passenger seat of tufted black leather. “This is so high!” she said. She automatically began feeling around for a seat belt, then laughed at herself. “Let’s go, Lars!”
“You sure you’re not coming?” Lars asked Jill, who in reply backed onto the grass and waved them off.
The car had not made a sound since it left off “singing,” and there was not the faintest vibration to show that a motor was running. As Betsy watched, Lars depressed two small pedals crowded together on the floor, and then slowly moved a silver lever up a slice-of-pie metal holder on the steering column.
With a quiet
“Yay!” he cheered softly, and Betsy realized he was a little nervous after all. He grinned and waved at Jill then moved the lever up the pie slice, and the car, this time in absolute silence, went down the driveway to Weekend Lane and up to St. Alban’s Bay Road. Lars braked nearly to a stop at the road, then turned left. As they moved out, he became bolder and moved the throttle lever up a little more. The car, still making no noise at all, began to gain speed.
“Wow!” cheered Betsy.
Lars, his grin broadening, winked at her and pulled a lever under the steering wheel. A very loud whistley racket let loose. Steam roiled up all around them. Betsy would have jumped out of the car, but Lars grabbed her by the shoulder. “Ha, ha!” he cheered, and blew the whistle again.
This time Betsy yelled in delight. It was safe, this was great! Coming to a stop sign, Lars braked, but the car didn’t slow. He slammed the throttle down, and tramped hard on the brake, but they were only slowing as they entered the intersection. He pulled the wheel hard right and they leaned very dangerously going around the corner. Despite the narrow tires, the car didn’t slide or skid and Betsy grabbed the gasoline pump lever to keep from being thrown out. Once onto the even narrower road, the car righted itself.
“Wow!” exclaimed Betsy yet again, and Lars laughed and reopened the throttle.
There were trees crowding close on either side, the last bits of sun twinkling through the branches. The upright windshield blocked the wind, rapidly cooling as the sun went down, so she felt quite comfortable.
“Yah-hooo!” Lars cheered and blew the whistle as he pushed the lever up a little more. In a smooth, continuing silence the car answered the call, speeding up effortlessly. It was weird, it was surprising, it was wonderful.
Betsy began to laugh; she couldn’t help it. It was like the first time she’d gone sailing.
Lars began to experiment with the car, slowing to a crawl, accelerating to about forty-there was no speedometer-slowing again. As he came nearly to a stop, he stomped suddenly on the pair of pedals, and the car jumped instantly backward with a little squeal of rubber. He lifted his foot and the car jumped right into forward again. “Look, Ma!” he said. “No transmission!”
“What-you didn’t break something, did you?” asked Betsy.
“No, no, no. The Stanley brothers invented a steam car with a transmission, but sold the rights, so when they wanted to try steam again, they had to figure a way around the patents. They couldn’t get around the transmission patent, so they invented a car without a transmission. The motor turns the axle directly, no gears. The engine turns over once, the wheels go around once.”
“Uh-huh,” said Betsy, not sure if this was brilliant or troublesome.
A hill, not high but fairly steep, was ahead, but the car forged up it with no hesitation. “See? Torque to burn!” cheered Lars.
And Betsy, who happened to know a little about engineering because her father had been an engineer, realized that the lack of gearing was the reason for the torque. Brilliant, she decided.
Around another corner, they were on Excelsior Boulevard, which ran parallel to Highway 7. The highway was crowded with commuters on their way home from work, but several dared to slow down when they saw the Stanley, and two or three honked.
Betsy waved happily at them, and Lars showed off a little bit by blowing the whistle, causing an unaware driver to swerve dangerously. The road was flat and clear along this stretch. They came to Christmas Lake Road, which crossed Highway 7 and joined Excelsior Boulevard. Commuters who lived in Excelsior were backed up on the highway, waiting to make the turn. They crowded onto Excelsior when the light changed. There was only a stop sign for Lars, and he seemed in no hurry to bully his way into the stream of traffic. Waiting for the traffic to clear, he checked his gauges.
“See the winker?” he said, pointing to a small red button light blinking rapidly. “If that stops winking, it means we’re running low on oil.” Betsy watched it for a while, but it never stopped winking.
Cars coming off the highway slowed for a look, causing others to honk impatiently. One, steering where he looked, swayed toward them, and Lars blew his whistle angrily, nearly hiding the Stanley in the steam and setting off a chorus of honks. Betsy stood and waved her fist at the driver, but was laughing too hard to make her threat worth anything.
Then there came a gap and they went on down the road, past the sudden steep hill of the cemetery, around a curve, and past the police station, then Adele’s Ice Cream and the McDonald’s. At the next stop sign they turned right and were back on St. Alban’s. The circuit, about three miles, had taken less than fifteen minutes.
The view along St. Alban’s Bay Road was more open but no less pleasant, with Excelsior Bay on their left and St. Alban’s Bay on their right. They went onto a two-lane bridge over the narrow link between them. Some people had already put their boats in the water, though it was a little early for pleasure sailing. Over the bridge was a yacht and boat sales and repair company, then a row of mixed small cottages and bigger houses, some hidden behind hedges, others open, with grass showing green and tulips budding. The trees on either side had leaves almost big enough to hide their branches. Betsy sniffed, testing the spring air, but the car had a strong aroma of its own, an unpleasant combination of gasoline, kerosene, and hot oil. But now, quite suddenly, the scent of gasoline was overwhelming. She turned to ask Lars about it and saw the look of alarm forming on his face.
He shut the throttle down and began to brake. “I hope this isn’t what I think it is,” he muttered. He reached for a valve knob, pulling onto the narrow, sloping shoulder, fighting the wheel one-handed as the tires gripped hard at the loose gravel.
As they slowed nearly to a stop, he turned to say, “Get-” but was interrupted by an enormous fiery explosion. Betsy flung her arms up and screamed. Smoke, dark flames, and gas fumes filled the air.
The fat oval hood was standing up, and black smoke was pouring out. Betsy was standing in the middle of the road looking at the car, with no memory of climbing down.
And then there were people running toward them.
A car going by swerved sharply to miss Betsy. It pulled onto the shoulder and the man driving it got out and ran toward them, his face alarmed. A passenger got out, cell phone to his ear, gesturing as he spoke.
Betsy suddenly realized she was deaf.
But she felt no pain. She was not scattered in small pieces over the surrounding area. She was not on fire or even burned. Or bleeding.
Lars was standing behind the Stanley cranking down a valve. He was calm, intact, and not on fire.
In fact, the car seemed to be intact, the smoke almost cleared away.
“What the hell happened?” shouted the driver of the stopped car as he came up to them, sounding to Betsy as if he were speaking from under a thick blanket. Lars said something back, which Betsy could not hear at all.
The man repeated his question, and Lars came out from behind the Stanley. “The pilot light went out!” he shouted.
Betsy began to laugh. It was a sick, hysterical laugh, and Lars hurried over to take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Hey!” he said. “Hey! Stop it!”
Betsy managed to stop, and put her hands on Lars’s arms to make him quit shaking her. “I-I’m oh-okay,” Betsy managed between teeth that were suddenly chattering. Her touch on Lars turned to a grasp, as her knees began to give way.
Several people came close, and one said, “Shall I call 911?”
Everyone’s voice was becoming audible, if muffled. Betsy touched one ear with the palm of her hand.
The man with the cell phone said, “I already did!”
“What did you do that for?” demanded Lars angrily.
Betsy heard a sound and turned back toward town. Was that the volunteer fire department siren? By the way
