Heller then said, “Now please inspect the hood and the pan under the engine and testify that they are sealed. Put your own seals on them.”
They did. Then an inspector said, “Those wheels!”
The crew had removed the two right-side regular wheels and were rolling up two others. They looked strange. All silver colored. They did appear to be wheels but they had very deep zigzag grooves and they bristled with spikes.
An inspector tapped one. It gave a hollow clank! “Hey, that’s not rubber. That’s metal!”
“They’re internally braced steel doughnuts,” said Heller. “And you just allowed a suspension of all rules on wheels.”
The inspectors seemed calm about it. But I sure wasn’t! They wouldn’t blow out!
Or wait. Yes, a .30-06 Accelerator slug traveling at 4,080 feet per second muzzle velocity could gouge Hells out of one of those and unbalance it. I was still all right.
The crew had all the wheels on now. Heller bent down behind each wheel. I saw there was a kind of disk above the brake drums. Heller was pulling a wire from the car engine area and putting in place something that looked like an electrical brush. I understood what he was doing. That carburetor developed more power in electricity than it did in fuel. He was grounding it through the four metal wheels instead of trailing a metal strap.
The inspectors wanted to know if the wheels had motors in them. In that event, they’d be disallowed as they were supposed to be wheels, not motors.
“Just grounding them,” said Heller. “Lot of electricity around today. No motors in the wheels.”
That was all right then. Those inspectors knew better than to antagonize that crowd. Cold as it was, they were cheering and howling.
The snow was coming down about five times as thick. Anything the snowplows had just done was being undone fast.
It was about twenty minutes to starting time now. Heller went into the Peterbilt cab. He stripped and put on a garment that looked like an insulation suit. Then he put on a warm racing outfit of red synthetic fur with some heat coils in it. He slid into fur-lined rubber boots that had enormous cleats in the soles.
I suddenly realized that racing in bitter cold did not seem strange to him. A spacer flashed through temperatures approaching absolute zero! Today’s minus ten Fahrenheit might even seem warm weather!
He put on some Voltar insulator gloves. Then he pulled on a red racing helmet that had a microphone across his mouth and, apparently, a radio in it. He pulled down its dark visor.
He got out and went to the Caddy and got in. He started it up to let it warm. All up the line, through the snow, bombers were starting and warming up. The sound of engines at their pits was low and threatening. The snowing increased.
Heller buckled himself in, tested the quick release and rebuckled it. His pit crew was checking about.
Heller said into his microphone, “Are you there, Fancy-Dancy?”
A voice came back in his earphones, “There.”
Wait. Who was this “Fancy-Dancy”? And where was “there”?
Then I realized he must be testing the radio with his pit crew.
The flagman and the pacer car were out, trying to make it through the snow.
Heller revved the Cadillac.
“Sounds sweet,” said Mike at his window.
Suddenly I remembered to start my stopwatch. Heller now had about five hours left on that carburetor. But I wasn’t going to wait on that.
Somebody signaled. Heller turned his steering wheel to roll out into the starting parade.
“Bye-bye, Heller,” I said. Oh, how I was going to enjoy watching this (bleepard) fail! Him and his stinking, snobbish Fleet officer manners and ways! His lousy popularity was about to go up in smoke!
PART TWENTY-NINE
Chapter 5
Through snow made thin by a sudden gust of wind, the crowd saw that the Caddy was moving toward its starting position. A thundering roar of cheers burst from the grandstand, “Whiz Kid!” “Whiz Kid!” “There he is!” “Give it to ’em, Whiz Kid!”
The radio: “Car Number 1, the Whiz Kid himself, is moving out to position. Look at that beautiful car!”
And indeed, from my vantage point, even through snow, I could see a flash of red down there on the track. His pit crew must have raked the snow off at the last minute.
I turned on my small portable color TV. Yes, there was a camera on him. And then it switched to the others. Those bombers, what you could see of them under the accumulated snow, were real wrecks—glassless, battered street vehicles, picked because they could be expended. The Caddy, I had to admit, looked like an aristocrat amongst winos.
Hammer Malone had some kind of a PA system in his own black car. What was it? A cut-down hearse? He yelled, “You stole my starting position, you (bleepard)! You ain’t gonna have enough car to get yourself to the morgue when I’m done with you!” What were those things on his hubs? Knives? They stuck way out. Probably to cut tires!
The crowd screamed and booed.
Heller swung into position just behind the pacer and just ahead of the other cars. They were going to circle the track once before they got the starting signal.
What an awful track! The snowplow work was all undone. Eight inches of snow lay on the asphalt. Gusting winds were blowing snow back upon it as well. The cars’ wheels were cutting ruts and any slush that they made went into instant ice.
Abruptly the low sun lanced through, cutting below the clouds. It was still snowing!
The radio suddenly said, “It’s ten! It’s sunshine and snow at the same time. All weather bets are off! But here they are now, swinging around, coming in front of the grandstand. The pacer is pulling out. There’s the flagman! OFF GOES THE WHIZ KID!”
Heller had gunned. The Caddy leaped forward with a mighty roar!
The battering crescendo of the other cars was added to, one by one! My viewer and TV and radio almost knocked themselves off their ledges with the climbing roar!
The crowd was going mad! Screaming and waving blankets, urging Heller on!
The announcer’s voice—shrill, the words jammed together with hurry as though his voice alone was driving those cars—rose above the roar. “Number 1 is halfway around. The others are trying to close the gap. Number 2, Hammer Malone, is tight on the leader’s tail. Number 12 has just passed Number 5. Number 12 is Killer Brag. He’s driving a stripped-down GMC truck! Look at him go! He’s overtaken Hammer Malone. Killer Brag is challenging the leader!”
I could see it from where I was. Heller was speeding up. He was keeping Number 12 just back of his rear right.
Snow was flying up from their churning wheels. Clots of it were flying through the missing windscreens and windows, pelting the drivers. The still-falling snow was swooshing in against Heller’s visor.
Heller’s view was staying clear. I didn’t understand it. Then I realized his visor must be heated and covered with a nonwetting agent! He was cheating already!
The bombers were not bashing each other. They were stringing out, trying to catch the leader. Then I realized they must have some unspoken agreement amongst them—get the Whiz Kid first!
Oh, was I in agreement with that!
Heller did his first lap. He was keeping just ahead of Killer Brag. But he was not going fast enough to pass the end of the closely spaced pack.
With all the chains and spikes those cars had on their wheels, they were not losing traction. But they were tearing the track to bits, and after one circle they were hitting ridges that were now ice. They began to slither and vibrate.
A howling gust of wind swept across the speedway, lathering it all with snow again, hiding ruts.
The sun got stronger and glaring. The snowing abruptly ceased.
Heller was having a hard time not to overtake the tail of the pack and still keep ahead of Killer Brag. He was not really going at high speed. Maybe only a hundred. But that poorly banked track tended to throw the cars off sideways when they made the turns at each end.
It was a scrambling roar and a steering wheel fight to not fly out over the edge.
But Heller’s wheels were gripping well. He was making it through better than the rest. He was braking into and gunning out of the turns.
Five laps!
This was the cue for my first sniper. I watched closely.
YANK! Heller’s steering wheel jumped in his hands! The Caddy instantly began to vibrate.
Killer Brag went by him like a shot!
Into his mike, Heller said, “Fancy-Dancy. Just got one.”
A voice in his earphones, “Got it!”
Heller said, “Pit One, coming in! Change a wheel!”
He coasted the last half of his lap and slid into the pit area.
His crew had the side of the car up on a jack in seconds. Automatic wrenches spun. Another wheel was rolled out. Mike was at his window, “Cristo! Take it easy! We only got four spares!” Then he looked down at the wheel coming off. He bent over. “Jesus, that’s a bullet hole!”
An official was verifying that no gas had been taken. The jack was dropped and the car bounced. The official held his thumb up.
Heller sped the Caddy out of the pit.
The pack was scattered now. One had a ramming in mind. A green car. It dived at Heller. He stamped on his brake and sent the Caddy skidding in an avoid. The green car missed.
Heller began to drive a dodging course. The radio cried: “The Whiz Kid has lost his lead! With an unscheduled pit stop . . .”
But I was going slightly crazy. A .30-06 Accelerator slug from a Weatherby rifle had hit accurately enough and while it had not caused the metal “tire” to shatter the way it would have done with a normal one, it had still put a wheel out of action, and with only four spares we would make it. But WHO was “Fancy-Dancy” and WHERE?
PART TWENTY-NINE
Chapter 6
It wasn’t snowing. A murky sun was nevertheless glowing on that milk-white blanket. I leaned out of my van window, searching below with my binoculars.
There were buildings down the slope, each one of them overlooking the speedway.
My two snipers should be on roofs about three hundred yards from the nearest end of the track fence. One should be over slightly to my left and one to the right of him on another roof.
It was terribly hard to see them. They were wearing snow cloaks. But their rifles and telescopic sights were dark enough to make them visible.
Wait! A third sniper!
He was on a higher roof, much nearer to me!
I steadied my binoculars. An M-1 military rifle! A long tube silencer. No scope! The sniper’s face turned a little as he took the tip of his right-hand mitten in his teeth and withdrew his hand.
Bang-Bang!
I looked frantically about. I had no weapon I could shoot him with!
I looked back. Bang-Bang was moving a radio out of the way. He was flexing his shoulders the way a marksman does to settle and steady his prone position.
Frantically, I turned my binoculars on my own left-hand sniper. He would not be as visible to Bang-Bang as to me. Probably the shot was what had spotted him for the ex-Marine. A silencer still emits a tiny sound and the roar of the motors was distant.
My left-hand sniper was having trouble with his extractor. The empty had not ejected after his shot. An Accelerator case is subjected to an awful lot of extra force and maybe it had expanded. Or maybe this cold had jammed the action. Or maybe those Weatherbys weren’t in top condition—I had picked them up thirdhand. And the cases were reloads. The sniper was pulled sidewise, working on the jammed case with a knife!
I screamed mentally at my sniper, DUCK!
Too late!
Abruptly the magazine of the sniper’s rifle exploded!
It was so fast I could hardly follow it.
The jar of impact on the rifle he held yanked him right over the front edge of the roof!
He fell out of sight, probably a hundred feet down into the street below!
Bang-Bang was reaching for his radio.
I whipped my binoculars to my other sniper.
He had seen it!
And Bang-Bang from his position had not located the second sniper!
My right-hand sniper swiveled around. He took careful aim up toward Bang-Bang. He fired!
I whipped my binoculars to Bang-Bang. He had been hurled backwards. A hit!
Bang-Bang fell back onto a sloping roof. The snow made a small avalanche and Bang-Bang vanished from view.
My other sniper watched for a bit, then turned, and possibly feeling he was too exposed from above, shifted over and out of my sight. But soon I saw the tip of his silencer protruding beyond a chimney, pointing toward the track.
Thank Gods, I still had a sniper in action! Heller was a long way from winning!
PART TWENTY-NINE
Chapter 7
The roar of engines battered the snowscape, competing with the yells and bellows of the crowd.
Fifteen cars were strung out, thundering, skidding wildly on the turns.
The radio sportscaster’s excited voice was calling their positions and maneuvers.
A fusillade of snow soared up from a spinning wheel of a car ahead and battered Heller in the face. The debris wiped out all sight. Then miraculously it was clear again. Heller had reached up and pulled a layer of plastic off his visor. The visor must be made up of countless thin sheets of nonwetting plastic that he could just peel off one by one. It was just another example of his cheating ways! He could see the blur of rutted track and skidding cars before him!
He was passing car after car now! Each time he passed another, you could hear the crowd behind the radio sportscaster scream with delight!
The radio was saying, “For those who have tuned in late, this contest of daring, wits and just plain vicious driving will be decided by the first one to make a thousand laps and the last one to still be able to maneuver under its own power. The quarter of a million prize money will be divided into two parts: $125,000 for the laps and $125,000 for the last one moving. I can see right now these demon drivers are each one working on both prizes. Unfortunately, there have been no deaths yet despite the track condition. Listen to those engines roar! Those clanks you hear are loose chains. . . .” He was drowned by a roar of the crowd. “The Whiz Kid has just lapped Hammer Malone!”
Heller, roaring along at at least 120, was darting through the scattered pack!
A driver lunged sideways in an effort to hit him. Heller sped up. It was a miss.
Another car shot sideways to strike him as he roared through a gap. It was Car 9.
The car missed!
Another car coming up behind spun and struck Car 9. The two spun through the fence! Clouds of smoke! The belated sound of the crash!
“Cars 9 and 4 look like they’re out of it!” cried the radio. “What a wonderful impact! No, I’m wrong. Car 4, Murder McGee, is moving. Yes, he’s coming back onto the track! No, he’s going back to ram Car 9! He hit the ambulance instead! Now here comes Murder McGee again! He’s back in the race!”
The TV crew was struggling down there to shoot the mangled bodies. Its announcer said, “Here we are, folks. Channel Six and Seven-Eighths, always on the job! We promised you blood today and we’re delivering blood. There’s blood all over the place here. Three dead ambulance drivers. Look at that blood, folks. We pause for our Bouncy Towels commercial.”
Fourteen cars were streaming around the track now. They had been slowed by a yellow flag. It let them string out.
Suddenly Heller’s wheel jerked again!
He skidded wildly, almost hit Car 7. He slowed, steering to avoid a rear ram.
Into his mike he said, “Fancy-Dancy. There’s another.”
No answer.
Heller said again, “Fancy-Dancy, come in, please.”
No answer.
I hugged myself with glee. We were still in business!
The Caddy’s wheel was chattering and pounding. Heller got around two cars and dived for Pit One
.
The Caddy lurched as the crew got a jack under it.
“Coglioni!” said Mike. “Another bullet!”
The crew had a spare on. The official verified no gas was taken.
The crowd behind the radio sportscaster was screaming, “Come on, Whiz Kid!”
The announcer said, “The Whiz Kid is well behind now. He has had two pit stops. The officials verified he has taken on no fuel.”
Heller started to make his way through the scattered field once more. They seemed to be even more interested in hitting him.
He went into a wild skid to avoid Car 6, got his car under control and began to shoot ahead on the part of the track nearest me.
His wheel jerked again!
He almost went into the fence. He recovered and narrowly missed Car 11. The Caddy’s wheel was chattering over the heavy ruts.
Heller said, “Fancy-Dancy. There’s another!”
No answer.
He swerved his car to a pit stop.
“Coglioni di Cristo!” exclaimed Mike. “Another bullet! After this one, you only got one spare left! Take it easy!”
The TV caught Heller leaving the pit. “The Whiz Kid has really lost the edge. With three pit stops, he’s now the tail. He can pick some of this up as other cars start pulling in for gas but it is going to take real driving now. . . .”
It was snowing again. The radio said, “The Florida Chamber of Commerce meteorologists are telling you that you are in the midst of the lousiest, stinkingest winter you have had for a long time. It is snowing again, if you haven’t noticed. This afternoon Spreeport is going to have snow and more snow. In fact, as the hours go on, you are going to be snowed under. If any of you survive watching this Spreeport race and win a bet, rush to Florida to spend it. We love money, we will rip you off painlessly.”
I couldn’t see the track. But I hugged myself. As soon as this flurry passed and he could see again, my sniper was going to mess up another wheel. And then just one more after that and Heller was out of it! That Caddy was taking enough of a beating already. It could never survive running on a gaping bullet hole.
And then, suddenly, a voice. I had three sound receivers on. For a moment I didn’t locate it.