"Hello," cried Randy as cheerfully as a wedding guest. "I see you're busy as usual. Where's my old friend Worm?" "There," said Woody pointing under a big Buick. One thin foot of Worm's showed, revealing cotton socks of a pale lemon color. This foot wiggled a greeting, and Worm's voice came from underneath the automobile. "I'll be oot in a minute," he said. "When I get this bell housing back again." "Take your time," said Randy. "Just a social call." Woody grinned across at Rocky. "How's the MG?" he asked. "Just super," she said smiling back. "All ready for Hansen Dam. I sent in my forms last night. How about you?" "Well, er," said Woody. "I didn't get around to it yet." Rocky looked at him out of her teasing, half-mocking eyes. "You'd better hurry," she said. "You've only got two more days. Unless you'd prefer not to race." "Oh, I want to race all right," said Woody. "I just didn't get around to it, that's all." "I had her tuned yesterday," Rocky continued. "Purrs like a sewing machine. Daddy says she's in tiptop racing form right now. If you can get off for a minute, why don't you drive her around the block a couple of times? I could come with you." The last sentence was said very casually. But there was no escaping the invitation it contained. "Gee," said Woody, "we're right in the middle of installing a clutch here. After work, if you're still around, I'd sure like to try her out." Worm had by now slid from under the Buick. Watching him come out it seemed as if there would never be an end to him. First came two long shins. Then two longer thighs. Then a narrow waist and torso and then a long arm which fluttered upward to grasp the running board of the car. By the time he had completely emerged, Rocky was laughing. "Do that again, please," she said. "I've never seen so much person come out from under one car before." "Lassie," said Worm, "the Highland Scots are all big people. It's a short man in the Highlands who doesn't top six feet two inches." He said this solemnly, without anger or humor, as if he were acquainting her with a piece of interesting information of which he was proud. "How's the Tiger?" asked Randy. Worm looked at him sourly. "She's fixed oop as much as she's ever likely to be," he replied. "As much as she's ever likely to be?" repeated Randy puzzled. "Is there something wrong that can't be repaired?" "Nae," said Worm fishing for a cigarette, for whenever he got out from under a car, he saluted his liberation by lighting one. "There's naething that can't be repaired. But there's some cars, as ye well know, that hae hidden traps and faults in them. The best mechanic in the world canna find them. And I'm thinking that yon Black Tiger is one of them." "You mean that there's something basically wrong with her design?" asked Randy.