LAP: 120 OF 120.

Jason awoke - to the sound of ecstatically cheering crowds...and to someone banging on his helmet.

It was the Bug hammering on his helmet, trying to rouse him.

As for the crowd, they seemed to be cheering: 'We love the Buuuuug! We love the Buuuuug!'

Jason was sitting in the Argonaut, but it was stationary now - caught in a Dead Zone - hovering above the low waves of the East River, but past the Finish Line.

Jason looked about himself in astonishment - he had no recollection of how he had got from Liberty's Elbow to the

Finish Line.

Then he saw an action replay on a giant-screen TV on the riverbank: saw the Argonaut blast out of the Elbow, levelling out of its high-banking turn ahead of the Vizir, and roar past the camera.

And there, depicted in glorious slow-motion on the television image, leaning over Jason from behind, clutching at the Argonaut's steering wheel, guiding the car over the last few hundred metres, was the one student at the International Race School who had survived a 9-G banking turn.

The Bug.

More than that, the Argonaut had retained its speed from the turn (evidently, despite losing consciousness, Jason had kept leaning on his thrusters), and with the Bug at the controls, it had outrun Trouveau to the Brooklyn Bridge!

The Argonaut, with its pilot unconscious and its navigator leaning over him to steer, had won the d.a.m.n race!

Now the Bug was smiling broadly. He explained to Jason what had happened.

'I what?' Jason asked. 'I kept all our thrusters on, even after I knocked myself out?'

The Bug nodded, added something.

'You could say that,' Jason replied. 'You could say I wanted to win this race really badly.'

The points immediately went up on the leaderboard.

10 points for Jason.

8 for Trouveau.

6 for Fabian, who took 3rd place easily.

4 for the Australian Skaife - a fine effort, but not enough to take him to the final round.

And a most unusual 2 points for Alessandro Romba, for his 5th placing; while the USAF pilot, Carver, got zero for coming 6th.

And suddenly, with the two USAF pilots both scoring no points at all and the overall leader scoring poorly, the scoreboard told a new tale: LIBERTY MANHATTAN THE THE TOTAL.

DRIVER CAR SUPERSPRINT GATE RACE PURSUIT QUEST POINTS.

1. ROMBA, A (1) 10 6 2 18.

Lockheed-Martin Racing 2. FABIAN (17) 9 7 6 22.

Team Renault 3. TROUVEAU, E (40) 8 3 8 19.

Team Renault 4. CARVER, A (24) 7 10 0 17.

USAF Racing 5. LEWICKI, D (23) 6 9 DNF 15.

USAF Racing 6. SKAIFE, M (102) 5 4 4 13.

GM Factory Team 7. Ha.s.sAN, R (2) 4 0 0 4.

Lockheed-Martin Racing 8. REIN, D (45) 3 1 X 4.

Boeing-Ford Team 9. CHOW, A (38) 2 DNF X 2.

China State Racing 10. REITZE, R (51) 1 2 X 3.

Porsche Racing 11. RIVIERA, P (12) 0 5 DNF 5.

Lombardi Racing Team 12. CHASER, J (55) 0 8 10 18.

Lombardi Racing Team 13. REITZE, H (50) DNF X X.

Porsche Racing 14. MARTINEZ, C (44) DNF X X.

Boeing-Ford Team 15. PETERS, B (05) DNF X X.

GM Factory Team 16. IDEKI, K (11) DNF X X.

Yamaha Racing Team All of a sudden, Angus Carver had gone from leading on 17 points, to being eliminated on 17 points, while Fabian - wily Fabian - had shot up the scoreboard with his solid 6-point finish, surging into first place on 22 points, three points clear of his nearest rival, his teammate, Etienne Trouveau.

But most astonishing of all was Jason, who with his ma.s.sive 10-point bonanza, found himself on 18 points, and in the top four, leapfrogging three racers with one big jump. The Bug had been right: that final turn had made all the difference; 8 points would not have been enough.

Jason couldn't believe it.

His parents couldn't believe it.

The crowds couldn't believe it.

The commentators couldn't believe it.

Thanks to the Bug, the one and only Bug, the Argonaut was in the fourth and final race of the New York Masters.

CHAPTER SIX.

NEW YORK CITY, USA (SAt.u.r.dAY EVENING).

That evening, a silence fell on the New Jersey home of Jason's cousins.

After Team Argonaut's efforts in the Pursuit earlier that day, one would have expected an uproarious celebration, with champagne corks popping and soft drink spraying.

But no, that wasn't happening tonight.

The weight of it all had finally hit home; the magnitude of what Team Argonaut had achieved this week. After three ultra-tough pro-level races, tomorrow Jason, the Bug and Sally would be partic.i.p.ating in one of the most prestigious events in world racing - and also one of the most dangerous.

Everyone sat around the dinner table in contemplative silence: Jason, the Bug, Henry and Martha Chaser, the Chaser cousins, Sally McDuff and her family, and Ariel Piper.

Indeed, the silence - a grim hush of fear and awe - was deafening.

The only one who wasn't fazed by it all was Scott Syracuse, but then, he'd been here before in a professional capacity and so was used to the pressure.

'You know...' Syracuse said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, 'the other racers, they're only men.'Others in the room kept their heads bowed. Jason alone looked up at his teacher.

Syracuse shrugged. 'People see racers like Fabian and Romba, and they think they're superhuman. Men of steel. Bold champions who fly at astronomical speeds without fear or nerves. But they're not superheroes. Oh, no they're not. They are ordinary men, with fears and loves and weaknesses like you and me.

'This is why we love sportspeople - from Tiger Woods to Donald Bradman to Muhammad Ali - they handle a kind of pressure that most people cannot even imagine. They stand on a golf course or in a stadium or in a ring, with hundreds of thousands of viewers watching them and somehow their legs don't fall from under them. And then - then - they keep standing and, under all that scrutiny, they do what they have practised for so long and they do it well. That's why we love them. We think we would fail, and yet they don't. But that doesn't mean they aren't afraid.

'Jason, Bug, Sally. As your teacher, I've watched you develop this past year; watched you grow from young wide-eyed hopefuls with some talent...into racers. When you started with me, you were good. Now you are great. Great at your individual duties, and a great team - from going to lessons when you were too tired to think; to pitching in together to perform manual pit stops; to pushing your car over the Line; to the Bug taking over the steering when it was necessary.

'You're racers now. And believe me, you're ready for this. You may not think so, but as someone who knows racing, trust my judgement: you are ready to stand up in front of the world, and your legs will not fall out from under you. You've done the work, you have the skill and you most certainly have the desire. It's time for you to do what you came here to do: win the Masters.'

CHAPTER SEVEN.

NEW YORK CITY, USA (SUNDAY).

RACE 4: THE QUEST.

'Do you have it, Mum?' Jason asked as they arrived in the Sixth Avenue pits for the fourth and final race of the Masters series.

Martha Chaser opened her purse for him to see inside, and sure enough, there it was, his 'trophy' for the Quest.

The format of a quest race is simple: all racers head out from the Start-Finish Line to a faraway point, where they pick up their chosen trophy - it can be anything really, but usually racers choose something of significance to them: a medal they won once, perhaps, or their national flag.

Either way, the first racer to come back across the Start-Finish Line with his or her trophy in their possession wins. The twist comes in the journey itself - and the journey in the Masters' Quest was a particularly difficult one.

Typically, Jason's mother had fashioned a very appropriate trophy for Team Argonaut to use in Race 4.

'I think we have to give it to one of the officials,' Jason said, taking it from her.

As they reached their pit bay, he handed it to the race official who would transport all four racers' trophies to the farthest point of the Quest course.

The Argonaut sat in its pit bay, glistening, shining, waiting. It was as if the little blue-white-and-silver car was alive, energised, ready to go, stamping its hoofs in antic.i.p.ation of the challenge ahead of it today.

Jason eyed his car with pride, thinking of all they had been through together - from the Regional Championships in the swamps of Carpentaria, to his epic efforts at Race School: the gruelling tournament, taking on the Clashing Bergs in the final race; and now, his feats here in New York.

He patted the Argonaut's left wing.

'Well, car,' he said, 'here we are again. One more race, that's all I ask of you. One more race. Let's do it.'

And with a final pat, he strode away from the car to go and get suited up for the race.

He never saw the tiny explosive device - it was the size of a pinhead - attached to the tailfin of his beloved Argonaut.

It had been placed there during the night by a lightfingered hand...a hand that had paid off one of the security guards to gain access to the pit area...a hand that had laid a similar device on another Argonaut once before.