"We will now do a slow-motion replay of that shot."

The replay flashed on.

A low, harsh voice came over. "Get that (bleeped) shot off the screen or you'll lose our account!" Hastily, a string of letters flashed across the exploding Duggan:

SIMULATED DRAMATIZATION

Another car spun out and wound up in the snowbanks. Another came crawling into the pit with a busted fan belt and an engine that was overheating.

There were only eleven left in the race. It was creeping up toward 3:00 P.M. Spraying snow to either side, jockeying through openings, Heller drove on to the screams of delight from the grandstand. I found it absolutely disgusting. I kept a close eye on my watch: in a very short time now, that carburetor was scheduled to fail and he would be done for.

But in the last half hour, he had so clearly asserted a lead that some of the other drivers evidently began to think they had no chance at all if they did not take him out.

Instead of driving to make laps, some were driving now to get a ram at Heller as he went by.

Car 10, Basher Benson, driving a stripped International station wagon, lay in wait at the near end of the oval. He was going to, I could see, sweep along on the inside and ram Heller.

The Caddy braked into the turn and then sped up, skidding sideways in the flying snow.

Basher gave his car all it had and rushed parallel, aiming for Heller's left front wheel.

Above the yowl of tortured engines, Basher's voice, "Take this, you (bleepard)!"

The International touched before Heller could avoid.

A flash!

An electrical explosion!

Car 10 rebounded like it had been hit by lightning!

It spun away, went through the rail!

The driver sat there stunned.

The crowd yelled and roared with delight!

The TV did a replay. It was a lightning bolt! Car 10 had hit Heller's left front wheel and an electrical flash at least five feet in diameter had flared!

The electrical surplus from the carburetor was being grounded in those wheels! And any other car that touched them bled off the grounding in a lightning bolt!

Basher Benson was getting shakily out of Car 10. He apparently had no idea of what had happened except that he didn't want anything more to do with this race!

The radio sportscaster was trying to account for it and suddenly settled upon the explanation that it was the Whiz Kid's magnetic personality.

Heller and the other cars roared on, the shrieking engines merged with the howls and cheers of the crowd.

The other drivers had no real idea of what had happened. There are always sparks to some extent when metal is hammered against metal in a crash.

The snow stopped and a murky sun came out.

Another driver, in an old Dodge, got the idea of side-swiping Heller on the far straightaway. He was driving close to the rail and, as Heller started to pass, the Dodge speeded up and dived at him.

FLASH!

It made a crack like a lightning bolt!

Heller had tapped him with a wheel!

The Dodge went spinning out of control! It rolled! It skidded fifty feet on its roll bars!

The crowd went crazy with ecstasy!

Yellow flag. A tow truck sped out to latch on to the Dodge and drag it away. The driver stood there until an ambulance came and then tried to climb into the tow truck. He seemed to be walking in circles.

The cars were speeded up again. There were now nine.

I was on the edge of my seat. I had half an eye on the viewers and the other half on the stopwatch. It was past three.

Was Heller going to win after all?

The snow clouds parted more widely. The dirty-hued afternoon sun slanted down upon the chewed-up track. It seemed colder.

The battering roar of the straight-shoot-exhaust-piped Caddy racketed above that of the other cars as it speeded up to make the near turn. Heller had started to race in earnest. He was already twenty laps ahead of any other driver and he was starting to open the Caddy up!

The other eight, including Hammer Malone and Killer Brag, seemed to realize they were done unless they did something. Probably the chanting, "Whiz Kid, Whiz Kid, Whiz Kid!" that sporadically rose from the grandstand egged them on.

They were old bomber veterans. They had seen everything and done everything but they were not going to just idle around and watch themselves be thrashed.

Strategies of demolition derbies included gang-up. Once they had disposed of Heller, they could fight the rest of it out amongst themselves. But Heller must GO!

I read all that in the way they concertedly began to idle down as they passed the grandstand. They did another circle, Heller threading his way through them as though they didn't exist.

Heller was doing more than 150. He was sitting there doing an alert job of driving, predicting the movements of the other cars and predodging in ample time. The

Caddy looked like a red streak. Its engine was a continuous scream of power.

The other eight cars were drawing up in a kind of an uneven circle with a huge gap in the center. Four favored the grandstand side of the straightaway, the other four favored its other side. They had stopped trying to lap. They were going into pure demolition derby formation.

The TV and radio sportscasters were both jabbering in excitement that there was something up.

Heller knew there was something up. He suddenly slowed. He shifted down to lower drive, cutting out his top gear, probably to give himself enormous pickup in a sudden spurt.

The Caddy approached the waiting circle doing only about sixty.

He came to the outer edge of the hole.

A lunge as cars surged at him!

A yowl as the Caddy speeded up.

A grinding crash!

It was Hammer Malone hitting another car!

The Caddy was through the gap and away!

The other cars changed tactics. They turned around so they could back ram this time. It looked like a planned maneuver and, indeed, they were within shouting distance of one another.

The gap for Heller was wide open and inviting.

He was apparently just going to go through again.

The bombers began to back! They would hit him!

He suddenly stamped on his brakes and gave his steering gear a yank to the left!

He spun in a complete circle.

The bombers crashed into one another!

Heller wasn't there!

He came out of his spin and gunned his engine and streaked by, almost scraping the grandstand barricade!

He had gone behind them! He had used a lane just vacated!

The crowd howled with joy!

The bombers pried themselves apart. More shouting. They got back into position.

Heller toured the oval.

But whatever he planned to do next never happened.

Coming out of the far turn of the oval, doing about seventy, his engine quit!

He had only about a hundred yards to go to reach the bombers.

Perhaps he thought he could coast through.

He had been high on the bank. There was lots of snow under his wheels. It was cutting his speed down dramatically.

There was nothing he could do about it.

He went straight into the open center with a dead engine. He was doing about twenty.

CRASH!

Eight cars backed into him!

They were stopped in a jammed mass.

The top of Heller's hood was going cherry red!

The carburetor had fused!

With a quick yank he released his safety belt!

He shot his arm out through the window and got a hold.

He said, "Good-bye, you Cadillac Brougham Coup d'Elegance. It wasn't your fault!"

Like the gymnast he was, he pulled himself through the window.

Jammed cars all around!

Cursing drivers!

Smoke began to shoot out of the Cadillac's hood.

"Run!" Heller shouted in that high, Fleet voice.

He was up on a roof. He sprang to another roof!