Woody was up at four in the morning and met Steve and Worm at the garage. Steve had brought two stop watches as promised, and everything was ready, including the sandwiches that Mrs. Hartford had prepared for the three of them. It took six hours in the Dodge to get to the Mojave salt lake where Cindy Lou was to undergo her trials. Nobody else was there, and during the last-minute preparations for the first run even Worm seemed a little nervous. The cold spark plugs were put in after Worm had gapped them properly; Woody drained the fuel from Cindy Lou's tank and poured in his special dope. When all was ready, Woody got into the hot rod, which, after a complaining cough and a whirr or two, fired up. "Warm her oop a little," said Worm. "Mon, dinna' ye install yer safety belt?" "Sure," said Woody. "It's on the floor." He buckled it around him and squirmed into as comfortable a position as possible behind the wheel. "Everybody knows what he's got to do?" he said. "Steve, you stand by the starting line. Worm's going to be at the half-mile mark. Don't watch me. Watch Worm. The moment I start to move, press the stop watch. When I pass the half-mile mark, Worm will bring down the checkered flag. Stop the watch right then. Maybe we ought to try it a couple of times to see if everybody understands." He made two trial runs, not pressing Cindy Lou but giving her a chance to warm up. Everything went as planned. "Swell," said Woody, "this time it's for real. Ready?" Steve nodded, and Woody brought Cindy Lou to the starting line. He stopped her dead, and then, with a slight nod of his head, slipped her in low and stepped on the gas. The take-off flung him back against the seat. The flat salt bed of the desert sped beneath him like a gleaming white ribbon. Woody looked at the speedometer. Forty-five. Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty. Sixty-five. He slammed the clutch down and flung the gearshift back toward him. Cindy Lou seemed to leave the ground in a clean leap forward. Woody grinned. Smooth as silk and swift as an arrow. Boy what a rod, he thought. He hardly saw Worm as he flashed by. It took him a mile across the salt flats to slow down. When he got back Steve said, "Twenty seconds." "That's an average of ninety miles an hour over the half mile from a standing start," said Woody. "Man, she goes like a bird. But she ought to do better than that. This time I'll really pour the coal to her." The second run showed an average of ninety-two miles an hour from the standing start. "Try her over the mile," Steve suggested. "Then you can see what she'll do when she has time to get rolling."