tell you there hasn't been a race yet that I didn't heartily wish myself somewhere else a few minutes before the starter brought down his flag. There they are! They're off!"

A swarm of cars roared by them, and Woody hardly caught a glimpse of the big five on Rocky's MG before it had flashed by.

Woody wished he could get over to the hairpin to see how Rocky handled it. But he was compelled to stay in the racing pits in case the car developed any trouble. He was able to see only snatches of the race as the cars passed by the start-finish line at the end of each lap. The rest, however, he followed through the announcer on the loud-speaker. He confined his comments for the first four laps to the Porsche and another MG, number fourteen, which had started a battle for leadership at once. But by the end of the sixth lap, Rocky had come up to fifth place and was fighting it out with a Singer ahead of her. Woody saw the two speed by, and they were almost abreast at the bend. But the Singer had the inside track and was the first around the bend.

The announcer now was beginning to take some notice of Rocky. "Keep your eyes on Rocky Randolph in car number five," he said. "Miss Randolph is the daughter of Captain Jim Randolph, one of the great sports car racers of the day. She is driving an MG TF and doing a magnificent job of it. Those who say that driving ability isn't inherited may think differently after watching her. She and a Singer, number twenty-two, are going into the hairpin together. The Singer has the inside track. Boy! Look at that. The Singer, driven by Miss Simmons of San Diego, took the hairpin a little wide, skidded to the far side, and Randy slipped through the gap. She's now ahead--fourth in the race and overhauling the Porsche in front of her."

"Here they come," said Steve excitedly. "There's the first MG, the Porsche--and there's Rocky--third."

The announcer picked up the rest of the lap for them. Rocky was having a hard time getting by the Porsche. She could corner better, but the Porsche had more acceleration on the straightaway. She remained in third place for the next two laps, and then the announcer said that she had dropped back to fourth.

"Must be having some trouble," said Tom. They waited anxiously. The first MG passed, then the Porsche, a Singer, then two more MG's, and finally Rocky came almost crawling down the track.

She steered into the racing pits, and Woody saw at a glance that her right-hand rear tire was almost flat.

Nobody said a word. Steve had the jack out and the rear of the MG off the ground in almost the time it takes to describe it. In the meantime Woody had taken off the flanged racing hub that held the wheel in place. It was the work of less than a minute to remove the wheel and put on the spare, and Rocky was back in the race in three minutes. But in that three minutes, all the other cars had gained a lap on her. Try as she would there wasn't time to make it up and get back into the lead again. She did make up half a lap, but the checkered finish flag had fallen before she could improve her position.

"Tough luck," said Woody when she drove back into the pit. "You were doing swell."

Rocky's eyes were still bright with excitement. "It was wonderful," she said. "I haven't had so much fun since the last time I raced. You boys did a terrific job changing that wheel. Only lost a lap. Could easily have lost two if you'd bungled it." Her smile was full of appreciation.

There was time, in the interval provided by the third race, to check the MG over. Woody took it down to the gas truck to be filled up and to have the oil checked. Rocky reported that the engine had behaved beautifully, so he did nothing there but see that all the spark-plug leads were firm and examine the valve cover for oil leaks. There were none. When he got back to the pits, he found it hard to appear cool. Steve and Rocky were watching the race, and he was glad of that. Rocky had put on such a wonderful performance that for the first time he became aware that he had better do at least as well if he was not to be disgraced in her eyes.

He sat behind the wheel and looked into the rear-vision mirrors. They seemed to be adjusted right. He got out and looked at his tires. Nothing wrong with them. He opened the hood again, took the cap off the distributor, and looked at the points. They were in excellent shape.

"What the heck am I doing?" he said to himself, replacing the cap and shutting the hood firmly.

"Listen, Woody," he told himself, "all you have to do is keep cool and drive as well as you can. No sense taking unnecessary risks. You've got a long time to live. Besides, every other guy in the race is probably just as scared as you are right now."

This thought, comforting for a second, was immediately dispersed by a voice behind him.

"Feeling O.K.?" somebody said, and he spun around startled by the unexpected words. It was Pete Worth, to whom he had been introduced earlier in the day.

"Sure," replied Woody with all the calm that he could summon.

"Just dropped by to make sure you were in the race," Pete said.

"Sure, I'm in the race," said Woody, nettled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, nothing," said Pete. "I saw that Rocky had some trouble and thought it might keep you out of it." He was quite cool, almost insolently so.

"Just a flat tire," said Woody.

"Ah," said Pete. "Well, lucky it wasn't a front wheel. You can lose control real fast with a front-wheel blowout. See you down there. I'm in ninety-nine--the green TF." He pointed to his car, which was three pit places away. Then he sauntered off. Woody fancied that he was smiling slightly.