"Let's go," he said to Worm and jumped into the Dodge.
In all its life, Worm's venerable Dodge had never done more than thirty-five miles an hour, but on the trip to the San Diego General Hospital, it made forty-five, protesting at every revolution of its engine.
When they got there, Woody had some difficulty convincing the receptionist they should be allowed to see Randy. "I can't do anything without the surgeon's permission," she said quietly though not without sympathy.
"Surgeon," cried Woody, "is it that bad?"
The receptionist gave a ghost of a smile. "Surgeons treat cuts as well as fractures and broken heads," she said. "You'll have to wait."
They waited an agonizing hour without any news at all. Then a young doctor came through, and the receptionist left her desk and spoke to him. The doctor came over to them.
"Are you relatives of Captain Randolph?" he asked.
"Not relatives. Friends," said Woody.
"We're his pit crew," said Worm. "We service his car when he's racing."
"I see," said the surgeon. "Well, he says he has a daughter at this address. He'd like to see her. She's in San Diego apparently. Can one of you go and get her?"