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.
On either side of the track, perhaps ten feet from the shoulder, were pine trees, with barricades of hay bales among them. There was no room to get through the cars ahead, and the Mercedes was now pressing on his tail. Woody braked and skittered around the corner on the heels of the three cars. Then he saw, just for a second, a gap in them. It was about a foot wider than the Black Tiger. No more.
"Here goes," Woody said to himself and opened the throttle. The effect was as if a jet engine had been added to the Black Tiger's power plant. She literally leaped through the gap. There was a slight bump, and he knew that he had touched the rear fender of one of the cars. But other than that he got away clear. The Mercedes that had been challenging him was left in the melee of cars he had just passed.
Ahead now the road was straight but ran over a series of hills. Woody recalled that stretch and knew that there was perhaps three-quarters of a mile of it with a series of S-bends, followed by a hairpin at the end.
"Give her the gun," the voice inside him said again. It was still Randy's voice. Woody opened the throttle, his foot pressed to the floor board, and the Black Tiger flung down the track. Woody looked at his speedometer. One hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty. He saw a Jag ahead and flashed past so close he could, for a second, feel the warmth of the other's exhaust. He was doing a hundred and forty plus when he entered the S-bends and braked down.
On the first bend, the Black Tiger nearly turned over. She seemed to crouch over on her side, and Woody's foot slipped off the accelerator. But then she recovered, veered a little under his unsteady hands at the wheel, and shot off for the next bend. Woody decided to straighten that one out. He would cut the corners on it and take the risk that there might be a car ahead hidden from him. There wasn't a car ahead, but on the third of the S-bends, which lay just over the top of a hill, there was one right in the spot he was aiming at.
Without knowing quite why he did it, Woody changed down to third and, reacting instinctively, pulled the Black Tiger over and hit the gas. She went by the car—a Jag—in a cloud of dust.
Then came the hairpin. If Woody had not changed down on the last S-bend he would certainly never have made the corner. As it was he had to hit his brakes until all four wheels screamed their protest. But he managed to claw around the hairpin.
The next time he passed the start-finish line he saw Worm again for a brief flash holding up the blackboard. On it was a big figure 4.
For the next four laps Woody held his position, neither passing anybody nor being passed. But he became more familiar with the track. Bends no longer appeared unexpectedly before him. He found the reason why he had nearly turned over on the one S-bend before the hairpin. It was banked in the wrong direction so that the weight of a car cornering on it was thrown downhill.
This piece of knowledge tucked into his mind he determined to put to good use if he could get within passing distance of the Ferrari ahead. If he could get on the near side of the Ferrari on that S-bend, the driver would either have to let him by or run the risk of turning over in making the corner.
It took him two laps to get into position for the try. All the while he studied the driver's tactics. He belonged to the close-cornering school. He went into all his bends as near to the inside as he could, and only skidded away from that position when he was most of the way around. If he did that on the first S-bend, he wouldn't be able to do it on the second, for he would have skidded wide, Woody told himself. That would give him an opportunity to take over the inside position and pass.
The plan worked to perfection. The driver of the Ferrari took the first S tight in against the corner and went wide for the second. Woody saw his braking lights flash and a gap just big enough for him to get through on the inside of the track. It would be there for only a second. But Woody jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator and shot through. When he passed Worm again, the figure on the blackboard was 3.
Now a curious reaction set in. Woody had started the race in panic and had somehow fought that down, becoming too absorbed in the driving to think of anything else. But now he thought of Randy. In his two races, Randy had always done well until he got to second place. Then the Black Tiger had gone out of control.
His fears and distrust of the car, which had for a while left him, began to return, though he fought against them. He knew who was ahead—Kurt Kreuger in his Jag and Tom Wisdom in his Ferrari. They were the same two that Randy had been killed trying to pass. Woody's heart started to pound, and unconsciously he took his foot off the accelerator. The Black Tiger seemed to slump as if it had hit a patch of thick glue, there was a loud roar, and the Ferrari, which he had been at such pains to pass, buzzed by him. He was back to fourth place again.
A Mercedes and a Cad-Allard were coming up behind him. Only the fact that they had to slow down for the corner ahead prevented their passing him. Woody felt his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. The muscles of his legs seemed to go rigid, and he felt he had no control over his feet.
Somehow he got around the corner, and somehow he kept his foot down on the accelerator when he hit the straightaway, but his heart was not in it. He was afraid again, and this time he knew the fear was going to remain. He recalled how he had nearly turned over on the S-bend and how he had skidded broadside around one corner, and the spirit went out of him. The Jag passed him easily and so did the Mercedes, the driver flashing him a puzzled look as he went by.
Then Randy said something to him—or so it seemed. He said, "Relax. Lean back. You can't drive all crouched over the wheel." Woody leaned back against the seat. The feel of it on the back of his shoulders gave him comfort.
"You passed those boys before," said Randy's voice. "You can do it again. Try it on the S-bends. Go full bore and trust to luck. You're driving a better car than you think."
The S-bends were ahead, and the three cars were just entering them. Woody looked at his speedometer. A hundred and twenty-five. He wanted to brake, then change down, and take the bends more slowly. Instead, he pressed the accelerator and flung into the first bend as if it wasn't there.
He hardly saw the Mercedes as he went by, taking it on the outside. He was on the inside position on the second bend—the one that was banked the wrong way. The Jag ahead had flung wide and was trying hard to get into position. There was a sharp jolt as Woody streaked past it. But he didn't bother even to look in his rear-vision mirror. He was fourth again. There were three cars ahead, and he knew now that he could pass them. Or rather he knew that he wouldn't hold back from trying. He couldn't explain why it was that his panic had left. It was there in full force a few minutes ago, and now there was not a vestige of it. Instead he was leaning back against the seat. His hands and legs were steady. His brain was clear, and his emotions were under control. His only desire was to go faster and drive better.
"I think I'm going to make it, Randy," he said.
"Never doubted it for a moment," was the reply.
By the fifteenth lap Woody had won back to third position again. Kurt had pulled ahead of Tom Wisdom. Woody had a warm feeling for the two of them. He experienced a warm feeling, too, for the Black Tiger. The roar of her engine, which before had frightened him, now made his heart sing. He loved the way she handled and her enormous gallantry on corners.
He knew that she had it in her to win the race, and he was ashamed that he had penalized her with his own fears.
The last two laps were, for everybody, the most exciting of the race. On the straightaway approaching the hairpin, Woody drew wheel to wheel with Tom Wisdom who looked briefly at him and winked. But Tom wasn't giving anything. He hugged the corner tight—so tight that Woody had to follow him around, for it was too sharp to take wide. Woody drew ahead briefly approaching the right-angle bend after the start-finish line. But he was not sufficiently ahead to pull over and crowd Tom behind him. They took the corner wheel to wheel, but since Woody was on the outside, Tom was slightly ahead when they got around it. Woody had only one more chance to pass—on the S-bends where he had made most of his conquests. But Tom knew those S-bends even better than Woody did. He never gave the Black Tiger a chance. And when the checkered finish flag fluttered down before them, it was Kurt Kreuger first, Tom Wisdom second, and Woody Hartford third.
Rocky was first to greet him when he returned to the pit. "You were wonderful," she said. "Wonderful. Daddy always said you'd make a great driver." And she flung her arms around him and gave him a kiss.
Worm somehow got hold of Woody's hand and kept pumping it up and down.
"I knew what was happening, laddie," he said. "For my money, ye won the race."
When he got free of Rocky and Worm it was to find Mary Jane standing by the car. She didn't say anything. She just smiled and looked very proud.