“Stand back!” Plato shouted so everyone could hear. “Step away from the vehicle!”
The Family promptly obeyed, giving the SEAL a wide berth, many remembering Hickok’s earlier attempt at navigation and hoping Blade could perform better. The path in front of the transport was completely cleared.
“The Spirit be with you!” Plato spoke on behalf of the Family.
Blade nodded and reached for the key. “Here we go.”
“Say, Blade…” Geronimo spoke up.
“What is it?” Blade paused, ready to turn the engine over.
“You aren’t, by any chance,” Geronimo asked, grinning from ear to ear, “a graduate of the Hickok School of Driving, are you? If so, I think I’ll change my mind and stay here.”
“Ouch.” Hickok slumped in his seat and folded his arms across his chest.
“Knew I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”
Blade turned the key, relieved when the SEAL started. “Hold on,” he said to the others, just in case. He shifted into Drive and gently pressed on the proper pedal. The transport slowly moved forward.
The Family cheered.
Blade waved as the SEAL crossed the compound. The drawbridge was already open, Brian and several men at the control mechanism.
“Aren’t you doing something wrong?” Geronimo leaned over the bucket seat.
“What?” Blade nervously asked.
“Well, you seem to be avoiding the trees,” Geronimo pointed out. “As I recall, that’s not the way Hickok did it.”
Hickok made a show of closing his eyes and groaning.
Brian and the others waved as the vehicle drove over the drawbridge.
“We’re on our way,” Blade said, stating the obvious. He gingerly turned the steering wheel, directing the SEAL on a southerly course. Once they were past the brick wall, he would turn the SEAL due east. Blade realized his palms were sweating. He couldn’t help himself, fearful the vehicle would break down at any moment.
Plato had told him everything appeared to be in working order, that the passage of time had not caused the deterioration of any vital part. The Founder had planned for this contingency, expecting many years might elapse before the Family required the transport. His engineers had incorporated the latest, state-of-the-art, sometimes purely theoretical, knowledge and scientific developments into the vehicle’s design and construction. As Plato had pointed out earlier, the use of fluids was confined to an absolute minimum. The chemical composition of various parts of the SEAL, such as the body, the tires, the seals, and gaskets, was a radical departure from the methods used in constructing conventional products. The chemist who had devised the formula for the tires had told Carpenter he had perfected a process the tire manufacturers would gladly kill to suppress: a process for producing an indestructible synthetic tire.
Blade drove the SEAL at a sedate speed, still unsure of his ability and the SEAL’s capability.
“You certainly do drive slower than Hickok,” Geronimo pretended to complain. “Although, I will admit, we do have a better chance of reaching our destination this way.”
Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely.” Geronimo beamed.
“You ever notice, pard,” Hickok said, facing Blade, “how them Injuns have such a pitiful sense of humor?”
Geronimo laughed. “Yeah. And have you ever noticed how the white man has such a long history of making a fool of himself?”
Blade was focused on the field ahead, on dodging holes and ruts and boulders and trees.
“Hey, Blade?” Hickok nudged his right shoulder. “You still with us, or what? I’d hate to think we were wasting all this grand entertainment.”
“What?” Blade looked over at Hickok. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“We noticed,” Hickok said.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing important.” Hickok noticed the Operations Manual lying on the console and picked it up. “So what’s on the agenda, big guy?”
“We head east, following the map,” Blade stated. “When we get tired, we rest inside the SEAL for safety’s sake…”
“Gee, I hope you’ll let us out to tinkle,” Hickok commented.
“We make the run to Fox, rescue the women, and return to the Home,” Blade finished.
“It certainly sounds easy enough,” Geronimo mentioned.
“Easier said than done,” Blade admitted.
“Aren’t we in an optimistic mood?” Hickok quipped.
Blade felt his neck and arm muscles beginning to relax as the time passed. He was gaining valuable confidence, both in himself and the transport. The needle on the speedometer wavered between ten and fifteen. They reached the end of the wall and bore east.
“You know,” Hickok observed, reading the Manual, “they take an awful lot for granted in this book. They talk about things like you should already know what a lot of them are. Listen to this.” He quoted from the contents:
“‘When the SEAL is driven over sixty for five minutes, overdrive automatically engages, reducing the strain on the transmission and assuring even engine performance at cruising speed.’” Hickok glanced up at Blade, annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s an overdrive?
What’s a transmission? This entire Operation Manual appears to be like that! I can’t make hide nor hair out of some of these instructions.”
“We’ll just have to do the best we can,” Blade said.
“Hope it’s good enough,” Hickok griped.
They lapsed into silence, Geronimo lost in thought, Hickok immersed in the Manual, and Blade driving.
This isn’t so difficult, Blade reflected, relaxed, thankful Plato had taken the time to give him a crash course in the transport’s basics. His mind drifted, recalling the events leading up to Jenny’s abduction. Was she still alive? She better be! The Trolls would rue the day they attacked the Family!
“Blade!” Geronimo suddenly yelled. “Look out!”
A huge boulder loomed directly in their path.
“Damn!” Blade cursed and jerked on the steering wheel. The SEAL swerved to the left, narrowly missing the boulder.
“Do you mind?” Hickok casually chided Blade. “I’m trying to read.”
“Oh no!” Geronimo slapped his right palm against his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Blade asked. Geronimo appeared to be in genuine torment.
“It’s what I’ve always feared!” Geronimo wailed.
“What?” Blade urgently demanded.
“That whatever Hickok has,” Geronimo said, smiling, “is contagious.”
Chapter Fourteen
What was that noise?
Joan dropped to her hands and knees behind a large log, listening. What had she heard?
Birds sang, and the leaves of the trees rustled in the breeze.
Nothing else.
She sighed, feeling the fatigue in her limbs and an intense pain in her head, the lingering result of the blow she had suffered when the Trolls assaulted the Home. Her exertion had agitated her wound.
How far had she come?
Four miles maybe.
Joan knew there would be pursuit. She was doing her best to disguise and cover her tracks, exactly as Geronimo had instructed her. But she couldn’t spend too much time on erasing her trail; her first priority was reaching the Home. A competent tracker would be able to follow her—slowly, to be sure, but he wouldn’t be fooled.
A branch snapped to her left.
She had to reach the Home. The Warriors would have no idea which direction the Trolls were taking. They would find the spoor, all right, but it would require time, a precious commodity, one they couldn’t afford to waste.
Up ahead, a squirrel began chattering in alarm.
Joan regretted leaving her sisters. What choice did she have? That thicket had provided the perfect opportunity for her escape, preferable to waiting for dark. Now, at least, she had some daylight on her side.