They pushed their way over through a tangle of cars, drivers, and mechanics. The cars looked mostly like toys to Woody, but he had an increasing respect for them. Worm was talking excitedly to the other man. The two seemed to be old friends, and this surprised Woody, for he hadn't known that Worm had any close friends, particularly in sports-car circles. "Gee," the stranger was saying as they approached, "I haven't clapped eyes on you in ten years. What are you doing with yourself these days?" "Running my own shop and service station," said Worm. "Anything else?" said the other. "Nae," Worm replied. The stranger looked at him in silence for a minute. There seemed to be some understanding between the two of them that Woody could not fathom. "Like you tae meet me friends," Worm said, catching sight of them and breaking the awkward silence. "Woody Hartford and Steve Phillips. Meet Captain Jim Randolph." "Randy for short," said the stranger, holding out his hand. Randy was one of the smallest men Woody had ever met. He was slim, fair-haired, and almost boyish in appearance. There were wrinkles of humor around his blue eyes, and he sported a mustache that would have done credit to a guardsman. Woody guessed that he was British--either Canadian or English. "You the same Captain Randolph that drove with the Morgan team in the last Le Mans?" asked Steve. "That's me," said Randy. "Boy, you must have got a kick out of that," said Steve. Randy nodded. "It was a lot of fun," he said quietly. "What are ye driving noo?" asked Worm. Randy's whole face brightened. "Something absolutely new," he said. "I was awfully lucky to get it. It's the only one in the country, and none of them have been raced before. Come along and take a look." Without waiting for a reply, he led them down the road to the back of a large building where the technical inspection was being held. There was a crowd of drivers and mechanics gathered around a car parked in the rear of the building, and it was difficult to get through them. When they did, Woody found himself looking at an automobile like something out of the next century. The body was gleaming black, and the hood shaped like the nose of a shark. There was no radiator, the big wheels had wire spokes, and the dashboard had so many instruments on it that it looked like the cockpit of an airplane. Randy pushed his way to the back, the drivers and mechanics around making room for him, and opened what should have been the luggage compartment. "Rear-opposed engine, air cooled, twelve cylinders, four thousand cc.'s. Develops three hundred horsepower at just under six thousand revolutions per minute," he said. "Wow," said Woody. "What do they call her?" "She's made by Milano of Italy, and she's called the Black Tiger," Randy replied.