He turned and went away, and Stella looked up the narrow stairs.

I could do it here.

But why not take her, take her away? Would she come? Yes, she too was waiting, waiting as the beetles did. No one to assist her. And her name was Ruth.

Whither thou goest, I will go.

Stella smiled.

She went up the stairs.

Among the oaks and pines, Red was brushing her hair.

Lou sat with Cardiff, sulky in her black rubber like a creased balloon. Cardiff kept tweaking Lou's nipples. She did not like this, evidently.

Rose and Pig were dozing and Tina had been cooking beans and sausages over the fire, despite the wondrous meals that infallibly issued from the house.

Whisper was rubbing his bike, sensuously.

Connor crouched, throwing a stick for Viv. Viv retrieved urgently, trying to distract him, for he was tense.

Camillo arrived abruptly.

God, but he looked old. Up from out of the mound, and his death clothes on him.

"It's time!" he cried. He laughed as if with glee but it might have been a squawk of pain. "Come on! Get up, you cunts."

"Here!" howled Whisper.

"Stow it," said Connor. "Viv—bag!" Viv galloped to the Shovelhead and leapt into the saddlebag, the twig still in her jaws. "Camillo," said Connor.

"No. We go. We go. Red girl, Scarlet O'Hara. You come around and get on my horse."

"J'entends, monsieur."

And Red ran, away to the front of the house where the trike was.

Pig and Rose and Tina were already kicking out the fire, Pig trying to eat the boiling-hot food from the saucepan as they did so.

"Three minutes," said Connor.

"No. No minutes. Now."

"Okay, Camillo. Up, you bastards!" Connor roared.

But Camillo was gone, after Red, toward the trike on the front path in the mud.

"Con," Lou whined, "all my stuffs upstairs-—"

"Leave it, you dopey cow," said Connor. "Don't you know he'll take care of that? He says go, we go."

"But Con—"

"Or stay here. Stay behind."

Lou huddled onto Cardiff's bike and he came and swung up before her, bumping her askew.

The others were mounting up. The fire was out.

The scene was suddenly desolate and ruined, the path of an army which had moved on to victory or wreck.

As they revved the bikes, they heard the trike awake.

Red was on the damson velvet, her hair bloodied by the window.

"Now we ride," said Camillo, "now we run."

"I'm here."

"Giddy-up," Camillo said.

The sound of the trike altered. It had the noise now of a rocket.

"Christ," Connor said. "He's done it. The methane—"

They heard the trike take off—a missile—gone.

Connor slipped on Viv's goggles. The Shovelhead rose up on its rear wheel, a wheelie. He plunged forward and away after Camillo up the slope. Viv yipped.