It was a month before Randy was able to get up to Hermosa Beach to see Worm and find out for himself what had been done on the Black Tiger. In that time, Woody had been down to San Diego twice to see him, and had seen quite a bit of Rocky too. In fact, he'd seen enough of her to become aware that Mary Jane, despite an elaborate unconcern, didn't approve of their meetings at all. He tried once to explain that since Rocky was Randy's daughter, he was likely to see her as well as her father when he went to San Diego, and that was all there was to it.
"You don't have to go driving around the city in that midget car of hers," Mary Jane said.
"It's a full-size MG TF," Woody said. "And if I get half a chance I'm going to race it."
"Why doesn't she race it herself?" countered Mary Jane.
"She's going to, in the women's races. But she said she'd let me drive it at Hansen Dam."
"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "If you drive that car in a race, you can say good-by to me. I don't ever want to see you again."
Woody was thinking over this ultimatum when Randy came hobbling into the garage on crutches, with Rocky at his side.
"Hello," cried Randy as cheerfully as a wedding guest. "I see you're busy as usual. Where's my old friend Worm?"
"There," said Woody pointing under a big Buick. One thin foot of Worm's showed, revealing cotton socks of a pale lemon color. This foot wiggled a greeting, and Worm's voice came from underneath the automobile. "I'll be oot in a minute," he said. "When I get this bell housing back again."
"Take your time," said Randy. "Just a social call."
Woody grinned across at Rocky. "How's the MG?" he asked.
"Just super," she said smiling back. "All ready for Hansen Dam. I sent in my forms last night. How about you?"
"Well, er," said Woody. "I didn't get around to it yet."
Rocky looked at him out of her teasing, half-mocking eyes. "You'd better hurry," she said. "You've only got two more days. Unless you'd prefer not to race."
"Oh, I want to race all right," said Woody. "I just didn't get around to it, that's all."
"I had her tuned yesterday," Rocky continued. "Purrs like a sewing machine. Daddy says she's in tiptop racing form right now. If you can get off for a minute, why don't you drive her around the block a couple of times? I could come with you." The last sentence was said very casually. But there was no escaping the invitation it contained.
"Gee," said Woody, "we're right in the middle of installing a clutch here. After work, if you're still around, I'd sure like to try her out."
Worm had by now slid from under the Buick. Watching him come out it seemed as if there would never be an end to him. First came two long shins. Then two longer thighs. Then a narrow waist and torso and then a long arm which fluttered upward to grasp the running board of the car. By the time he had completely emerged, Rocky was laughing.
"Do that again, please," she said. "I've never seen so much person come out from under one car before."
"Lassie," said Worm, "the Highland Scots are all big people. It's a short man in the Highlands who doesn't top six feet two inches." He said this solemnly, without anger or humor, as if he were acquainting her with a piece of interesting information of which he was proud.
"How's the Tiger?" asked Randy.
Worm looked at him sourly. "She's fixed oop as much as she's ever likely to be," he replied.
"As much as she's ever likely to be?" repeated Randy puzzled. "Is there something wrong that can't be repaired?"
"Nae," said Worm fishing for a cigarette, for whenever he got out from under a car, he saluted his liberation by lighting one. "There's naething that can't be repaired. But there's some cars, as ye well know, that hae hidden traps and faults in them. The best mechanic in the world canna find them. And I'm thinking that yon Black Tiger is one of them."
"You mean that there's something basically wrong with her design?" asked Randy.
"Nae," said Worm. "There's naething wrong there. She's as perfect a piece of automobile engineering as you or I are ever likely tae see. Davie would have approved of her entirely. But think of it this way, mon. There's several thousand moving parts in an automobile like that. They're all moving at high speed—faster than an ordinary car—and under peak pressures. Yon car has never been tried on a track before ye took it oot. It's full of bugs ye can no eliminate on a designer's table or in the factory. They have to be found out on the race track. Some cars they never get the bugs out of. They're man-killers from the first time they're driven to the time they give them up. It's my opinion that the Black Tiger is one of them."
Randy listened to all this very seriously. He was looking straight at Worm and never took his eyes off him while the latter was talking.
When he had finished he said, "This is an old difference between us, Worm. You think that there are certain cars that are man-killers. And I think that there are cars that kill or maim drivers until they've found out how to build them better. That, from my point of view, is one of the objects of racing—to design fast, efficient, safe automobiles. The Black Tiger probably has a few bugs in her. But I think she's the finest designed automobile I've ever seen. I intend to drive her and find out what the bugs are.
"By the way, I wrote the company about that broken steering knuckle. They've replied that they're checking with the shippers. Their only explanation is that the car must have been dropped. The knuckle is made of the finest chrome steel, and they cannot understand how, except through some very heavy blow, it could have sheered off.
"They're going to foot the bill for all the repairs. They are anxious to know whether I'll enter her in the Santa Barbara Road Races in September."
"Ye're daft if ye didn't write an tell them no," said Worm sourly.
Randy laughed—a laugh of almost boyish glee. "Nobody will ever change you, Worm," he said. "Of course I didn't. I wrote and said that the Black Tiger will be at Santa Barbara and I'll be behind her wheel. Furthermore, I hope you and Woody will agree to form my pit crew."
"Och, mon," said Worm desperately, "why do ye ask me?"
"Because you're my friend," said Randy soberly.
"It's because ye're my friend that I dinna want tae be there," replied Worm.
"You'll be there just the same. Won't you?"
"Aye," said Worm with resignation.
The two went over to the Black Tiger.
"Daddy," Rocky said, "if you're going to look over the Tiger, can Woody and I take the MG around the block?" Woody knew that she wasn't really asking her father's permission but was hinting to Worm to release him. Worm took the hint.
"Be back in half an hour," he said. "We've got tae get that clutch in before we close the shop."
When they got into the MG, Woody turned to Rocky and said, "What's with Worm and racing? Why does he seem to be half afraid of it, as if he was always expecting trouble?"
"Didn't he ever tell you?" countered Rocky.
"No. Was he a racing driver once?"
"Yes," Rocky replied. "He and Daddy were great friends. They were the two most promising racing drivers in Europe. Of course this was before I was born. Daddy was about twenty and Worm the same age."
"What happened?" Woody asked.
"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.