Scene Eighty Eight
In which a motorbike is stolen
With a snapping noise the white lightning-wall over the back door vanished. Greg slapped the ground with his palms, and launched himself out the door in case it reappeared. He ran out of the inn, and down the alleyway that wrapped around the back.
He kept his eyes on the sky while he did this; any man who chose to speak in all Caps would also certainly choose to observe events from the sky.
It took a moment for Greg’s eyes to find him, but he was there. He didn’t have a helicopter, or any other means of keeping himself aloft; he was just standing there, in blatant disregard for the laws of physics.
Greg couldn’t make out his face; the light was starting to fade, and the man was too far away anyway, but he didn’t think that the man had seen him.
There was something very familiar about all this.
Greg shook off all the other thoughts. He had to move, and he had to move now, while something was distracting the man behind the force field.
He saw a motorcycle in front of inn. It was low slung; maybe designed for lying on, and it looked like it had been built for endurance riding across country. More important than either of these facts though was the fact that the owner had left the keys in.
Greg didn’t even hesitate; he leapt at the bike and swung himself on. Then with a roar of the motor he was away. He got onto the major road, and set about leaving town as fast as he was able.
It occurred to him that Foxvison had had very enviable crime rates, and he thought it was a pity that he was staining the town’s good name now. He reached the edge of town and turned off the road to travel cross-country.
He set his eyes on the horizon and turned the throttle as far as it would go. Eventually it got dark.