When he had finished he said, "This is an old difference between us, Worm. You think that there are certain cars that are man-killers. And I think that there are cars that kill or maim drivers until they've found out how to build them better. That, from my point of view, is one of the objects of racing—to design fast, efficient, safe automobiles. The Black Tiger probably has a few bugs in her. But I think she's the finest designed automobile I've ever seen. I intend to drive her and find out what the bugs are.
"By the way, I wrote the company about that broken steering knuckle. They've replied that they're checking with the shippers. Their only explanation is that the car must have been dropped. The knuckle is made of the finest chrome steel, and they cannot understand how, except through some very heavy blow, it could have sheered off.
"They're going to foot the bill for all the repairs. They are anxious to know whether I'll enter her in the Santa Barbara Road Races in September."
"Ye're daft if ye didn't write an tell them no," said Worm sourly.
Randy laughed—a laugh of almost boyish glee. "Nobody will ever change you, Worm," he said. "Of course I didn't. I wrote and said that the Black Tiger will be at Santa Barbara and I'll be behind her wheel. Furthermore, I hope you and Woody will agree to form my pit crew."
"Och, mon," said Worm desperately, "why do ye ask me?"
"Because you're my friend," said Randy soberly.
"It's because ye're my friend that I dinna want tae be there," replied Worm.
"You'll be there just the same. Won't you?"
"Aye," said Worm with resignation.