Dean Ing - Sam and the Sudden Blizzard Machine

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SAM AND THE SUDDEN

BLIZZARD MACHINE

By Dean Ing

Sam's sudden blizzard is history now, and like all motor racing disasters its

memory is rusting out in a junkyard of legends. Some claim Sam's design was

faulty. Others say the fault was mine for listening to him. Smythe, our sports

car club archivist, warns that we all orbit too closely around Sam, like moths

around a rally car spotlight-but Smythe's a poly sci professor, so that's got

to be wrong.

I blame it on the weather. The snow came a month early and all at once and

froze out our plans for late fall competition.

"Tee-boned yer slalom event, did it?" Sam grunted happily as we slumped at his

fireplace.

"Black-flagged us," I admitted. I sat watching flames as Sam arranged blazing

chunks of hardwood. Now, anybody can poke at a fire with a Bugatti dipstick,

but Sam was feeding his fire with old trophy bases. Pretty expensive way to

heat a hangar, from the standpoint of effort expended. Actually, Sam only had

to heat the

living quarters in his surplus hangar, which is the only structure on his

property. The rest of the place is crammed with machine tools, surplus

aerospace materials, his vehicles, and his clean room, where he doesn't build

racing cars. I mean, he doesn't anymore. That is, he does, but not as a

business now. Sam was with Lockheed's "skunk works" until after the U-2 and

SR-71 were public knowledge and then he turned to designing racing cars.

His series of fabled cars might have gone on forever had he not stolen

computer time from Lockheed to make a study of racing trends. Sam took one

hard scan at the printout and quit serious competition in mingled disgust and

fear. In 1990, he predicts, go-carts will outgun Indy cars and dune buggies

won't need wheels. Something to do with new power units, he says, with a glint

in those gray granite eyes.

With all his engineering know-how and all his stolen hardware and both of his

magician's hands in that hangar, Sam is roughly as important and predictable

as the weather. His sudden blizzard was inevitable from the moment Sam softly

rasped, as if to the fire, "You don't really have to hole up all winter,

y'know."

I glared at him. "No, I could get me a sled and name it Rosebud, " I grumped.

"Great sport."

"Sled; mm, yeah." Brief pregnant pause, then breech delivery: "You remember

the old quarry course?"

I shivered, and not from the cold. The quarry racecourse had been outlawed

after our first

competition event there. We had had 73 entrants, and 21 didn't finish, and 52

canny dudes found excuses not to start. Any idiot could add that up. It was a

week before we got the last car hauled out of there. I reminded Sam of this.

"Yup; and if you remember, I told you not to touch it with or without gloves,"

Sam countered. "But with a few, ah, minor changes I just might give it a try."

"This winter?"

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Dean Ing - Sam and the Sudden Blizzard Machine

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