He scrambled up on a pile of rocks and scanned the lower part of the

slope. With the possibility of more after-shocks it was a crazy thing

to do. It was equally crazy to hang around for one second longer but

Steve felt the need to know he'd won. If he was ever to come back for

Clearwater, it would be better to fix Motor-Head now, once and for

all.

He could see nothing, and there was no more time to look.

He turned and started back up the slope. When he had gone a fw yards,

Steve's sixth sense sounded the alarm. Slipping his index finger onto

the trigger, he turned around and saw a Mute pulling himself out of the

dirt near the bottom of the slope. The distance between them was about

a hundred and fifty yards. Too far away for Steve to make out the

Mute's face, but it had to be Motor-Head. He gazed up the slope at

Steve then started towards him.

Steve pulled his rifle into his shoulder and found he'd got the

shakes.

He took a deep breath, aimed at the middle of the Mute's barrel chest

and squeezed off a triple volley.

Chuwittchuwittchuwitt I Motor-Head kept coming.

Christo! thought Steve. Steadying himself on the shifting layer of

pebbles that now coated the steep slope, he aimed again, this time at

Motor-Head's belly and fired his second volley.

Motor-Head stopped, fell over, picked himself up and broke into a

stumbling run, his powerful thighs driving him up the steep,

rock-strewn slope.

Smokin' lumpshit! thought Steve. This guy is unstoppable I He

scrambled back to the top of the bluff, then turned, went down on one

knee to give himself a steadier firing position and aimed for the base

of Motor-Head's throat. The rifle wavered in his trembling hands.

Steve took a firmer grip and squeezed off his last three rounds.

The impact jerked Motor-Head sideways but did not break his stride. He

just kept on coming, powering up the slope like the Trans-Am Express.

Now you're in trouble, Brickman... Move I Move I Move I Steve dropped

the empty rifle, raced back towards BlueBird, kicked away the rear

trestle and started to clip himself into the harness. If the big Mute

didn't slow down... Oh, you jack-ass, Brickman! You totalled out I As

he fastened the straps with fumbling fingers, Steve cursed himself for

his incredible foolishness. He only had seconds left in which to run

Blue-Bird forward and launch himself before Motor-Head reached the top

of the bluff.

Seizing the sides of the triangular control bar, Steve lifted Blue-Bird

clear of the trestles and ran forward. The stiffening breeze spilled

over the edge of the bluff, rippled over the wing with a dry slap-snap

then put a taut curve in the fabric. Pausing about five paces from the

edge, Steve leaned against the breeze, bracing himself for the run

forward and leap into space. He had made dozens of successful launches

from the bluff but each time there was always an element of chance.

This one had to be right...

Check straps... Deep breath... Okay, Brickman. Go for it! Steve

firmed up his grip on the sides of the control bar which at this point

was bearing the weight of the wings above him - and ran for the edge.

As he launched himself over the bluff, Motor-Head leapt up in front of

him like a killer whale 'coming out of the water in a vertical climb,

grabbed hold of the control bar and was carried out into space.

Steve fought to maintain control of the glider but with the big Mute

hanging on the bar between his own outstretched hands it was a

near-impossible task. Blue-Bird rocked violently then dived to the

right, swooping dangerously close to the bluff before rising on a

strong gust of wind. They were climbing now but Steve knew it was only

a matter of time before they hit the deck. He looked down between his

arms and saw the crazed murderous look on Motor-Head's broken, bloody

face. His arms and legs had been scuffed and torn in the rock slide

and he was bleeding from several bullet wounds. SteVe hadn't missed.

It was the com