And he wrenched the handlebars out of my grip, but I pinned his legs against the bike and he couldn't kick.
'Never a plan from you, frotting Graff! Never a scheme of any greatness from you - not while there are any young upright unfondled diddies left in the world!'
And he shunted the bike around, jerking up on the handlebars, digging in with his heels. But I still had his starting foot trapped.
'Small-minded, immediate Graff!' he roared. 'All the un-bounced boobies of the world are in your brain!'
And he woggled the front wheel to point downhill. He started his beast rolling; I caught the vent-pocket of his duckjacket and ran close alongside.
'Hysteria for hymen!' he shouted. 'You Graff, Graff you!'
Oh, he was rare, he was gone by, all right. And the bike moved along now; he tried to find a gear, he was pulling in the clutch to jump-start his beast on the glide.
'You'll always throw everything away, Graff,' he said, strangely gentle.
And I couldn't keep up. I jockeyed on behind him, and the bike wobbled. I flung myself to his back, but he had folded up the foot pedals for the rear rider. He'd thoroughly planned this trip alone.
I felt him find the gear with a chunk.
But I did this: I leaned over his shoulder and dropped the heel of my hand on the kill button. The bike never caught. It made a muted, airy farting behind us, but the gear pull slowed us fast. I was slammed up against him, and he skipped over the gas tank astraddle, his knees wedging up under the handlebars; his feet came off his own foot pedals, and he couldn't reach back for the gears.
And whatever gear we were in didn't hold. The old rampaging, momentum-bent beast slipped into neutral. We were wheeling free, the headlight jogging down the road in front of us; we floated engineless, coasting - the soft whir of gravel-mush sprayed out beside us: the whispering hum-slap of tires jounced us down. We weren't making a sound.
Did even the bees
hear us coming?
This S-curve and that one, blurring by faster than the night bolting alongside.
'Move back on the seat!' said Siggy. 'I've got to get in gear.'
But the pitch was too steep; my weight was fallen forward, on him, on the gas tank. And just when I tried to move, another S-curve was coming at us hard.
'Shift, Graff!' he yelled. 'You can reach it, you ninny!'
And he snapped in on the clutch handle; I dug my toes under the foreign little lever, but it wouldn't budge.
The jostling headlight threw us pieces and juts of the broken road, a scare of tree clump and bottomless ditch - of cold, peaceful night sky and the shimmering angelic town, countless switchbacks below. Everything came at us on jagged mirror-sections set askew.
Almost carelessly he said, 'Graff, you've got to work it.'
My toes ground in pain, but the gear lever made a sudden, ratcheting sound; the engine blatted, cannonlike and horse-whinnying, and I felt myself pelting up Siggy's back, and clawing to get myself down. The front shocks hissed; the bike bent forward.
Siggy's weight was too far front for good leaning: we lumbered heavily and wobbly round the top of an endless S, but we were slowing, a little.
'That's second,' said Siggy. 'Find me first, slow us down.'
The bottom of the S bent in front of us; the bike picked itself up and hopped the crown sideways, but we stayed with the road. We held, and Siggy said, 'First gear, Graff. Now first.' And my toes were digging again, prying the lever; I thought I could feel it begin to move. And Siggy said, 'Don't miss the gear, Graff. Get it all the way in, Graff.' And I thought: Almost now, it's almost over - we're coming clean out of this mad little ride. And we came shunting out of the S. I thought: That's it, it's all right, for sure.
But what was Keff doing, just ahead? What were his tractor and bee-wagon doing there, broadside in the road?
And didn't they look surprised? Keff holding the great steering wheel like a world slipping out of his grasp, and Gallen perched on the trailer end, steadying those third-tier bee boxes.
Keff, the great listener, who of course hadn't heard the beginning of our engineless descent. And just what are you going to do, Keff, broadside and taking up all the life in the road?
'Oh,' said Siggy, so softly it was either a whisper or a complaint spoken straight into the rush of the wind.
The Number of Bees That Will Do