controls, armor plate, radio equipment, even the emergency systems."
Ruddick gulped. "Is that safe?"
"I don't believe in safety; I believe in winning races. Look at this."
Abe took them over where his men were reaming out existing holes in formers and boring new ones.
"You save a fraction of an ounce here, a fraction of an ounce there, pretty soon you save a pound. That means you need less fuel, so you save some more."
Milo kicked a soft amorphous bundle of rubber. "What's this?"
"It's the self-sealing fuel tanks. We don't need 'em, nobody will be shooting at us. We'll be putting in lightweight neoprene fuel cells from U.S. Rubber."
Waddling toward the wall, he said, "You wanna see a hunnert-pound saving—take a look at dis."
The Sidewinder's regular canopy was sitting on the floor; next to it was a lightweight Plexiglas bubble just larger than the pilot's head. Ruddick looked dubious.
"How will Bob be able to see out of this?"
"He's going to be out front—all he'll have to do is look straight ahead." Pride registered in the fat man's voice. "And if you think this is something, take a look at dis."
He led them to the wing, sitting forlornly on a dolly, the tips a jagged mass of metal.
"We've chopped six and a half feet off each side, gives it a wingspan of twenty-five feet, just about the same as the old Gee-Bees—but with three times the horsepower."
Coleman was no engineer, but he knew that clipping the wings cut down on both lift and drag.
"What's this going to do to stall speeds during the turns?"
"They're going up, Stan." Corrson's voice was contemptuous. "You don't get sumpin' for nuttin'. The guy that flies this is really going to have to be a pilot, not just a limp-wristed pylon pusher."
Ruddick gulped and asked again, "Is it going to be safe?"
Corrson quietly put down his tools, spat, and said, "Shit no, I tole you it ain't gonna be safe, it's gonna be fast. You want to win the fucking race, or you want to be safe?"
Seeing Ruddick's appalled expression, Corrson relented. "Look, it ain't all bad. I'm moving the radiators from the fuselage to these streamlined wingtip fairings. They'll act like endplates and make it easier to fly." He hesitated and said, "Easier than it looks now, anyway. And I'm changing to a thirty-six-volt electrical system; it'll pull the gear up right fast, and get your boy off to a quick lead."
Corrson's face split into a gap-toothed grin, as if he'd solved everybody's problems.
Coleman smiled back weakly. "Tell us about the engines, Abe."
"Hey, they're completely rebuilt. The Allison in a Sidewinder put out about thirteen-hundred horsepower with a three-bladed prop. This's got a four-bladed prop and a two-stage supercharger."
He patted the engine fondly, as if it were a favorite puppy. "This little devil will deliver twenty-eight hundred horsepower at sea level. We'll be pulling a hundred fifteen inches of manifold pressure at thirty-three fifty rpm, running on a special Shell triptane fuel."
Ruddick poked around the piles of parts for a while, then walked out shaking his head, Coleman trailing behind. Turning, Ruddick asked, "Tell me the truth, Stan—is it safe for Bob to fly this thing? I don't want him killed."
"Don't worry, Milo, I'm not going to let Bob get into trouble. He's been practicing in the stock Sidewinders, and doing real good. Today's he's flying practice laps on the race course Troy had laid out—fifteen miles long, four pylons. He's due back about now—let's go down to the operations office and wait for him."
"Well, no offense, Stan, but I'm going to get a second opinion."
Coleman felt relief—he didn't like being on the hook. "Good idea; get somebody to look the racers over, maybe have them fly with Bob. That's the way to go."
"Don't say anything to Bob about this. I don't want to spook him. I'll work it in sometime after the racers are ready to go. Understand?"
"Gotcha."
*
Washington, D.C./July 16, 1948
"Honest to God, Bandy, I don't know
Ruddick gulped. "Is that safe?"
"I don't believe in safety; I believe in winning races. Look at this."
Abe took them over where his men were reaming out existing holes in formers and boring new ones.
"You save a fraction of an ounce here, a fraction of an ounce there, pretty soon you save a pound. That means you need less fuel, so you save some more."
Milo kicked a soft amorphous bundle of rubber. "What's this?"
"It's the self-sealing fuel tanks. We don't need 'em, nobody will be shooting at us. We'll be putting in lightweight neoprene fuel cells from U.S. Rubber."
Waddling toward the wall, he said, "You wanna see a hunnert-pound saving—take a look at dis."
The Sidewinder's regular canopy was sitting on the floor; next to it was a lightweight Plexiglas bubble just larger than the pilot's head. Ruddick looked dubious.
"How will Bob be able to see out of this?"
"He's going to be out front—all he'll have to do is look straight ahead." Pride registered in the fat man's voice. "And if you think this is something, take a look at dis."
He led them to the wing, sitting forlornly on a dolly, the tips a jagged mass of metal.
"We've chopped six and a half feet off each side, gives it a wingspan of twenty-five feet, just about the same as the old Gee-Bees—but with three times the horsepower."
Coleman was no engineer, but he knew that clipping the wings cut down on both lift and drag.
"What's this going to do to stall speeds during the turns?"
"They're going up, Stan." Corrson's voice was contemptuous. "You don't get sumpin' for nuttin'. The guy that flies this is really going to have to be a pilot, not just a limp-wristed pylon pusher."
Ruddick gulped and asked again, "Is it going to be safe?"
Corrson quietly put down his tools, spat, and said, "Shit no, I tole you it ain't gonna be safe, it's gonna be fast. You want to win the fucking race, or you want to be safe?"
Seeing Ruddick's appalled expression, Corrson relented. "Look, it ain't all bad. I'm moving the radiators from the fuselage to these streamlined wingtip fairings. They'll act like endplates and make it easier to fly." He hesitated and said, "Easier than it looks now, anyway. And I'm changing to a thirty-six-volt electrical system; it'll pull the gear up right fast, and get your boy off to a quick lead."
Corrson's face split into a gap-toothed grin, as if he'd solved everybody's problems.
Coleman smiled back weakly. "Tell us about the engines, Abe."
"Hey, they're completely rebuilt. The Allison in a Sidewinder put out about thirteen-hundred horsepower with a three-bladed prop. This's got a four-bladed prop and a two-stage supercharger."
He patted the engine fondly, as if it were a favorite puppy. "This little devil will deliver twenty-eight hundred horsepower at sea level. We'll be pulling a hundred fifteen inches of manifold pressure at thirty-three fifty rpm, running on a special Shell triptane fuel."
Ruddick poked around the piles of parts for a while, then walked out shaking his head, Coleman trailing behind. Turning, Ruddick asked, "Tell me the truth, Stan—is it safe for Bob to fly this thing? I don't want him killed."
"Don't worry, Milo, I'm not going to let Bob get into trouble. He's been practicing in the stock Sidewinders, and doing real good. Today's he's flying practice laps on the race course Troy had laid out—fifteen miles long, four pylons. He's due back about now—let's go down to the operations office and wait for him."
"Well, no offense, Stan, but I'm going to get a second opinion."
Coleman felt relief—he didn't like being on the hook. "Good idea; get somebody to look the racers over, maybe have them fly with Bob. That's the way to go."
"Don't say anything to Bob about this. I don't want to spook him. I'll work it in sometime after the racers are ready to go. Understand?"
"Gotcha."
*
Washington, D.C./July 16, 1948
"Honest to God, Bandy, I don't know
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