"Tuning, driving skill, experience, and guts, that's what makes the difference," said Steve. "Wait until you see these babies race. It isn't like Indianapolis, where they just go round in a circle as hard as they can lick. Once you get into high gear at Indianapolis, you stay there until the race is over. These boys race on tracks that are full of hairpin bends, S-bends, and right-angle corners. They have to know when to shift down and when to shift up. They have to know how to shoot a blind corner so as to skid round it and still stay on the track. It's no game for sissies. You get into a hairpin with a cloud of Jags and Ferraris steaming around you and about three inches to maneuver in, and you learn how to say your prayers all over again." It was not hard to find the building in which the technical inspection was being held. The streets for several blocks around were jammed with sports cars of every make. It was as if some kind of automobile carnival was being held. There was a tenseness and excitement in the air that was infectious. From being slightly scornful of all the proceedings, Woody found himself increasingly interested in the cars and the people who drove them, and a little ashamed of his previous "Mickey Mouse" label. With Steve he sauntered over to a green MG whose owner was screwing an air filter in place. He was surprised at the size of the engine. It didn't look powerful enough to run a lawn mower. "What will it do?" Woody asked. "Ninety. Maybe ninety-five when she's wound up real right." "With that?" asked Woody in surprise, pointing to the little four-cylinder engine. "Sure," replied the owner. "Never seen one of these babies before, huh? What do you drive?" "Used to drive a hot rod," said Woody. "Me, too," replied the other. "But when I found out about these I switched. That little engine there has a displacement of just under fifteen hundred cc.'s--" "What's cc.'s?" asked Woody. "Cubic centimeters. One thousand cc.'s is sixty-one cubic inches. In other words, with a displacement of around ninety cubic inches, she develops sixty-five horsepower. That's darn close to three quarters of a horsepower for every cubic inch of piston displacement. Not bad, huh?" Woody admitted that it wasn't bad at all. "Some of the Jags will turn out one point three six hp. per cubic inch," the MG owner said. "That's on gasoline. That's better than those Offeuhausers do at Indianapolis using gas, alcohol, and nitro." "Let's go look at some of the Jags and Ferraris," said Steve. "Say, what happened to Worm?" "Probably crawling around under one of these buggies," said Woody. "I don't think he's ever really happy unless he's got crankcase oil dripping in his face. He brought his tools along." "There he is," said Steve. "Talking to that little guy over there."