Woody said he hadn't without even looking through his pockets. He wished he hadn't been asked. He just wanted to be left alone right at the present moment. "Feeling a little shaky?" Tom asked. His voice was friendly, and he smiled in a kindly way as he put the question. Woody decided to abandon all his pretenses. "I sure am," he said. "If I could get the heck out of here and disappear for five years into China, I would." Tom laughed. "You wouldn't be alone," he said. "Look at Kurt over there." Kurt Kreuger was squatted on his heels carefully taking a cigarette to pieces. Even at a distance of several yards, Woody could see that his hands were far from steady. "Kurt always tears paper when he's keyed up," Tom said. "I smoke cigarettes that have gone out." He took the dead cigarette from between his lips, examined it with a smile, and flicked it onto the track. "We've three or four minutes yet," he said. "Did you look over the track?" Woody nodded. "It's pretty rough," Tom continued. "But remember, it's just as rough for the other boys as it is for you. There isn't much I can tell you at this point that would do any good. But remember, when you jump into your car, fasten your safety belt. Don't take off without doing that." He lapsed into silence, got out another cigarette, found an old match folder with one last match, took a puff or two, and looked down toward the starter. For the next two minutes it seemed to Woody everything around became very quiet. The row of cars on the opposite side of the track looked as grim as gladiators about to enter an arena. Woody eyed the Black Tiger, and in that moment he hated her. She seemed both impersonal and cruel to him. A cricket started a shrill chirruping in the grass behind him, and he experienced a sudden flush of irritation at the sound. The sun beat down bright and merciless on the asphalt before him. The starter stood talking to two other men. He seemed cheerful and untroubled, and Woody conceived an enormous dislike of him. Why didn't he just drop his flag and get it over with? Why stand around there chewing the fat when everybody was sitting with his nerves on edge? The loud-speaker blared suddenly. "One minute to go," the announcer said. "I'll count out the seconds. Fifty-five. Fifty. Forty-five...." It's coming now, Woody said to himself. Just a few seconds more. He felt suddenly panicky, as if he were paralyzed and wouldn't be able to run to his car. Kurt Kreuger was still shredding a cigarette.