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?"