Hell On Dirt Oval

HELL on DIRT OVAL Feature Auto-Race Novel By Philip St. John

(author of “Pepper-Drill Poison”) There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with Joe Baylor’s driving—as long as he had the track to himself. But when the glory-grabbers started to crowd in, Joe remembered the scarlet agony of his last crash...

T

“I have a date; but for old times sake, I’ll break it. And Pop’s fine, Joe. What brings you back to Chanton?” “Same old thing.” He nodded out to the pits. “Everything I had went into the Classic last year, so I’m starting over again. And I’d better get down there.” From the look on her face, she’d heard of his crack-up in the Classic, but she made no comment, and he turned toward the pits with some of the smile still on his face. There’d been no ring on the third finger, left hand. And he was still being a fool, but maybe there’d been more than sentimental reasons for returning here to start up the grit trail again. Then his eyes fell on the little yellow S-O, and the grin died from his face. It had been a sweet job once, before he graduated to the brickways, but it took money to rebuild a mill to top shape—money he no longer had. And it took a driver with steel in his heart and lead in his foot to bring it down the homestretch in the lead, even in the old days. He shrugged, and began tuning it up. At least he had experience, whatever that was worth, and once he had enough to turn it into a double-stick job with a new set of pots, it should be clear sailing. He adjusted the mixture carefully, warming up. Out on the track the preliminary tenlap run was starting, and the roar of the mills was music in his ears. Then he glanced up sharply as a heavy rear broke over the sounds of the track, and his eyes swung to the big red mill that was tuning up. It was a sound he’d never expected on Chanton’s oval—the full roar of a special V-8, going all out.

HE TRACK had been rolled and watered, and there was the smell of it in the air, baking out under the hot sun. Up in the stands, the crowd was streaming in, while the soft drink and popcorn boys were already doing business. From off-side came the unmistakable odor of frying hamburgers, mixed with the faint smell of burned oil from the pits as a mechanic gunned a motor temporarily. Joe Baylor twisted his lips in a cockeyed grin, and some of the tension went out of his wire and whipcord figure. He was a damned fool to come back here to start over, but the smells of the battered oval were home and old times. Maybe he didn’t have the chance of a proverbial snowball, but... He sniffed the air again, appreciatively, and relaxed against the rail for a brief minute before going down to the pits and his worn little S-O. Beside him there was a faint answering sigh. “It gets into your blood, doesn’t it?” The question was in a feminine voice. “Long time no see, Joe.” Joe swung around, knocking the sandy mop back from his forehead, and looked down into the smiling face of Sue Phillips. There was no question about the identity. She’d changed in the eleven years since he’d left Chanton; she’d rounded out and matured in the right places from the rather gawky high-school sophomore he’d gone steady with, but he wouldn’t have needed the grey eyes and light brown hair to recognize the clean-cut oval face that was turned up to him. He met the grin and outstretched hand. “Too long, Sue. I’d have looked you up, but I figured you’d have forgotten. How’s Pop? And what about tonight—for old times sake?” 1

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Hell on Dirt Oval

All Sports, August, 1949

The purple job was a goner now.

it, and left the red car in the hands of a mechanic who earned more than the owner of the track could gross. “Fancy finding you here, Baylor. I thought the Classic finished you. And where’d you get the coffee grinder?”

And the heavy figure and dark head bending over it was even more surprising.

R

OD BENTON grinned at Joe in mock good-will that still had a trace of a sneer in 2

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easy, getting the feel of the dirt track in actual competition. And his training on the long grinds of the big meets hadn’t prepared him for a savage contest from the start. They hit the north bank together. Benton realized what was happening then, and gunned his motor sharply. But it was too late; he started to swing out, while Joe rode above him on the bank. And Joe’s wrists yanked the taped wheel over, forcing his mill down, inching away from the tap and toward the other car. For a fraction of a second. Rod tried to ride it out. Then his faint uncertainty about the little ovals came into play, and he eased back, while foe roared down and in, grabbing the spot in the lead and against the rail.

“Out of my own earnings, without any help from a rich father,” Joe told him wearily. Rod wasn’t the type to resent the crack. “Why don’t you take your pretty toy back to the bricks? Or didn’t anyone tell you this was a dirt track?” “They told me, Baylor. And don’t worry about me—I’ve got a screen installed, and I’ve been practicing on dirt.” Joe shrugged and pulled on his crash helmet, cutting off further talk. Things had been bad enough before, competing against the local talent...but he shoved the thoughts partially aside as the prelim ended. Then he was in the bucket seat, with the goggles pulled down, and ready for the twenty-five lap special, while butterflies began flitting around in his stomach. He’d beaten the jitters before, at least enough for anything he’d find in the smaller tracks. But he hadn’t counted on Rod Benton. It had been Benton’s crazy glory-driving that had resulted in Joe’s pile-up the year before at the Classic, and here on the little Chanton track such tactics in a real power-plant could be pure murder. And even with luck, Benton’s rig was out of Joe’s class. He shook off some of the bitter memories, and the sheer desperate need of winning, and flexed his hands, watching the play of muscles. They were still dirt-track wrists. He couldn’t compete with Rod on the straightaway; he’d have to make up for it on the turns. And this had to be his race. If not—well, there’d be no others for Joe, and no chance to feed dirt to Benton, as he’d promised himself in the hospital and during the long months after. Then they were off, jockeying for position. The track was still smooth, with only a little dirt piled up at the outer rail. That wouldn’t last, though. Joe slid around the turns, holding to the groove down the stretch; but Rod Benton had the rail as the green flag came down. Joe’s foot hit the throttle, and fire bellowed from his stack. The needle climbed to the red as they hit the south turn; the mill swung out toward the edge, and he forced it plunging down to the backstretch. Then the tach needle found the pin, and he was roaring forward, all out. This was no time to play safe; his only chance lay in grabbing the lead early and holding it. But Benton had been too certain. Knowing the power of his rig, he’d been taking it a trifle

J

OE LET his breath out, feeling the cold sweat creeping down his forehead. With a few more laps and more dirt at the outer edge, he couldn’t have made it—and it had taken the last revolution of the engine and ounce of strength in his arms, at that. Now he had the advantage, but holding it was another matter. Rod was inching up on him as they hit the turn again, but Joe’s tachometer stayed with its needle on the pin, and he held the S-O against the rail by sheer nerve. Half way around, it started to spin, and he whipped at the wheel, barely saving it. But Rod had fallen back again, wanting no part of a pile-up, and Joe gained a trifle more lead. He’d need it; he couldn’t keep that kind of driving up forever, and only part of the second out of the twenty-five laps was finished. Somehow, he managed to hold it through the fifth lap, the eighth, and finally into the tenth. Every muscle was screaming, and he could feel his face grey out at every turn. And Benton was studying the situation, holding position and waiting his chances. They hit traffic as they began to lap the slower mills, and Joe relaxed a trifle; here superior experience should give him some advantage, provided blind luck wasn’t against him. He couldn’t count on it, but there might be a chance now. Somehow he lapped two of them on the rear alley, leaving Benton to contest the turn with them. Then a black mill popped a skin in front of him, and went spinning up the bank. Joe’s brake smoked in spite of the air scoop as he pulled up, trying to find a hole around—and Benton’s

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red V-8 came out of nowhere, slipped by, and grabbed the lead as the yellow flag came down, ordering them to hold position. Joe swore darkly to himself, wondering how the man had pulled through the traffic, and hoping for at least three laps before the green flag went up again. He’d have to take his chances on pulling through the rest of the traffic and passing Benton, but it would at least give his motor a chance to cool down. They circled once only before the green flag dropped, though: Joe’s foot came down, and he began cutting a preplanned path through the other cars. For a second, it looked hopeless. Then Rod Benton found himself in a hole, and Joe took over, cutting around with the scream of tortured rubber and the click of touching hub-caps as he found an impossible hole and went through. He was in the lead again, with twelve laps to go, and already the little car’s engine was screaming a protest at the pace he had to maintain. He was still in the lead at the twentieth lap, but there was a smell in his nose over the dust and grit from the track that spelled hot metal. Joe eased up a trifle, felt Benton creeping up, and hit the throttle again. Four more laps, baby! Hold it that long, and you can rest. But the sane part of his mind knew better, even while he forced the mill on desperately. It was on the twenty-third lap that he limped into the pit, barely making it before the motor froze! He sat there numbly while the crowd screamed as Rod Benton won the race, hands down. For a second longer, Joe stuck to the seat, with his hands gripping the wheel until the knuckles changed from white to a faint blue tinge. Then he climbed out and headed toward his little hotel room, letting his feet guide him. But there wasn’t much to decide. He was washed up in the game, and the sooner he got used to the idea, the better. He’d been a fool to come back to Chanton, but he didn’t have to stay there. Behind him he heard a voice calling his name, and swung around to see Sue Phillips running after him. But he didn’t want to face her now; he shook his head, waved at her, and then strode off through the crowd in the park. That was something else he’d have to forget about.

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All Sports, August, 1949

T WAS hours later when he opened the door into the dingy room in the cheap little hotel, and his feet were blistered from aimless walking. But the physical fatigue had helped. The room was paid for another night, and he wouldn’t mind the hard mattress. He flopped onto the bed without bothering to turn on the light or undress. A snort from the corner brought him up again. There was a click of the switch, and Joe blinked his eyes into focus to see Pop Phillips looking down at him and shaking his grizzled old head. “The clerk let me in, knows me. And a pretty time I had finding where you stayed, too. You look like hell, Joe.” Joe took the proffered cigarette and light, then looked up sharply at the older man. “Did Sue send you?” “Sue? Of course not; she’s as big a fool as you are. Eleven years is a long time, boy. You might at least have written.” “Yeah. I meant to, Pop.” Then he saw there was no need for explanations. Pop understood, somehow. Eleven years is a long time when taking in a lump; but it slips by a week at a time, and there’s always the week after when things will be better... Pop nodded. “You were a fool then, too, but all kids are. I figured you’d be back some day.” They let it go at that, smoking in silence for a while. It had been when Joe was just getting started in a little mill Pop owned here on Chanton’s track. He’d had a big quarrel with Sue over nothing much just before a race and gone out fuming. It hadn’t made for good driving. Then when he piled up Pop’s car and made a general fool of himself, he’d slipped out of town with a guilt complex a mile wide and a crazy dream of showing them all how wrong they were about him. The grind from the little out-of-the-way dirt tracks up to the brickways and Indianapolis had taken longer than a boy might think. He’d sent Pop the money for the car and had it returned promptly with “Good luck” scrawled on a note around it, but that had been much later, and writing came harder each month. Pop broke the silence. “So now you’re putting your tail between your legs and running out again, eh? Quitting the races?”

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“Yeah,” Pop turned into the garage and stopped the car. “I heard about it from him. Over there’s the rig.” Under the stark overhead lights, it was a dream in metal, sleek and reeking of power. From the low, rounded front to the tapering rear, it was all speed and power, Classic built, with all the trimmings somehow showing through the lines that concealed them. “Torsion bar springing, supercharged, 24 to 1 compression, front wheel drive, silver bearings, water injection to 20%,” Pop stated casually. “And power.” “For dirt tracks?” Joe asked heavily. “Why not—if I put a screen in and fix it right? The wheel-base is 98 1/2”, barely, and Benton’s rig wasn’t meant for dirt, either. I want him put in his place, and you’re the man for the job, in the bucket of this. Well?” Joe shook his head, but his eyes stayed fixed on the blue of the mill, and there was the old pull inside him. “Sorry, Pop.” Pop sighed softly, but there was no defeat in his eyes. He cut the lights, and turned back to the Chevvy, motioning Joe in with him. Joe let him drive without watching where they were headed, still thinking of the racer and other things less pleasant. It wasn’t until they stopped that he realized they were on the driveway beside Pop’s house. He started to protest, then checked it; there were no lights on. “Sue’s out,” Pop said quietly. “How about a cup of coffee before I take you back?” He took Joe’s nod for granted, without looking around, but made no effort to get out. Instead, he passed over the cigarettes and sat watching the sky. “No rain, looks like.”

“You can’t do much racing without a mill. Pop,” Joe pointed out. “And a new one costs money. I’m busted—flat. I can’t pay for overhauling, even.” “And it wouldn’t do any good if you could— or I’d remind you I still have a garage, and know something about motors. That single stick job was good in its day, but its day is over, even without Benton’s rig against it... Well he isn’t the only one with Super V-8. Get off the bed, and let’s get going.” Pop was at the door, reaching for the light switch before Joe could protest, and there was a grin on his seamed old face. “Three years I’ve been building it, Joe, and it’s a honey, though I never expected to see it run on dirt. Built it to sell to a rich fool’s race-crazy young hoodlum, but I’d rather see a driver behind the wheel. When Sue told me you were back, I told Angstrom he could keep his money. Wait’ll you see it.”

T

HEY WERE climbing into Pop’s old Chewy then. It started with the smoothness that was to be expected of any car Pop touched, and they headed toward the outskirts of town and the old, familiar garage. But Joe shook his head. “There are things you don’t know, Pop. If it’s the car you say it is, it doesn’t belong in the ten-lap and other small fry stuff I do now!” “After Indianapolis?” Pop asked skeptically. Joe nodded. It wasn’t a story he liked telling—he’d even refused to admit it fully to himself. But it had to be told. The last Classic had been sheer hell, from the moment they started, and getting worse with every lap, and Joe hadn’t recovered from a previous spill as well as he’d thought. Driving for lap money didn’t help, after the first twenty-five laps around the big oval. Then he’d found himself neck and neck with Rod Benson, pitted against the fool, against glory-seeking thrill driving that should never have been on the track. Bit by bit, something had gone out of Joe then—and the pileup that ruined his car and put him in the hospital had been the finishing touch. “I’m fine for a few laps, Pop. I get butterflies in the stomach, but I can hold ‘em off. But after twenty-five turns, I’m licked—all I can see is a big crash coming up. And Benton knows it— knows how to take advantage of it.”

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OE WAITED for the argument to begin, but Pop made no move to start it. Finally the older man got out, just as a big car swept up in front of the house. Under the street lights, it was obviously Sue in the front seat, and the man beside her was equally plainly Rod Benton. The man’s assured laugh reached out to them, before Pop closed the side door and led into the kitchen. “Benton and Sue,” Pop pointed out needlessly. “You can’t expect a girl to wait forever, Joe. She met him in college, and he’s still in her hair. You like your coffee strong?” Joe didn’t care, and said so, pointedly.

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more artificial as she turned to Joe. “How nice, Joe. We’ll be able to see each other then, after all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m terribly tired. Good night, Pop.” She went briskly up the stairs, leaving Joe to curse himself for a damned fool. But his protests did no good; half an hour later he was lying in the guest bed, in a pair of Pop’s pajamas, still cursing his folly, but fully aware there was nothing he could do about it. And he’d made a bargain that had to be kept—even though it was impossible. He fell asleep finally, to dream he was crashing up in the Blue Baby, while Sue and Benton drove blithely past him. waving and laughing as fire began engulfing him. His own scream woke him up. He lay there, then, fighting the fear that had grown to be a habit, and morning found him still fighting.

“What’s all this got to do with me?” “Plenty. Now, where’s that dratted filter? Ah!...Sue thinks a lot of me, Joe—but there’s a limit. I’ve made her see she shouldn’t take a leap in the dark, got her to agree that if Rod hasn’t the guts to stick it out on dirt and prove he’s more than a glamour boy, it’ll be no go. That’s why he’s here. But now it looks as if his mill will prove itself, whether he does or not—all the other drivers are scared silly at the looks of it. I don’t like it, and you’re the man to stop it.” “Why? Sue should know her own mind, shouldn’t she?” Joe asked. The tone of his voice wasn’t quite what he intended, and Pop read it right. “Benton’s no fool around girls; a lot of heels learn how to play prince charmings,” Pop pointed out. “Figure it out for yourself: if he’s okay, we find out, and no harm done. If not—well, you used to know Sue, so picture it for yourself.” He sucked idly at the coffee, studying Joe. “Here’s your chance to put Benton in his place, and yourself back on your feet. There’s the Ardmore dirt classic—you’ve heard of the prizes. Stick it out, win that—at a salary plus a third of the prize money—and the V-8’s yours, plus a third interest in my garage... I’m asking a favor, boy—the only one I’ve ever asked you.” Joe started to shake his head—but he couldn’t make it. On one side was everything he wanted; on the other held nothing but the life of a washed-up has-been. He nodded, while even the thought of the grind to come brought cold sweat up to his forehead. Then there was the key in the front door, and Sue came in with a smile on her face—until she saw Joe. The smile stuck, but the warmth left it abruptly. “So you do remember where we live! I thought you’d forgotten.” “Look, Sue—” he began. But she cut into it. “Oh, it’s perfectly all right, Joe. I really didn’t mind—at all!” “Lay off, Sue.” Pop’s voice had an edge to it. “Joe’s had a tough day; what’s more, he’s driving the Blue Baby, so you might as well get used to his staying with us.” Surprise and something else registered on her face then. Her eyes were questioning as she looked at her father and met his positive nod. Then she caught herself, and the smile was even

I

T TOOK two days to get everything ready, but they hadn’t been entirely wasted. Maybe he couldn’t lick the fear—but he had convinced himself that he wasn’t going to give in to it. Now he watched Pop giving the Blue Baby her final okay in the pit. He nodded as Pop gestured, and slid into the bucket seat, now shaped to fit his body. He pulled down his helmet; nodded again. “Take it easy until you get the feel of her,” Pop ordered. “And don’t forget you’ve got me in the pit from now on to make her tick; your job is driving and getting ready for the Ardmore meet— and that’s enough. Think you’ll be ready for this afternoon?” Joe nodded with a confidence he didn’t feel, and eased down on the throttle. The track was bare of other cars at this hour, and he opened up slowly, getting the feel as she swung down the stretch and into the south, turn. The car was hot, even with Pop’s adjustments, but she handled smoothly, answering the wheel like a kitten coming up to be petted. He opened up on the backstretch, felt her leap forward, and braked before he hit the turn. She climbed up the bank, but his wrists pulled her down against the rail again, and Pop was grinning as he passed. This time Joe’s foot came down with lead in it, and the blue mill leaped ahead, gathering speed

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All Sports, August, 1949

HEN A roar from the pits cut into his thoughts, and he saw Benton warming up his big V-8 and studying him. As he swung around the next time, the red mill was out on the tract, and Rod was pulling on his crash helmet. Then the car picked up speed and leaped forward. They were neck and neck on the turn, with Benton inside and creeping out. Joe brought his foot down on the throttle with lead in it, and the Blue Baby met the challenge. Smoke and flame leaped from the stack, and the tachometer needle jumped up, while the force of crazy speed began tossing him out to the edge. The dirt was smooth there, but it was too close for comfort, and sweat began creeping out on Joe’s forehead, as he gunned back down toward the rail, with his wrists aching under the strain. The butterflies were back now, and with Benton in there showing off to Sue, anything could happen. A crowd was already collecting to watch. Joe hit the brake and let Benton’s red job sweep by, to cut around the north turn with a snap of showmanship. But then Benton slowed casually, in an open challenge. He wasn’t content to have it handed to him—he wanted a useless match to show off. For a second, Joe hesitated. Then he hit the throttle; at least he’d find out how good the Blue Baby was. They swept down payoff alley almost abreast, with Rod inside, and the turn flashed up. And again Rod let his mill sweep out to force Joe to slow or take the risk of the outer edge. It was a nice trick, and it would look good from the stands. And Joe slowed, barely enough for safety. Let the glory driver hog the limelight; there’d be a chance of passing him yet, and then he could sample some of his own medicine. Then Joe caught a glimpse of Pop in the pit. waving him in frantically. He slowed, falling behind steadily, and came in on the next round, letting Rod wave his hand and go sailing on. “What’s wrong, Pop?” Pop snorted. “Two idiots on one track! I want you to beat Benton officially, not in showing off.” “You wanted me to prove what he really is— and that’s what I was trying to do.” Joe answered hotly. Then Pop grinned. “Take it easy. boy. I had a chance to see his driving better than you could—

in a sickening lunge as the turn came up. But he had to test her response, and she met it. He found the groove and went ripping down and around it, barely catching Pop’s triumphantly raised hands as he was done with driving, and he was still as good as they came; the Blue Baby was a better job than Joe had driven in the classic. But this little one-mile oval was no place for it; it was too much like using a pneumatic hammer to kill flies. He settled down to a speed conservatively only a quarter more than the track was designed for, and it felt good. There were no others to trap him or to pile up when the grind got tough; there was nothing but the sweet feeling of a good machine, and the almost pleasant choking, familiar dust and smell of the track. He swung around again, and a flash of green in the stands caught his eyes. It was Sue, waving a kerchief at him. He couldn’t see her face, but she was probably smiling. He grimaced, and all the festering curses rose to his lips as the little pleasure went out of the day. Oh, she’d been nice enough—almost as if she were the old Sue. But her reminiscing of old times had been overdone; somehow they always managed to end up with something about his leaving so suddenly. She was treating him as one of the family—as an older brother who’d wandered off and come back, to be forgiven, if not to have his misdeeds forgotten. And she’d always managed to avoid giving him a chance to explain anything. Rod Benton added to it, popping in and out with her. Joe had managed to avoid him, but he hadn’t avoided the laugh that came up from the car outside, or the knowledge that Benton must be telling her his side of the whole story of Joe’s washing out at the Classic, and his reasons for not going back. He cursed himself again for coming back here, even though there had been no choice. Chanton was the closest small track to where he’d been, and he’d barely been able to pay haulage as it was. He gunned the motor again, cursing himself and the fear the pile-up had left in him. There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with his driving—while he had the whole track to himself. But Chanton was crowded enough, Summit would be worse later—and when they hit Ardmore, there’d be nothing but traffic—and Benton. 7

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he gets started.”

and it wasn’t pretty. He still needs more work on dirt before he’s ready for that—and I don’t want you killed before he learns how to handle his mill on these tracks. You’ll get your chance this afternoon, and I hope he has more sense then.” “And if he doesn’t?” “Then you come in second.” Pop was determined, and Joe could recognize the wisdom of it, though fear of his own nerves made him want to settle the issue. “We’ll move on to Summit next week when this closes—and on a mile-and-a-half oval you can go out for his scalp. Now pick up Sue and relax while I tune up the Baby again.” She came down the stands to meet him. “Nice warm-up, Joe.” she said. “I always wanted to see you in a really hot car. Too bad I missed the Classic.” Joe grimaced, started to forget it, and then squared his jaw. Now was as good a time as any to get it over. “All right, so you’d have enjoyed seeing me crack up! So I ran away when I was a punk kid, and got too big for the home-folks when I had a little success. Why beat around the bush?” Her skin tautened, and her lips drew back in a thin line, but the flash of temper died out of her eyes as quickly as it came. “Read it any way you want it, Joe. I meant just what I said.” “Sure. With all you haven’t said. Look, I’m sorry I made a date and stood you up. I didn’t think you’d want a failure bothering you. Maybe I’m sorry I ran off that time; I was dumb enough to think you meant that ‘never want to see you again’ stuff, and I figured Pop would give me up as a bad job for losing his car.” Her eyes were unreadable, but her voice was still level. “I forgot about all that long ago—and Pop told me about the reason for the broken date.” “Sure.” The words came out of him of their own volition now, and he made no effort to check them. “That’s why you’ve been needling me, I suppose. Or was it because I was in Reckless Rodney’s way?” Then the temper was back, without concealment. She caught her breath sharply, and her teeth were together as she spoke through them. “Nobody was needling you but your own conscience, Mr. Baylor. And I have no intention of picking on someone who always quits before

S

HE MOVED past him quickly and headed across to the pit where Pop was working on the Baby. Sue had a decidedly determined back, and in spite of the old cliché, she didn’t look better to Joe when she was angry. And, damn it, he suddenly realized she’d probably been telling him only the cold truth. He had been stricken with an overdeveloped guilt complex. Probably she’d been acting perfectly normally, and only his own misreading of her intentions had made the words sound like an act to get his goat. He’d simply been taking his fears out on her. Except for the quitting part; he could have explained that if he’d tried. She probably hadn’t known that Pop had called him in. He swung around, kicking at a corner of the stands to come face to face with Rod Benton. And Benton either knew or sensed what had gone on, from the smile on his overly-handsome face. “Too bad we couldn’t make a race of it, Baylor. Like to have the loan of ticket money out of here? Or do you enjoy seeing me carry off the prizes?” “I’ll wait around,” Joe told him, but he couldn’t make his voice sound convincing. “Maybe they’ll carry you off, and that’s worth waiting for.” Benton grinned without rancor. “Tch, temper. How are the butterflies?” Then he swung off after Sue. Joe watched them together, and watched them walk off across the park together with morbid curiosity. He made a hasty lunch of hamburgers and black coffee in a corner shop, and then came back to hang around until the race could get started. It didn’t help the butterflies that were shedding their cocoons. But one thing he was certain of; he had no intention of quitting this time, in spite of what Pop might order. And the butterflies could grow up to be vultures if they liked.

T

HE RACE got off to a smooth start. It was for twenty-five laps, and there were only four others entered—apparently the rest of the contenders had given up when they saw the two

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falling. Pop was thumping him on the back, and he had won. Rod’s threat had never proved serious, and it should have left him tingling with satisfaction. Instead, he washed his mouth out quickly, and then moved hastily out of sight to empty his stomach and wait for some of the trembling to leave his legs. If this got any worse, he’d be even unfit for a ten-lap race, with or without Benton against him. Pop watched without comment, and he was grateful for that. They piled into the Chevvy in silence, and even Sue seemed to sense their mood. She made no reference to the hot words, but was coolly civil to him. Joe finished supper hastily and went up to his room to count his troubles. Two more races here in Chanton, six in Summit, and then on to Ardmore for the biggest dirt-track event of all time, the Ardmore dirt-track classic with prizes that would attract men who’d forgotten dirt-tracks a decade ago and gone on to bigger things. He counted them again, added Benton’s glory driving and probable grudge to it, and dropped two sleeping tablets down his throat before he turned in. He needed both of them.

power piles being driven by men who were better known than the whole Chanton meet. Joe brought the throttle down hard when the green flag dropped, and he never let it up. Somehow, even on the track that had been chopped up by the preliminaries, he held the Blue Baby in the slot, taking the turns close in, while the skins screamed and his wrists seemed to tear from their sockets. But it worked. Rod contested hotly at first, found no openings, and settled back behind Joe at a safe distance, apparently studying his style and waiting for a chance. Joe refused to give it. On the ninth lap, the traffic should have made things more complicated, but the smaller cans had more discretion than valor and were having none of it; they pulled out, making no bones about giving plenty of room for passing. But that couldn’t do anything about the grit that came up from the wheels and made life hell for everyone. Joe grinned savagely, as he flicked some of the dirt from his goggles; it must be worse for Rod, eating his dust from behind him. Then he fought the wheel as he hit the south turn too high, started a skid, and somehow came out of it. The fans tasted a momentary thrill and came to their feet, then went back to silence. And Joe knew that on this little track he’d need more time for even a brief second with even one hand off the wheel. But the grit that cut at his face, got into his teeth, and filtered up his nose was the least of his worries. What bothered him most was the steadily building tension that sapped at his control and forced him to tighten his hands on the wheel, making him exaggerate his steering. He clamped down on himself, telling his imagination that this was only twenty-five laps, and a cinch. But the picture of a pile-up, with spilled gasoline and a sudden blaze of fire grew stronger in his mind, and seemed to leap at him as he began to lap the stragglers again. A green mill suddenly gave up in front of him and swung for the pits, and Joe grabbed at his brake before realizing that there was plenty of room. Behind him he heard the thunder of Benton’s iron as Rod noticed him slowing down—but then there was lead in his foot again, and he was back in the groove. Then, somehow, the checkered flag was

R

OD TOOK the next race, getting the lead at the start and holding it. And it was sheer, grinding hell on every lap. Joe was no longer fighting Benton, but only his own nerves which kept trying to hold him back, make him ease up: it would be easy, since he was coming in second whatever he did. But somehow he fought on, looking for an opening that wasn’t there. Twice he over corrected, and went lurching down the bank, almost piling up and skidding dangerously. But he came out of it both times, grey with fear, but determined to catch Benton or die trying. But it was useless. With the other cars afraid to contest their right of way and with so little time between turns, whichever got the head start was sure to win. It worked in Joe’s favor the next day, leaving him two wins to Benton’s one. But Benton swaggered off the track afterwards, and Joe barely crept to Pop’s Chevvy. where he could fight down his reaction and hide himself in a shell of silence. Pop’s eyes were worried, but he made no comment—and that was worse than anything he could have said. They followed the big van that carried the Blue Baby to Summit later, Sue going along, and

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couldn’t lick it now, he’d never do on the two hundred and fifty mile grind at Ardmore.

went silently into the hotel. Summit was an old, ill-kept track, high-banked and narrow for its length, but the town was flooded with drivers, many of them warming up for the big affair at Ardmore later. Joe met their greetings that night, and was pulled into a bull session with men he’d known on a dozen tracks or more before. Oddly, it helped, at first. He went in with some of the old feeling, added to the fact that he knew this oval better than most of the drivers would ever learn it. He’d cut his second teeth on it, after he left Chanton years before. And the combination of half confidence and familiarity paid off. The fifty laps on the mile and a half track proved easier than any of his other wins. Rod didn’t threaten. The combination of tricky track, a bad head from too much celebration the night before at the first town he’d hit with a real night club for some time, and a series of bad breaks held him down to third. Pop’s eyes looked happier then. But Joe knew it wouldn’t last. The last twenty laps of that race had been the old, old story—a vision of broken cars and flames dancing on the track in front of him and sapping the little burst of confidence. To make it worse, word of his jitters seemed to have spread among the other drivers, and their good-fellowship of the night before had an edge of pity and curiosity in it now. He placed second to Rod’s first the next day. Benton had come to his senses and devoted the morning to serious practice that paid off on top of a series of split-inch maneuvers only a fool would have made. The old Benton heedlessness was back in him, and the fans ate it up and fed his ego. There’d be no more repression on his part. And Joe was fourth on the third day. The fourth day was hot enough to fry eggs, and the three prelims had made a mess of the track that cursory rolling did nothing to correct Pop studied it, eyed Joe silently, and pushed back from the motor. “How you feel. Joe?” “Fine,” Joe answered, but it wasn’t even a good try. He forced his taut throat muscles to relax and managed a smile. “I’ll be okay today, Pop.” Pop nodded and patted him on the back, and Joe was climbing into the bucket and pulling down his crash helmet. Somehow, today he had to be all right. Pop was counting on him. And if he

T

HEY GOT off to a clean start, and Joe found himself at the rail, with the engine purring out below him. He glued his eyes to the track, trying to forget the others who were behind him, and cut down the stretch toward the narrow turn. The Blue Baby was ticking over with a will to win, and he couldn’t let her down. Grimly, he held it to the groove, gaining a bit, and was on the backstretch with a clear lead. Now all he had to do was hold it. There wasn’t a mill on the track that could outrun this rig. And there shouldn’t have been a better driver. And sheer determination held him in the lead through the tenth lap. Then he began running into real traffic. The few real stragglers were behind him, and the others were bunched up ahead. He let them make the turn, feeling he could wait as long as Rod Benton was half a lap behind. Then they hit payoff alley and he went charging forward. Bob Alcott in the yellow mill at the rail was not one to give up though. He swung out a trifle, leaving too little room for clear passage, and the flame from his stack leaped higher as he put lead in his foot. Joe hung on his tail waiting, but there was no hole until they hit the south turn. Then Alcott overshot, and began sliding out toward the outer edge. Joe swung into the groove and began picking up yardage. Then it happened in a split second. There was a sudden streak as the yellow can’s wheel jumped off and went sailing out. Alcott leaped sideways, and his hub hit a black car in front. In a moment they were a mass of grinding metal, skidding out of control, roiling over and over. Joe’s brake smoked, and his hands were crazy on the wheel as he went far out, felt an edge of metal hit the Blue Baby, and then was fighting the skid that had begun. But he was through and clear as the yellow flag ordered them to maintain position. For three laps he set an easy pace as they cleared the wreckage off, and he needed it. His arms were cold with sweat that trickled down from his armpits, and his goggles were fogging up. There had been no fire on that pile-up—but there should have been. Then the green flag dropped, and pure habit made him give the Blue Baby the gun and break

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forward. Ahead of him, there was no opposition until he’d come off the bank onto the backstretch. Then there were three of them, bunched together. Joe moved forward, looking for an opening, found one, and started in. One of the mills slid out— leaving only barely room for him to pass. And ahead of him, he could see the crashing impact of cars meeting and skidding, rolling over—and burning. The sweat popped out on his forehead again, and he eased back, giving the drivers ahead a sizeable lead. Then he caught himself, and closed up again, but it was no better. Beside him, there was a roar as Rod Benton’s red mill came up within inches of him and began whipping in with the fancy wrist work Benton loved. Joe braked without thinking. He couldn’t think. He let the Blue Baby coast, until the pits were beside him, and then swung in. Pop’s face was dead as he helped Joe out of the bucket, and handed him the water bottle to wash his mouth. “Bad steering, eh? I was afraid of that when I saw what was going on. Well, I guess we might as well—” “You might as well get a new driver, Pop.” Joe told him dully. “There’s nothing wrong with Baby. You just hired a yellow driver. I quit.” “Um.” Pop was leaning over the car, playing with the wheel. And suddenly Joe noticed that Sue was with him, trying to feel for herself. But Pop pushed her away, and swung around. “Thought so, she’s got a sprung link. Good thing you brought her in instead of crashing up. Too bad, though. It’ll take a couple days to get a new one.” Joe shook his head. “Stop kidding, Pop. We all know what the trouble is; I quit.” “Two days’ll wind us up here, Joe,” Pop went on, and his eyes were boring into Joe’s. He swung further about to place himself out of Sue’s view, and went on, stressing each word. “Think we might as well move right on to Ardmore. Why don’t you stick around here, pick up some pointers on your competitor, and get some rest? Then you can join us at the Ardmore Arms, where your room will be waiting? Little rest will do you good.” There was no use arguing. Joe swung out of the pit and went looking for the nearest bar. He could pick up his things later and head out away from the whole business, as he should have done in the first place. To hell with Ardmore.

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UT HE still hadn’t reached the bar when he slumped off the train at Ardmore three nights later and asked directions to the Ardmore Arms. He’d walked for hours, to come back to the hotel, pick up the mail Pop had left him, and then go out again while his feet churned in time to his numbed thoughts. But Pop had loaded the dice, and he was licked. There had been three hundred dollars and two tickets in the envelope—one to Ardmore and the other an equal distance in the opposite direction. That was all, but it was enough. He hadn’t been able to run off without fighting it out with Pop and at least returning the money. Running away was all right for kids, maybe, but even a man who had no future should face things out. Joe got off the bus at the hotel and was shown promptly to the room held for him. Pop’s room was beside his. Sue’s across the hall. He tried them, but there was no answer. He flopped down on the bed, smoking, but that was to quiet for his nerves. When they hadn’t returned an hour later, he grabbed his hat and started out purposelessly to walk off his nerves until they would return. But half a block down, he stopped abruptly, drawing back into the shadow of one of the trees that grew along Ardmore’s streets. From the car at the curb just ahead came the sound of Sues voice, and an angry mutter that could only be Rod Benton’s voice. “—combed the town. No dice. I can’t do any more, and I’m sick of the whole damned business. When I get ready to be your father’s general errand boy, I’ll let you know. Until then, you’ll take me for what I am—a fool—but not that big a one!” “Thanks!” Sue’s voice was close to breaking in what might have been hysteria or anger or a dozen other emotions. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Rodney Benton. Good night.” There was the too quiet closing of the door as she shut it, and the sound of her heels slapping the sidewalk. Joe pulled back further, certain that now was no time to see her, and she went on and up the steps of the hotel.

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bleeding nose. The only thing to do now, obviously, was to go back to his room. He dabbled off the last of the blood, tried to work some feeling back into his hand, and went up the steps. Luckily the lobby was nearly empty, and he made the stairs without attracting attention. He was still working at the cut on his lip and his nose when a knock at the door sounded. Sue stood outside, with a first-aid box in one hand. Without waiting for his invitation, she moved in. “Rod said you’d come back—he called me up,” she explained impersonally. “Here, sit down and let me fix you up; you’re making a mess of it. Well?” “Well what?” he asked. “Why did you come back? I had Rod looking all over Summit for you, and he couldn’t find you. Now you turn up here. Why?” Joe grunted as the iodine burned, and shook his head. No wonder Benton had been somewhat peeved about everything. But the rest of it didn’t make sense. “Why look? With me out of the running, you had a clear field with Benton.” She caught her lip in her teeth and eyed him sharply. “Sometimes you’re more of a fool than a quitter, even, Joe Baylor. If I had any sense at all—” Then she shrugged and turned back to her first aid. “Whatever you came back for, you’re here. And you’re going to win the Ardmore classic. I don’t know how, and I don’t care, but you’re going to win.” “And you’re going to have a tough time if all your ideas are equally wrong. Sue. I’m washed up.” “So’s Pop, Joe—but he isn’t quitting. He made a fool of himself, maybe, but he’s still hoping to win. You might think about him, whatever you do about yourself.”

HEN JOE came out and started down the street. He looked up, just as Benton spotted him, nodded stiffly, and started on past. But Benton was coming out of the car and toward him almost at once, and he halted. “So the bad penny turns up.” Temper was strong in the man’s voice, along with unconcealed disgust. “Haven’t you made trouble enough for the Phillips, Baylor? Or have you come back to beg Pop Phillips for just one more chance? And where in hell have you been?” “When Pop asks the same question, maybe I’ll answer,” Joe told him wearily, and started down the street again. But Rod had no intention of dropping it. He grabbed at Joe’s shoulder, and swung him around. “You’ll answer me, if I have to beat your head in.” Benton dropped his hand—and started it upwards. And all of the tension in Joe came to a sudden head and boiled over. It was sheer pleasure to feel his fist grind against Benton’s jaw. The big man shook his head, started to come in, and then stopped. “Too public,” he grunted. “Alley over there.” It made sense, and they were facing each other a second later. Joe felt a big fist lick across his chin, and lashed out in the semi-darkness with his own. It connected, just as another blow caught him in the stomach. Then they were closed in, grabbing and seeking holds, down on the ground. A knee came up into Joe’s groin, but he gave with it, and they were together again. For a moment, everything was a meaningless give and take. A short chop connected with his temple, sending his senses reeling. Then consciousness swooped back, just as he felt his fist land full force on Benton’s face, sending a tingling ache up to the elbow. Benton grunted dully, and sagged loosely. Joe came to his feet, knocking some of the rubble off, and looked down. The anger and temper were gone out of him now, and he bent over. “Benton?” “‘M all right—I guess.” The words were clearing up as he spoke, and Rod began heaving himself to his feet. “I can make my car all right. Ouff! Guess I had it coming. Nice fight, Baylor. See you later.” He headed for his car, leaving Joe uncertainly following him toward the street, and dabbing at a

T

HEN SHE put her hand over Joe’s mouth, and her lips straightened to a thin line. “That car—the Blue Baby—was built on a big loan, for a profit. When Pop gave it to you instead of selling it to Walter Angstrom, it didn’t end the loan. The prize money for the race here would pay it. And that’s up to you. We can’t make you drive for us, and maybe you can’t win. But we were hoping you’d try. Pop still thinks you will.... There, that’s all 1 can do for you.” 12

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Joe dropped that angle from his mind as much as he could. It was bad enough without dwelling on the crowd that would clutter up things and make crashes almost inevitable. “How’s Sue?” he asked. Pop snorted. “Crazy. All women are, but she’s worse. Told me to tell you she was fond of skunk but wouldn’t want the live animal around the house. Reckon she s hinting for a wrap for her birthday, but that ain’t till October.” He wiped the grease off his hands, and patted the Blue Baby. “Fuss on that any more, and I’ll ruin her. Come on to lunch, and let’s stay out of here till things start. That’ll be soon enough.”

“Wait,” Joe caught her before she could leave, and swung her around. “Let’s get the whole record on the table, aside from my being worthless if I do drive. Suppose I win—what about Benton?” She pulled herself free and reached the door before she looked back. Then she shook her head slowly, with her eyes on his. “You are a fool, Joe. I gave up the idea of Rod when I first saw you by the track in Chanton. He’s a nice guy—but I seem to prefer the other kind.” Then the door closed before Joe could reach it. Her door was shutting as he reached the hall, and there was the sound of a key in it, ending the conversation completely. And she hadn’t even waited to find out that he’d be in the Blue Baby. He couldn’t win, of course; but he could try. Apparently, though, she hadn’t needed to wait. Pop seemed to know all about it the next morning as Joe walked into the pits, and the grin was back on his face. “Qualified yet?” Joe met the grin. By all the rules, having made the decision he should be feeling fine, and smiling should have come naturally; but the butterflies were still there, and it took all his efforts to screw his face into the proper expression, and answer in the right tone of voice. “This isn’t Indianapolis, Pop. I got them to qualify me on my record—or the part that looked good. I had a name once, and they haven’t heard the latest gossip. So this is Ardmore?” “Yeah. Biggest dirt oval in the world, they claim.” It was two and a half miles around, and it looked like ten after the others. Ardmore had started to build a brickway to rival Indianapolis, and their rich sponsor had died at the wrong time, leaving the funds tied up. Then someone had suggested that they could go ahead with it, leaving the stands uncovered, leaving it dirt, and saving on a hundred other items that would make completion possible. And it had paid off beyond their hopes. The sheer novelty of a dirt classic had attracted more attention than a brickway, and the prizes that had been gathered could meet those of the great Classic on even terms. A lot of cars that had never appeared on dirt had been equipped with screens and were here for a try at those prizes, along with every top dirt-racer in the country.

I

T WAS too soon. The sun seemed to jump around in the sky, and they were back in the pit, listening to the massed roar of engines, smelling castor and burned oil, and in the last stages before the race before Joe could quite convince himself he could force himself into the bucket seat. Off to the side he could see Rod Benton getting into the red mill and grinning out of a swollen face. The big man waved flippantly and began moving out. “You know the rules,” Pop said. “Watch the pit, follow orders, don’t lose it, stay out of traffic, forget lap prizes. And when you need to come in for anything, come in then—don’t try another lap. Scat!” Joe could see Sue in overalls climbing into the pit, but he had not time to speak. He was out on the track, and the white pacemaker was waiting. He gritted his teeth, forced his mind onto mechanical details and waited—along with the things in his stomach which were at least full grown pterodactyls by now. Then they were following the pacemaker around, jockeying for position. And the green flag dropped! Bill Reddy was first in a silver Maserati, riding the rail; Benton was next, and then Joe. it was a good start, out of a field of almost forty, and Joe should have been exulting. But the scowl on his face was taut and grim as he lifted the tachometer all the way up and lit out down the track. The chassis was groaning before he came to

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anyhow. It was a pity it didn’t work that way. He stole a second to wipe his arm across his forehead, and a shiver passed over him. Then he leaned forward a trifle, and pressed down on the throttle, crowding another revolution out of the motor. He’d have to look at the board—he’d forgotten before. It wasn’t good; he was still losing ground, though in third place. And with almost twenty laps gone. And now the other cars were strung out. He passed two, came to three in a bunch, started in—and then eased off, waiting for the turn that would break them up. But they went in bunched. Joe could hear his voice screaming over the bellow from his stack, and it happened exactly as anyone but a fool would have known. A purple job on the outside couldn’t hold it. There was a leaping plunge up the bank, a twist as it hit dirt near the guard rail—and then only a hunk of metal flying through the air and landing on its back, just inside the track! Joe’s hands danced on the wheel, unmindful of the pain as he swung away from it and began easing off as the yellow flag ordered positions held. Then the pit was beside him and he swung in. It made good sense to use this chance, though that was only a small part of the reason. Sue was up to him with water and clean goggles at once, and back to help Pop with the fill and check-up. But her eyes scanned his face and her own expression tightened. It must be getting bad to show over the filth that covered him. Then he was swinging back, to pass the ambulance that was taking something off the field. And finally, the green flag showed, and they went back to the grind. At twenty-sixth, Benton’s red mill threatened, was forced back, and then eased up alongside, seemingly without effort. Joe started to bear down, saw the north bank coming up, and the nerves screamed out their orders before he could think. He slowed a trifle—and Rod Benton went by, sticking one hand up in a beckoning signal, a grin on his face. Now he was two full laps behind Benton! And a quarter of the race had gone by. That tore it. There was no use trying for first place. But maybe, with luck, if he could hold third and add that money to what they could get at quick price for the Blue Baby... Twenty-seven laps

the turn. He eased up, watching the track with tense eyes. The Blue Baby was top-hot now, adjusted to the maximum, and the 8000 on the tachometer wasn’t exaggeration. The Baby came around smoothly, hugging the rail as he forced her to stay in, and they were still in original position as they hit the backstretch. Then he saw Rod easing ahead to pass Reddy through the grit that was already in the air. The damned fool! A few yards meant nothing at this stage. But he gritted his teeth and closed up, coming into the turn, and back down homestretch as if glued to the groove. And then he was swinging out beyond Reddy, and neck and neck with Rod, And they rounded the turn abreast, while the wheel bucked in Joe’s hands, and a sudden twinge of agony swept up his arm! The fight had left its mark—more than he’d expected. He dropped back, easing into the backstretch behind Rod. And Reddy came up with a roar and went sweeping past both of them. Joe eased up a trifle, and kept his eyes on the board as he passed the pits. He had to save the wrist until he needed it most—and the board aided his decision. He eased off. Then ahead on the fifth lap, Reddy’s car swerved crazily, swung around, grazing hub-caps with a crippled straggler, and went hopping and leaping sidewise. A skin had popped. And yet, somehow Bill Reddy had impossible control, and went limping into the pit. Joe stared at his wrist, wondering what his chances would be. He didn’t like it. But Reddy was back in seconds. And then something red lashed by Joe, and he saw that it was Rod Benton, already lapping him! It couldn’t be done on eight laps—but there it was! The line around his lips deepened, and he could feel his muscles quiver. He stepped up the pace a trifle. The track was vibrating under the pound of the hurtling mills, and the air was a fog of dust that made seeing any details impossible. The fifteenth lap came and went, and Joe was a machine, moving mechanically, and numbed between the desire to get out and win this time and the old fears that seemed to be rising more strongly than ever.

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HEN A man faces his fears, they’re supposed to go away. The books said so, 14

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as the outside limit on a shorter course. And he was still going. He caught a breath of dust-filled air, and forced his eyes to open a bit. And this time his foot came down without quite such a strain on his nerves, and his aching arms relaxed a bit

now, and seventy-three to go. There’d be no prize for a man who couldn’t finish; he’d be just a bum who’d once had guts. For a few laps, the abandoning of the need to win held him up, and he even began to forget the wrist that was bothering him more and more. Then he was in traffic again, and the old fears came back, and his body was tense, the wheel an enemy fighting his clenched hands. He felt a hubcap touch another mill, shot away with a sick hollow in his stomach and barely missed another job, to drop back in the street of a skid. Somehow, old habit came to his rescue, and the Blue Baby came around just before the turn. He rode the bank in a path of his own sweat, and came back. But he couldn’t quit. And because he could only fight himself in one way, he bore down on the throttle and came up again. This time he slid past the two cars, and went around and down the payoff alley to find another group in front of him. Sixty-five laps to go and the figures on POP’S board told him the pace he’d been setting wasn’t enough, even to place third with safety. And third wasn’t winning; he’d still be a quitter, even if it was enough to pay Pop’s debt. There was no use kidding himself; if third or second would do. Pop would have told him so, knowing that Sue had spilled the works. They were licked—because he was nursing his nerves and his alibis instead of nursing the last rev out of the engine. He settled down to recovering lost ground, and the board showed he was improving gradually, but that was partly luck. There were easy holes for the time being, and it required no real courage to push through them. That wouldn’t last, though it carried him to the fortieth lap. He lost time shouldn’t have been lost in more traffic, it was nice to say he should go bulling through—but his nerve was being exhausted rapidly at the pace already. The dust-filled air was taking on the red of fire in his eyes, and he could almost feel the bending and splintering of metal around him. He fought it off, mechanically stepping up his pace a bit more each time he let his fears rise as punishment for himself. Then it was the fiftieth lap—and suddenly, the fear was sinking. He’d gone the maximum number—the number of laps he’d set in his mind

T

HE BOARD was better at the fifty-fifth as he passed, but Benton was more than two laps up on him, while Bill Reddy was still between them. And only the speed and power that Pop knew how to build into a racer had held him where he was—with slight credit to his old dirt track experience. Forty-five laps to make it up; and while the worst of the conditioned fear had gone at the breaking of his self-imposed jinx, he was a long ways from normal—the flames still filtered through his imagination, and the sheer fatigue that accompanied it. Then his wrist gave another twinge, and he added that to the list. But somehow, he was going to win. He underscored that in his thoughts, and began to believe he meant it. Then the test came suddenly. A hundred yards ahead, something went haywire, and a mill went into a cockeyed wobble that tossed it sharply side-wise just as another came up on it full tilt. The shriek of rubber and the crash of metal was a physical pain in Joe’s ears. But his reflexes were almost normal now, and the Blue Baby went in and around before he was fully aware of what had happened. There was the flicker of flame leaping up as he passed and began slowing to maintain position. And a sudden tension struck at him, tightening up his muscles again. This was it, one way or another. He rounded a turn, covered the stretch, and came around again. And his breath came out sharply. A brief glance showed that both drivers were out—one leaning on the rail, and the other hobbling about as the emergency squad killed the flame. Men lived after such things—as they had before and would again. The last of the phobia vanished. Joe went in for refueling with the beginnings of a tired but honest grin on his face. Sue and Pop glanced at it and met it a bit doubtfully. They knew he still had the impossible to do—but they were clutching at straws, and this was the first

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come up to Rod’s front, and past it. The checkered flag came down naming him winner, and the fans were going crazy in the stands. But Joe didn’t care about that. Half a minute later he was tumbling out of the seat into the arms of Pop, too tired to say the words he was thinking. Sue was helping support him, and a touch of her hand brought pain shooting up from his wrist, but that could be looked after later. Right now, he had things to say to her, too, if he could find a way to begin. He opened his mouth, but it was too filled with grit, and he took the water from Pop gratefully. But even with the grit gone, the words wouldn’t come. Then Rod Benton came into the pit, with the strain showing on his face, but still cocky. He took in the situation, and there was a crooked twist to his smile then, though the words were pure banter. “To the victor belongs the spoils, eh? Give a man the inside track at the finish, and he should win. Maybe I’m a poor example of that right now, but it usually works. When’s the wedding, and who’s your best man?” Sue grinned up at Joe. “I’ll have to ask him first, I guess,” she began. But Joe cut in, suddenly realizing he didn’t need a build-up to the words now. “We’ll talk about all that when you and Pop get the heck out of here. But if you’ll stick around a week, Rod, we might do something about that best man business.” It was a good idea, even if they did have to catch him then before he fell over. But Sue didn’t seem to mind the fact that his legs were quitting what he’d started, this time.

sign they’d found.

H

E WAS out again before the green flag, and the grueling grind began again. Against him was fatigue, a wrist that was pure hell, and the breaks. But he could grin at those. He cut into traffic noticing that competition had thinned to half of what started, and went through, making holes where none existed, and twice hearing the click of hub-caps touching. It was fool driving, but it had to be—and it had what he suddenly realized Rod Benton had always had—the control behind the wheel to carry it, unless all the breaks went against him. He lapped Reddy, and caught up with Rod on the eighty-first, with nineteen to go. Benton’s eyes were covered, but his fingers quirked in a quick salute and dropped back to the wheel. And then another notch of power came out of the red mill, and Joe had to lift his own tachometer to the limit and hold it there to gain. The track was a devil’s nest, now, with the dirt on the outside a sure invitation to death. Even passing on the straightaway at the speed he was holding was risky. But somehow he came around and through more traffic, found another revolution in the impossibly sweet motor, and began crawling up on Benton again. Half a lap at the ninety-second. Quarter lap behind at the ninetyseventh. Three to go, and it couldn’t be done. Then Rod hit bad dirt in trying to pass a laggard, slewed partly around, and came out of it with the hair-trigger control of a genius. But it had given Joe his chance, and he was within yards as they finished the ninety-ninth lap. He bored on, cutting down by inches. At the north they came down pay-off alley, while Joe watched his seat

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