Lucky Seven (12 page)

“Guess you’ll never get it through your fat
head that I wouldn’t nerf you on purpose, will you?” said Jack.

Chick didn’t answer.

He and Ken placed fourteenth and sixteenth respectively, qualifying them in the Second Consolation Race. Butch Slade’s black
Porsche came in eighteenth.

The drivers in the First Consolation Race who had finished eighteenth through twenty-third in the Heat Races selected lanes
and put color stickers on their cars. Each car took its two trial laps, then lined up at the starting line.

“Okay!” said race director Eddie Lane. “The first driver to cross the finish line after twenty laps wins first place! The
next car in line wins second place! The others are eliminated! Get ready!”

The power was switched on and the cars
took off. A red Mustang took the lead immediately. It shot to the first hairpin, slowed ever so briefly, shot to the next
hairpin, slowed again, then blazed across the longer stretch to the underpass. A Barracuda was second, a Porsche third, a
blue Ferrari fourth. A Ford GTP and a Lola T-70 trailed.

The Mustang led the pack across the long straightaway near the wall. At the steep bank Butch’s black Porsche caught up. The
cars remained tire to tire as they blazed across the starting line to complete lap one.

The Mustang pulled ahead after the first sharp curve, slithered to the second. Then, just as it slowed to make the turn, its
tail spun out and the car stopped! But only for a second. The fat rear wheels spun, found traction and the car took off again.
But that second was enough for Butch’s Porsche to pull into the lead.

It stayed in the lead for five laps.

Then—a surprise. The blue Ferrari blazed
by the Porsche down the sweeper and sprang into the lead! It held it for two laps then was overtaken by the Mustang.

Come on, Butch!
breathed Chick.

The Porsche was less than half a section behind the Ferrari as it whipped through the underpass then blasted across the straightaway.
It caught up with the Ferrari at the sweeper, went ahead momentarily, then trailed again. It remained third to the seventeenth
lap, just two sections behind the Ferrari and about half a lap behind the Mustang.

In the eighteenth lap the Porsche did it. It came up even with the Ferrari, edged by it as both cars made the first sharp
curve, stayed ahead going into the second and during the short stretch to the underpass.
Watch it here, Butch!

The Porsche hung in there. It was ahead by two sections as it completed its nineteenth lap.

The horn buzzed. The cars stopped. The Mustang was first to complete the twenty
laps. In second place was Butch Slade’s Porsche.

The cars that had placed thirteenth through seventeenth in the Heat Race competed in the Second Consolation Race with the
two winners of the First Consolation Race.

The place winners, beginning with the thirteenth, chose their lanes. A gold Dodge Charger was in the black, Chick’s Stingray
in the yellow, a red Firebird in the purple, Ken Jason’s Ford GTP in the red, the Mustang in the blue, Butch Slade’s Porsche
in the orange and a Lola 40 in the green.

“Thumbs down!” The Second Consolation Race was on.

The cars took off together as the power was turned on. Chick was filled with excitement and fear, fear of spinning out and
thus losing ground. He tried to shake it off, to remain as calm as he could, to think only of the Stingray as it zipped from
one curve to the other, skimmed like bolt lightning across the straightaways, and glided down the sweeper.

One lap. Two. Three.

Suddenly the red Firebird spun out at the underpass.

“Track!” a turn marshal shouted.

The cars stopped for a couple of seconds as the car was straightened and its flag re-slotted.

Five laps. Six. Seven. On and on… Only two could win. Only two would enter in the Semi-Main Event.

Chick felt as if the room were closing in on him. The controller was like a hot iron in his hand as he watched his little
Stingray take the corners ever so beautifully and slither like a blue streak down the stretches.

What lap was it now? Eleventh? Twelfth? It seemed so long ago when they had started. Where was the Dodge Charger? He seemed
to remember gliding past it around the wide bend. He wasn’t sure. How were Ken and Butch doing?

No! his mind shouted at him. Don’t think of the others!

Suddenly the yell: “Twenty laps!”

The cars stopped. Everyone looked anxiously at the race director.

“The winner: black lane!”

It was the gold Dodge Charger. The owner jumped happily and whooped like an Indian. Then silence.

“Number two winner: yellow lane!”

Someone yelled in Chick’s ears and pounded him on the back. “Chick! You won second place!”

He was so choked he couldn’t speak. He stretched and unstretched his fingers, then wiped his sweating forehead. He had crossed
the second hurdle. The next would be stiffer.

“Sorry, Butch,” said Chick.

Butch shrugged. “So am I. But we both can’t win.”

“You did okay, Chick,” said Jack Harmon. “But the Semi is tougher. You’re up against
real tough bombs in that one. But, of course, you know that. You’re getting to be a champ.”

Chick’s face turned iron-hot. He clenched his fist and then unclenched it. He knew Jack wanted him to get rattled. Jack figured
that if Chick got rattled he’d blow up and lose the race.

Chick forced a smile. “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Get ready for the Semi!” yelled the race director.

The drivers who had placed seventh through twelfth chose their lanes. The boy with the Dodge Charger chose the green lane,
leaving the remaining white outside lane to Chick.

“This will be fifty laps!” the race director announced. “The first car to finish is winner. The next car with the most number
of laps is second place winner. Both winners will then compete in the Main Event. All right. At the count of three. Thumbs
down! One! Two! Three!”

The race was on.

The red Porsche 904 in the purple lane took the lead going into the hairpin and held it going into the second curve. A blue
Lola T-70 gained on it as all eight cars streaked toward the underpass. All eight made the sharp S-curve, tore down the long
straightaway and down the sweeper. The Porsche was first to finish the first lap, the Lola T-70 second, the Dodge Charger
third, and Chick’s Stingray fourth.

Round and round…

Chick’s thumb trembled on the plunger as he pressed it down to full-throttle the Stingray on the stretches.
Rrrrrrrrrrr!
Eight motors roared as one as the racers swarmed down the sweeper, eating up the sections and then the laps.

The Stingray pulled ahead of the Charger. It gained on the red Porsche. The Ferrari 275P whizzed by it at the underpass, threatening
to catch up with the Porsche. Chick full-throttled the Stingray down the long straight, held it full speed on the sweeper.
It was gaining… gaining…

Three laps later it overtook the Ferrari. Round and round… Round and round…

“Thirty laps!” yelled the Race Director.

Round and round…

“Forty laps!”

“Forty-five!”

The controller was hot in Chick’s hand. Which position was he in? The Third? Fourth? Fifth?

Round and round…

And then the shout: “FIFTY LAPS!” The cars stopped. Gently, Chick lay the controller aside and stretched his tension-gripped
fingers. And waited.

“The winner, Ted Curit’s Ferrari 275P! Second place winner, Chick Grover’s Stingray!”

Chick gulped.

“Well, you came through again, champ!” cried Jack Harmon. “Let’s see what you can do in the Main!”

Chick dabbed drops of oil of wintergreen
on the rear tires of the Stingray in readiness for the last race, drank a glass of orange juice with Ken and Butch, and rested.

“Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”

The Main Event was on. Two hundred laps. This was the big one. The real big one.
Rrrrrrrrr!
Motors roared. Sparks flickered as all eight cars took off at the same time.

Watch your car carefully! Concentrate every second!

Round and round…

The Stingray, a Cheetah Riverside and a Porsche 904 hung together down the stretches and the curves as if a stiff wire were
drawn through them. A gray Alfa Romeo in the white lane crept slowly ahead. A Ford GT in the red lane and a Lola 40 in the
purple were a couple of sections ahead. The Ferrari 250 GTO and Jack Harmon’s Chaparral were fighting for the lead.

Round and round and round…

The Alfa Romeo deslotted at the sweeper and went sailing over the track to the floor.

“Track!” shouted a turn marshal.

The power was shut off. The car put back on the track. The power turned on.

“Lane eight, twenty-five laps,” called the race director. “Lane seven, twenty-four. Lane six, twenty-four. Lane five, twenty-two.
Lane four, twenty-three. Lane three, twenty-three. Lane two, twenty-three. Lane one, twenty-one.”

Lane three, twenty-three.
That’s me!
thought Chick.
That’s my Stingray!

The Ferrari spun out at the underpass. “Track!”

Round and round…

And then, at the first hairpin, the Stingray spun out.

“Track!”

“Oh, no!” cried Chick.

The spinout helped the other cars to gain at least a section or two on him. He had to gain them back, and more.

“Thumbs down! One! Two! Three!”

Chick tried to concentrate on the race now more than ever. The controller was like a
torch in his sweating hand. Sweat beaded his forehead, dripped into his eyes. He wiped it away.

“Car in lane four completes fifty laps,” announced the race director. “Lane eight, forty-eight. Lane seven, forty-seven. Lane
six, forty-five. Lane five, forty-three. Lane three, forty-five. Lane two, forty-four. Lane one, forty-nine.”

Lane seven, forty-seven laps. That’s Jack Harmon’s, thought Chick. And I’ve got forty-five.
Come on, Stingie! Watch the curve! Up with the thumb! Now down! That’s it! Thumb up again! That second curve comes awfully
fast. Pump the plunger! Down with the thumb to the underpass! Up! Down again around the S! Watch that tail! Don’t let it spin
out!

There! Made it! Down the long straight-away along the wall. Then the sweeper. Keep it down! Down! Was that a green Ford you
passed? Never mind! Keep going, and keep your eyes open.

Round and round…

One hundred laps…

“… lane seven, ninety-four!”

“… lane three, ninety-two!”

Chick heard the other announcements but he was mostly interested in those two. Jack Harmon’s and his.

One hundred and fifty laps
…

“… lane seven, one hundred and forty-five!” Jack’s gained a little! “… lane three, one hundered and forty-four!”

One lap behind!

Round and round…

A car spun out at the sweeper and went tumbling over the side. “Track!” A momentary delay as a turn marshal went to pick it
up. The white sticker on it read 1. It was one of the leaders.

“Too bad,” said the turn marshal. “Motor’s busted.”

Round and round…

“Car in lane four, one hundred and ninety laps. Lane eight, one hundred seventy-nine.
Lane seven, one hundred eighty. Lane six, one hundred sixty-two. Lane five, one hundred seventy-eight. Lane three,” Chick
listened hard, “one hundred eighty.”

He was tied with Jack! He didn’t listen any further.
Come on, Stingie! Come on!

He was even with Jack’s Chaparral coming down the sweeper and along the straightaway. At the first hairpin Jack edged by him.
He held the lead going to the second curve. At the underpass the Stingray caught up and stayed even with the Chaparrel going
down the straightaway to the sweeper. Coming down the stretch the Stingray gained a half a section! By the time it was on
the top straightaway again it was two sections ahead!

Round and round…

“One hundred ninety-nine! TWO HUNDRED!”

The Main Event was over.

Chick laid the controller aside and stretched his aching fingers and thumb.

“The winner! Lane four, Frank Spry!
Second prize winner, lane three, Chick Gro-ver!” That’s all he wanted to know. He didn’t listen any further.

Ken Jason and Butch Slade slapped him heartily on the back. “Nice going, Chick!” they cried enthusiastically.

“Thanks, guys,” he said shakily.

A hand grabbed his and shook it hard. Jack Harmon wore a smile a mile wide. “Congratulations, Chick! You were great!”

His heart was pumping. He was trembling all over. He felt great.

“Thanks, Jack. How—how did you do?”

“Didn’t you hear? I came in third.”

“Guess we both have a couple of hot bombs.”

“It’s not only the bombs,” said Jack. “Well, I don’t want to sound like a braggart, but it’s the man at the controllers too.
You have a smart thumb, Chick. And most important of all you didn’t get rattled.”

“I would’ve lost if I had,” said Chick. “You knew it, too.”