Lucky Seven (9 page)

Chick lifted the drop arm and let it drop freely at its pivotal points. It was free as could be. The arm had to work freely
so that the pickup brush and the slot flag at its end would keep contact with the track. For good measure, he tightened the
small screws on both sides of the chassis mounts a bit more. The pivoting cross bar of the drop arm was fastened to the mounts
and these were the only screws that held the drop arm to the chassis.

He noticed something. The axle was sticking out more than a sixteenth of an inch from the left front wheel and was only a
thread or two into the right front wheel. Wow! That had to be fixed for sure.

With a wrench he loosened the nut between the right wheel and the nylon bushing, unscrewed the wheel, then did the same thing
to the other wheel. He then turned both nuts
till they were almost exactly the same distance from the ends of the axle, screwed the wheels back on, tightened the nuts
against them and checked the result. He grinned with satisfaction.

“That’s a lot better,” said Jack over his shoulder. “Funny I hadn’t seen it when I had it.”

Chick examined the rear wheels. They fitted on the axle well enough. He placed the slot guide on the V-shaped end of the drop
arm and tightened a set screw with a tiny alien wrench to hold it. He checked to see if the guide pivoted freely. It did.

He set the motor carefully in place inside the drop arm, fitting the bushing of the front end into the hole in the motor mount
that was soldered to a cross bar, and the rear bushing of the motor onto the mount that was cut out in the exact shape to
hold it. He pushed the motor down gently, careful to mesh the pinion gear of the motor and the crown gear on the rear axle
without stripping the teeth. Then
he placed the metal clip over the motor and forced its ends underneath the brass tubing on both sides to secure it.

He turned the rear wheels a little. The gears felt tight. With his alien wrench he loosened the set screw on the crown gear,
pulled the gear back slightly, and retightened the screw. He turned the wheels again. The gears meshed smoothly.

He pushed the free end of a green wire, the other end of which was soldered to the lower left-hand post of the motor, through
the left-hand hole in the guide and forced a copper pickup brush into a slot at the end of the guide. He stuck the free end
of the red wire, the other end of which was soldered to the upper right-hand post of the motor, through a right-hand hole
in the guide and forced a second pickup brush into the slot next to the first one. The two brushes held the wires tightly
in place.

“Let’s see that,” said Jack. He took the chassis and brushed out the copper strands
smoothly with a small bristle brush. “The brushes will make better contact this way.”

He pushed them flat against the bottom of the slot guide unit with the guide sticking down between them.

“Thanks,” said Chick. Heck, he knew that. Jack didn’t have to tell him. But, then, you can’t be sore at a guy for wanting
to be helpful.

Chick cleaned the front and rear tires thoroughly by placing drops of model car tire cleaning fluid on a cloth and rubbing
it over the tires lightly with his forefinger.

“What’re you going to do with the body?” asked Jack, curiously.

Chick picked it up. It was plastic and looked pretty crummy. “I’ll get some lighter fluid from Dad, take off the old paint
and give it a new paint job. Then I’m going to glue in a seat and a driver.”

“Man, you think you can do all that?”

“I’m going to try,” said Chick with confidence. “Dad, do you have some lighter fluid?”

“It’s upstairs in the cupboard,” replied Dad.

Chick ran up the stairs two at a time. Jack followed him. “See you tomorrow, Chick,” he said. “I’ve got to leave.”

“Okay. Thanks for helpin’!”

Chick found the fluid, took it to the basement and soaked up a little of it with a piece of cloth. He rubbed the paint on
the inside of the body till it was all off, leaving only the clear plastic.

He painted the body with bright red paint, being careful not to get any on the windshield, the side windows or the rear window.

On Friday, after supper, he painted the headlights a bright yellow as well as a ring around the red tail lights. He painted
the seams around the doors, the hood, the windows, the rear fenders, the front grille and the parking lights with black India
ink. Then across the seams he rubbed a cloth dampened with lighter fluid, leaving a black pin stripe over all the places he
had painted.

“It’s shaping up beautifully,” observed Dad, smiling. “When’s the Concours?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you going to race it?”

“Sure! But I won’t depend much on it. There might be bugs in it and I won’t have time to get ‘em all out. I’m going to put
in my driver and paste on the decals tonight, then try it out on Ken Jason’s track tomorrow morning. If there’s anything wrong
with it I’ll fix it then.”

“Good!” Dad ruffled his hair. “Go to it, son. And good luck.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I was surprised to see Jack Harmon here last night. Seems like a nice kid.”

Chuck shrugged. “Guess he can be if he wants to.”

Dad chuckled. “Guess anybody can be if he wants to. Huh, son?”

Chick smiled, and nodded. He knew what Dad meant, all right.

“I don’t think you’ll need any help from now on,” said Dad. “If you do, let me know.”

After Dad went upstairs Chick pasted the license decal on the rear first, then the figure
six on the hood and doors. Halfway between the doors and the rear fenders he pasted the decals of a white cat, then glued
on the dashboard.

He painted the goggles of the driver silver, the jacket light blue, the helmet and gloves black, and left the face its natural
flesh color. He painted a bottle cap brown and glued it to the driver’s hands when the paint had dried. It passed perfectly
for a steering wheel.

He glued the driver to a piece of thin card-board, then adjusted the cardboard inside the car’s body. He secured the cardboard
with Scotch tape, then installed strips of fiber glass tape along the bottom of the body shell, inside, for reinforcement,
and stuck a pin through the holes. Then he held the car’s body away from himself and looked at it, turning it this way and
that. Man, it was a dream.

“All I’ve got to do now is screw the body to the chassis and I’m finished!” he exclaimed proudly.

He waited for the decals to dry. Then he set the chassis inside the body, lined up the mounting holes, inserted the screws
and tightened them.

The car was finished!

He rushed up the stairs two at a time, the model car held as if it were an egg.

“Look, Dad! Mom! I’ve finished my car!”

They were in the living room. Mom looked up from her book and Dad from his magazine.

They looked wide-eyed with pride before any of them said a word.

Early Saturday morning Chick called up Ken Jason and asked if he could test his “new” Ferrari on Ken’s home track.

“Sure,” said Ken. “Bring it over.”

On the way to Ken’s he met Butch Slade and a couple of other guys.

“Hey! Whose bomb you got?” Butch asked, reaching for Chick’s car.

Chick yanked it back. “Mine. Whose you think?”

“Bought it from Mort?”

“No, I didn’t buy it from Mort. I repaired the chassis after it busted, then custom-built the body.”

Butch laughed. The others joined in, only louder. “I hope you’re not going to enter it in the Concours d’Elégance, or the
race this afternoon, Chickie, old boy. That bomb will fizzle.”

Something like a toothache hit Chick’s stomach. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you have so much confidence in me, old pal.”

He walked away, the guys’ laughter roaring in his ears.

Ken liked the Ferrari. “It looks great, Chick! I bet Jack would never recognize it as the one he sold you.”

“Know something?” said Chick, smiling. “He helped me customize it!”

Ken’s eyes popped. “Well, I’m not too surprised. He’s not a bad guy.”

Chick shrugged.
Guess everybody thinks he’s a good guy but me. But I don’t care. I said I’m going to beat the pants off him one of these days
and I will.

Chick placed the Ferrari on the track first—the inside lane—to see how it would run. He placed the flag squarely in the slot,
saw that the copper brushes were touching the metal strips properly on each side, then asked Ken to turn on the switch. Chick
picked up the controller for the inside lane, pushed the plunger down gently, and the car crawled forward.

A proud smile came over Chick’s face. He pushed the plunger father down. The Ferrari picked up speed, slowed at the S-curve,
then bolted down the straightaway. It seemed to shimmy a little and sounded noisy.

“Oh, no!” said Chick, the smile fading. “Something’s wrong. Maybe it wasn’t soldered well enough!”

He stopped the car in front of him, picked it off the track and examined its underside.
The soldered joints were solid. He checked the gears.

“No wonder!” he said. “There’s too much play!” But hadn’t he adjusted the gears only last night?

Then he saw the trouble. There was at least a thirty-second of play between the bushing and the nut of the right rear wheel!

“I think I’ve found it, Ken,” Chick said hopefully. “Got a wrench?”

“Sure do.” Ken got it and handed it to him. Chick loosened the nut between the bushing and the wheel, unscrewed the wheel
slightly, then screwed the nut tighter up against the loose bushing. He screwed the wheel back up to the nut, retightened
the nut, and checked the gear mesh again.

“Not bad!” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “Let’s see how she runs now!”

He placed the Ferrari on the track, the flag in the slot, and picked up the controller.

Ken flicked on the switch. Chick pushed the plunger down gently, letting the Ferrari take
off slowly. Gradually he gave it more power by pressing down farther on the plunger. The car swung around the S-curve, sped
down the straightaway, shot around the U and then screamed down the stretch in front of him. He sent it around the track twice.
The shimmy was gone. The grating noise was gone.

“I think I’ve got me a real bomb, Ken,” he said, a wide smile on his face. “Let’s race.”

They conducted a five-minute Wildcat race, using a mechanical timer.

Ken’s Ford GTP was ahead at the end of the first lap. Chick, anxious to catch up, gave the Ferrari full throttle on the long
stretch, pushing the plunger down as far as it would go. Thumbing off just before it reached the U-curve, he gunned it, thumbed
off and gunned it again as it came around the bend. Too fast. The Ferrari spun out and sat still, its flag out of the slot.

He straightened the car, slotted the flag, and full-throttled the Ferrari down the long stretch toward the S-curve. As it
sped in front
of him it clicked the score marker to 2. The marker on the opposite side read 3. A second later it read 4 as the Ford finished
another lap.

On Chick’s sixth lap he thumbed off too late at the S-curve, and the Ferrari sailed over the fence and crashed to the floor.

“Track!” he yelled, filled with horror.

He picked up the car, examined it carefully, and grinned with relief. “It’s okay!” he shouted.

At the sound of the bell the race stopped and the boys checked their scores. Ken’s Ford GTP had finished with fifty-five laps,
Chick’s with forty-six.

“Man, I’m lousy,” said Chick. “You’d think I’d never raced before.”

“Well, it’s the first time you’ve raced that bomb,” said Ken. “What do you expect?”

“Better than that score, that’s what,” re-replied Chick determinedly.

At one o’clock Chick and Ken registered their cars at
Mort’s Pit Stop
and paid their entrance fees. Mort Yates himself inspected
the cars for length, weight and other technical specifications. Then Eddie Lane, Mort’s assistant, placed the cars on the
long shelf among the other beautiful cars already there. By one-thirty, judging time for the Concours d’Elégance, there were
eleven cars entered in the contest, including Jack Harmon’s yellow Lola T-70, Butch’s black Porsche and Ken’s two-toned black
and yellow Ford GTP.

Eddie Lane was the judge. He looked at each car and wrote down points on a scoring sheet. Awards were made by the number of
points a car accumulated. The most points it could get were thirty.

There were lots of things a judge looked and gave points for. General appearance, for example. Cleanliness. Did the car have
a driver? Was he painted and in detail? Was there a steering wheel? An instrument panel? Exhaust pipes?

Exhaust pipes? Chick’s heart fluttered. His red Ferrari didn’t have them. Few of the cars did. Would not having them ruin
his chances?

At last it was over. Eddie Lane checked the score sheet. Then he climbed up to the platform and spoke into the microphone.

“Attention, everybody! The cars have been judged in the Concours d’Elégance and the top three winners chosen. These were judged
on their general appearance, craftsmanship, and special ingenuity in making and installing the different accessories.”

He cleared his throat. “Third prize—a blue ribbon and a set of trackside figures—to Mike Kotmel!”

A roar resounded through the big room.

“Second prize—a red ribbon and a clear plastic Marauder body—to Duane Chris-man!”

Another roar resounded. Then silence.

“First prize—a white ribbon and a brass tube frame—to Chick Grover!”

“Yaaaaay!”

“Congratulations, Chick!”

Chick stood, almost paralyzed. He was looking at Eddie Lane and Eddie was looking
at him and smiling. “Here you are, Chick,” he said, holding out the ribbon and the prize. “Come and get it.”

Chick broke out of the spell, stepped forward and accepted the ribbon and prize. “Th-thanks,” he said.

When he turned, Butch and Jack were waiting for him with outstretched hands. “Guess I don’t know what it takes to be a winner,”
said Butch. “That’s why I never win a Concours.”

“You sure turned my old heap into a beauty, Chick,” said Jack. “I’m glad it won.”