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.
For the next two minutes it seemed to Woody everything around became
very quiet. The row of cars on the opposite side of the track looked as
grim as gladiators about to enter an arena. Woody eyed the Black Tiger,
and in that moment he hated her. She seemed both impersonal and cruel
to him. A cricket started a shrill chirruping in the grass behind him,
and he experienced a sudden flush of irritation at the sound. The sun
beat down bright and merciless on the asphalt before him. The starter
stood talking to two other men. He seemed cheerful and untroubled, and
Woody conceived an enormous dislike of him. Why didn't he just drop his
flag and get it over with? Why stand around there chewing the fat when
everybody was sitting with his nerves on edge?
The loud-speaker blared suddenly. "One minute to go," the announcer
said. "I'll count out the seconds. Fifty-five. Fifty. Forty-five...."
It's coming now, Woody said to himself. Just a few seconds more. He
felt suddenly panicky, as if he were paralyzed and wouldn't be able to
run to his car. Kurt Kreuger was still shredding a cigarette.
"Twenty-five. Twenty. Fifteen," said the announcer. Suddenly it was
time. The big green flag in the starter's hand came down, and Woody
found himself sprinting on wobbly knees over to the Black Tiger. He
was hardly in the seat before a Jag beside him started with a roar
and shot off down the track. He saw Tom Wisdom and Kurt Kreuger take
off while he was still fumbling with his safety belt. Two more cars
roared by, and at last he got the belt fastened. He switched on the
ignition, pressed the starter button, let out the clutch, and roared
away himself. His hands and arms were trembling violently. He wanted to
be sick, and he could hardly see. He denounced himself as a fool for
having ever got into the race. But there was no getting out of it now.
He couldn't call into the pits. He couldn't get out of the car. He had
to go on.
The first lap Woody did in a kind of nightmare. Turns appeared
unexpectedly before him, and he took them, fighting down a rising
panic. Cars roared by, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the
other, and he let them go. His only concern was to get around as many
times as was necessary and then get out of the Black Tiger and leave it
and never see it again.
Actually, in the first lap, he lost only two places. In the starting
line-up he had been sixth. At the end of the first lap, he was eighth.
He caught a glimpse of Worm as he passed by the start-finish line after
the first lap. Worm was holding up a blackboard with the figure 8 upon
it. Woody was surprised. He had been sure more cars than that were
ahead of him. The news served to steady him a little. He pushed down
on the accelerator and concentrated on a Mercedes ahead. It was green
and had a big twelve on the back. He could scarcely see the top of the
driver's helmet, and he did not know who he was. But he decided he
would try to pass.
The distance between the two cars diminished slightly. Woody pressed
the accelerator down farther. The Black Tiger's note changed to a
piercing scream. Woody could feel the car pick up speed, and the
Mercedes seemed to be drawn toward him. Then he saw the tail light
flash red and knew the driver was braking for a corner. Woody touched
his brakes also and in the same moment changed down.
Something inside of him said, "Now," and the voice sounded like
Randy's. Woody stomped on the accelerator and pulled over to the right.
He went by the Mercedes in a flash and found a sharp corner ahead. He
braked again, changed down to second, and hit the accelerator once
more. The rear end of the Black Tiger slewed around as he turned the
steering wheel. But she straightened out like a champion and was off
down the straightaway in a second. In his rear-vision mirror Woody
caught a glimpse of the Mercedes he had just passed. It was gaining on
him. Ahead was a sharp hill, and he could not remember what was beyond.
He left the car in second and accelerated. The Black Tiger roared,
breasted the top of the hill, and there ahead were three cars in a
huddle, braking for what must be a sharp bend.