9~

"Yes, send a cab over to the parking lot of the Crystal Cove Convention Center. Four C, yes, and please, hurry," Doctor Spring said into his cell phone, then he leaned against his car and pocketed the phone.

Sitting on the trunk nearby, was his most prized possession on this entire trip, a boxy, sensor unit from Sundial, full of money-making data he collected on his sojourns through town. Piles of cash filled the doctor's mind with the completion of this caper. There was only the cab to wait for.

From where he waited, he saw a familiar, but ragged, group shuffle with some haste out of the main entrance of the center, heading for the vast parking lot.

"Hey!" Spring called out, when it looked like the Rottens were going to pass him by. "Did you remove our mutual threat?"

The group, still bound by Fondoo's wayward spell, shuffled over to the doctor.

"We had to remove ourselves from the act," the magician reported. "Security was crawling all over the place."

"Why are you still here?" Dread asked.

"We thought ya hauled tail, long ago," Daisy added.

Spring almost felt embarrassed for saying so, but told them, "My car broke down. I'm waiting for a cab. Ugh, this is last time I rent from a guy named Flim-"

His attention was diverted upon seeing a second group of people coming from around the back of the building in a run, a camera crew hot on their heels.

"The Racers!" he warned them. "They followed you!" He reached over and grabbed the white, boxy device from the trunk lid, and held it protectively.

The Racers, Marcie and Jason surrounded Spring and the Rottens, and at that moment, the spell wore off, and the Rottens separated in a fall.

"Indivisible, indeed," muttered Fondoo, standing again.

"Don't try to run, you guys," Marcie exclaimed. "Sheriff Stone and his men are on their way here."

"Try to run?" Spring asked in a self-satisfied purr. "My dear girl, why ever would I try to run?"

"Uh, because you tried to run earlier." she answered.

The doctor chuckled and waved it off. "Remember when I said I had quite a way out? Well, my dear, even though my plans may look thwarted by you meddlesome kids, the brilliant thing about time travel-"

He turned the device over in his hands and pressed a fat, red button marked RECALL.

To everyone's eyes, the impossible had occurred. A gleaming white robot, with golden trim and the Sundial logo, a stylized sundial embossed on its chest, flashed into existence. It was easily as large as an office building, and took up space where it stood on both the sidewalk and the street.

"-is that you can always start over again!" Spring finished for effect.

Although mostly Racer and Rotten was struck dumb by the arrival of this imposing machine, Professor Pending, Marcie and Jason, spurred on, more by scientific fascination, at the moment, than fear of their impending deaths, found their voices.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jason incredulously asked Marcie.

"I think so!" Marcie answered back. "T.H.R.O.B.A.C! Tampered History-"

"Rectifying Observational-" Jason chimed in agreement.

"Base And Combatant! Yes!" the professor finished, overhearing the two.

Clyde Barrel spoke up. "What's does all dat mean, Professa?"

Pat answered soberly. "It's a giant war robot that travels through time."

"I read in The Geekly Weekly that it was built to observe and fix any historical errors that would crop up due to Sundial's excessive time travel. It was still in the prototype stage," Marcie said. "I guess crushing us will be its first field test!"

Spring turned to Dread, pressing another button his device, and giving him a pitying smile. "Did you really think I went through the trouble of helping you, just so you could have a new show?"

Dread said, simply, "Yes."

As the robot kneeled in the street and brought out its industrial-strength hand to carefully hold Spring, the man laughed, full and loud.

"You moron. I just needed the Wacky Racers and you criminals goons to trip all over yourselves as cover to keep everybody from noticing me, while I took my readings and gave Sundial false reports to keep them happy. With this new real-time data I've collected, my client will double, or even triple my fee!"

The robot brought the cradling hand up to its head, a huge, bubble-domed, gyroscopically stable cockpit. The dome swung back, and Spring let himself fall into the wide seat below. As the canopy closed again, the doctor took his remote control/sensor unit and inserted it into a wide holding slot in the instrument dashboard.

Spring then put on a headset, and lined the mic up with his cheek.

"When T.H.R.O.B.A.C's Hour Tower builds up enough power," Spring's voice boomed from the robot's external speakers. "I'll go back in time before I ever met you Really Rockheads, and just play history out without your presence. Everything that's happening now, will be undone, and you kids won't have the chance to interfere, if there's no mystery to be solved. My plan to sell my data should be even more streamlined, then!"

With that, the robot straightened back to its impressive height and stood there, waiting. The only sound punctuating the moment was the faint and growing hum of its internal time machine, or Hour Tower, powering up.

Peter turned to his fellow Racers.

"If he gets away, everything he and these Rottens have perpetrated will no longer exist, but Doctor Spring will still be able to get away with his ill-gotten gain. We cannot allows this! For our good name, for the Red Max, and yes, even for Dick Dastardly. Racers! Stop that blackguard!"

With a roar of righteous indignation and agreement, the rest of the Wacky Racers, Marcie and Jason ran to their cars in the lot.

Dread turned to the Rottens. "The doc stabbed us in the back, Rottens. So, let's show him what a really rotten backstab feels like!"

With a similar roar for destruction, vengeance and hopefully, some bloodshed, the Really Rottens...ran to their cars.

The Racers were about to split up and man their vehicles, when they saw the Rottens split up and head for cars they hadn't noticed or seen before. In spite of the situation, the Racers, as a whole, slowed down, and watched the Rottens become the Racers they schemed so hard to be.

Daisy jogged over to a light candy apple green and dark green dune buggy hot rod, its front dominated by a huge intake scoop coming out of the hood, a lower suspension, and a rear end so high, to accept the huge, wide back tires it sported, that one could clearly see the custom shock absorbers underneath that raised it.

Daisy hopped in the driver's seat, and noticed Penelope staring at the hotrod, while Sooey clambered into the front passenger seat.

"Cain't take ya eyes of it, huh?" she asked cockily, turning the key and hearing the engine growl. "It's muh baby, the Backwoods Bombshell, an ethanol-burnin' street beast. Maybe after we Rottens take care o' this mess, I'll blow thuh doors off o' yor Alleycat, there."

"Challenge accepted, anytime, Mayhem," Penelope nodded before heading to the Pussycat.

Pat Pending was intrigued at the sleek, low, black sports car with crimson trim running along its sides, and that the fact that it belonged to Fondoo.

The magician and rabbit assistant gracefully got in, and Fondoo laughed at the professor's attention.

"You're not the only one who can change the odds for a win, Professor!" The Great Fondoo exclaimed, tapping his wand to the dashboard.

A huge cloud of purplish-blue smoke exploded around the car, consuming it. When the smoke cleared Fondoo and Magic Rabbit were sitting on a night-black flying carpet with red tassels surrounding it. Another tap of the wand on the carpet, another explosion of purplish-blue smoke, and the car appeared again.

"Say hello to the Abra-car-dabra!" said Fondoo proudly. He touched the wand against the steering wheel and the car smoothly started up.

The Daltons marched over to a dark brown and sand-colored monster truck, adorned in a longhorn steer's skull on the hood, that towered over every other car in the lot.

Dirty and Dastardly pulled the chains to the swing-out ladders that were hinged to the undercarriage of the cab, and climbed to the driver and passenger seats of the truck, while Dinky opened the rear door to the cargo bed and climbed in.

Since Dinky could never fit in the cab, accommodations were made for him in the rear. Dinky grabbed a metal ring handle on the floor of the bed and pulled, opening and extending a padded chair, as wide as a typical backseat, built into a well in the floor.

As he made himself comfortable, his brothers whooped when the engine roared.

"Let's see y'all try ta pass the Hustlin' Rustler!" Dirty yelled over the engine noise. "Y'all'll wind up with horns where da sun don't shine!"

The Creepleys and their pet, almost unnoticed, slinked into what could charitably be called their family car. An odd, eye-catching mélange of extreme hot rod engineering, sport utility vehicle foundations, and horror themes, packaged in a garish green and black paint job, the car, identified by its vanity plates as the RIP-SUV, revved its engine, scaring bats out of the rear passenger area's windows.

A lone blood-red sports car, sporting blue-black accents and unobtrusive panels that hid nasty things, was parked a distance from the other strange cars. Its owner, the Dread Baron walked to it.

He absently stroked the smooth fender. It would be the first time he would put his car, the Coupe Devil, through its paces, and without Mumbly by his side. To do unto the Racers, and then have it done unto them. Was it worth it, this whole scheme?

"If we get out of this, I'll bring you back, Mumbly," Dread said to himself as he slid into the deep driver's seat. "My vow."

He turned the key, and the Devil snarled into life.

As the Racers leaped into their vehicles, Marcie went to her convertible, Jason following close behind.

She started the car up and backed out of the parking lot, nervously watching the robotic colossus still standing on the curb, unmoving, not attacking. Then she took off, leaving downtown.

"Where are we going?" Jason asked.

"The sheriff let the Red Max go. I think he's going to want to help his friends, and if so, he's going to need his car. And a little something else," Marcie explained on her way to police headquarters.


All of the cars peeled out of the parking lot moments before T.H.R.O.B.A.C., under an impatient Spring, strode in to crush them all underfoot.

The cars drove up the now deserted street. Traffic, having seen the towering machine, back up and stopped a few blocks away from the convention center. Local news helicopters maintained holding patterns, reporting the chaotic state of things happening in downtown Crystal Cove.

The Racers and Rottens gathered two blocks from the center, waiting for Spring to make his next move. They could feel the tremors through the floorboards of their vehicles when T.H.R.O.B.A.C. ponderously walked out of the parking lot and slowly marched towards them.

Sergeant Blast slumped in his seat in the Special's turret. The venom made him so weak, weaker than he ever felt, which, to him, was rare. But he was in his seat, sitting on serious firepower, and it was high time the crazy doctor found that out.

He lightly pulled the yoke that controlled aim, and the turret gradually rotated until it was lined up on-target, more or less, due to his lack of focus. Then he squeezed the trigger, having to hunch and grunt in effort to do it.

The cannon roared at the robot, and the raw impact and power of the shell detonated against the shin armor T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s right leg, caving it in, and blowing a devastating gash inside, effectively crippling it.

The robot's internal gyroscopic compensation, however, did its job, shifting angle and weight to the good leg and rerouting motive power to it, as well.

T.H.R.O.B.A.C. raised an arm and made a fist. A missile pod extended up from the back of its hand, and the doctor fired one locked-on missile at the Army Surplus Special.

The missile streaked to the car's position, forcing Meekly to gun it in reverse at almost the last minute.

The resultant crater in the asphalt and the pressure wave from the blast nearly upended the combat vehicle from the miss, and set off every car alarm in the area.

Meekly shook his head slowly, trying to clear it of the head-crunching force of the shock wave. He looked up and called out to his CO. There was only silence above him.

He climbed up to the turret, and saw the sergeant laid back in his seat, already weakened from the poison, and now unconscious from the blast.

Meekly turned to call out to the other Racers. "I'm going to take the Sarge out of here. Rip that tin can apart!"

A shout of affirmatives followed the tank-like Special's wake as it trundled further up the street to safety and, hopefully, medical aid.

"Blast's been blasted by the blast," Spring crowed through the robot's external speakers. "Anyone else feeling alliterative?"

In the Arkansas Chugabug, something, too, was happening. Luke was getting angry.

"My gran'pappy served in the Great War. Ain't no way fer a civilian ta treat an enlisted man," Luke simmered. "Blubber, get ready to take the wheel, boy!"

The bear began to wonder what Luke was planning to do, but when the moonshine jug came out from the space under the crude dashboard, and Luke stuffed a dirty piece of cloth down into the jug's neck, he knew what was going to happen.

The Chugabug tore down the street, narrowly swerving away from missiles as it closed with the robot, particularly, its injured leg.

Luke stood up in front of the sole rocking chair seat that he and Blubber shared, as the bear reached forward to take the wheel.

With wind in his greasy hair, heart pounding, and indignation motivating his every near-suicidal action, the hillbilly lit the rag of his moonshine Molotov cocktail, and then, giving a wail of a rebel yell that almost sounded supernatural, he threw the bomb into the hole made by Blast's shot.

As Blubber made a bootlegger turn behind T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s heel and jetted out from between the robot's feet, the inner components of the right leg badly caught fire.

The internal fire suppression systems were fighting a pitched battle with the inferno raging in the limb, and the doctor cursed at the drivers, as T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s limp became more pronounced, its maneuverability became more labored, and electronic systems connected to the leg began to fail.

Heartened by Luke's attack, the Racers and the Rottens, as one mind, put aside their mutual animosity, and decide to attack as one.

The Rotten Racers.

The Compact Pussycat and the Backwoods Bombshell pulled ahead of the pack. From the dashboard monitors of both cars, a targeting reticule moved and swayed up to the cockpit of T.H.R.O.B.A.C. When the reticules flashed in the red, both women depressed a firing button near their monitors.

The Pussycat's trunk opened and a small launch rack holding two missiles extended from its depths.

From the Bombshell, its backseat split in two, and the two halves opened like silo doors, revealing a similar rack of twin missiles rising from the car.

Both pairs of missile flew from the cars before Spring could initiate electronic countermeasures, and he had to duck as the projectiles' warheads punched through the canopy without shattering it.

Spring fearfully lifted his head to see the missiles sticking out of the canopy, like the radians of a crown. Were they duds? he wondered.

The explosions that came from the warheads, answered his question, suddenly, but, surprisingly, he felt no pain.

At least, not to his body, overall. Only his eyes and his lungs.

The cockpit was filled with the combined blasts of pressurized powder that was freed from the warheads. In his agony, he could smell what was assaulting him so.

"Talcum...powder..." Spring choked in surprise. "and...tobacco dust?"

Sitting up again and fighting to see the controls, he managed to move T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s arm and hand to pluck the spent missiles from the damaged canopy, but couldn't see well enough to steer, and so, the robot lost balance against it near-ruined leg, and fell to its hands and knees in a thunderous crash.

With the canopy cleared of obstructions, Spring opened it to clear the smoke away. As his vision became better, he saw Rufus' Buzzwagon literally tear up the street, heading for him.

The logger drove his wooden car up onto the back of the missile-loaded hand, then the articulated wrist, and then, incredibly, up the near-vertical lengths of the arm. The teeth of his sawblade wheels clawing into the armor and giving it purchase, just as it ripped and tore length-long scars into said armor, destroying its integrity.

When he reached the summit of the arm, its shoulder, Rufus stopped the car, slammed one foot on the brake, and smashed the other on the gas pedal, hard, the "tires" carving a deep, damaging gash into the shoulder joint and associated linkages. He then drove haphazardly down the arm's length before T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s surviving arm raised its hand and tried to crush the driver.

When Rufus and Sawtooth were clear, Dread drove up to make his attack run. He pressed a glowing red button on his steering wheel, popping open two hatches in the car's forward trunk and revealing two lean machine guns.

A tiny thumb wheel built into the steering wheel swiveled the guns, and when they were lined up with the ripped open arm, Dread squeezed the grip of the steering wheel, unleashing a barrage of incendiary bullets that drove into the stricken limb, exploding and destroying its innards.

Spring gritted his teeth as damage reports from the monitors in front of him flashed news worse than what he surmised from seeing the destruction with his own eyes.

Still, he managed to scramble to the canopy controls and slammed it closed when he saw the Slag Brothers and the Ant Hill Mob drive up to the machine, throwing their petrified wooden clubs, and opening fire with their Tommy guns, cracking the high-visibility dome badly.

The Hustlin' Rustler ran idle literally behind the robot's...behind, its longhorn steer skull lifted to reveal the nozzle of a concealed and protected flamethrower. With a flick of a switch, a stream of fire scorched T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s posterior.

The Convert-a-Car drifted to the back of the still kneeling robot, transforming into a mech-spider with magnetic legs and drill bit feet, which it used to climb up the back of one of the robot's legs, until it stood on T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s back, while the robot clumsily tried to stand again.

At Pat's command, the bits in the car's two forward legs bored deep into the robot's back, shredding conduits that supplied signal traffic to the hard-working gyros, causing the robot to lurch, its back, smoking.

The doctor struggled to control the robot, to shake the pest loose, as monitors and function lights winked on and off, due to intermittent failure and electrical burnout creepage.

He may have known about its features and functions, but he realized, ruefully, that it was downright risky, if not reckless, to engage the drivers below with only his rudimentary knowledge on how to pilot T.H.R.O.B.A.C.

He had hoped that the robot's weapons and sturdy, albeit untested, construction would make up for it, but the cars and their more aggressively experienced drivers continued to circle and pick their opportunities to strike, using hit and run attacks to whittle the mechanical giant's strength away with a ruthless effectiveness that would have made pack hunters proud.

At the moment, however, its struggling sturdiness was the only thing keeping it together, as a desperate Dr. Spring had T.H.R.O.B.A.C. try to stand using its one good arm to hold and prop up against a nearby shop, demolishing it under its weight, as it stood.

Of the surviving monitors that Spring studied, one finally gave him the hope he needed to get through this surprisingly one-sided battle. The Hour Tower was a hair's breadth from being completely charged.

"Yes! Good thing I didn't use the energy weapons and drain the charge," Spring breathed relievedly. Then he flipped the switch to the external speakers.

"Wacky Racers! Really Rottens! You all failed! You may have done my T.H.R.O.B.A.C. considerable damage, but it's too little, too late! Nothing will hinder my escape now. Better luck...next time!"

A still-working proximity sensor warned of approaching vehicles. The doctor turned to the direction they were coming from, up the street.

Marcie's VW convertible sped towards the immense automaton, standing between her and the pack of cars gathered on the other side of T.H.R.O.B.A.C.

Spring almost smiled at her approach. She could do nothing to him, except sadly watch him slip safely into the past, in the next few moments.

Suddenly the doctor frowned in concern at the sight of the second vehicle following hers. An earthbound warplane that bounded in higher and higher arcs, as it speed increased.

Maximillian Von Doofliger flew towards his opponent in ever increasing heights, hungry for vengeance.

The Crimson Haybaler's engine and propeller made a roar of effort he had never heard before, as he gripped the steering wheel, and held his foot down on the accelerator, pushing the hybrid to the breaking point to build up the speed, and therefore, the lift necessary to fly high enough to dive down Doctor Spring's throat.

"Did you stop him?" Marcie asked the combined group of Racers and Rottens after she parked near them.

"We did as much damage as we could," Daisy said to her. "But dat thing's tuffer an' meaner than my ol' man on a bender."

"It's that tough?" asked Jason, worryingly.

"In that case," Marcie fretted. "I hope my little gift to Max will be enough."

Daisy turned a quizzical eye to the teen. "Whut gift?"

"You're too late, Max!" the taunt came from T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s speakers. The doctor directed the machine to activate the missile pod in its ruined arm, reach over with its good arm, and lift it up, awkwardly trying to point the whole limb at the leaping Haybaler.

Missiles flew from the arm without the benefit of working fire control software, capriciously striking around the evasively hopping hybrid, putting craters in the street and blasting holes in buildings that flanked it.

The Red Max answered fire with fire, opening up with the Haybaler's machine guns at long range, perforating the already weakened canopy, shattering it and blasting Spring back against his seat in an agonizing maelstrom of whirling high-impact polymer shards.

Marcie and Jason braced themselves upon hearing the reports of projectiles and bullets up ahead. Then, they turned, as did everyone else, to the sound of diesel engines and determination.

To the cheers of those assembled, the Army Surplus Special rumbled back into the battle, like the war machine that was its inspiration, again, driven by Private Meekly. The turret above was ominously empty.

The vehicle kept rolling until it stopped far ahead of the cluster of parked cars. Then Meekly jumped out of the jeep section of the hybrid, and scrambled up into the turret.

The private first class rotated the gun as fast as he could, to capitalize on the doctor's preoccupation with Max, aiming the cannon directly at the two smoking holes in the giant's back.

"For you, Sarge," Meekly whispered, then squeezed the trigger.

The shell bolted from the muzzle, striking the back and ripping it open with enough force to almost lift T.H.R.O.B.A.C. off its feet.

Marcie reacted upon seeing the powerful glowing, pulsing machine exposed in the robot's breached back.

"There it is! That's the Hour Tower!" she exclaimed to the others. "We have to take that out!"

With that, The Great Fondoo magically transformed the Abra-car-dabra into a flying carpet once more, this time allowing Mrs. Creepley to board it. Then, it ascended.

At the same time, the Creepy Coupe rolled up behind the battling robot. From the high window of its belfry, the car's resident witch leaned out and pointed her wand at the sky directly over T.H.R.O.B.A.C.

Fondoo raised his wand and, likewise, aimed skyward, while Mrs. Creepley looked unexpectedly solemn, raising her thin arms to the heavens and chanting, profoundly.

Storm clouds grumbled, thickened and rolled overhead, and Fondoo, remembering, at last, how faulty his magic was, yelled out the word, lighting, instead of lightning. He felt foolish, but it worked, surprisingly.

The thunderclouds darkened and growled like a living beast, and suddenly, vicious thunderbolts lanced down towards T.H.R.O.B.A.C., but, either due to the exotic materials, or the power-hungry nature of the Hour Tower, the lightning didn't crash down upon Dr. Spring from his cockpit, killing him instantly, but curved and bent into the center of the robot's chest, causing the time machine within to incandesce like a nova.

The titan spasmed and stumbled like a drunkard from an overload of raw voltage, just as the Crimson Haybaler, vaulting as high as its weight and speed would allow, flew into a collision course with the colossus's broad plastron.

He spared seconds to mutter bitterly, "Auf Wiedershen."

The Red Max reached between his legs, grabbed the flask of mercury fulminate Marcie had given him, and hastily threw it high, end-over-end in a high, forceful arc towards the robot's chest.

The World War I ace then twisted the steering wheel to the side, executing a tight wing-over that had him narrowly sailing past the T.H.R.O.B.A.C., as the car's trajectory began to go earthward.

The flask impacted against the already tortured frame of T.H.R.O.B.A.C., detonating the compound, breaching through the armor, and coring the Hour Tower out of its ruptured, gaping back.

Marcie's, Racers' and Rottens' cars scattered out of the way of the falling machinery, and the time machine landed in the street, a tumbling, wrecked heap, before the Haybaler bounced and skidded to a stop.

Marcie, from her car, studied the horrible condition of the huge machine. She could only image the battle that was joined to defeat the greedy, malicious scientist, and despite all of the damage it received, she felt some pity for T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s designers and assemblers. It was a good bet that they didn't want to put it through the wringer like this.

Still, it was a prototype designed to defend again such hearty attacks. Maybe Sundial will learn from this and improve upon it in the robot's next iteration.

Then, impossibly, T.H.R.O.B.A.C. slowly turned, and Marcie and Jason looked at the monster in disbelief.

"You know," Marcie told Jason. "I won't be the least bit surprised if everyone turned their cars around, and didn't stop driving until they reach Needles. I'm certainly feeling tempted."

Then, T.H.R.O.B.A.C., finally giving up the proverbial ghost, ponderously fell to its knees, pulverizing the asphalt beneath them, and then tipped forward, descending like a felled tree, and spilling out, from the blighted cockpit, a screaming Doctor Maynard Spring.

Below, mere yards from where T.H.R.O.B.A.C. came to its rest, an unflappable Peter Perfect leaned over the nose of his Turbo Terrific, his foot on one of its small, front tires, calmly sipping a cup of tea.

He remained thus, even when he heard the cringeworthy sound of the wayward scientist falling bodily across the dragster's nose. He did, however, look up to see what hit his car, and sniffed disdainfully at the mess of a man.

"Let that be a warning to you, ruffian," Peter coolly chastised. "You mess with a Racer, or a Rotten, and you get wrecked. Now, please, get off my car. You're scuffing the finish."

Spring raised his head to give a reply, realized he was too tired to give it, and collapsed on the nose again.

From behind an untouched car, a safe distance from the action, the producer stood from his observational hiding place in back of the camera crew, looking very excited.

"TELL ME YOU GOT THAT!" he screamed, visions of prime-time Emmys dancing in his eyes.

The camera crew took their faces from their cameras and intoned together, "We got it."

The producer shrieked like a boy on Christmas morn. "YEAH!"

Marcie stepped out of her car upon seeing police cruisers coming up the street.

"Now they show up," she groused as Stone slowly drove up and surveyed the wreckage on the street, and the rest of the Racers swarmed the Crimson Haybaler, and welcomed the Red Max warmly back into the fold.

"Well, Mayor Nettles is going to be pulling her hair out coming up with the budget to fix this mess," Marcie commiserated to the sheriff while he parked.

"I'll tell her to bill it to those Sunbeam eggheads," Stone suggested as he stepped out of his cruiser. "Maybe it'll teach them to keep a better eye on their other...eggheads."

"Where were you, anyway?" she asked, annoyed. "You took forever to get here."

The sheriff ignored her stern gaze. "Well, you see, when we heard reports that a thirty foot robot was wreaking havoc downtown, I decided, as sheriff, that I could protect my men better, from heavy casualties, by leaving well enough alone."

He heard the girl's exasperated sigh as he walked over to the defeated Dr. Spring.

"Okay, pal," he said to him, pulling him off the Turbo Terrific to stand and be handcuffed. "Let's go. You won't be able to think your way outta this."

After putting Spring in the back of his car, he went back to Marcie, looking around the battlefield.

"Where's the rest of them?" he asked her. "Where are the Rottens?"

"Huh?" she, herself, asked, looking around, and not seeing a single Rotten in the street. "They must have flown the coop. I guess they they're on their way to Needles."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

Stone growled in annoyance at his own cowardice. Only he and the teens even noticed the Rottens' disappearance, so thankful were the Racers at having Max with them again. If he was here during the battle, he and his men could have kept a close eye on the perpetrators. Now, he'd have a hard time filling paperwork and explaining the Rottens' absence.

Marcie leaned against her convertible and heard Jason tell her, "That was a good idea, driving back to the house and getting the mercury fulminate."

Marcie shrugged. "I figured Max would need all the firepower he could get."

"Uh, did I hear him say you drove a car, just now?" Stone asked, overhearing.

"Yeah," she said. "This is my car."

"Really?" Stone asked, genuinely surprised to see a bookwork like her with her own set of wheels. "And just how old are you?"

"Seventeen. Got my licence not too long ago. Why?"

Stone stood his usually stiff way, all business, and said. "Licence and registration, please?"

Marcie was a bit taken aback by all of this. She knew it was his job to ask, but it seemed such a bother, right now.

"Don't worry, Sheriff, I have my licence with me," Marcie sighed, waving the concern away. "I wouldn't be dumb enough to just get my licence, and not have it with me."

Marcie checked her pockets, and there was no card. She patted herself, and the longer she couldn't feel the card, the more nervous she got.

"I've got everything under the sun in there, but not my licence?" she asked herself, irritably.

"Jason," she called into the car. "Do you see my licence in there?"

The portly teen checked the driver's side floor, the sun visors, and the glove compartment.

"I don't see it, Marcie," he told her. "Sorry."

Marcie found herself laughing nervously and not wanting to, knowing how this was going to end for her.

"Wow, uh, I guess I must have left it at home."

Stone leaned into her car and said to Jason, calmly, "Son, I think you better inform Miss Fleach's father of the situation. She might not be home for dinner tonight."

Marcie glum expression was rivaled only by the smile Bronson Stone gave her in smug triumph.