Read Online The Iron Dream by Norman Spinrad - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Norman Spinrad
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roadsteamer. Only the Black Avengers with their motorcycles are really capable of that, and from what I understand, their major goal is petrol. Therefore, they would probably be unlikely to attack a steamer."
The roadsteamer driver did not feel constrained to open the cabin door or climb down from his own cab; whoever did this deed might very well be lurking in the immediate vicinity. After inspecting the wreckage from the safety of the steamer for a few minutes and satisfying himself that there were no survivors about, he released the brakes, let steam into the engine, and the vehicle continued on its way, with the atmosphere in the cabin one of apprehension mingled with determinded steadfastness, as befitted sturdy Helder.
The roadsteamer continued peacefully on its way for the better part of the next half hour, and the mood in the cabin relaxed somewhat as the minutes passed with no untoward happening. Up ahead, the road ran past a gully between two hills which had once been a streambedand now formed a natural roadbed of sorts leading off into the depths of the forest.
As the steamer rolled past this miniature canyon, an incredible din suddenly wiped out the throb of its steam engine: a series of sharp, staccato little explosions that coughed in the night like a pack of giant metal catamounts catching wind of their prey. These merged into a deafening solid roar that seemed to vibrate every molecule of matter in the vicinity.
Suddenly, a horde of fantastic machines came hurling out of the woods at incredible speed, throwing dirt and stones into the air in a mad cloud, and sending the awful sound like a herald before them. Each machine consisted of two large wheels connected by a framework of steel tubing, the rear wheel driven by chain transmission from a howling bechromed gas engine slung directly between the legs of the rider, the front wheel held in a pivoting steering fork controlled by an ornate branching bar the two great handlegrips of which the rider clutched in his hands. There
• were more than two score of the motorcycles, and each one was festooned, hung, and adorned after its own private fashion—with brilliant enamelwork in red, black, or white; gleaming chrome shields, piping, and baroque grill-work; huge seats upholstered in leather or plush velvet; great panniers over the rear wheel embellished with extrav-53
agant motifs; gleaming upswept metal tails suggesting all manner of fish and fowl. It was an incredible spectacle of power, metal, dash, extravagance, motion, and color in which the noble ensign of the swastika predominated like some unifying emblem.
This brilliant pack of gleaming machines stormed onto the roadway and took off after the steamer in a mighty sweep of graceful power. Almost at once, the cyclists were upon the steamer, surrounding it easily, fore and aft, left and right, and Feric could clearly discern what manner of men sat astride these heroic stallions of metal.
Truly these were men to match their machines! Great robust fellows wearing wild garments of black and brown leathers, and flamboyant capes in many colors embroidered with swastikas, death's heads, lightning bolts, and other virile designs which streamed behind them like proud pen-nants. Their costumes were liberally decorated with all manner of metal brightwork—chains, plating, medallions.
They wore broad belts set off with studs from which were slung daggers and pistols and formidable truncheons. A few wore helmets of chromed or enameled steel, but most let their wild blond hair ride free in the breeze.
"The Black Avengers!" Bogel gasped.
"Magnificent!" Feric exclaimed.
Feric could all but taste the fear of the passengers in the roadsteamer cabin; beside him Bogel was pale and nervous. He conceded to himself that a certain concern at the
- appearance of these beings was nothing less than logical; still there was something about their spirit and dash, the manly vigor of the spectacle, that thrilled him.
The roadsteamer driver did not feel constrained to open the cabin door or climb down from his own cab; whoever did this deed might very well be lurking in the immediate vicinity. After inspecting the wreckage from the safety of the steamer for a few minutes and satisfying himself that there were no survivors about, he released the brakes, let steam into the engine, and the vehicle continued on its way, with the atmosphere in the cabin one of apprehension mingled with determinded steadfastness, as befitted sturdy Helder.
The roadsteamer continued peacefully on its way for the better part of the next half hour, and the mood in the cabin relaxed somewhat as the minutes passed with no untoward happening. Up ahead, the road ran past a gully between two hills which had once been a streambedand now formed a natural roadbed of sorts leading off into the depths of the forest.
As the steamer rolled past this miniature canyon, an incredible din suddenly wiped out the throb of its steam engine: a series of sharp, staccato little explosions that coughed in the night like a pack of giant metal catamounts catching wind of their prey. These merged into a deafening solid roar that seemed to vibrate every molecule of matter in the vicinity.
Suddenly, a horde of fantastic machines came hurling out of the woods at incredible speed, throwing dirt and stones into the air in a mad cloud, and sending the awful sound like a herald before them. Each machine consisted of two large wheels connected by a framework of steel tubing, the rear wheel driven by chain transmission from a howling bechromed gas engine slung directly between the legs of the rider, the front wheel held in a pivoting steering fork controlled by an ornate branching bar the two great handlegrips of which the rider clutched in his hands. There
• were more than two score of the motorcycles, and each one was festooned, hung, and adorned after its own private fashion—with brilliant enamelwork in red, black, or white; gleaming chrome shields, piping, and baroque grill-work; huge seats upholstered in leather or plush velvet; great panniers over the rear wheel embellished with extrav-53
agant motifs; gleaming upswept metal tails suggesting all manner of fish and fowl. It was an incredible spectacle of power, metal, dash, extravagance, motion, and color in which the noble ensign of the swastika predominated like some unifying emblem.
This brilliant pack of gleaming machines stormed onto the roadway and took off after the steamer in a mighty sweep of graceful power. Almost at once, the cyclists were upon the steamer, surrounding it easily, fore and aft, left and right, and Feric could clearly discern what manner of men sat astride these heroic stallions of metal.
Truly these were men to match their machines! Great robust fellows wearing wild garments of black and brown leathers, and flamboyant capes in many colors embroidered with swastikas, death's heads, lightning bolts, and other virile designs which streamed behind them like proud pen-nants. Their costumes were liberally decorated with all manner of metal brightwork—chains, plating, medallions.
They wore broad belts set off with studs from which were slung daggers and pistols and formidable truncheons. A few wore helmets of chromed or enameled steel, but most let their wild blond hair ride free in the breeze.
"The Black Avengers!" Bogel gasped.
"Magnificent!" Feric exclaimed.
Feric could all but taste the fear of the passengers in the roadsteamer cabin; beside him Bogel was pale and nervous. He conceded to himself that a certain concern at the
- appearance of these beings was nothing less than logical; still there was something about their spirit and dash, the manly vigor of the spectacle, that thrilled him.
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