everything, so that if
one vehicle went, they could strip the others. It meant that from a total of three cars and several bike frames, they could
end up with five or six vehicles over a number of years—progressively uglier, no doubt, but there weren’t too many beauty
contests these days. He attached a chain to the engine, a Harley 1400cc, a little higher powered than his old bike but not
any larger in cubic feet. It was a slightly more advanced model that the major had picked up just months before the whole
ball game collapsed. It would soup the be up to higher acceleration and cruising speeds, though already he’d been near the
limit of his ability to hang on half the time. A more powerful be was a little hard to imagine.
He moved the mobile chain pulley and set the engine inside the bike and he quickly began welding it to the frame. Stone thanked
God now that he had spent three summers working in Sprague’s Auto Repair Shop. By the time he’d left to go to college, he
was one of the best mechanics in the place. Al himself had offered Stone a job starting at $250 per week. Not bad for a teenager.
Now there were hardly enough operating cars left in America to employ a full gar-age of mechanics. Times had changed. When
these were gone, there wouldn’t be any more.
Stone had to grab a visored mask and throw it over his head as the sparks began flying all around him in showers of white.
He felt dizzy from the fever. But the work, the movement, also got blood rushing through his veins, blood with healing antibodies
to fight infection, with fresh bone marrow to begin building new linkages of bone within his fractured leg. It felt good—just
to be alive after what he’d been through recently. Stone got the engine welded in place, then the transmission, all within
three hours. In another two, the seats, the weapons clamps—everything else—was in place as well.
Stone stood back and surveyed what he had wrought. It looked like a child that shouldn’t have been born. Like five different
bikes squeezed into one, which was just about the case. The wheels seemed a little too big, too wide, more like they should
be on a car. The seat was a good foot longer than his old one, as though it belonged to a bike twice as large. The bars pulled
up into the air semibiker style. All in all, it was a mechanical mutation that Evel Knievel would undoubtedly have been proud
of. Now all Stone had to do was give it some teeth.
He stopped off in the kitchen to get some coffee, and saw that the dog was at it again. It was hard for Stone to believe it
could want more, with its stomach already so swollen that it looked as if it had a huge cancerous tumor dragging all the way
down to the ground. But the dog was scrounging around the huge mess of rotting food that it had created the night before,
and sniffing as if it had pretensions to gourmethood. Every few seconds it leaned down and picked up a choice item—pickled
pear, chunk of spam, syrup-coated peach squirming around the floor like a rogue eyeball. Stone avoided the mess completely,
not even vaguely able to deal with cleaning it all up. Maybe if he just let the mutt lick away for a few more hours there
wouldn’t be anything left to clean.
He made himself a whole Thermos full of coffee and, sipping slowly, as it nearly scalded his lips, he headed down the hall
to the weapons room to see what he was going to turn a vehicle into a wagon with. His father had been no slouch in the armaments
department either. But then, being the president of a multinational munitions company didn’t hurt matters any. There was wall-to-wall,
floor to-ceiling steel shelving covered with crates filled with handguns and rifles, ammunition…and the bigger stuff as well.
Mortars, tripod-mounted .50 caliber machine guns that could pierce armor. And even bigger stuff than that—handheld rocket
launchers, the Luchaire 89mm missile system that Stone had
one vehicle went, they could strip the others. It meant that from a total of three cars and several bike frames, they could
end up with five or six vehicles over a number of years—progressively uglier, no doubt, but there weren’t too many beauty
contests these days. He attached a chain to the engine, a Harley 1400cc, a little higher powered than his old bike but not
any larger in cubic feet. It was a slightly more advanced model that the major had picked up just months before the whole
ball game collapsed. It would soup the be up to higher acceleration and cruising speeds, though already he’d been near the
limit of his ability to hang on half the time. A more powerful be was a little hard to imagine.
He moved the mobile chain pulley and set the engine inside the bike and he quickly began welding it to the frame. Stone thanked
God now that he had spent three summers working in Sprague’s Auto Repair Shop. By the time he’d left to go to college, he
was one of the best mechanics in the place. Al himself had offered Stone a job starting at $250 per week. Not bad for a teenager.
Now there were hardly enough operating cars left in America to employ a full gar-age of mechanics. Times had changed. When
these were gone, there wouldn’t be any more.
Stone had to grab a visored mask and throw it over his head as the sparks began flying all around him in showers of white.
He felt dizzy from the fever. But the work, the movement, also got blood rushing through his veins, blood with healing antibodies
to fight infection, with fresh bone marrow to begin building new linkages of bone within his fractured leg. It felt good—just
to be alive after what he’d been through recently. Stone got the engine welded in place, then the transmission, all within
three hours. In another two, the seats, the weapons clamps—everything else—was in place as well.
Stone stood back and surveyed what he had wrought. It looked like a child that shouldn’t have been born. Like five different
bikes squeezed into one, which was just about the case. The wheels seemed a little too big, too wide, more like they should
be on a car. The seat was a good foot longer than his old one, as though it belonged to a bike twice as large. The bars pulled
up into the air semibiker style. All in all, it was a mechanical mutation that Evel Knievel would undoubtedly have been proud
of. Now all Stone had to do was give it some teeth.
He stopped off in the kitchen to get some coffee, and saw that the dog was at it again. It was hard for Stone to believe it
could want more, with its stomach already so swollen that it looked as if it had a huge cancerous tumor dragging all the way
down to the ground. But the dog was scrounging around the huge mess of rotting food that it had created the night before,
and sniffing as if it had pretensions to gourmethood. Every few seconds it leaned down and picked up a choice item—pickled
pear, chunk of spam, syrup-coated peach squirming around the floor like a rogue eyeball. Stone avoided the mess completely,
not even vaguely able to deal with cleaning it all up. Maybe if he just let the mutt lick away for a few more hours there
wouldn’t be anything left to clean.
He made himself a whole Thermos full of coffee and, sipping slowly, as it nearly scalded his lips, he headed down the hall
to the weapons room to see what he was going to turn a vehicle into a wagon with. His father had been no slouch in the armaments
department either. But then, being the president of a multinational munitions company didn’t hurt matters any. There was wall-to-wall,
floor to-ceiling steel shelving covered with crates filled with handguns and rifles, ammunition…and the bigger stuff as well.
Mortars, tripod-mounted .50 caliber machine guns that could pierce armor. And even bigger stuff than that—handheld rocket
launchers, the Luchaire 89mm missile system that Stone had
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