Woody forgot about the sign board in his excitement. He leaned as far as he could over the snow fence to see the Black Tiger come around turn number five. There was a tense silence in the crowd, above which he could hear the roar of the engines. He heard the squeal of wheels and the coughing spit of Kingston's Ferrari as he changed down for the bend. Then Kingston was around and after him. Turning the corner in the same instant was Kreuger's Jag and the Black Tiger, wheel to wheel. As they flashed by Woody caught a glimpse of Randy, sitting quite relaxed behind the wheel. There was a slight smile on his face, and then he was gone, headed for the right-angle bend half a mile down the track.
"It's Dave Kingston against Jimmy Randolph in the Black Tiger now," the loud-speaker blared. "Randolph cut in from the far side of the track on bend six to take over the second place from Kreuger. He's battling Kingston now for the lead position. As they pass the start-finish line on the sixth lap it's Kingston, Randolph, Kreuger, and Wisdom.
"Randolph had an overlap on Kingston's Ferrari twice. This is a great race—perhaps the greatest we shall see this year. Here they are going into the hairpin. Kingston is skillfully blocking all Randolph's attempts to pass. He's holding that inside position and has just a little more speed than the Black Tiger on the straightaway. Now they're entering bend number five. It looks as though Randolph is going to take it wide, relying on the cornering ability of the Tiger to take him around—"
Woody didn't have to listen to the rest. He saw it. Kingston's Ferrari hurtled around the bend on the inside with the Black Tiger on its tail. The big Ferrari skidded for a fraction of a second, picked up traction, and hurtled down the straightaway.
But something went wrong with the Black Tiger. The car took the corner wide, and Woody could see Randy fighting to get control. It looked as though he was going to hit the telephone pole, but he managed to miss it by inches. The car came roaring and fishtailing toward the crowd. People scattered like dust before a heavy gust of wind. Woody caught a glimpse of the Tiger hitting the shoulder of the road not a hundred yards from him. Then it leaped into the air, turned slowly on its side, and hit the ground upside down. It slithered bumping and screaming, sparks flying from it, and the wheels spinning, for fifty yards before it came to a standstill.
Woody was over the snow fence before anybody could stop him. Flagmen appeared is if by magic, waving the red accident flags. Woody was conscious that several cars flashed by, slowing down near him, but he had no eyes for them. He ran to the Black Tiger, which lay beside the track, its wheels still spinning in the air.
"Randy," he shouted, "Randy."
"Get back," somebody yelled at him and pulled him by the shoulder. Woody yanked himself savagely free and grabbed the side of the Black Tiger, attempting to right it. Several other men came to help. Together they got the Tiger back on its wheels. Randy was in the driver's seat, but his shape was all wrong. One hand was nothing but a red hunk of meat. It lay on his safety belt, and it was obvious that he had been fumbling with it. Blood dripped quietly from it onto his pants. He was slumped sideways beside the steering wheel but in such a way as to suggest that his back was broken. His head lay on the seat, and his face turned up toward them.
He looked at Woody and attempted a smile, but coughed instead. A little pink foam came to his lips.
"Brakes," he said and closed his eyes.