Norman Spinrad

Stopa's machine was of a size and design appropriate to his station. Its engine seemed larger than the others and its chrome plating shone like a mirror. The steering bars were similarly chromed and worked in the likeness of the horns of some enormous ram; so huge were they that when Stopa mounted the motorcycle and gripped them, his fists were about the level of his head, his arms stretched out majestically to their full length. The panniers of the motorcycle were enameled in jet black, and affixed to the side of each was a chromium death's head of the sort Stopa wore about his neck. The petrol tank was also black, embellished on either side with twin red lightning strokes. The black leather seat was of a size that easily accommodated two, with room to spare for Feric's bag.

At the rear of the motorcycle rose twin chromed fins worked in the likeness of an eagle's wings. A great silver eagle's head was affixed to the front wheel guard; an electric globe shone forth from its shrieking beak.

As Feric climbed aboard, Stopa kicked the mighty engine into life with one powerful application of his steel-shod boot to the starting lever. Through the seat, Feric could feel the throb of the engine between his thighs.

Stopa turned half-around, and smiled wolfishly at Feric.

"Hang on for your life," he said. Then, shouting above the din to his men: "We ride!"

With a surge that fairly took Feric's breath away, and an ear-shattering bellow, Stopa's motorcycle shot forward, leaned over at'a perilous angle, swirled about in a 60

tight turn, and headed back down the road toward the gully already doing at least forty miles an hour. What a machine! What a rider! What a storm troop these Avengers would make!

Feric craned his neck around and saw that the other cyclists were following Stopa in a tightly packed if somewhat ragged horde, with Bogel, his face ghostly pale, his eyes all but shut, clinging for dear life to the seat of the machine directly behind Stopa's. Feric laughed wildly into the breeze of passage. What dash these vehicles had, what a fine impression they made en masse! All that was lacking was uniformity and order.

Upon reaching the gully that led off into the Wood, Stopa did not hesitate, indeed hardly slackened speed. The motorcycle leaped off the paved roadway and onto the rough forest track and dashed off through the great dark sylvan corridors with the entire troop howling close behind it.

There followed a wild ride through the dark woods and over the irregular forest floor the like of which Feric would not have imagined in the most extravagant fancy.

Careening at exhilarating speed through the random aisles between the trees, bouncing and sliding over roots and rocks and all manner of underbrush, Stopa guided his steed with a sure instinct and a sense of dash and spirit that succeeded in putting Feric totally at his ease. It seemed as if destiny guided the motorcycle and Stopa on some level was aware of this; machine, rider, and passenger were a juggernaut of fate—swift, sure, unstoppable.

Though it seemed almost at every moment that the motorcycle would dash itself to pieces against some great looming tree or be flung headlong by a rock or pit or root, Feric was able to relax and enjoy the feeling of power and danger, the wind in his face, the mighty throb of the engine beneath him.

Indeed, he felt a certain regret when, after an hour or so of this demon's ride, Stopa turned onto a rude path which a few minutes later debouched into a treeless hollow between two deeply wooded hills in which stood what was obviously the Avengers' camp.

A dozen or so huts were scattered about the clearing in no particular order. They were small, primitive affairs; a few of the finer specimens boasted tin doors and small windows appropriated from wrecked steamers and gas cars.

There was one larger such hut, and two big sheds pieced together from rusty steel sheeting. Directly behind this 61

small settlement was the mouth of a cave where a beaten path and scattered bits of debris gave evidence of human habitation. All in all a squalid camp that indicated only primitive knowledge of the builder's art.

Stopa drove into the center of the encampment and brought his machine to a halt with a flourish, spinning it about in its own length as he kicked down the stand and cut the engine, so that it finished upright in a cloud of dust. Moments later, the others brought up their motorcycles in similar style.

Feric dismounted the moment the cycle halted and even before Stopa himself could step down, so as to deprive the Avenger leader of either forbidding him to do so or giving him the order. For his part, Stopa seemed to ignore the significance of this gesture. He simply dismounted, placed his hands on his hips, and glowered at his men while they climbed down from their machines and formed a rough semi-circle facing their leader. A shaken and dazed Bogel wobbled forward out of this crew to Feric's side.