"Dean Ing - Sam and the Sudden Blizzard Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ing Dean)

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?"
He nodded.

"In thirty inches of snow?"

He hummed a snatch of "White Christmas."

"You're weird," I said. "We'd kill somebody."

"Quoth the craven," he said. "Shut up and let me think . . ."

I'm convinced now that Sam cheated; he must've been plotting the idea for a
long time. He cupped his big stubby hands over one knee and smiled to himself.
"Ever do any sledding?"

"Exactly once."
"Me, too. Never got used to the lack of power on the uphill straights."

"But what's that gottadowith . . ."

Sam raised a restraining hand. "Just listen," he soothed. "Take the old quarry
course and run down it instead of up. Build your own frame. Use-heh, heh-any
power plant you please, add steering, put a windscreen on, and be a hero at
the quarry."

I gnawed my lip a moment. "Sounds simple," I hedged, "but if anybody goes off
the edge-"
"He'll hit a nice cushy snowdrift instead of a bale of hay. I figure you hay
raisers might find that a welcome change. Choice of power train is up to you.
Wheels, chains, propeller, spikes, ducted fan, or a team of oxen if that's yer
karma. Use any brake system that works at tech inspection. Sky's the limit."

Sam had something there. And it was catching; I tingled at the vision of
sledding specials, specially built racers midwifed in our garages. It would be
fun; hell, it could become a winter revolution: Speed Week in Springville!
"Sam? Ah, would you-"

"Propose it to your club? I just did." Sam's smile seemed open, guileless.
Maybe it was a leer. In any event, no pun intended, Sam's recommendation was
as good as a direct order. Twenty-seven members of the club swore to build
specials, and, oddly enough, many of us did. The rest, including me, gave