“And ahead is the finish line again. Sixteen miles around,” Steve said weakly.
“I don’t even want to watch anybody driving that killer,” Razor said.
“Ten times around?” Billy asked, a slight tremble in his voice.
“Ten times,” I said, trying to make my voice cheery. “Race day, they block off the road and every person entering gets two trial laps for starting position. Both you boys can go two laps the morning of the race, and I’ll decide who goes in.”
“Maybe I’ll oversleep that day,” Billy said.
“The guy who won last year driving something called a Cisitalia averaged one hundred and four miles per hour,” Steve said. “I looked it up.”
“Is be entered this time?” Razor asked.
“He’s dead,” I said. I turned to look at Rex. Rex was staring sleepily out at the blue sea.
We got the two wagons out there an hour after dawn on race day. Even so, we weren’t the first. A big blue Bugatti roared by, followed by a dull black Auto-Union, a gray Pengeot and a cream-colored British Alta.
I told the timer that we weren’t ready for the trial laps. Rex sat on the running-board of the old sedan, yawning from time to time. Billy and Razor had an argument about who’d lead off. Billy won. They were pale as they adjusted crash helmets, pulled on their gloves. The big cars were both purring, a low note of power sounding from the triple tail pipes.
Steve leaned into each car and kissed them.
They took off, sounding like a squadron of light planes. They dwindled to nothing, going down the wide straight stretch.
Steve turned from watching them, her face taut. I had clicked my own watch on them. We could expect them in ten minutes.
She walked over to Rex. “Nice wagons, aren’t they?” she said.
He stood up and stretched. “Sure.” He walked away down the shoulder of the road. Steve stood looking after him for a moment, a small girl out of whose hand somebody had just knocked an ice-cream cone. Her shoulders slumped. She turned and gave me a weary smile.
“Samaritan down for the count,” she said.
More cars appeared and shoved off, some for official timing. I saw a Mercedes-Benz, a Maserati and an Alfa-Romeo. Also one of Ferrari’s Cisitalias.
The dead slow minutes ticked by. Nine, ten, eleven. Then twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Steve and I stopped glancing at each other.
I picked out the distinctive motor roar as one of ours came down the hill. My heart sank as I saw that both Razor and Billy were in it. I had my hand on the door cowl before the car was completely stopped.
Billy said flatly, “The second village. Little kid came creeping out. I swerved and the cobblestones kept the brakes from catching right. I piled it into the side of a stone church.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Shook up. Nothing else. They’ve wrastled it off the road. It’s out of this race, Joe. Frame out, cooling system smashed, right front suspension tangled all to hell.”
They got out of our remaining wagon. Other cars came pounding wildly down the mountain, swerving and screaming onto the straightaway, straightening out to slam off into the morning haze.
I got a look at Billy’s right hand. I grabbed it before he could twist away. He said sullenly, “I sort of stabbed my fingers against the dash when she hit. Sprained ’em a little.”
“Too much to race with. So it’s your baby, Razor. Sorry, Billy.”
Razor looked at me. His mouth was set in a stubborn line. He kicked the front tire of the Henderson.
“You think I got no guts, Joe?” he asked.
“Did I say that?”
“I know the ovals, Joe. Dirt, asphalt and brick. I know the guys I race against. I know what they’ll do. On that hairpin up there, a big blue job barreled through, inside me and outside Billy. He hung on the edge of that drop before he got it under control. These people are nuts, Joe. My national rating is high enough so that I can get in another good stable. You tell Henderson what he can do with his Special. Mr. Razor Ingle isn’t taking it across country with a bunch of maniacs.”
I said soothingly, “These people race all out, Razor. I know that. But a smart driver like you can stay out of trouble.”
“On an oval, he can stay out of trouble.”
I looked at his set face and knew it was useless. To make matters worse, Billy said, “You weren’t on that hairpin, Joe. You didn’t see it. Razor’s got something.”
Steve said, her voice almost shrill, “Mr. Henderson left the selection of the drivers up to Joe. And now you’re letting him down. What’ll happen to Joe’s job?”
Razor grinned. “Joe can hand-lap more speed into a tricycle than most men could get out of a skyrocket. Don’t make me cry, Stevie.”
I growled, “Okay, so I drive it myself. At least it has to be in the race.”
Steve grabbed my arm. “No, Dad. No! It would kill you!” her words tumbled over each other as the idea hit her. “Why not me, Dad? Think of how many laps I’ve gone.”
“But not in competition.”
“I’ve seen the road. And it would be good publicity, Dad. I’ll stay safe. I’ll play it that way.”
I glanced over toward Rex Dorman. He stood over at the side, his face expressionless.
Rex would never race again. I couldn’t let my daughter try to drive on that killer road. I turned to Billy. “Give me the helmet and gloves,” I said wearily. “I’ll go around once and then try for time.”
As the Special was built as a sports car, it had a neutral gear. The motor idled softly.
I pulled on the gloves, went back to take a look at the rear rubber. As I bent to touch a place that looked ragged, the tire spun violently. I jumped back.
The flame of her hair was vivid as the car roared down the straight stretch.
“Stop her!” I yelled.
“With what, Joe?” Razor said softly.
But for his backing out, she wouldn’t have stolen the car from under our noses. I planted my fist on the point of Razor’s jaw. He sat down in the dust, looked up at me without animosity. He picked himself up and walked back to the aged sedan.
Rex Dorman stood beside me and stared out to where the Special had disappeared. He had not changed expression, but there was a little hard lump of muscle protruding at the corner of his jaw. Then he relaxed, said softly, “Crazy kid.” He went back to sit beside Razor. Our truck, with the fuel, the hand pump and the new rubber, was off in the field.
As we waited and the tension thickened around us, a little red Alta came down out of the hills, a big German Auto-Union so close behind it that the two cars almost touched. The Alta swung wide and the Auto-Union came up on the inside. The Alta, faintly off balance on the wide swing, cut back. There was a tiny thudding metallic sound as the two cars nudged. Then the Auto-Union was alone. The Alta swung, tipped, bounced, jumped a good twenty feet into the air, throwing the driver out at the peak of the leap. It threw him like a stone on the end of a string. He shot out ahead of the car.
We saw him land full length on the hard-packed soil off the road, saw him stir weakly just as the bulk of the car landed on him, bounced again, rolled to a flaming stop. I looked away quickly.
Rex was swallowing hard and his face was the stone gray of death itself.
Then that familiar motor song, and her red hair in the breeze and she pulled up, triumphant.
Then she saw the flaming hulk of the Alta, the thing that had been a man, and her mouth trembled.
Rex shouldered me roughly aside. “Get out of that iron!” he said horsely.
“But I can—”
“Get out!”
Her eyes widened as she saw him snap the crash-helmet strap under his jaw. She said, “You can’t—”